A Father’s Care

Lucky Find

writing this took a lot longer than expected lol

Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of drugging, mentions of death, blood, smut, dubcon, oral

The first thing you were really aware of was the noise – the sounds of car motors as they accelerated, the screech of rubber on hard cement, followed by a lot of voices, all shouting alongside the sounds of….

Gunshots?

Through the thick haze your mind was currently trapped in, not only could you identify the sounds as being gunfire, but you were aware enough to know that such sounds couldn’t mean anything good. Your automatic response was to try and get away from those noises, but when you attempted to push up from where you were laying on your side, you discovered that your arms were stuck behind your back. No, not just stuck….. You had been tied up?

Trying to shift your legs revealed them to be bound as well, and when you tried opening your mouth to call for help, you found that a wide strip of tape kept you from speaking. You couldn’t see anything, either. Were you also blind-folded?

…. No, it was just dark. Practically pitch-black, and you couldn’t make out anything. The most you could tell was that the space you had been put inside was cramped based off of how your body had been folded up and how your head kept knocking against one of the hard walls.

The surface that the side of your face was laying on was carpeted, the fibers scratching at your exposed skin.

You had heard a familiar sound of tires screeching as a car once again came to a halt.

…. Were you in someone’s trunk?

Keep reading

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa NSFW Profile

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa x fem! reader

Tw: stalking, kidnapping, mentions of non-con and dub-con, public masturbation, voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism, exhibitionism, spitting (m and f receiving), dick slapping, cumplay, possessiveness, mild gore, mentions of death, Stockholm Syndrome/reader is implied to start liking him, Sanemi is kind of a hot mess approaching sex so hopefully that has been conveyed, I hc hard that Sanemi is a virgin so don't bother fighting me on it, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 15K

HABITS:

Intimacy is very much not something that Sanemi is familiar with. He’s never even considered taking a partner, staunchly ignoring his fellow Hashira’s taunts (almost exclusively from Tengen and the odd, poorly-timed comment from Giyuu) about how he’d just ‘calm down’ a bit if he had a pretty woman to relieve his stress onto.

And while he’s mature enough to admit there’s probably some truth to that, he’s still rejecting the very few advances that come his way. He’s not only entirely uninterested in dealing with the intricacies and expectations of a relationship, but he’s also convinced that due to his traumatic past and the way he deals he interacts with those he loves, he’s unfit to be a partner.

He doesn’t think he has the capability to properly commit himself to someone, to become emotionally dependent on them – and frankly he doesn’t want them to become emotionally attached to him, either. It’s just too risky considering his job and his habits in battle – every night is a question of survival, missions leaving him so bloody and battered that it’s a miracle he pulls through, a miracle that Shinobu doesn’t just kill him herself with how often he winds up in her infirmary.

It’s just wildly unpractical – and it’s not like he chooses to become so horribly, deeply obsessed with you. He’s angry in the beginning, genuinely trying to hate you and distance himself from you in every possible way, but you’re like some irritating, persistent bug that manages to crawl back to him every time he thinks he’s shaken you off.

(A mindset that makes him feel incredibly guilty later on, ashamed of himself for having thought of you in such a derogatory, rude way. This is particularly true because now he’d be absolutely devastated if you were to leave his life, panic and terror engulfing him because no no no you’re not allowed to leave him.)

But once the feelings have been cemented and Sanemi finally, finally accepts that he can do nothing to change him, that outlook on intimacy being unavailable begins to change. Of course, he’s not immediately grabbing and groping at you, nor is he fantasizing about the way you’d look underneath him whimpering and writhing as he fucks into you.

(Wet dreams aside, of course. He doesn’t often wake up to messy, sticky sheets, but the shame that swallows him when he does is so palpable that even his fellow Hashira notice. Rengoku will ask in a much-too-loud voice if he’d slept well, if he’s okay, why there’s still a slight flush on his face, leaving Sanemi to only snap at him and storm out of whatever area they’re in.)

No, his fantasies are genuinely more innocent in the beginning – virginal, really, with the way he blushes a light pink at the thought of wrapping you in his arms, the simple idea of hugging you being enough to get him covering his mouth with his palm, too flustered to function. The mere concept of you pressing a kiss to his cheek – not even his fucking lips – gets him feeling hot under the collar, body too warm for him to sit still, needing to blow off the steam and refocus himself before he embarrasses himself in front of you.

It makes him feel weak, really, how these simplistic, easy forms of intimacy and affection are able to affect him in such a profound way, and as time passes it’s really only natural for his imagination to start turning lewder. It’s not something that he thinks of on his own necessarily, if only because there’s a large mental block there where he tries to separate the thought of you from anything he deems disrespectful or dirty.

He tells himself that you’re pretty, not sexy. (But oh god does he think you’re sexy, everything from your voice to your hair to your skin making him drool like some sort of perverted old man, blood rushing between his legs when he sees you bite your lip or flick your hair, having to quickly excuse himself for fear that you’ll see the way his pants are growing sinfully tight.)

You’re sweet, not naughty. (But oh, Sanemi wouldn’t mind if you were a bit bratty in bed, if you had a rebellious streak to you and made him work for it, made him put in every ounce of effort just to get you creaming on his fingers or tugging on his hair or letting him spill every last drop of cum he has to give you inside that tight little cunt of yours.)

It’s a strict boundary for him, but all it takes is a single seed to be planted that ultimately breaks his moral high ground. Perhaps it’s Rengoku noticing off-hand that Sanemi seems to be a bit quieter these days, the former laughing loudly and congratulating Sanemi on finding that beautiful woman Tengen was talking about – tell me, does she satisfy you in all the ways you require? It makes Sanemi sputter and cough slightly, shocked at both Rengoku’s observational accuracy and the insinuation of you pleasuring him.

(And also seething in jealousy because how the fuck does Rengoku know about you? Has he met you? Has he fucked you? Is that why he’s thinking about you in a sexual manner?)

He tries to stop it, but it’s too late – there’s a quick, shockingly explicit image of you on your back, knees folded up to your chin and Sanemi’s cock stretching you so widely that you’re crying, nails scraping down his back and moans of yes yes please more ‘Nemi please falling past your lips.

He’s ashamed of himself, training until he nearly blacks out from the exhaustion, Iguro shocked and mildly concerned at just how hard and raggedly he’s pushing himself.

(And, out of respect for the unspoken friendship between them, he ignores the way Sanemi’s been sporting a raging hard-on for the duration of their some three-hour sparring session, cock swollen and not settling down for even an instant. Frankly, he’s amazed Sanemi could fight as well as he did considering his situation.)

It’s shameful, Sanemi thinks, and it leaves him utterly mortified that he's letting his more primal thoughts win, but once the door opens he can’t quite shut it. He still tries – pushing idle thoughts of you on your knees for him out of his mind, cursing under his breath as he follows a few feet behind you, acting as your shadow and trying so, so very desperately to not notice the way your kimono is spread tightly across your ass. It’s commendable, really, just how long he manages to keep himself accountable, but it becomes more difficult the more time he spends watching you, seeing aspects of you that are really much more personal than he has a right to know.

And the final straw comes one sunny afternoon, when you’re walking with him down the rather crowded street of your town. He’s accompanying you because ‘it’s too crowded for you to be out alone’, as he’d told you, and he’s staying close to your side, careful not to touch you but always in your peripheral.

And really, maybe he’d had a point – because all it takes is a single shove from a woman next to you, and suddenly you’re falling forward, arms automatically reaching out to steady yourself but instead slamming into Sanemi’s chest, his noise of shock and the feeling of your thumbs touching his bare skin distracting him enough to leave the two of you tumbling the to the ground.

And of course you land on top of him – directly on top of him, with your kimono slightly askew and your clothed breasts pressed up against the expanse of his exposed chest, able to feel the fullness and softness of them. Your breath’s fanning against his neck as you blink and mutter a quick apology, your ascent ungraceful as you accidentally grind your thigh against his crotch, a small, nearly mute groan falling from his lips at the action.

He’s dazed, cheeks flushing a warm pink color and his eyes wide as they stare at you, even as you stand up and try to help him up. But he just can’t move – the feeling of your skin and body against his is too fresh in his mind, imprinted and replaying over and over as he closes his eyes.

And even the feeling of your hands grasping onto his as you try to lift him to his feet is sending him dangerously close to the edge, already feeling himself growing hard and his breathing getting labored.

He doesn’t say a word of it to you, only grunting at your frenzied apologies, not trusting his voice because he’s sure if he tried all he’d manage to push out would be a weak moan of your name. He takes you back to your home immediately, dropping you off in an uncharacteristically abrupt manner, only stopping to make sure you make it past your front door before he’s practically sprinting off, only able to heave in the deep breaths once he’s a good mile or so away from your home.

It’s only then that he finally lets go of the desperate, difficult breathing techniques he had to employ to keep a check on his cock, stopping himself from getting fully hard and only making the smallest of tents in his pants so as to not catch your attention. But as he heaves, wild eyes staring up at the sky, he’s clutching onto the fabric of his haori, knees slightly weak as he stumbles into the surrounding forest.

He’s in an empty area, and as he ventures deeper into the trees and shrubbery, he finds himself leaning against a nearby trunk. Fuck fuck fuck, all he can think about is the way your body was so warm and how you fit perfectly against him, as if your body was molded to fit his. It’s driving him crazy – everything feels too hot, sweat beading at his temple and his palms clammy. He tries to regain his breathing but it’s still coming out ragged, winded and sloppy, his cock so hard that it hurts, mind swirling with thoughts of you and only you.

And even after ten minutes of trying to calm down, Sanemi eventually curses, eyes squeezed shut and palm slapping the trunk of the tree as he realizes that the only way to get his body under his control again is to deal with the problem. It’s embarrassing, more than anything, and he quickly glances around the thickly forested alcove he’s found himself in, the daylight trickling in through the gaps in the trees and illuminating his chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Sanemi undoes his belt, the metal sounding loud in the quiet of the forest but slightly muffled by his breathing. It makes him bite his lip, flushing an ever deeper red color, but he shimmies his uniform pants down slightly, just enough to rest under the curve of his balls, staring with pinched brows at the way his cock is absolutely red – it’s swollen, almost visibly pulsing, so heavy that it only stands at a measly ninety degrees.

After a moment of contemplation Sanemi almost, almost tucks himself back into his pants, the guilt at masturbating to you nearly overwhelming, but then he’s hearing your voice in his head, ringing through and saying Sanemi thank you for catching my fall, Sanemi Sanemi Sanemi…

He’s spitting into his palm before he can stop himself, fingers wrapping deftly around his base and immediately flicking up and down, a mixture of a groan and a sigh of relief slipping from him as he finally, finally gets stimulation. His eyes close and he rests his arm against the tree over his head, leaning his forehead against his forearm.

He’s immediately imagining you – the feeling of your chest pressing against his, and images of times he’s accidentally seen you nude while peeking in through your windows crossing his mind. (And truly, they had been accidental – he’d looked away as soon as he regained his senses, blushing bright and running a hand through his hair, waiting for a good twenty minutes to ensure you were properly clothed before he chanced another glance.)

They’re so fucking perfect – he’s never felt a pair of breasts in his life but he’s sure yours are unbearably soft, that they’d be dense and squishy and perfect to squeeze and paw at. He’s biting his lip as he remembers the way your nipples look, licking his lips and even puckering them slightly as he imagines sucking at them, wondering with a particularly harsh tug of his cock whether you’d keen and sigh and moan.

His fist gets tighter as he thinks of the way your knee had brushed against him, balls clenching a bit at the idea that you’ve touched his cock, even accidentally and through multiple layers of clothing. He can’t help but imagine your hands wrapped around himself, fingers daintier and prettier than his own calloused, scarred ones, and his eyes peel open to watch them run up and down his length, looking crude and barbaric as he fucks into his fist harder, his hips starting to move in tandem with his wrist.

You’d look cute, he decides, when you jerk him off – you’d be such a juxtaposition, with feminine hands and soft skin against his masculine, thick cock, and the thought alone makes him grit his teeth, embarrassment and pleasure creeping up his spine because fuuuck he’s never felt this close so quickly before.

His mind snaps back to right before the fall, and suddenly he’s gasping your name and opening his eyes wide as the phantom touch of your fingers against his bare chest hits him, hips stuttering and sounds that are much too high-pitched for his liking filling the small forest area.

He’s turning around, back slamming against the trunk as he continues his brutal pace, keeping his fist stationary as his hips thrust and pound away, imagining it’s your pretty cunt instead. His free hand comes up to his face, the feeling of you grabbing at it and clutching your fingers against his driving him to press his palm tightly against his nose, deeply inhaling and sliding down the trunk a bit as he catches what he thinks is a very, very faint whiff of you on his skin.

His head tilts back, his thrusts getting sharper and more carnal, unconsciously angling them to brush against the top of his hand, where he knows you like best. He’s inhaling over and over again, smelling his hand like some dog, only pulling away to briefly lap at his palm, tongue lolling out and licking long, fat stripes across the skin, desperate to taste you, too.

He’s breathing hard, panting and chanting your name like some sort of prayer, the pleasure in his navel starting to build and grow. You’re just so fucking perfect, and he just knows you feel soft and warm and god he can’t fucking wait to touch you and feel you and pleasure you and make you moan his name and come for him and oh god oh fuck it’s coming it’s coming –

He nearly yells your name as cum oozes from his swollen tip, biting back the gaspy, airy groans that threaten to spill from his lips as his hips wildly jerk, uneven thrusts complimented by his abs clenching so tightly that his knees go weak, crouching against the base of the tree trunk.

He’s panting still, chest heaving as if he’d just run for hours, his face still flushed as he looks up, trying desperately to regain his senses. He’s still clouded by the smell and taste of you, and he only moves his hand to come clutch at his uniform, grabbing the same spot you’d grabbed earlier, squeezing at the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

There’s a trail of cum on the forest floor in front of him, white slowly cooling and smearing against the leaves, but Sanemi can’t find it in himself to care. There’s guilt settling deep in his chest as he comes down from his high, cock going pathetically limp against the waistband of his pants. He curses, closing his eyes and covering them with his hand, shame weighing heavily on him.

He’d just masturbated to you and reached the fastest orgasm of his life because of it.

It feels like some sort of selfish defeat, and he’s filled with self-loathing as he makes his way back to the Wind Estate for a change of clothes, berating himself for his weakness and promising to never give into his hormones like that again.

And yet, a mere five days later, he’s got his fist wrapped around himself again, fantasies of you bouncing in his lap like he’s just some toy for you to use racing through his mind, his composure slipping because he’d give absolutely anything to be of use to you, even just as something to get you off and discard afterwards.

It makes him feel pathetic, like a perverted, sorry excuse of an admirer of yours, but he just can’t help himself – how can he, when his every waking thought revolves solely around you?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Ass

In general, Sanemi loves the parts of you most that are the softest and the squishiest. He’s all hard lines – plains of muscle that’s rock hard to the touch, scars that are ragged and bumpy against the smoother texture of his skin. He’s all hard edges, but you’re the complete opposite – you’re sweet and soft, and Sanemi naturally gravitates towards areas that really showcase this.

Consequently, he finds his hands edging close to your ass from pretty much the beginning of your sexual relationship. He likes how plump the area is – he adores when you wear shorter skirts around him, or, ideally, just the pretty, lacy panties he buys for you with heat on his cheeks and embarrassment creeping up his spine.

(Of course, he’d bought many of them long before he’d stolen you away, long before he’d ever touched you in any serious capacity. He’d seen them when he was passing through an adult shop on a mission, and while he’d felt like a massive pervert for it, he’d purchased a pair that’s a particularly eye-catching emerald green, white lace trim at the edges and a matching garter belt and bra to go with it. He’d been mortified when he’d returned home and stared at the fabric, the fatigue and adrenaline having finally worn off, but the mere idea of you wearing the pretty fabric was enough to get him breathing heavy. It was enough to get him covering his mouth with his hand, cock painfully hard because even his imagination of how your pretty ass cupped by the cheeky underwear would look is enough to get precum staining his pants.)

When he’s kissing you, his hands are resting on your ass, groping and idly squeezing, playing with the fat and very, very gently slapping at it, kissing you even harder when he feels the way you squirm and yelp.

He prefers positions where you can make eye contact, but the somewhat rare times he has you bent over, Sanemi is absolutely feral – he’s smacking your ass and pounding into you as hard as he can, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise as he loses himself in the way your ass ricochets against his pelvis, the wet slap slap noise forcing him to get on one knee, mounting you even more, fucking you like an animal.

(And while he’s not the absolute loudest during sex, you’ll hear some of the filthiest, foulest things fall past his lips when he’s fucking you from behind – he'll have you in prone bone, breath hot against your ear as he tells you that ‘s fucking tight, you’re so damn tight, fuck fuck fuuuuck, his voice groaned and strained as his hips punctuate each curse. And his grip on you is tight – fingertips digging into the plush of your hips and lovehandles, gripping hard enough to leave small imprints behind, feeling like he’s clutching onto you, like he’s scared you’ll disappear.)

He’s not picky about your shape, either – you could have perfectly round, full cheeks or very little definition and he’d still be in love, his fingers still twitching and flexing at his side with the urge to reach out and squeeze, to knead at the skin and hear the way you’d yelp and cling onto him.

(Perhaps you’d even smack his hand away, embarrassment creeping up your spine and your flustered expression making him lick his lips, hellbent on making you come so many times the only thing you can think of is him him him. He always has grand plans to tease you, wanting to have you looking at him with glossy eyes and be completely under his thumb, but every time he gets you naked in front of him it’s him who’s at your beck and call, pathetically eager to do whatever you wish.)

He won’t try to touch you until you have a more established sexual relationship in place, which will take several months of being trapped with him to achieve. But once the floodgates are opened he becomes extremely touchy – he’s always got his hands on you, squeezing and groping and touching, and you’ll often even find that when you’re laying on your front, he’ll come lay behind you, shyly at first as he places his cheek against the soft skin, a hand gripping onto your thigh as he relaxes, too embarrassed to make eye contact but basking in the softness of you, in the peace of the moment, in the way you’re really here, with him.

He loves the rest of your body too, of course, but his natural resting place for both his hands and eyes is your ass, and he’s not nearly as subtle as he hopes he is.

(Not at all, but there’s almost something endearing about it – the quick-tempered, serious Hashira so blatantly ogling you, his lips parting and his nostrils flaring as he stares, almost unblinking. It makes you feel good, truly, flattered despite the perverted nature of his staring. And so as time passes you’ll find that you can excuse it, his bashfulness and obvious attraction to you almost flattering the longer you go without other human contact.)

His Abs

By and large, Sanemi desperately wants to impress you.

He lives for your praise, finding that the sweet words slipping from your lips are enough to leave him feeling like he’s floating, a sort of genuine joy he hasn’t felt in years settling into his chest, making him fight off a smile. As such, he’s very, very attentive to your reactions to his body.

Years of pushing himself to become stronger and battling so often have left his body riddled with muscles and scars, leaving him in peak physical health. And you’ll know this from nearly the first moment you meet him – after all, it’s difficult to not notice the little peek-a-boo at his abs in his uniform, the skin defined and often glistening with sweat.

He’s proud of his chest, and he has to swallow very, very hard the first time he catches you glancing at the exposed skin. It makes his ego inflate, something pleasant licking at his chest because oh, were you just checking him out? It doesn’t matter if you were or not – because to Sanemi you were, and that fact doesn’t leave his mind for weeks.

He’s proud of his abs, and quickly grows to love showing them off to you. He elects to keep a shirt on for most of your early time trapped with him, not wanting to scare you or frighten you by being half-undressed. (He doesn’t want you be to feeling pressured into anything, because while he would never force you into anything even remotely sexual, he doesn’t want there to be any sort of dubious fear or doubt motivating you to finally seek out intimacy with him. Aside from your kidnapping and the stalking, of course. And the way his desperation for you is so thick it leaves you squirming in discomfort.)

But once your sexual relationship starts?

Oh – he’s constantly shirtless, purposefully flexing when you’re nearby so that his abs stand out more defined, pectorals looking firmer, the muscles of his back standing out and practically begging for you to run your finger over them. He loves when you trace the lines of his six-pack, your soft finger dipping between the muscles and sending shivers along his skin because fuck, even just your finger is getting him hot under the collar.

Press kisses against the area, murmuring to him that he’s so strong and that you feel so safe with you ‘Nemi, I know you could protect me from anything. He’ll grumble under his breath but the blush sporting his cheeks and neck give him away, as does the way his hips involuntarily and imperceptibly buck.

Kiss further down to the happy trail of silvery hair leading below the waistband of his pants, the skin ticklish and sensitive enough to leave him sucking in a breath, his fists tightening until his knuckles are white because oh, you’re such a damn tease. When you’re perched on top of him, rolling your hips and letting him cup at your ass to help guide you, rest a hand against his abs and he’ll groan, the muscles clenching underneath your palm.

(Often, when he’s getting too close to his orgasm and he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet, he’ll pull you forward so that you’re straddling his stomach, looking up at you with dazed lilac eyes, telling you in a hoarse, heady voice to grind on me, use me, ‘m all yours. He wants you to touch his abs, to feel your cunt scooping and rubbing against the planes of muscle. He wants to watch the way your face contorts as you catch your clit on a particularly raised section, maybe even on a scar, his orgasm slowly – very slowly – fading off but his cock still remaining starkly at attention. You’re just so damn pretty when you’re smearing slick against his skin, the sight wanton and lewd but feeling so very right. And later that night, when he’s helping you to the bath and diligently washing your body, he’ll scowl before he washes off his own abs, slightly pissed that he has to wash away the trace of you.)

He just likes you to touch what he’s so proud of, and each and every time you have a remotely positive reaction towards them, Sanemi is in heaven. After all, you’re looking at him, and that’s something that makes both his cock and his heart swell.

DRIVE:

Sanemi is, for a lack of a better term, sexually frustrated. He’s never touched anyone before and never been touched himself, and even touching himself is something he rarely partakes in. Every ounce of irritation, anger, anxiety, and stress is taken out via rigorous training and often yelling. When he feels pent-up he finds that a good, quick spar is often a more effective way to quell it rather than jerking off.

Not to mention, there’s something about masturbating that makes Sanemi feel even more lonely and frustrated than before – it hurts slightly to know that he doesn’t have anyone to be thinking of, that while he saves men and women with partners and lovers, he’s not quite like them. Hell, even a few of his fellow Hashira have partners, someone to touch them and hold them, reassuring them and comforting them when the nightmares of screaming family members and demons become too much. It makes him feel pathetic when he feels sorry for himself for being so painfully alone, and this results in Sanemi avoiding pleasuring himself as often as possible.

But of course, biology has other plans for him – he’s in the sexual prime of his life, and when he can’t quite seem to work off the steam with a thorough work-out or eventful patrol, he’ll begrudgingly resort to his hand. It’s typically impersonal, wrapping his fingers around himself and steadily jerking up and down while he closes his eyes and bites back his groans.

He’s not thinking of anything in particular – maybe imagining it’s the hand of some mystery woman replacing his own, but nothing more than that. It’s fast, too, the pleasure slowly mounting and then crashing through him, gritting his teeth as he finishes and promptly cleaning up, wanting to waste no more time with it. It’s all just so very clinical, almost – even when he’s horny, even when the frustration mounts so high that it’s unbearable.

And while he’s slow to warm up to fantasizing about you in a sexual capacity, Sanemi’s irregular indulgences in lust remain. Of course, it’s much, much better now – now that he has someone to actively close his eyes and think about, imagining your voice and your body and your touch. It’s infinitely better because while you’re still not by his side or touching him with your own hands and lips and cunt, he can still fantasize that one day you will, that one day you’ll want him like he wants you.

And it’s enough – his sex drive is still fairly low, and even once he begins actively having sex with you it remains on the lower side. He’d just truly rather hold you or listen to you speak than pin you down and fuck you.

(Or have you pin him down and ride him until he’s shooting blanks and tearing up with red cheeks and fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles are white.)

But of course, he’s only a man and those urges do hit him – enough so that he has a sort of system in place for signaling that he’s feeling hot, that he’s restless, that he’s mentally undressing you and planning out all the positions and ways he can get you creaming on his cock. His signals aren’t particularly graceful, either – it starts with him sitting closer to you, his body completely tense and every muscle clenched.

(He does this unconsciously, both as a way to control himself from just reaching out and snatching you, and also to subconsciously make himself seem bigger, to look stronger and more masculine, to appeal to your more feminine side. He’s not even aware he does it, and if you point it out he’ll vehemently deny it, calling you deluded and making some comment about how you’re projecting your own lewdness onto him, but he knows you’re right, and he also knows he can’t stop it.)

Then he’ll start looking at you with more focus. He’s always staring at you, those wide eyes never leaving your form, but now he’s doing things – again, unconsciously – without realizing that give it all away; licking his lips, adjusting his pants, swallowing audibly.

It’s all things that you’ll notice, and depending on how far along you are in your captivity with him, your response to these signals dictates whether or not you end up with cum smearing the inside of your thighs – if you grimace and shy away from him, Sanemi will clench his jaw, nod slightly and look away. He’ll immediately get up and leave the room both from embarrassment and hurt at your rejection, and to avoid making you feel any sort of pressure or guilt to give him physical intimacy.

But if you scoot in closer, clench your thighs a bit, give him that sultry fucking look you know he loves, then he’s immediately kissing you, big hand cupping your cheek as the other latches onto your breast, kneading and squeezing as he groans against your lips.

And it’s messy – the kiss is all tongue and spit, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he presses his body into you as far as he can, desperation and relief flowing through him because the feeling of your skin against his is satisfying parts of him he didn’t even know existed. If you accept his advances, he’ll maneuver you onto your back, nudging between your thighs and immediately licking and sucking away, the loud suction noises making your cheeks feel hot and making it difficult to not squirm around.

(Something that strokes Sanemi’s ego but also frustrates him because he wants you to lie still so he can properly touch you. He can’t go at the pace and angle you like when you’re wiggling around, so he’ll just take a thigh in each hand and keep you steady, using his strength to pin you down so that you can’t move away from his eager, sloppy mouth. Because he wants absolutely everything to be perfect – he wants you to feel so good that you’re begging for him, associating him with pleasure, knowing that he can and will give you exactly what your body needs.)

He’ll make you finish on his tongue and only then will he start working his pants down, cock already so red and wet with precum that it’s a miracle a single brush against your cunt doesn’t make him immediately release. The sex is eager – that’s really the only word for it, because Sanemi’s grabbing every part of your body he can reach, hands unable to stay still because he wants to feel everything, mapping every inch of your body with his fingers so that if somehow you disappear, he’ll remember everything. He’s handsy, and yet his hips are absolutely brutal – he’s fucking into you like a wild animal, hipbones smacking against your ass in a bruising rhythm that leaves your whole body bouncing, every soft, jiggly bit of you drawing his attention and only making him go harder because he wants to see more more more.

But he’s loud, too – all kinds of curses and rough, uneven praises of the way you feel and how you look are falling past his lips, voice sounding nearly pained with the overwhelming amount of stimulation you’re giving him.

He’s truly pussydrunk in every sense of the word – so when he very unnaturally and awkwardly tries to put his hand on your thigh when he’s signaling he’s feeling hot and needy for you, just know that you’ll have a lot of difficulty walking the next morning.

That said, Sanemi will absolutely never force you into anything sexual without your explicit (and frequent) verbal consent.

Despite his rough-around-the-edges appearance, he’s staunch on his moral beliefs that sex is something intimate that should be reserved for partners who truly care about each other. He believes that it should be something enjoyed, something meaningful, something wanted – and so, to have you actively fighting him or not engaging in what he’s doing to you would leave his skin crawling, disgust and a new, different kind of shame seeping through him.

(Different if only because up until that point, everything he’s done he’s been able to spin as somehow being for your safety – stalking you to make sure no one bothers you, learning all your habits and favorite foods, clothes, and hobbies letting him notice any deviations signifying something is wrong. Hell, even kidnapping you has some benefits for your safety – no demon is stupid enough to enter the Wind Estate, and he’ll be damned before he lets any strangers in with the possibility of coming into contact with you.)

But intimacy is different – he’s not good at being vulnerable, and to be naked with you, to hold you in his arms and feel your hands caress the parts of his body that are deeply scarred and unused to touch is a new level of unguarded that makes him anxious. He’s so used to keeping up a pseudo-façade of being reckless and wild and in these moments all he wants is to let you see him raw, the real Sanemi Shinazugawa that wants you so badly that it physically hurts.

And so, if you don’t want him he’ll respect that – it hurts, of course, and he’ll have trouble facing you for the next few days, but he's man enough to know that your consent is key. But it’s also this crippling fear of rejection and putting himself in a position of possible weakness with you that bars him from trying to progress your sexual relationship for a long, long time.

He’s desiring you in risqué and lewd ways long before he’s stolen you away, but it’s difficult to act on those, to put himself out there and risk your harsh, painful rejection of him.

(And he’s convinced you will reject him, if only because despite his persona, Sanemi harbors insecurities about his ability to be loved. He thinks there’s something deeply wrong with him, something that makes others fearful of him and something that will deter anyone from getting too close. Besides Genya, of course, but the matter is complicated.)

And so, he holds himself back from making any sort of move in your sexual relationship – he wants to either have you bring it up, or to keep everything between you as strictly protector-protectee as possible, even if he craves to touch you and lay with you.

But, like most things in your relationship, Sanemi’s restraint snaps one day. To be fair, it’s not entirely Sanemi’s fault – months of repressing his sex drive and ignoring the tantalizing way you look in the kimonos he hand-picked for you leaves him on the brink of exploding, so pent-up and sexually frustrated that it nearly drives him mad.

The final straw is a particularly brutal, gut-wrenching mission – he’d been tasked to stop a demon in a few towns over, a simple mission that he really, really should’ve been able to fix much quicker. But the demon was smart and seemed to sense his approach, and the carnage was far, far greater than Sanemi was expecting. Small children stained red with parents dismembered a few feet away, visible bite chunks leaving the smell of rot and death heavy in the air. It left his stomach churning, but what truly sent him off the end was hearing a small sob after he’d sliced the demon’s neck, the little boy crying next to what Sanemi could only assume was his dead mother.

That in itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, but the boy’s striking, uncanny resemblance to his own brother Koto makes him stop in his tracks, lips falling open like a gaping fish. He’s frozen, simply staring like some fool, but then everything happens much, much too fast.

The demon’s suddenly swooping in, the boy’s head severed in the blink of an eye, a deranged cackle falling from the creature as a resounding crunchnoise fills the air. Sanemi’s thrown into a state of rage, immediately killing the demon and stabbing at it repeatedly. He’s cutting up each and every part of the monster (careful to avoid touching the boy’s head, though), yelling and cursing at it for what feels like hours.

By the time he’s done there’s tears pricking his eyes, and the walk back to his Estate is blurry and heavy with his own grief. He hasn’t cried in years, but something about the little boy’s face and the weight pressing on his back leave him with wet cheeks, the shoji door quietly sliding open to your room before he can catch himself.

You’re still awake, and he doesn’t even have the right mental state to be angry at you for cutting your sleep. He’s quiet, simply staring at you from the doorway as you wearily approach him, concerned and slightly scared because there’s blood smeared across his uniform and his eyes are bloodshot.

Sanemi? Your voice is weak, and you gently, hesitantly press a hand against his trembling fingers grasping onto the scabbard of his sword.

He swallows harshly, eyes locked onto yours. He whispers your name, voice low and hoarse, but before you can say anything he’s wrapping his arms around you, clutching onto your so tightly that your breathing is restricted. It leaves you yelping, unsure how to respond to the uncharacteristic affection, but the shallow shaking of his shoulders makes you soothingly run a hand through his hair.

Sanemi… You trail off again, but he only hugs you tighter in response. It’s some ten minutes before he finally sniffles, mumbling something against your clothed shoulder that you can’t quite hear.

When you don’t respond, he grips you tighter, pulling his face back just a hair to say again please, I need you to touch me.

It makes you stiffen in his grasp, and that makes him panic. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I just – he stops, swallowing again and letting his weight sag against you even more. I just can’t be alone right now.

And maybe it’s the vulnerability in his tone, the strange, gentle side of him you so rarely see, or maybe it’s your own longing for human contact and touch that drives you to press a kiss against the crown of his head.

He gasps sharply, his grip loosening ever so slightly. You take the opportunity to gently pull back, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to your bed in the center of the room. He’s staring at you with wide, puffy eyes, shellshocked and unable to say anything as you grasp at the edge of his uniform.

Your voice is still soft as you tell him take this off, no blood on my bed, and he’s only staring for a single, long moment before the fabric is flying over his head, his pants quickly falling suite and leaving him bare aside from a pair of thin undergarments sitting dangerously low on the sharp v-line of his navel. He’s still looking at you, eyes wild and wide, his chest rising and falling so quickly that it almost worries you.

You’re much slower when you peel away your own sleeping clothes, leaving your body in only a thin, light-weight slip that makes Sanemi lick his lips. You’re so fucking pretty – it’s making something in his chest ache, his palms flexing by his sides, brain warring between the extreme emotional distress and arousal at seeing your partially exposed body and your desire for him.

You step forward, palm pressing against his cheek, and slowly pull him to you. Letting your lips ghost against his for a moment, you press a soft, barely-there kiss against the corner of his mouth. Murmuring his name, you feel the way his whole body shivers.

Finally, finally, you press your lips against his, moving slow and trying to let him relax into it. He’s still so tense – he wants this badly, but now that it’s actually happening he’s freezing up a bit. He’s dreamed and fantasized about this moment for months, lying awake and feeling pathetic for imagining that you could want him like this.

But the moment passes and he’s suddenly kissing you back, his movements sloppy and uncooridinated, evidence that he’s never done this before. But you take it in stride and pull back, the sound making his nostrils flare. He moves forward, chasing your lips, but you stop him with a lay down with me, please Sanemi.

And it’s as if he’s some well-trained pet – he’s immediately laying down, body tense and taut over your blankets, and he watches with baited breath as you straddle him, your thighs warm against his skin and oh god oh god –

He can feel it – can feel you.

You’re incredibly warm, the heat permeating through his underclothes as you press against his cock, the sensation forcing something that sounds much too similar to a moan to slip from his lips. It feels surreal – and when you start slowly moving your hips, grinding on him in teasingly slow, agonizingly pleasurable little circles, Sanemi’s gripping at your thighs, his self-restraint nearly buckling.

The evening passes full of slow, tender touches, exploring fingers and tongues covering every inch of your skin and his. The sex is soft, thrusts gentle and deep, rolling and pressing against every spot that makes your toes curl. He’s kissing you the whole time, grasping onto your skin like you’re his life line, a near-growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat when you take even a hand away from holding him. He wants your fingers tunneling through his hair, your leg wrapped around his waist, your nipples brushing against his own.

It's heaven, he thinks, and though he tries to hide his face as he ruts into you, the tears return to his eyes and before he knows it he’s chanting a slurred, choked mantra of your name, timing with his thrusts and begging you in a near-incomprehensible plea of never leave me, you can’t leave me, I won’t let you leave me.

It’s only after his hips stutter, a gasp of your name and his hot breath going ragged in your ear that he finally goes limp. He’s still inside you, the last throbs and bits of his orgasm rocking through him, but he’s carefully maneuvering your bodies so that he’s laying behind you. You’re caged in his arms – a heavy, muscular limb wrapped around your waist, body molded to yours and pulling you flush against him. He falls asleep like that – flaccidly inside you, his breath in your ear, his grip on you remaining deadly tight even as dreams overtake him. And eventually, you fall asleep too – exhausted, confused, and embracing this small, intimate moment even if you’ll regret it.

He’s gone the next morning, the covers wrapped up to your chin, the blankets and sheets on his side perfectly pristine.

He doesn’t mention that night for the foreseeable future, embarrassed and angry at himself for giving into temptation and allowing himself to be so weak in front of you. He’s worried that you might regret it, that you’ll find him disgusting for being so wanton and blatant in his begging for you, and he bars himself from engaging with you sexually again. (Out of embarrassment, out of shame, out of fear because god, he’s never been as desperate and depraved as he was the moment he slipped inside of you, and how would he react the second time? The third? The tenth?)

He won’t acknowledge that it happened, but you’ll notice the glances he starts throwing your way, the way his gaze lingers on your body, how he stiffens up the moment you get even remotely close to him. It’s a stark contrast to the man who’d been groaning out your name like salvation the night before, but just know that if you were to approach him, Sanemi will be putty in your hands.

If you were to kiss him or touch him or tell him how badly you need him, he’ll fold. He’ll get onto his knees, mouthing at your cunt and struggling to mutter out how he’d thought you’d never ask, fuck.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Cumplay

While Sanemi will bend to your whims almost always in bed, there are a few very, very specific things that he won’t compromise on.

That is, he absolutely must finish either inside you, down your throat, or on your body. It’s a possessiveness thing for him – he’s in ecstasy and still slightly shocked that you’re touching him (and letting him touch you), but it’s still not quite enough. He’s licking and sucking at your neck, leaving marks and hickies and the imprint of his fingertips lightly against your skin, trying to mark you up as his his his. He wants to leave a physical imprint of his possession over you, because while it feels dehumanizing to think of you as his, he can’t help the way it makes something in his chest twist in just the right way, nor can he help the way his cock stands up at attention, growing hard just at the mere idea of physically making you his.

And Sanemi quickly finds the quickest, easiest way to claim you as his is to leave you absolutely dripping with his cum. He’s territorial, completely believing that you’re his woman and he is your man. It’s this possessiveness mixed with his obsession over being your protector that drive his compulsive need to fill you with every last drop he can give you – it feels better this way, more natural. It’s like he’s giving you what you desire – he’s giving you everything he can, the most intimate, sacred part of him, something he made for you and you alone.

And so, every time he’s got hic cock out and your kissing, sucking, touching, or fucking it, Sanemi’s throwing his head back and groaning, all sorts of filthy, dirty promises about how he’s going to finish for you falling past his lips.

He’ll have you on your knees, his thighs tense and his abs clenching, his hand in your hair and fighting very, very hard to not pull you down until his cock’s in the back of your throat, choking and gagging you. (He wants to – god does he want to, but he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he’ll stop himself. A mind-numbing orgasm with your hot little tongue pressed against his underside isn’t worth you being angry or hurt.) He's groaning your name and telling you that that you’re gonna – fuck, gonna take it all, yeah? Gonna swallow every last fucking drop, o-oh fucky baby, god wanna see you swallow ngh –

Your hand is wrapped around his girth, wrist flicking up and down so quickly that it makes him pant, your free hand delicately groping and squeezing at his balls. He’s bucking up against your tugs, a red flush on the bridge of his nose as he grunts, rushing forward to kiss you with way too much tongue, pulling back only when he starts shuddering, breath ragged as he tells you that he wants to finish on your chest, voice getting slurred and strained as he tells you he’s gonna come on your tits, god so fucking pretty fuck fuck fuck –

(He’ll stare with this sort of boyish look in his eye and something feral, predatory at his handiwork once he does, white smeared across your skin and leaving a film that he rubs at with his thumb, pinching your nipple and licking his lips when you squirm.)

He’s got you pressed into a tight, suffocating mating press, his forehead pressed against yours and his hands holding your knees up, the angle and feeling of you making teeter on the edge. ‘M gonna, ‘m gonna come soon, where do you want it? He’ll ask, eyes fluttering shut as you clench down on him, only to open wide when you whine out to finish inside ‘Nemi, please please please want your cum!

And it’s lewd and dirty and it gets him fucking into you deeper, hips snapping into yours so hard that you’re physically moving up the length of the bed, his voice a growl as he grins, groaning yeah? Want me to come in this tight – fuck, tight little pussy? So damn greedy, fuuuuck, you better take it, don’t let any drip out or I’ll have to fill you again. He’ll press kisses against your lips, jaw, and neck, his voice growing louder as he growl again between each kiss.

And when he’s right on the edge, his thrusts growing uneven and choppy, his eyes are meeting yours again as he gasps take it take it take it, cum spurting from his tip and leaving you feeling warm and so very, very full. He produces a lot with each orgasm, seeming to never stop as it oozes from his hyper-sensitive tip, and Sanemi uses it to his advantage.

He’s obsessed with looking at the product of his orgasm – he’ll kneel between your legs so that your cunt’s eyelevel and simply stare as his cum slowly leaks out, down the grooves of your folds and over your pert hole, dripping onto the floor below you and making him scoff. He’ll scoop it up with a single finger, pushing it back inside of you and kissing you to muffle the sound of your surprise, slightly embarrassed because he absolutely can’t let even the smallest amount not end up inside you.

When you’ve convinced him to be a tad bit rougher as you bob your head between his legs, Sanemi will grant your wish and finish on your face, groaning and biting his lip at the way you look, his cum dribbling down from your lips to your chin, dripping down to land on your nipples, thighs, other parts of your body.

 (And as disrespectful as it felt to finish there, Sanemi secretly loves it – he won’t request it because he doesn’t think you’d enjoy it, but he’s nursing a fantasy that you’ll let him smear his cum all over your lips and cheeks, and then simply not clean it for the rest of the day. He wants the physical evidence of his intimacy with you to be constantly visible, so that every glance reminders him that you wanted him, that you were practically begging him for his cock like some common whore. You aren’t, or course, but the possessive, animalistic part of him that desires rough, carnal sex with you is satisfied by the idea, something primal about the idea of leaving a mark of him him him against your pretty face. He’ll never bring it up, simply stewing on it in silence, but if you were to mention the idea, or tell him that you want to keep his cum really anywhere against your skin, you’ll witness something that absolutely mortifies him – a dry orgasm paired with a sad, shocked little whimper, the embarrassment and unexpected pleasure making him too ashamed to even look at you for a few hours afterwards.)

He just really likes the concept of leaving you stuffed full of him. (And there’s a small part of him that hopes desperately with every load he gives you that it’ll finally take. He’s always fantasized about having a family with you, but with each time he stuffs you full, he can only get closer and closer to the dream, the mere idea of you pregnant enough to get him hot under the collar and desperate to get his hands on you.)

And to his credit, this kink goes both ways – he’ll gladly let you cover every inch of his skin in your spit and slick, rubbing yourself against his body and licking at him until you’ve had your fill.

(And fuck, if you squirt? He’s wearing it like a badge of honor, pride and arousal coursing through him in such potent amounts that he’s nearly dizzy, nearly unable to function because god he needs to fuck you and make you do that over and over again until you can’t anymore.)

He’s just possessive, and while you might initially be rather disgusted simply by his eagerness and fixation on it, eventually you might even find it hot, too. Because really, he may be deranged, a stalker, horribly and uncomfortably dependent on you for his emotional stability and health, but isn’t there something so very sexy about a grown man moaning in your ear and begging you to please let him finish inside you?

Voyeurism

Perhaps it’s a remnant of having stalked you for so long, but there’s something that gets Sanemi so fucking hard about watching you pleasure yourself.

There’s layers to it – of course he loves the physical sight of you with your fingers stuffed into your cunt, tits spilling out of your lounging shirt, thighs quivering and your lips parting into that pretty ‘o’ shape that Sanemi wants to fill with his fingers. He loves the way you look all fucked out, pretty and writhing and gasping, letting all your natural sounds out because there’s not a soul around to hear you and you can be truly free. So yes, from a purely carnal, sexual standpoint, Sanemi very much enjoys the sight of you touching yourself.

But even beyond that, there’s something morbidly fascinating and addicting about it – there’s something indescribably intimate about watching you at your most vulnerable, those lilac eyes widening and staying transfixed on every aspect of you that he can. He’s watching like a hawk as you squeeze at your breast, watching to see if you pinch at your nipple or roll it, if you squeeze hard and hold it there or opt for weaker but more frequent squeezes.

He’s carefully watching your fingers, analyzing the patterns and shapes you’re drawing against your clit, how fast you’re going and whether you vary anything or keep it all consistent.

(He’ll even press his fingers against the expanse of his forearm as he watches, mimicking your motions against his own skin in an effort to practice, to learn by muscle memory exactly how you like to be touched so that once he gets you naked and spread out for him, he can be exactly what you want and give you exactly what you need. He’ll do this with the way you finger yourself, too, guessing at the particular angles you’re reaching for based on the way your wrist flexes, how your knuckles move. He’ll go home and practice this, too, using his pillow as a poor stand-in for your body and practicing thrusting in the pattern you seem to like, angling his hips to brush against the spot that always gets you gasping, buffing up his stamina because he’ll be damned if the first time he gets you naked underneath him is thwarted by his own physical inabilities.)

It helps him feel connected to you like this – easier to pretend that he’s the one making you moan and curl your toes rather than your own hand or the toy you’d purchased for yourself.

(A toy that he absolutely fucking hates, always glaring at it and scoffing because he’s sure that he could fuck you so much better – he’d get the angle right, he’d get the depth perfect, and he’d do all the damn work – you just need to lay there and look pretty, grasp onto him and moan his name and he’ll take care of the rest. He'll always take care of you, after all, and he wants the sex to be absolutely perfect, for you to crave him even a fraction as much as he craves you.)

And even once he’s forced to steal you away, these habits of peeping in on you while you’re lost in your own little world don’t magically disappear. It’s more difficult now, sure, because standing and peering through your window was always easier, always less risky, but Sanemi becomes too desperate and in withdrawal to stop himself.

His lucidity leaves him feeling guilty every time, but he’ll crack the door into your room open ever so slightly, having returned home from a mission or an errand earlier than he’d told you. He’ll peek in, doing his best to move slowly and silently to avoid grabbing your attention, and he’s immediately got his hand in his pants, gripping himself so tightly and harshly that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

His orgasms are always stronger when he’s got you in his sight, and as he times his strokes with your thrusts inside yourself, he’s clenching his abs and shaking, hips coming up to thrust and rut against his fist. He’s staying deathly quiet, intent on hearing the sound of your moans and the wet squelching of your cunt sucking your fingers in again and again. And when he comes, he’s praying that you’ll finish at the same time, forcing himself to stop and endlessly edging himself just so that you can come together, to have something romantic and sweet like a simultaneous release.

(Of course, the aftermath of cum staining the front of his trousers and his upper thighs is less sweet, but Sanemi can’t quite care – even as it dries and grows cold, feeling slimy and sticky against his skin. He’s too transfixed watching the way your chest slowly stops heaving, how you relax and bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, how you idly play with your nipples and smile up at the ceiling, and if he tries harder enough - pretends hard enough, really - he can even hear you murmur his name.)

The intention is relatively sweet, no matter how deranged and creepy he may feel for actively spying on you as you undress, but he’s just a man, and how can a man be expected to deny himself the viewing pleasure of the woman he’s so madly, pathetically obsessed with?

But unfortunately for Sanemi, you’re not as oblivious as he hopes – you’ll notice the way he lingers at your door, his occasional soft, shuddering gasps not going unheard even over the sound of your own moans. You’ll see his shadow against the door panels, even seeing the shadow of his cock when he pulls it out of his pants, the mere sight making your orgasm hurtle closer and closer, even despite your shame at finding your kidnapper’s cock arousing.

You’re not blind, and it’s almost therapeutic to watch how easily he falls apart for you, the shadow of his back hunching over slightly as you both near your ends, the wet squelching sounds of his fist going up and down just barely audible if you strain yourself hard enough. It’s endearing, in a fucked-up sort of way, but if you were to ever mention something about it, Sanemi will immediately bristle, embarrassment crawling up his spine and his cheeks glowing a soft, subtle pink, entirely caught off guard and unsure of what to say.

(He’s mortified that you know, that he’d been caught, if only because now he’s absolutely convinced you must think of him as a pervert, as a monster, and it kills him to know that it’s true. And yet, there’s some small, masochistic part of him that’s almost glad, finding the whole situation so, so very hot because now he can’t help but wonder if you’d started touching yourself on purpose, perhaps wanting to draw him out, perhaps wanting to listen to him losing his fucking mind over your naked body. You naughty, naughty thing.)

And so, once your consensual sexual relationship begins, Sanemi is using every piece of knowledge he’d gathered from watching you to his advantage – he’s not wasting any time putting all that practice into use, curling his fingers and rubbing and kneading just how you like it, watching with wide, almost nervous eyes to see how you react, hoping that he’s doing good and making you enjoy it, enjoy him.

He wants you to tell him how it feels, to hear you say that it’s good, that you love it when you touch me ‘Nemi, and that alone gets him doubling in his efforts, frantic to get you to orgasm for him and only him, filled with a sort of crazed need to be the one to finally, finally bring you your high.

And as time passes, you’ll notice that Sanemi tends to bring this kink into the bedroom, too, even when you’re fully aware of his presence – he’ll tell you to touch yourself, settling across the bed, and slowly fisting at his cock, licking his lips and watching with rapt attention as you spread your legs, playing with yourself and humming his name.

But it’s not quite the same as when you were alone, though, and Sanemi will tell you to act like I’m not here, don’t make shit up or fake your moans. He wants the authenticity, the rawness, the realness of you fully indulging in yourself.

It’s in these moments that you’ll see the more submissive side of Sanemi – the small part of him that absolutely loves when you ignore his existence, pretending he’s not fisting his cock like a madman simply to the sight, smell, and sound of you. He likes the way that you’re not paying him any mind, completely focused on yourself, Sanemi merely a bystander and watching you. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s in these moments that his obsession only further solidifies, his feelings for you growing stronger and latching into him deeper, like claws that make him shiver in pain-tinged pleasure. Because really, he can only consider himself lucky and cruelly blessed for getting to see you like this, for being allowed so close to you as you gush on your fingers and pinch at your nipples. It’s an honor, even if that explanation makes you shift uncomfortably and try to ignore the reverent look in his eye.

You’re just so damn pretty, can he really be blamed for wanting to stare and stare and stare?

Marking

While hyper fixated on your health and safety in every aspect of his obsession, one area where he’s ever so slightly lenient is in bed. He’ll outright refuse to do anything that draws blood or involves hitting you, but there’s something rather tempting about the idea of leaving a trace of himself after he spends hours upon hours getting you to come on his fingers and cock.

He likes the reminder that he’d been able to pleasure you, the feeling enough to get you moaning and clawing at his back and whining his name. And so, Sanemi develops a liking for leaving all sorts of hickeys and love bites all over your body.

He’s passionate when he fucks you, leaving kisses on every inch of skin he can reach and grasping onto you tightly enough that sometimes bruises appear.

(And he feels guilty for it, in the beginning, always scowling when he sees them the next day. But alongside the guilt there’s something good – something that makes him smug, pride settling in his gut because those are his fingermarks on your body, showing that he attends to your more intimate needs. Reminding him that you let him attend to those needs – that you let him kiss and hold you, that you let him squeeze and grope at your skin, that you let him spread your legs and push himself inside until he’s filling every possible inch of you, connected with you in the most raw, natural way. It’s romantic, almost, and it makes Sanemi squirm slightly just thinking about it because oh fuck, now he’s hard again and really you should take some accountability for showing off your collarbone and the barrage of hickeys like that…)

He’s not picky about where or how he does it, either – what you’ll mostly be covered in are hickeys, the dark spots dancing in patterns all along your neck, shoulders, collarbone, inner thighs, and even your stomach and ass. His favorite is your neck, though. He likes the way you get all breathless when he kisses and sucks and licks at the skin, the sensations making your breath go light and airy against his ear, the harsh puffs of air blowing against the tufts of white hair on his head.

And he’ll leave all over your neck – at the juncture at your jaw, sucking a few right below your ear.

(He’ll take a few moments to lightly nibble and bite at your earlobe, liking the way you whine his name and tell him to stop being weird, but it’s endearing, the way you clearly like it and are just saying that to keep up images. Silly girl.)

He’ll flutter kisses along the column of your neck, tracing your windpipe and smiling against your skin when you swallow heavily. He’ll suck dark hickeys into the flesh of your shoulders, the soft slope the perfect canvas for him to leave littered with his marks. Sometimes he’ll randomly pick spots, the final result looking a little unorganized but still enough to make his heart swell and his breathing to get heavier. Other times he’ll very strategically place them – spelling out an ‘s’ character or a heart or something sappy that leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed but he just can’t help it.

Your neck is his favorite because of the intimacy and the difficulty of hiding the particularly high ones, but your inner thighs are a very close second. When he settles onto his stomach and spreads your legs, mouth hovering over your cunt and his warm breath making you twitch, he’ll take his time kissing up the space from your knee to your pelvis, taking the skin between his teeth and lightly nibbling, pressing dark sucks against the area and loving the way you squirm underneath his rather harsh grip on your thighs.

He’s a tease once he grows confident in the fact that you crave intimacy with him, loving the way you get desperate and beg him to give you what he knows you need. (He’d watched you with enough consistency and thoroughness for all those months before stealing you away and now he knows your tells – the way your face looks, how you sound, how your body jerks and shakes, hell, even the way you smell when you get close.)

He’ll push you right up to the edge, fingers working magic in a come hither motion against that spongey spot inside of you that makes your whole body tense in pleasure, all while his thumb is rubbing circles at your clit that leave you bucking your hips and chanting out his name. He’ll get you right there, then pull back, going back to your inner thigh and working on a fresh, new hickey, the loss of stimulation making you pout and whine for him to touch you again.

He’ll only roll his eyes, pulling back with a loud thwap noise as the suction breaks, your slick still visible on his lips, chin, and cheeks. So demanding, he’ll start, sending a sharp brush of his fingers over your clit that gets you gasping.

He’ll hold out for a while longer, milking out the way you plead with him, before he’ll eventually give in and get back to your neglected cunt, bringing you to your high and rutting at the bed below him with the way you writhe and cry out. And for the next few days, every time he sees that particular hickey he’s suddenly way too red, sweaty and panting and growing more desperate by the second to give you more more more, wanting your whole body to be evidence of his presence in both your life and your bed.

And he’ll proudly wear any marks you make on his body, too – leave hickeys and love bites against his skin and he’ll only shiver and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. He’ll encourage you to run your nails down the expanse of his back when he’s got you in missionary or a press, growling your name as his hips fuck into you harder, faster, with more intent and purpose.

(And later, when he’s dressing himself and happens to see himself in a mirror, he can only gulp, thumb tracing along the scratch marks and blemishes left behind from you. It makes him giddy, often absentmindedly running a finger over them while he travels to missions, during pointless conversation, during times when he’s away on a mission and starting to think himself into a panic about how you’re doing, if you’re safe, if you’ve escaped him somehow. It calms him and only kindles his feelings for you, the knowledge of you willingly leaving your mark on him enough to get him licking his lips and palming himself over his pants, trying to restrain himself so that he can get you to leave newer, fresher marks.)

He just likes the idea, and while he’d never bite you hard enough to cause genuine pain or give you a hickey so deep that it hurt, he will be marking you from head to toe so that everyone you come into contact with (no one besides him, really, but that’s besides the point) cannot deny that you are Sanemi Shinazugawa’s woman.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Slapping

But in a very, very specific way – Sanemi treasures you, idolizing and worshipping you to the point of self-loathing, and consequently he’s not terribly mean in bed. Once a steady sexual relationship is established between the two of you, he’ll get more vocal and adventurous, adapting to what you like.

(And he’s willing to do just about anything you want of him sexually – he’ll get on his knees and kiss up your thighs, lapping and sucking at your cunt until you have to physically push him off of you, slick smeared across his lips, cheeks, and chin while he stares up at you, equal parts hazed and irritated that you’d pulled him away. He’ll let you climb on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head and letting you play with his cock until he’s near tears, the edging and phantom touches making him grit and groan, desperation eating away at him because your touch feels so good but oh – it’s the attention you’re giving to him that ultimately makes him paint your fist white.)

And though he’s not naturally inclined to be degrading towards you during sex, there’s one stark exception – that is, there’s something that makes the possessiveness and territorial feelings Sanemi harbors for you flare up when he smacks you with his cock. Nothing too hard, of course – the intention isn’t to hurt you or bruise you, but rather it’s like staking his claim on you.

It’s like showing you that you belong to him – he’ll grip himself at the base, biting his lip and flexing his arm as he shifts his weight, hovering over you and smacking his fat, soaked tip against your pretty, puffy clit, stifling a groan at the way you jerk at the contact.

He’s smacking himself against your folds, the wet and tacky noise making his fingers tighten against the pillow under your head, his breath getting heavier because fuck, you look so damn pretty underneath him like this, reactive to his cock even when it’s not inside of you.

He’s tracing his tip against your lips when you’re on your knees for him, whispered chants of your name falling from his lips as he lightly taps his tip against your cheeks, your lips, your outstretched tongue.

(And, after he smacks himself against your tongue, if you smile and giggle ever so slightly? Well, don’t be surprised when he stiffens up, his orgasm crashing through him after a mere minute of your hot, wet mouth around him. Don’t be surprised when he starts cursing and murmuring things under his breath right on the brink of his high, your name mixing with gravely I love you’s as he gives you rope after rope after rope of his cum, hot and potent and made with only you in mind.)

He just likes the physical action of it, the way that even something so small gives him the slightest bit of acknowledgement that you’re his, that you’re here and touching him and looking at him just as he’s been fantasizing of for so long. It’s hot, he thinks, and while he’d be extremely reluctant to actually hit you during sex, he’s rubbing and smacking his cock against every inch of your body that he can – your face, your ass, your tits (he especially loves to rub his cum-soaked tip against your nipples, watching as they get hard and get glossy in the candlelight), your thighs, hell, even your arms.

He wants to claim every part of you, and so between covering you in his cum and the imprint of his cock, you’ll be fully and utterly his.

Spitting

Again, it’s a possessive thing – tying into his desire to mark you as his and only his, Sanemi grows a penchant for spitting. It’s something he harshly avoids when you first begin your intimate relationship, finding the act too disrespectful and frankly gross to partake in. He’s worried you’ll find it derogatory and that you’ll see him as some misogynistic freak who views you as his property.

(Which is, in some ways, ever so slightly true – he does see you as his, but it’s reciprocal. You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and if you want to think about in such a crude, black-and-white way, then yes – he sees you as his property. But he’s your property, too, if it makes you feel any better.)

And frankly, he won’t bother indulging in the kink unless you initially bring it up – he’s too tied down to this philosophy and he doesn’t want to risk you getting disgusted or turned off when he’s touching you.

But if you bring it up and use a lot of ‘please’ and compliments, Sanemi will cave.

It’s awkward the first few times, hovering over you and perched on his elbows, nose scrunching slightly because he’s not sure how to do this in a way he thinks will be sexy for you. He wants to live up to your fantasy, so he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, collecting the saliva, before puckering his lips, letting the glob fall with a rather obnoxious noise.

Your mouth’s already open for him, tongue lightly sticking out and your eyes half-lidded with lust, and the mere sight alone makes Sanemi gulp, scared he might accidentally drool into your mouth.

(Though, perhaps you’d like that – you’re a freak, he thinks, but it still makes his cheeks feel hot, his cock jumping against your thigh, his Adam’s apple harshly bobbing.)

It’s in the moment when he watches his spit land on your tongue, pretty lips closing and the swallowing motion you make exaggerated and loud. He’ll pause, staring down at your lips in a daze, before suddenly telling you to do that again, the sight so strangely erotic that he needs to do it again and again and again.

It strokes something in his ego – some sort of feeling of dominance and claim on you, marking his territory by making sure you’ve got a little piece of him in you. Soon he’s cupping your jaw every time your clothes get stripped off, forcing your lips to open and immediately spitting onto your tongue, watching with hazy eyes and a small smirk as you obediently swallow, the sight never failing to get him even more eager to spread your legs and sink inside of you.

It gets to the point where it even becomes a non-sexual thing sometimes – it feels too good to be showing such an obvious sign of claim on you that he’ll slowly kiss you in the mornings, your soft lips and little sighs making him light-headed. He’ll pull back, his morning voice hoarse and gravely as he tells you to open up, immediately spitting into your open mouth and following it up with a few kisses against your jaw, a murmur of good morning.

He likes to start the day with it because it puts him into a good mood – a light, peaceful one, quelling the jealous, anxious worry that you’ll leave him, that you’ll be snatched up by another man, that you hate him.

And his fixation for spitting doesn’t just end at your mouth – he’ll spit onto your cunt when he’s kneeling between your legs, two thick fingers rubbing the fluid against your pretty folds, taking extra care to let it lubricate his fingertips before he presses quick, steady little circles against your clit.

He’ll spit into his own hand, coating his fingers and slowly pressing them into you, grunting at the way you gasp out and tighten impossibly around them. It’s lubrication, he thinks, and the idea of his saliva being in your pussy makes him shiver, the thought so dirty and taboo and so very good.

And he’d be happy if you wanted to return the favor – he’ll look at you expectantly, irritation evident in his gaze, before he sits down and forces you to stand over him, his own mouth open and awaiting. He likes it for all the same reasons, just reversed – he likes the idea of you wanting to stake your claim on him. He wants to feel wanted and cherished by you, and if you were to spit into his mouth it’d be direct evidence that you want him, at least in a sexual capacity.

It’s thrilling, frankly, and it leaves Sanemi eagerly swallowing, immediately attacking you with passionate, needy kisses and wandering hands that swiftly find purchase in groping at your ass.

He just thinks it’s romantic, and he’ll do everything in his power to win points with you. Anything to get you liking him more, craving him more.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Despite holding status as both a Hashira and your captor, Sanemi is very, very shy about asking you for any sort of deviation in the bedroom. It’s a combination of things that hold him back – fear of rejection, mainly, but also embarrassment because he’s worried that you’ll think he’s strange for wanting to try certain things.

Namely, Sanemi desperately, desperately wants you to sit on his face.

He has no sexual experience and hadn’t even been aware this was an option until he’d accidentally overheard a conversation between Uzui and a (very uncomfortable) Giyuu, and while he’s ashamed to admit it he’d stuck around, eavesdropping just around the corner as Giyuu asked the older man what exactly that meant (only to very quickly regret it, his cheeks flushing a light pink and not even bothering to make up an excuse as he hurried away).

It’s where the woman sits down on the man’s face, giving him better access to pleasure her with his mouth! It’s quite flashy, and a good view, too.

Sanemi had been flustered at his words, too, but had spent the whole day struggling to get the thought out of his head. Fantasies about eating you out and making you fall apart with just his tongue and fingers had long been circling through his head, keeping him up at night and forcing him to wrap calloused fingers around his cock, holding the scrap of fabric from your kimono he’d managed to snag between his teeth, groaning and growling at the mere thought of what you taste like.

But this?

This is risqué, vulgar, perhaps even crude – and something he grows more and more antsy to try with each passing day, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on your thighs, biting his lip and imagining the way they’d feel around his head.

He generally likes sexual positions and scenarios where you’re getting most of the pleasure, genuinely getting off on the idea of being useful to you in the bedroom. And he finds the idea of being so surrounded by you – his sight, his hearing, his taste, his smell – enticing, loving the idea that he gets to spoil you by working at you for hours and letting you ride his face, all the while getting to indulge himself in all things you.

And he truly wants you to use him – he wants you to grind your hips against the expanse of his tongue, to let your clit press against his nose and hump at it. He wants his entire lips, chin, and cheeks to be smeared with your release, to have it seep into his skin and soak in so that he has a piece of you with him always, a reminder that you let him touch you, pleasure you, that you want him.

“Are you sure about this, ‘Nemi?” You ask, biting your lip and watching as he scowls. He’s laying down in front of you, clothes thrown off to some other part of the room and his cock already half-hard, flushed a deep pink color.

He’s cocking his brow at you, embarrassment creeping up his spine. He knew you’d find this weird – stupid Tengen, giving out stupid advice.

“Yes, hurry up!” He snaps, swallowing and looking away for a moment to collect himself. Excitement and anxiety eat away at his stomach. He’s surprised you’d agreed to this, given the way he’d very haphazardly and defensively presented the idea. He’s pleased, of course, but now there’s that familiar self-imposed pressure to make sure that he preforms perfectly, that you enjoy every minute of it, that you’ll be satisfied and happy with his performance.

When you still don’t move, his scowl morphs into a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, to reluctantly tell you that you don’t have to unless you want to, but your small nod and footsteps towards him snap his jaw back up.

He’s practically brimming with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides.

You step over him, slowly kneeling down and standing on your knees. You’re hesitating, shuffling forward but scared to lower yourself those last few inches, and Sanemi grumbles underneath you.

“I don’t fucking bite,” he starts, hands coming up to grip at the plush of your thighs. He guides you up further, moving you forward and forward until your cunt’s directly above him, a shaky exhale brushing against the sensitive skin of your folds and making you shiver.

“Now just sit down.” He tells you, squeezing his fingers as if imploring you to just do as he says. You lower down but still leave most of your weight on your own legs.

He inhales deeply, the sound filling the room and making you blanche, embarrassment eating away at you. Sanemi groans at the scent of you, the familiar musk making his cock throb even harder against the confines of his pants.

He’s slow when he starts – kitten licks against your clit and large, flat licks along your folds. His eyes are fixed on you’re the whole time, staring and transfixed, trying to note every minute, small change in your expression.

He’s steadily tonguing at your clit now, and a moan rips its way out of you before you can really stop it. Closing your eyes, you focus on the feeling of his tongue against you, his fingers pressing against your thighs, the brush of his hair against your bare skin.

But then he’s suddenly grabbing onto the globes of your ass, pulling you down down down –

“Sanemi!” You gasp, the sensation so much stronger now that you’re flush with his face. He’s using his strength to pull you down – muscles flexing in an effort to keep you still and exactly where he wants you.

Lilac eyes stare up at you half-lidded, the taste of you clouding his senses and leaving him eagerly licking for more, slurping at you with lewd sounds that only serve to get him harder and harder.

Soon your stationary position isn’t enough, though, and he’s guiding your hips in a forwards-backwards motion, effectively grinding you against his lips and noise. Your breath catches as the action and Sanemi swears he sees stars – you’re so damn pretty, and Tengen had been right about the view. He can see your face, feel your thighs around his head, and see your pretty tits from up close.

He’s gripping onto you so tightly that you can’t even try to break the control he has over your movements – he’s pulling you across his face in a rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your hands blindly reach out to steady yourself on anything nearby. It ends up being the wall in front of you, both palms laying flat against the paneling as you pant and sigh his name. His nose is pressing against your clit, the sensation only causing you to shake as he slowly builds up your orgasm.

He pulls away for the smallest moment, licking his lips and squeezing your ass even harder, kneading at your cheeks and spreading them apart from one another. “Use me, ride my face.”

You blanch at his words, doubt settling in your chest, but at the insistent tug of your cunt back down onto his face, you can only shakily sigh, taking his advice and slowly starting to gyrate your hips. The response is immediate – a groan of satisfaction from Sanemi, his tongue efforts doubling as you control the pace, smearing your cunt against his skin and feeling like you’re suffocating him.

He’s in heaven, meanwhile, tasting you with a fervor and lightly bucking his hips, the phantom ghost of your touch through his clothing making his mind spin. You’re so damn pretty and perfect and lovely and when you’re using his face like your own personal pillow to hump and fuck, how can he complain?

He can’t, which is why he’s groaning equally as loudly as you when you reach your high a few minutes later, your shakes and shivers against his skin leaving him drooling at the sight of your back arching, tits jutting out and your thighs clenching even tighter around himself. You’re so attractive like this – all sexy and adorable even when he’s doing such filthy things to you, and it’s the sight and knowledge that he’s the one making you feel this good – that it’s his face and tongue and cheeks and body – that are getting you to violently jerk and moan his name, fresh rounds of slick dripping against his tongue and making him groan tightly against you.

And you’ll be able to tell just how much the mental and physical pictures affected him because once he’s had his share – pulling four or five orgasms out of you with just this method – there’s a distinct wet spot over his trousers, seeping across the fabric and leaving everything thick and warm with cum.

But don’t worry – there’s plenty more where that came from that he’d love to you.

Plenty.

Treasure 13 Reactions, Imagines, Scenarios and MTLs!

My requests are always open to anyone and everyone! I also do ex-trainees and current trainees!

Please send any requests I’m bored

treasure doyoung , high school au, strangers to lovers & prompt 31 pls! 💓

thank you so much for requesting!! this took a while bc I was confused with how to start, so enjoy :)

Kim Doyoung - “you never saw me.” highschool au! strangers to lovers!

You never really knew the boy well, but to be frank, not everyone did either, he only had a close knit of friends, plus, he was the type to only speak when spoken to. He gave off the impression of someone who liked to focus on their interests and hobbies, the type to not waste time partying like most kids at your school did. You admired that. He got good grades and he has a passion for dancing.

Unfortunately for you, your admiration for him ended up turning into a huge crush, you were always glancing at him, and whenever he would catch you he would only give you a smile in return. You wanted to get to know him better, but despite him literally sitting a row ahead and two seats to your left, he seemed so far away. He seemed like a stranger to you, you often wondered; ‘if he saw me in the streets would he even recognise me?’ You were sure that was the case, you weren’t the only girl to be caught staring at him, and you weren’t the only girl he smiled at.

Your feelings for him only deepened ever more when your class voted you both to be captains. Doyoung, of course, got voted captain, and you, vice captain. It was both a nightmare and dream come true, you two would be able to look into each other’s eyes and discuss plans for any class excursions or what not, the nightmare part was you being scared of embarrassing yourself.

You would always make sure there would be nothing stuck in your teeth after every meal and after every snack, you stopped wearing laced shoes due to your fear of them suddenly being untied and you tripping, so you switched to Velcro shoes. You switched to hair clips to put your hair up due to your fear of the hair tie snapping in the middle of class, now that, that was a personal and unpleasant experience.

Despite you always being on edge, Doyoung always had his eyes lead back to you, his gaze always softening, as he let out a small smile whenever you turned your back towards him.

It was like any other normal school day except for the fact that the teacher had been absent and that led to you having a substitute. After a long day the substitute had put you and Doyoung upon the task of bringing the many boxes filled with folders into the staff room. As you and Doyoung rearranged the boxes from lightest to heaviest, Doyoung decided to break the silence.

“Sucks to be here after school hours, huh?”

He smiled took you a while to register that he was talking to you and there was no one else in the room, you wanted to refrain yourself from embarrassing yourself, of course.

“Yeah, but it feels nice being able to help.”

You cringed after that sentence left your mouth, you felt so embarrassed, you mentally facepalmed yourself, you wanted to just jump into any hole avail-

“Hey you don’t have to be so hard on yourself okay?” He smiled softly and put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

‘Huh?’ You has been snapped out of your mental scolding and now you had no idea on how to reply.

“I see the way you’re so cautious around everything or how you scold yourself sometimes, you just gotta relax, you know?”

He continued, “its all apart of life embarrassing yourself but the best part about it is that you can laugh at all the embarrassing things you’ve done.”

He started walking out of the room with you following behind him with boxes in both of your hands.

“Now you’ll be able to laugh at it all, so you know, I wouldn’t call them embarrassing, they’re really just memories in disgu-“

“Wait your laces!”

It was too late, he had already tripped with the folders scattered around the floor, his cheeks tinted with a deep scarlet red. You put your box down and offered him a hand.

“You never saw me.”

You burst out in laughter with tears brimming your eyes, “what happened to the memories in disguise? Huh?”

You let your head fall back due to the laughter, whereas he watched you, his gazed soften, and smiled softly at you, he saw you in a light he had never seen you before, he saw you differently, he saw you, and felt like he knew you, he felt familiarity.

Request: treasure13 reaction to gf having to kiss someone for a acting role. Sorry if english isn’t so good.

Hi and thank you for requesting! Your English is perfect, don’t worry.

I did this at 10pm so it’s probably not that good (I’m so sorry!!) ALSO I excluded the underage members, so the ones born from ‘01-‘05, - excluding Mashiho since his international age is 18.

I’m assuming the ones born from ‘01-‘05 would have girlfriends/boyfriends around their age so they’re minors and I just don’t write things like that. Sorry :(

Enjoy 😊

Treasure13 Reaction To Girlfriend Kissing Someone For An Acting Role

Hyunsuk

Would not be so happy about it and would be very obvious in showing his dislike towards it. His jealous side would come out, and he would be watching you very intently while you kiss the guy/girl, would be a pouty puppy afterwards. Understands that it’s part of your job so he wouldn’t ask you to turn down the role, but would avoid the topic of it. “Okay but you and I and the rest of the world knows I have better lips, I mean looooook at these.” Points to his lips and proceeds to say “I eat lip balms, he/she doesn’t, I guess I’m the real winner here”.

Jihoon

When you first told him that you had to kiss someone for a role, he was like ‘wtf’. Jihoon would be a best friend boyfriend (you get me?) so he would tease you at first but then not be so happy about it afterwards. He seems like the type to bottle things up, so he wouldn’t say anything about it but he would be a bit down for a few days, but then you’ll remind him that it was just a role and that your HIS girlfriend and then we’ll have the normal Jihoon back, and then he’ll annoy you like crazy for the next couple of days, mocking the way you did the kiss scene, would pretend he’s you and make out with whatever, a balloon, a plate, a remote, you name it.

Yoshinori

He’d get mad, at your company for giving you this role, but he would be happy that you have a role and that you’re following your dreams. But he would not be looking forward to the kiss scene at all. At. All. Expect a possessive Yoshi for a couple of days, his arm always around your waist, more affection, PDA, yeah, expect it. When asked about the scene “yeah, it was cute” but what would been going through his mind is ‘would’ve been even cuter if it was me she was kissing’

Junkyu

“Eh? Na?” Y’all remember that bit from YGTB. Yeah that’ll be Junkyu when you tell him, “Eh? Kiss scene? You? Another man/woman?” Probably would be in shock for a while, but then get super happy for you that you landed at role!!! Whenever the kiss scene comes up he’ll probably just cover his eyes and yours for the lols. Would ask if he’s a better kisser, if you say yes he’ll get cocky, if you say no he will be cut, “you’re joking right?” “Y/N?” “Oh my gawd”

Yoonbin

“Oh, okay 😗🙂” is his reaction, would nod as well. He wouldn’t complain about it at all. He’s just so laidback. But he would get jealous, lowkey though. Expect a cuddly posessice Yoonbin for the next couple of days, don’t even expect it actually, he’ll be so lowkey about it, you wouldn’t notice. Would be the type to say “okay, remember that I’m a better kisser” with a smirk on his face, just before your about to do it, via text or if he’s there watching.

Mashiho

“Kiss scene?” “Yeah I’m having a kiss scene” “okay 🤓” that’s how it will go, but expect more questions from him and he’ll do a background check on the person your kissing.

I just wanted to say that they all would be extremely supportive boyfriends!!! None of them would ask you to refuse the role or whatever, Stan talent, Stan manners, Stan respectful boys, Stan TREASURE13 ✌️

❌Gifs are not mine! Credit goes to their rightful owners!❌

Obsidian Masterlist

-The Original Piece: Part One and Two

-Jasper's First Appearance

-Courting

“KPOP is not an entertainment anymore. It’s a competition”

-anonymous

Who's your bias?

I’m trying so hard to be loyal to Yoonbin and Junkyu right now but Yoshinori will always have a special place in my heart

IN CONTEMPT | simon riley

You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, it’s here to settle the score.

✉️ SEQUEL TO: ‘ RETURN TO SENDER ’ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting [ 16.6k words ]

Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a £21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.

It’s humiliating, really—how twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertain—sleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.

The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes—though it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worse—customers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy you’ve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.

Your life was shit before, but that’s all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You don’t remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everything’s off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.

You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shut—for your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opens—and he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.

The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You made an offer—arguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettable—and he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.

But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or not—the phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.

It’s hard to fight the way your body craves—the pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.

After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isn’t coming home.  You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snags—thinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.

But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.

He’s gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well. 

Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.

A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you can’t let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breath—suffocating, consuming.

Then come the dreams.

The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarray—your sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.

You can't deal with it anymore. 

You can’t cope with the way he haunts you. It’s cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How he’s gone, yet has never truly left.

You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be something—some sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.

Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.

You need him.

It’s pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for something—anything—that could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.

You probably look like an addict going through withdrawals—waiting, itching, restless. 

In a way, you are. You couldn’t get enough.

The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like it’ll tell you exactly where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming back. But it never does.

You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stop—if you let the remnants of him settle—it makes him real in the past tense. And you can’t stomach that. Not yet.

Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come home—rinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastrophe—but never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldn’t care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.

How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you weren’t so voracious—so infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something coming—stalking, circling, tightening the trap.

You tell yourself you won’t stoop to his level—that you wouldn’t degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that you’re worse than he, because you don’t need a piece of paper. You’re already pent up, already had a hit of him, and that’s all you need. He’s there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.

You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You can’t touch yourself like he can—can’t make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptiness—the dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? It’s all you have.

Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesn’t feel like you're alone at all. There’s something there, the faintest sense that someone’s eyes are on you—not intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..

It’s that feeling—that feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and you’re coming undone, gasping—no, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.

You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like they’re reaching for something. Or reaching for you. 

There’s something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadow—an odd, latent presence that doesn’t quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear it’s there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, it’s always gone—vanished.

It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyone—but would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?

You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. It’s a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. You’ve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperation—so be it.

You’d welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.

The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.

A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistent—go to the window. Let him see.

You leave it open now. Always.

The only thing you’ve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidence—like a secret only you know, a mark he’s left on you that no one else can see. The longing isn’t new anymore; it’s settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesn’t sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.

But the irony isn’t lost on you. Because for all that confidence, you’ve never felt emptier.

You’re four hours deep into your shift. It’s a quarter past four in the afternoon and you’re standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping “Clubcard Exclusive” onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.

Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all you’ve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial “Spring Fresh” assaulting your nose.

And then comes Keith.

Fucking Keith.

His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks he’s stealthy when, really, he’s stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when he’s coming, when he’s about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you can’t scrub off, a presence you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try.

"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it weren’t so painfully unwarranted—like he truly believes he belongs at your side, like he’s convinced himself you want him there.

You don’t look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint this time.

Though, he never does.

“Didn’t think I’d find you today,” Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if you’ve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. “Been hidin’ from me or somethin’?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.

He’s not ugly. Not by any means. He’s tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like they’re waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smile—like he’s always hiding something just beneath the surface.

His confidence is anything but charming; it’s suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.

“I’m working, Keith.” Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.

“Oh, I see that.” He gestures to the bottles like he’s just now noticing them. “Riveting stuff. But, y’know… if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?”

The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, you’ll crack.

You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t drink.”

Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”

Jesus Christ.

You finally turn to look at him—a mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.

“C’mon,” he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. “I’d be good to you, y’know.”

There it is. That undertone, that expectation—the same fucking entitlement you’ve seen on him a million times before.

Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesn’t exist.

But he isn’t done.

“You’ve been different lately,” he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. “Real quiet. Distracted. What’s up with that, honey?”

Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.

“Nothing.”

Keith hums. “That right?”

You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that he’s noticed. Hate that he’s perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention —even if it’s coming from him.

Because it’s something.

Because it’s not radio silence.

But it’s not him. It’s not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And that’s what cuts the deepest—that you were never even worth the closure.

You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.

Usually, you’d brush Keith off with a simple excuse—a friend you don’t have, a date that doesn’t exist. A lie. You’ve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. He’s persistent, but you’re sharper. Always have been.

But when he presses again, you hesitate.

“C’mon,” Keith says, his voice too casual, “Just one drink, on me. What do you say?”

You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.

Maybe it’s the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, you’re craving anything—the heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothing’s been able to fill.

Or maybe it’s just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold. 

You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize what’s happening, you hear yourself say, “Alright. Fine. One drink.” 

At least it was on him. 

Keith’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.

“No way,” he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I—uh, I thought you’d shut me down again.”

You don’t answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they don’t belong to you. But they’re out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.

Keith’s smile widens, but there’s something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. “I know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.”

His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.

It should make you step back, re-think what you’re jumping into. 

But you don’t. You can’t. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.

“Alright,” you say again, this time with a little more force as if you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. “One drink.”

Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. “I’ll pick you up at 9,” he says, voice low and assured. “Plenty of time to get home and change, right?” He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.

You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. “Yeah… I’ll uh—I’ll text you my address.” The words come out flat, detached. It’s no big deal. Totally.

His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.

You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around you—distant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.

You don’t even know what you’re doing, but maybe this is what you need.

Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you’re always reaching for without thinking—an instinct, a reflex you can’t unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollow—something so… Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.

A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you don’t stop yourself. 

You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? It couldn’t be that bad. You’ll just go out and try to make the best of it.

You hit ‘send.’

So much for getting to know each other. 

Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You aren’t really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.

Simon’s absence. 

God, it bothers you how deeply he’s imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? There’s no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?

Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem. 

You pull yourself back to the present. The date’s going... fine. Nothing special. You’d pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were trying—because you weren’t. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didn’t mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.

The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged men—DILFs you’d much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; they’re the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesn’t feel so desperate.

But instead, you’re stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense he’s spewing. The drinks are good—strong, surprisingly so—and it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.

You’re a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.

He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, he’s not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, he’s not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isn’t suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageable—a comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you don’t think too hard about it.

You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm you’ve been for the past month.

You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than you’d expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.

Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the night’s beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding what’s right and what’s not. You’ve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all that’s left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.

It’s not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperation—like he’s been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that it’s happening. But it’s something.

Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend you’re not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that you’re still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.

Because why not?

Maybe if you drown yourself in something else—something that isn’t honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too much—you can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side. 

Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, you’ll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallow—you’ll get by. You’ll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.

So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in close—just enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of here—head back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.

Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firm—too firm—as he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.

The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.

Then you’re at your door, and he’s on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like he’s tasting his kill—like he already knows he’s won.

God, you feel like a slut.

The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lock—it all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.

Because you don’t belong to Keith.

You don’t look back at him. You can’t. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.

And you can’t afford to stop. Not yet.

When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something it’s not—some messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosion—but you’re not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like it’s second nature. He doesn’t notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize you’re steering this whole thing.

And wet, he gets it.

He fucks you on your bed, and it’s got to be the most boring experience of your life. He’s got you prone, on your stomach, and you don’t look at him. You can’t look at him—because that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that you’re here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your window’s curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like he’s following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if it’s even in, if he’s just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didn’t have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked you—that was something else entirely.

Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.

“You like that, love?”

No, Keith. You’re jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.

You don’t answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone else—someone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you can’t bring yourself to lie. This isn’t Simon. It’s not even close.

You wait. You endure.

Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.

You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You don’t react. You barely register his voice.

Because out the window, across the street, there’s that shadow again.

Still. Watching. Waiting.

And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.

You definitely could’ve found better than Keith. But God, he’s easy—easier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.

It’s been a month since you first fucked him—two since Simon—and he’s like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you don’t push him away, either. Not completely. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you don’t feel like taking the train. He’s convenient. Reliable, even.

But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. He’s a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something you’ll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using him—horrible, but not enough to stop.

Each time he’s between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attention—a lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if he’s especially lucky—you see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks you’ll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.

And maybe that’s the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isn’t outright rejection. He’s a fool for it. And maybe you’re cruel for letting him believe in something that doesn’t exist.

But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable terms—this isn’t love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.

But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to you—no matter how small, how insignificant—is still better than being nothing at all.

Simon doesn’t linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldn’t bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case. 

But every time Keith is on top of you—grunting, sweating, trying—you’re reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but you’ve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.

Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.

At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, he’s still there. Still there when you’re making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.

You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like he’s your boyfriend.

You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. “Where’d you even get pancake mix?”

“Had some at my place,” he says, as if that’s a completely reasonable explanation.

You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought food—from his own flat—to cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.

It only gets worse from there, though.

He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isn’t your own anymore. 

Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. You’re halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up

Your stomach sinks. You didn’t ask him to do that.

You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really don’t have to, I can take the train.

Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.

And that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter what you say. He just does it anyway.

You’re on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, it’s quiet—just the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.

Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.

Your throat tightens before you even turn.

Sure enough—Keith.

He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.

“How’s my lovely girlfriend?” he asks, tone playful.

Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. “I’m not your girlfriend, Keith,” you say, feigning a small, polite smile. “But I’m okay, thanks for asking.”

Keith just chuckles like you’ve made some kind of joke. “Yeah, totally. Y’know, we’ve been at this for a while, lovey. Think you’ll let me meet your parents soon?”

You freeze mid-bite.

There’s a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.

“You can’t—” you pinch your nose bridge, “You’re not meeting my parents,” you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hoping—praying—that maybe this time, he’ll get it.

Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. “Awh, that’s alright. You’re just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.”

Your mouth goes dry. You don’t even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like you’re forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.

“Gotta get back,” you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.

Keith doesn’t follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.

The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You should’ve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, it’s like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you need—what you crave, even though you know deep down that it’s a fool’s wish.

With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like he’s desperately trying to prove something to you. He’s fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. He’ll ask, “That was better than last time, right?” as though the answer matters to you. As if you’ve been keeping score.

You aren’t. You never were.

Your room smells like him now—like cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and he’s already passed out. The light is off and you’re lying there, forced into a state of calm that’s not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.

Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someone’s charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.

You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.

As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel it—he’s really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.

The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. It’s heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.

You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin

You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keith’s pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldn’t. But now, it’s just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort you’ve grown too used to, another reason you should’ve never gotten with Keith.

You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.

You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess it’s just about midnight, but you don’t bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.

Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now it’s rotting you from the inside out. You’ve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he left—distractions, vices, fleeting touches—but it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..

A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because  another part of you knows what it is—who it is. Knows that he’s gone.

And that, more than anything, stings.

The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.

You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in. 

Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. You’re not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be it 

You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but it’s enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keith’s side of the bed. It’s like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escape—if only for a few hours.

You’re dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousness—a soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.

Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherent—something about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is he’s doing, you don’t want to hear it.

For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe he’s leaving—maybe he’s finally getting the hint.

But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.

You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. He’s either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You don’t even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.

You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.

Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.

With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.

“Keith, will you shut the fu—”

Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.

Keith isn’t in bed with you.

He’s in the chair—your desk chair—against the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.

Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.

“What the f—”

You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t budge. The ropes hold firm.

You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.

Then you feel it.

A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightens—not a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.

Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like he’s committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.

He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.

You don’t dare move.

Because you know exactly who it is.

The scent of him just like you remember—gunpowder, sweat, something faintly woody—clashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.

Then, finally, a voice—rough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.

“Been busy, huh, pet?”

The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.

You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear. 

Still, you don’t move. You don’t look.

If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up—wake up and risk him being gone again.

Your eyes stay locked onto Keith’s, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like you’re supposed to do something, like you’re supposed to save him.

But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.

The grip in your hair tightens—no longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. You’ll always let him.

And there he is.

Maskless.

Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a second—one long, aching second—to make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.

But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.

They’re the same eyes that have haunted you for weeks—dark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that you’ve conjured in the dead of night, that you’ve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.

And right now, they’re burning into you, unreadable as ever.

He’s here, in the flesh.

His bone structure is cut from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.

Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.

He’s devastating.

His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s possessive. Calculated.

His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.

You don’t think. You just react.

Your lips wrap around the digit without a second’s hesitation, without him even needing to ask.

And the look in his eyes?

Like he never expected anything else.

With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You can’t swallow, can’t do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.

His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.

He’s wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all together—his wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.

Keith’s mind races, but there’s nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyes—the confusion, the fear, the realization that he’s powerless. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore.

Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.

“This y’plaything, baby? What you’ve been fillin’ y’time with?”

You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.

His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesn’t like it.

“Know I left you... Wasn’t very nice of me, now, was it?”

His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.

You want to tell him no, it wasn’t nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That you’ve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful “mm-mm,” your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.

His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess you’re making of yourself.

“Wasn’t very nice of you, though, was it? Goin’ ‘round openin’ your legs for the first man y’see, hmm? First one willin’ to put his cock in what ain’t his…”

The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this time—after breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?

Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumb—hard.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like you’re some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.

You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. “I’m not yours,” you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. “If I was yours, you wouldn’t have left so suddenly, you dick.”

His expression shifts—less amused now, more exasperated, like you’re missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like it’s second nature, like he’s reclaiming something.

"‘Course I left, love. Was on the run.”

You blink.

Oh.

He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze that’s almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but there’s nothing casual about the weight in his voice.

“But,” he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. “I guess if y’not mine, then I guess I should go, huh?”

The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls you’ve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and it’s almost like the air shifts around him, “Fine then,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “No problem. I’ll leave. Y’can stay here with Keith, yeah? Let ‘em keep y’ company.”

The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize you’ve completely forgotten about Keith. He’s still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isn’t what he deserved.

How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. It never does with him. Keith’s name slipping from Simon’s lips is an ugly reminder of something you’d rather keep buried. Something you regret.

Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.

You can’t let him go, can’t let him walk out like that—again—like it’s nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.

Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearms—massive, firm, like steel wrapped in skin—and you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.

Simon’s body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.

He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to. 

You glance at Keith, who’s dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend what’s unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.

He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”

You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. “Don’t go.”

Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesn’t waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until he’s face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.

“Hear that, lad?” Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. “She doesn’t want me to go. Wants me t’stay right here—stuff her full o’ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesn’t want that from you.”

Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because he’s wrong—Jesus, he’s not wrong—but because he says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, like he’s reading it straight from the book of universal truths.

Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simon’s hulking figure.

Simon doesn’t look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. “Think that pencil dick does ‘er wonders, eh?”

Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like it’s sustenance. And you’re dumbfounded. 

And aroused.

You shouldn’t react to this the way you are. You shouldn’t feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldn’t feel your breath hitch at the way he’s openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.

Because even if Simon doesn’t have the right to stake his claim on you, doesn’t have the right to act as if you still belong to him—doesn’t he?

You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.

And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.

You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simon’s one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two men—one holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simon’s smirk doesn’t falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. He’s toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you can’t ignore.

Keith’s eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like he’s searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But he’s frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.

Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like he’s looking at a stale loaf of bread.

“You, lad… are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?”

Simon’s voice is steady, calm—like he’s explaining something simple, something Keith should’ve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keith’s hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.

Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keith’s head bob in a mockery of a nod.

“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “That’s right. Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Simon releases Keith’s head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesn’t spare him another glance.

Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercing—digging beneath your skin like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.

But you don’t. You can’t.

And he knows it.

You want to scream at him, to remind him that you’re not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because he’s right.

He stalks toward you, closer and closer until you’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You can’t escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.

His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Thought y’could just disobey, sweet thing?” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. “Thought y’could just fuck off and be so… disrespectful?”

His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like he’s waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. “Thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Thought I wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”

You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. There’s a coldness there that you never thought you’d see from him.

It’s unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for you—disrespecting him, breaking his trust—it’s palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.

Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? He’s right, isn’t he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.

You didn’t think he’d come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didn’t want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isn’t something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.

His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface. 

His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throat—not choking, just securing, owning. Like he’s collaring you, like he’s locking you back in place where you should’ve been all along.

His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. “Gotta show y’little plaything who y’really belong to, huh?”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Words,” he murmurs, his grip flexing—just a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“Yes,” you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.

And then you’re moving—you don’t know how, don’t know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly you’re laid back on the bed, looking up at him.

He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you.

Simon’s voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. “Look at him,” he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.

You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.

The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.

But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “Look at him,” he repeats, his grip tightening. “If y’so much as blink, if y’look away, this stops. And we're done.”

The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. “‘kay,” you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. “... Okay…”

The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, he’s on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise. 

Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.

You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips—sounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.

Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you can’t help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Keith’s panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But something’s shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.

Simon’s fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, God,” he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. “Needy girl, y’taste so good,” he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing. 

“Look at him” he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. “Look at how hard y’makin’ him, girl. He wants you, don’t he? He wants t’be the one doin’ this t’you.”

You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you. 

Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.

You can’t handle it—you tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. It’s unbearable, looking at him when the only man you’ve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.

You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuck—if it doesn’t send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.

You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.

Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.

Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh. 

Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole. 

You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.

The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he went—messy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesn’t move.

You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an intention, a reason why he’s hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. “Simon?”

A grunt. That’s all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.

Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesn’t close the distance. It’s unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitation—why now, when you're right here, does he stall?

“Won't you kiss me?” The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.

He nods slowly, like it’s unpracticed. Like he’s never done something so intimate before.

He nudges his nose against yours first, like he’s testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And then—his lips press to yours.

Soft. Gentle. Everything you didn’t expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.

Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where he’s been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide him—slowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.

And he lets you.

The kisses start slow, tentative, like he’s learning you. But it doesn’t last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you can’t help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throat—deep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.

It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places he’s missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that you’re real, that this isn’t just a fever dream.

Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. He’s still in just his boxers now, and it’s almost unfair—the contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how he’s still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.

But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movement—or rather, the absence of it. Keith.

You’d once again forgotten he was still here.

He’s unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see it—the damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.

He came in his pants.

Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows he’s lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up. 

Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.

“Jizzed his pants? Christ.” His voice is dripping with disgust, but there’s something else there too—something utterly pleased. Like Keith’s shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.

Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.

The touch is gentle. And maybe it’s that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something deep. But it’s gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.

“Go on then,” he murmurs,  patting his upper thigh. “Give the bloke a reason t’cry.”

You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.

Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forceful—just enough to remind you of what he expects.

“C’mon, pet,” he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Let ‘em see what he was never gonna have.”

 You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.

Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simon’s enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.

And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simon’s touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.

Simon’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.

You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Can I fuck you now? P… please?” you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.

“Fuck, sweets,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it—it's yours.” He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, his voice ragged.

He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.

You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.

He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.

When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simon’s throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. “Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Look how you take me. So fucking tight.” His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.

Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches. 

You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.

The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simon’s rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how he’s watching. 

The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keith’s eyes on you, Simon’s roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.

Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.

Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Do you trust me?”

You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.

With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and your’re directly in sight of Keith

You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.

He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, “He’s gonna watch, sweetheart. He’s gonna watch as I fuck y’till y’brains leak out y’ears, ain’t that right?” He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.

Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but it’s quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but it’s overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.

You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a point—as a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes. 

Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. “What do we say, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “When we want something?”

Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. “Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, “Please, Si—” you beg, your voice thick with desire. “Please—I need it— I need you—”

Simon’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. “Awh, baby,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't ask me. I’m not the one y’need to convince.” He hums.

He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keith’s.

“Ask him,” Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.

Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.

Simon's grip tightens on your hair. “Say it proper, pet,” he instructs, his voice hard. “Say, ‘Please let Simon fuck me, Keith.’”

You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.

Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.

Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. “See what happens when you ask nicely?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.

And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.

He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.

He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. “Greedy pussy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy.”

You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.

Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. He’s hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.

Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and he’s the one who struck the match—watching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.

Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips don’t falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.

Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though he’s seen you naked before, he’s never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someone’s mercy.

He’s never seen anyone like this.

Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. You’re limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.

He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Y’gonna cum,? Can feel y’clenchin’ ‘round me—fuck, y’so tight, baby—”

You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a “yes,” your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.

“Good,” he murmurs. “‘M close too and y’gonna take it all— Gonna fill this cunny—fuck,” He pauses, his voice hardening, “And y’better not take a fucking’ Plan B this time.”

The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.

He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. “Atta girl,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust.

You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.

He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. He’s truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.

Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.

He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.

Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife he’d apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.

Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.

You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.

The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.

Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.

You haven’t moved.

Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you can’t quite slow down.

Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.

Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You don’t resist. You don’t even think to.

He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Still with me, love?” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.

You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.

You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. It’s comforting in a way you don’t fully understand—how you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.

Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, “What did you say to him?”

Simon chuckles. “Told ‘em if he so much as breathed a word about this, I’d track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it t’his mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, o’ course.”

Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”

“At least I didn’t go with my original plan.”

You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. “What plan?”

Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, “Killin’ him. Tossin’ his sorry corpse into the Thames.”

A beat of silence.

“…Oh.”

Simon laughs—an actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.

And it’s only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember he’s still a criminal.

Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steady—like he belongs here, like you belong here.

Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Y’mine now.”

You let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I got that part.”

His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you. It’s gentle—too much so for a man like him.

You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.

“Shit.”

Simon hums in question.

“Sun’s coming up,” you sigh, rubbing your face, “and I have work in three hours.”

He doesn’t even pause. “Nah, y’don’t.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”

“Mhm.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. “Told you. Y’mine. That means y’don’t have t’work.”

You blink up at him, frowning. “Simon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I can’t just give it up.”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’ll get your lease terminated.”

 You turn to face him in his embrace. “Without penalties?”

His smirk is slow, lazy. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know you’re too damn tired to fight about it.

With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. “Where would we even go?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“How do y’feel about Manchester?”

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THIS IS THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE RETURN TO SENDER UNIVERSE. I WILL NOT BE WRITING ANOTHER PART.

i like yandere fics because i would much rather be locked in a basement and subjected to unspeakable horrors than work