“Go on, use my face, pretty girl. Ride me like you mean it.“
❤︎ Synopsis. They swore they’d take their time, stay in control—but the moment their lips met your cunt, something snapped. Now, they’re ravenous, insatiable, worshiping you with a hunger that borders on madness, desperate to drown in the very thing that’s ruining them.
♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Soft! Modern AU! Various x Fem. Reader (separate)
♡ Characters Include. Nerd! Gojo, Biker! Soft! Sukuna, Professor! Half-Dragon! Rex Lapis, Academic Rival! Alhaitham, Older Brother! Sunday, Father! Human! Boothill, Step Brother! Caleb, Bully! Soft! Bakugo, Fuckboy! Atsumu, Virgin! Barou
♡ Kidnapper x Captor Series. The Thirsting – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 10,703
♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, BDSM, incest, unhealthy oral sex, mature language, forced orgasms, overstimulation, food play, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + slight choking, fingering, unwilling arousal, date drugging, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, slight brat taming
♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧
He’s already grinning by the time you open your eyes.
“Ah, finally awake? Took you long enough, sweetheart.”
Your body doesn’t respond immediately—slow, sluggish, barely able to process the strange scent lingering in the air. Something sweet, sticky, saccharine. It makes your stomach turn.
The room is dimly lit, shadows flickering across the walls from a single desk lamp. Your wrists ache. A dull, throbbing pain blooms from where they’re restrained above your head, tied to the headboard with something that’s not quite rope. Something silkier, softer—but unyielding all the same.
Gojo’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his glasses gone, those pale blue eyes sharper in the dark. His mouth is already curved into something smug, something too pleased. The expression makes your skin prickle, like you’ve just stepped into a trap you hadn’t noticed until now.
“You’ve been sleeping like a baby. Thought about waking you up, but you looked so cute all helpless like that.” His voice drips honey, laced with something more dangerous. “Not to mention—you were drooling a little. Kind of adorable, really.”
You twist, testing your restraints, but the silk doesn’t budge. His smirk widens, pleased by the feeble struggle.
“Now, now. No need for that. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
The sickly sweet scent in the air intensifies, and it’s then you notice the bowl sitting beside him. A small, glass dish filled with something glossy and thick. Melted chocolate. A silver spoon rests against the edge, coated in the dark substance.
Your stomach churns. Your mouth feels too dry.
“Ah, you noticed?” His grin stretches, impossibly wide. “You know, I was thinking. You’re always so cold to me, so resistant. And that’s fine, really. I like a little chase.” His fingers dip into the bowl, swirling lazily before lifting, glossy with chocolate. He holds it up, inspecting the way it drips. “But I’m such a generous guy, you know? I believe in positive reinforcement. A little bit of sugar, and suddenly everything is easier to swallow.”
His fingers are at your lips before you can twist away, smearing the thick chocolate against them. The scent is overwhelming, rich and decadent.
“C’mon, open up for me.”
You don’t.
His smirk doesn’t waver. “Always so difficult.”
And then his fingers are pressing in, forcing past your lips, past your teeth, pressing against your tongue. The taste floods your mouth—bittersweet, heavy. You gag, but he doesn’t let up, pushing deeper, his knuckles brushing against your chin.
“Good girl. See? It’s not so bad.”
Your breath stutters when he finally withdraws his fingers, a wet pop accompanying the movement. He watches the way your tongue flicks against the roof of your mouth, the way your throat works to swallow it down. He looks… delighted.
“You should really learn to appreciate the finer things in life, sweetheart. I mean, c’mon.” His fingers trail down, dragging chocolate along your collarbone, sticky lines painting your skin. “Doesn’t it feel good to be pampered a little?”
You flinch when he moves lower, when his hands slip beneath the sheets, shoving them down in one smooth motion. The cool air prickles against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his touch. His fingers skate over your stomach, slow and teasing, trailing towards your thighs.
“Mmm, I’ve been waiting for this.” His voice dips, almost affectionate. “You’re always running that pretty mouth, but I know your body’s honest.” His thumb strokes slow circles along your inner thigh, watching the way your breath stutters, watching the way your body flinches against itself. “You know, I read somewhere that taste can be directly linked to pleasure. Makes sense, right?”
The realization sinks in too late.
The spoon clinks against the bowl again, and you barely manage to squirm before something warm, wet, and sticky drips between your legs.
Your body jolts.
The chocolate slides over your skin, down your folds, thick and cloying. It pools at the cleft of your thighs, the sensation foreign, humiliating.
Gojo hums appreciatively. “Pretty. You wear it well.”
His hands are spreading your thighs wider, holding you open as he surveys his work. The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable.
“I wonder…” He dips a finger into the mess, swirling idly before dragging it up, pressing it against your clit. The sensation is immediate—warm and slick, a contrast that sends heat sparking up your spine. “Ah, look at you. You always act so cold, but here you are, melting already.”
You jolt when his head dips low, the realization making you jolt hard against the restraints.
“W- wait, Gojo—”
“Shhh.”
And then his tongue is there, hot and wet and insistent.
The breath is knocked from your lungs. The contrast is jarring—the cool air against the warmth of his mouth, the stickiness of the chocolate, the wet drag of his tongue. He moans against you, loud and unashamed, sucking, licking, devouring.
He’s messy.
Too messy.
His mouth works greedily, tongue flicking against your clit before dipping down, swirling against your entrance. The obscene sounds fill the room—his wet slurping, his breathy groans, the squelch of chocolate and spit mixing between your legs.
“F-fuck,” he pants between licks, voice thick with lust. “You taste fucking good.”
Your stomach twists, mortified. Your wrists strain against the silk bindings, but his grip on your thighs is vice-like, his fingers digging bruises into your skin as he holds you still.
“S-stop—” Your voice is weak, broken, barely above a whisper.
He laughs against you, the vibrations making your body jerk involuntarily. “Why? You don’t like sweets?” His tongue presses flat against you, licking another slow, deliberate stripe. “Or do you just not like me eating you up like one?”
His fingers join the assault, slick with chocolate and spit, pressing inside without preamble. Your walls clench around him, an involuntary reaction that earns a groan from deep in his chest.
“Shit,” he breathes, curling his fingers, stretching you open. “You feel so fucking good.” His tongue flicks against your clit, quick and relentless, sending sharp jolts of unwanted pleasure up your spine.
You hate it.
You hate how your body reacts.
Hate how his voice turns breathy and wrecked, how he sounds almost delirious. Pussy drunk. Obsessed. Like he can’t get enough, like he’s been starving for this.
His hips rut against the mattress, desperate for friction. He moans into your cunt, tongue pushing deeper, fingers pressing harder. He sounds ruined.
And the worst part?
You think he likes this more than he ever should.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧
He doesn’t fucking eat pussy.
Never has. Never needed to.
Women begged to suck his dick. Lined up for it. Bent over for it. Any time, any place, like obedient little pets, desperate to be used. It was supposed to be the natural order—he takes, they give. That’s how it worked. That’s how he made it work.
But you? You don’t fucking break right. And that pisses him off.
You’re nothing special, not in the way women usually are. Not a bombshell, not dolled up, not preening for male attention like the sluts he’s used to. Quiet. Smart. Always in your own head, barely sparing him a glance. Some stuck-up little freak who thinks she’s better than him just because she doesn’t drop her panties the second he whistles.
He should’ve hated you.
And he does. But not enough to keep himself from wanting to tear you apart.
Not enough to stop himself from pressing your shaking legs apart, sliding his hands beneath your thighs, and spreading you wide open like he owns you. Because he does. He’s going to make sure of it.
But this.
This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen.
His mouth is on you. And he can’t fucking stop.
His tongue works against your slit, lapping up the slick that coats your soft folds. At first, it was just to see you break—to hear you sob, to make you feel the humiliation of being forced open and devoured by the man you loathe. He wanted you to cry harder, beg, push against his head while he grinned into your cunt.
He didn’t expect to like it.
Didn’t expect it to make his head spin, to make his cock ache so fucking bad his vision goes hazy. Didn’t expect your taste to drag him under like a riptide, his fingers gripping your hips too hard, nails sinking in to hold you still so he can—
What the fuck is wrong with him? He doesn’t do this.
Doesn’t fucking need to.
And yet here he is, burying his tongue into your pussy like a fucking starved man, like an animal, like something feral and unchained. It pisses him off, makes his blood boil, but that only fuels him to go harder, to press his tongue deeper, to flick and suck and force himself to drink you down like some kind of fucking addict.
Your sobs turn into ragged, broken sounds. Gasping. Whimpering. Your thighs twitch, trying to press closed, but he pries them apart again, furious. No fucking way. He’s not letting you hide from him. Not after this. Not after you made him feel this way.
Your body betrays you before you can protest.
A shudder rips through you as his tongue curls around your clit, and your stomach tenses, your hands flying to push at his shoulders—
“Fucking don’t.” His voice is dark, raw, spoken against the mess between your legs. You freeze. He barely recognizes his own voice. He barely recognizes himself.
He’s panting. His breath is ragged, his mouth soaked in you, his grip white-knuckled and bruising where he holds you down. His cock is rock-hard, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans, and all he can think about is shoving it inside you, fucking you so deep you never recover from it.
But instead, he’s still here. Still eating you out. Still losing his fucking mind over it.
His tongue flicks over your clit again, then again, then again, punishing, relentless, until your back arches and you keeeen—
And fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Your cunt clenches in response, a weak little tremor that has his own body reacting like he’s just been shot. He grips your thighs so hard they’ll bruise, presses his tongue in so deep he might suffocate himself. His mind is white-hot static. The taste of you is the only thing that exists, and he hates you for it. Hates you because he likes this, because he’s never let himself like anything this much.
Your body writhes beneath him, hips jerking, as if you could escape. He growls against your clit, sucking hard, punishing, wrecking, until—
A scream rips from your throat.
You shatter against him, thighs trembling violently, your cunt pulsing with the force of your orgasm, and he doesn’t let up.
He won’t let up.
His jaw aches. His lips are swollen, tongue raw, fingers buried into your flesh so hard he might leave scars. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s starving. He needs more. More of you, more of this, more of the thing he never should have allowed himself to touch in the first place.
And when he finally pulls back, his face is drenched. His pupils are blown, his breath harsh, his cock aching so bad he might pass out from it.
You’re shaking, a sobbing mess, your body limp from the aftershocks. And when you open your mouth—maybe to beg, maybe to curse, maybe to sob his name—he cuts you off with a sharp, guttural snarl:
“Shut the fuck up.”
You don’t listen, voice cracking around a sob. His expression twists.
He stands. Grabs you.
Flips you onto your stomach.
Yanks your ass up, shoves your face down.
He can’t think anymore. Can’t breathe anymore. And it’s your fucking fault.
So now? Now you’re going to pay for it.
His belt hits the floor.
His jeans follow.
His cock presses against the slick mess he made between your thighs, head throbbing, burning, soaked in his own precum and your own unwilling release.
He fists your hair, yanks your head back to hiss in your ear—
“I don’t eat pussy.”
And then he shoves inside.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧
He watches you struggle in your seat, back pressed against the polished wood of his office chair, the cold leather beneath you a contrast to the fire burning in his golden eyes. Rex Lapis—your professor, your sponsor, your guardian—leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, as though contemplating a matter of academic gravity rather than the trembling girl before him.
“You disappoint me.”
Three words. Measured. Heavy. They slide down your spine like a branding iron, burning you in a way far worse than any physical punishment he’s given before. The weight of his disappointment is worse than the sharpest reprimand. Worse than the lash of his tongue in class, where he berates you for careless mistakes, where he calls you an ‘insipid little girl who refuses to learn.’
But here? In his private office? The words take on a different meaning. One that makes your stomach coil tight, a snake of dread slithering into your gut.
“I have given you everything,” he muses, tilting his head ever so slightly, golden eyes sharpening. “This school. This future. My sponsorship. And yet… you squander it.”
He stands. The slow, deliberate movement makes your breath hitch. He is all sharp angles and coiled strength, honed through centuries of war, battle-hardened from an age where men ripped each other apart for the right to breathe.
“I expect more from you.” He takes a step forward, and your legs press tighter together instinctively. His lips curl.
“Ah. There it is,” he murmurs, almost amused. “That resistance. That little streak of defiance.”
A calloused hand finds your chin, gripping, tilting your face up to meet his stare. Your breath catches in your throat. His fingers tighten. Just enough to remind you of your place.
“You are too easily distracted. Too easily led astray.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. His eyes darken. “I must break that.”
Your pulse spikes. “Professor—”
The slap comes swift, a sharp crack echoing through the silence. Your head snaps to the side, cheek burning. A whimper stumbles from your lips before you can swallow it down.
“Ah. There’s the voice I prefer.”
He grips your thighs next, wrenches them apart. You yelp, fingers clawing at his arms, his wrists—anywhere you can reach—but he is immovable. Unshakable.
“Still fighting? Still so stubborn?” His chuckle is dark, condescending. “You never learn.”
The next moment, his mouth is on you.
A cry rips from your throat. His teeth sink into the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a cruel nip before his tongue laves over the spot, soothing, claiming. He drags his mouth higher, lips ghosting over your untouched heat.
You thrash.
“No, no, no—”
Your pleas are swallowed by the sharp crack of another slap, this one landing against the softness of your thigh. Heat blossoms in its wake, burning, humiliating. He does it again. And again. Until the pain blurs into something else. Until your legs tremble and your body betrays you.
“You are mine to correct.”
His voice is muffled, spoken against your most intimate place. Then his tongue—oh, his forked tongue. It flicks, teases, before delving deep, as if seeking to taste the very essence of your disobedience. He groans, the vibrations sending a jolt through your spine. His clawed fingers dig into your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take every flick, every roll, every punishing suckle.
Your nails dig into the arms of the chair, but the leather offers no mercy. No salvation.
His pace is brutal. Unrelenting.
He devours you like a starving beast, tongue pushing into you, twisting, drinking in every reaction, every flinch, every shudder. Your thighs try to snap shut around his head, but he growls, a warning, a threat, and forces them wider, fingers bruising your flesh.
“You taste…” A sharp nip. A long, slow lap. “Sweet, despite your sins.”
You whimper, body taut with shame, with fear, with the overwhelming sensation of being utterly at his mercy.
His fingers ghost over your entrance before shoving inside, two at once. You choke on a sob, body arching off the chair, but his other hand presses down on your stomach, keeping you trapped beneath his touch.
“Already squeezing me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Your body knows its master well.”
His fingers curl, dragging against that devastatingly sensitive spot inside you. Your legs jerk. He smirks against you, tongue never stopping, lapping, sucking, owning.
Pussy-drunk.
That’s what he is.
Lost in you. Lost in the taste, in the heat, in the way you tremble under him, helpless and ruined.
Your body shakes. Your nails scrape against his scalp, pushing, pulling, desperate to get him away, desperate for him to stop.
He only laughs.
Cruel.
Sadistic.
Then he bites down on your clit.
A sharp, brutal jolt of pain sends your mind spiraling, white-hot and blinding. Your scream is muffled by his large palm suddenly clamping over your mouth.
“Hush,” he warns, breath fanning against your soaked skin. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear how depraved you are.”
He slaps your thigh again. Sharp. Stinging.
“Ungrateful little thing.”
Another slap.
You sob, muffled against his palm, tears spilling from your eyes.
“Perhaps I should keep you here all night,” he muses, licking up the evidence of his torment. “Until you finally understand who you belong to.”
Your body betrays you again. Your stomach coils, tension tightening to an unbearable point. He feels it.
He grins.
Then he buries his face between your thighs once more, drinking in your ruin.
“You will not fail me again,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up your trembling body. “You will be better. You will be mine.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧
He never considered himself an impulsive man. Logic dictated every action, every carefully weighed decision. But tonight, your laughter, your distracted eyes lingering on another man’s lips, your voice—so sweet, so ignorant—became the fault line that split apart the foundation of his restraint.
Alhaitham’s fingers brush against the rim of his glass, his gaze shadowed beneath the dim dormitory light. The scent of ink and parchment lingers, mingling with the faint trace of something sweeter—something chemical, dissolving into the depths of your drink as you chatter away, oblivious.
The aphrodisiac is slow-acting, calibrated precisely. He’d tested it, measured its potency down to the molecule. No room for error. No risk of overdose. Just enough to make you pliant, fevered—enough to make you need him.
“Do you always stare this much when we’re studying?”
Your voice is teasing, but there’s wariness beneath it. You’ve always been sharp, frustratingly so. A perfect rival, an infuriating thorn. A woman so brilliant yet so blind. Alhaitham schools his expression, feigning nonchalance as he flips a page in his research journal.
“Your arguments are flawed,” he mutters, eyes dragging across the words rather than meeting your gaze. “I assumed prolonged exposure to my intellect would have improved your reasoning skills, but apparently, I overestimated you.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t notice the slight tremor in your hands as you grip your pen. Not yet. The change is gradual—first, the warmth spreading through your skin, then the subtle, disorienting haze slipping over your mind.
Minutes pass. Then more. Your breath hitches. You shift uncomfortably, legs pressing together beneath the table. A sheen of sweat glistens at your temple, and when you blink up at him, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in your expression.
“…I think I need some air.”
He smiles. It’s almost genuine. “Do you?”
You move to stand, but your knees buckle. His chair scrapes against the floor as he rises—too quick, too measured. You don’t even have time to recoil before his arms are around you, steadying you with an ease that feels rehearsed.
His hand splays over the small of your back. His breath ghosts against your ear. You’re trembling now, caught in the precise balance between confusion and need, between fear and the slow, traitorous hunger unfurling in your stomach.
“I can help you,” he murmurs, voice smooth, unshaken. “Let me.”
Panic flickers in your gaze. “Alhaitham…? What did you…?”
Your lips part, perhaps to accuse him, perhaps to beg. It doesn’t matter. He’s already moving, already pulling you into the abyss he’s so meticulously crafted.
✦✧✦✧
The mattress dips beneath you as he settles between your legs. You’re too weak to push him away now, too lost in the fever. He watches, mesmerized, as your body writhes, helpless against the storm of sensations overtaking you.
His hands part your thighs, and the sight of you—panting, squirming, slick with an unwilling desire that only he can soothe—renders him breathless.
Alhaitham is a scholar. A man of reason. But nothing in his studies, nothing in his countless observations of you, could have prepared him for this.
You whimper, trying to twist away, but he grips your thighs, holding you open with a strength that leaves bruises. “Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, voice heavy with something dark, something possessive. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Tears well in your eyes, a denial forming on your lips, but then he leans down, pressing his mouth against the burning heat of your core.
You choke on a gasp, your body jolting as if struck by lightning.
He groans against you, tongue dragging slow, deliberate paths through your wetness. The taste of you is intoxicating—salty, sweet, unwilling. He drinks it in, lost, consumed, enslaved to the very thing he’s taken.
Your thighs try to snap shut, but his grip is unrelenting. Every inch of your skin beneath his fingers is branded, owned. His tongue flicks against your clit, and your sobbing moan is the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard.
He’s never done this before, never touched another body like this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s studied anatomy, observed every nuance of your reactions. He knows what makes you shudder, what makes your breath hitch, what forces pleasure through your resistance like an invasive sickness.
His fingers slip inside you without preamble, and your back arches, a sob breaking past your lips. He curls them, stroking deep, ruthless in his precision, in the way he tears you apart.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your cunt, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed, tear-streaked face. “You taste…” He licks into you again, groaning. “Better than I expected.”
Your walls clench around him, betraying you, and his eyes darken.
You can’t stop this. Can’t stop him. The aphrodisiac won’t let you. Your own body won’t let you.
The thought terrifies you.
But it excites him.
He’s hard, aching, unbearably so. His free hand moves to unfasten his belt, but he doesn’t stop devouring you, doesn’t stop sucking at the swollen bud of your clit until your cries turn breathless, high-pitched.
Your pleasure isn’t supposed to matter. And yet, the idea of pulling it from you—ripping it from your unwilling body, forcing you to fall apart beneath him—is the most arousing thing he’s ever imagined.
He needs more. More of your taste, more of your sounds, more of the helpless tremble in your limbs as he ruins you.
His name leaves your lips—a broken sob, a plea—but he doesn’t stop.
He wouldn’t dream of stopping.
Because you are his.
You just don’t realize it yet.
Your orgasm slams into you without warning. Your body jerks, a cry ripped from your throat as you shatter, pleasure crashing over you in unbearable waves. Alhaitham groans against you, lapping up every drop, refusing to let you go even as you twitch, oversensitive and gasping.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. “But we’re not done.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his face drenched in your slick, his gaze dark, unreadable.
He licks his lips.
“I need more data.”
You’re boneless beneath him now, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp. Your eyes, half-lidded, glisten with tears. He watches the rise and fall of your breath, the tremor in your fingers as you try—weakly, pathetically—to push him away.
He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your pulse. Feels it hammer beneath his lips.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, voice a hushed vow, a cruel promise. “Aren’t you?”
Your lips tremble. You shake your head.
He smiles.
Then he undoes his belt.
And logic no longer holds any meaning.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧
The marble floors are cold beneath his bare feet. He’s already stripped off his tie and jacket, the once-pristine image of class and composure unraveling thread by thread. His fingers brush his lips absently, tongue darting out to chase the phantom taste of you. He had barely begun, and yet his body thrums with insatiable hunger.
He is supposed to be above this.
But you make him lose himself.
His breath comes slow and measured, yet his eyes gleam with something sharp, something ruthless. You tremble against the silken sheets beneath you, the remnants of your protests still lingering in the air, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. Not when your scent is still thick on his tongue. Not when his fingers are pressing against your trembling thighs, parting them as if they belong to him.
Because they do.
“You’re shaking,” he muses, voice velvet smooth, a gentle mockery that makes your stomach twist. “I haven’t even started yet.”
He relishes in the fear flashing across your gaze, the way your lips part—not in invitation, but in refusal. It’s cute. Almost sweet. The way you still think you have a say in this.
Sunday sighs, long and drawn out, as if disappointed.
“Why do you fight me on this?” His fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight yet firm. You flinch, and his smile widens, something serene—angelic, almost.
“It’s as if you don’t understand.” He leans in, slow, inexorable. The warmth of his breath fans over your throat. “This was inevitable.”
You jerk when his lips brush your collarbone. A soft laugh vibrates against your skin, his fingers pressing deeper into your flesh. He could hold you down if he wanted to—force you apart, break you in half. But there’s no need for that. He’s far more patient than you deserve.
And besides, you’ll learn soon enough.
Your lips part to speak, but he shushes you, his thumb pressing against your lower lip, dragging it down ever so slightly. His pupils are blown wide, drunk off your scent, your taste.
“I should punish you,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, as if lost in prayer. “For making me wait. For making me suffer.”
He doesn’t, though. Not yet. He wants to savor this.
His mouth trails lower, pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his hands mapping out every trembling inch of you. When he parts your legs wider, you squeeze your eyes shut, breath hitching as cool air kisses your damp skin.
“Look at you,” he breathes, reverence laced with something dark, something dangerous. “You say no, but your body…” He exhales softly, almost dazed. “Your body is so, so honest.”
Your nails dig into the sheets, and he laughs again, breath ghosting over your thighs. He lets you feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his breath, the unbearable anticipation that coils tight in your stomach.
“Are you afraid?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
You make a sound—a whimper, a plea, it hardly matters. Because the moment you do, he descends.
His tongue presses against you, slow, deliberate, savoring. A broken moan slips from his lips, muffled against your folds. He hums, pleased, eyes fluttering shut as he drowns himself in the taste of you.
“So sweet,” he groans, his grip tightening around your thighs, forcing them open. “So perfect.”
Your breath stutters, a choked whimper escaping as his tongue moves with sinful precision, flicking against your clit, then dragging down to lap at your entrance.
He’s ravenous. Starved. Every stroke of his tongue is indulgent, worshipful, yet possessive in a way that makes your stomach churn.
You try to push him away—your fingers tangling in his hair, weakly attempting to shove him back. But the moment you do, his grip turns bruising, a warning growl vibrating against your core.
“Ungrateful,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His lips are glistening, his breath heavy, pupils blown wide with something terrifying. “You fight me even now?”
Your fingers tremble against his scalp, and he smiles—slow, cruel.
“I’ll have to fix that.”
Before you can react, his mouth is on you again, his tongue delving deep, curling inside you. He groans as your walls flutter around him, as your thighs twitch against his hold. His nose brushes against your clit, his grip keeping you still as he devours you whole.
His world narrows to this—to you. The taste, the heat, the way your body clenches and trembles under his touch. He’s dizzy with it, drunk off it, his thoughts clouded with nothing but the primal need to consume.
You sob when he sucks your clit between his lips, the pleasure sharp, unbearable. His fingers join the assault, pressing inside you, stretching you open as if molding you to fit him.
His free hand drags up your stomach, pressing against the soft flesh, feeling the way you spasm under his touch. His lips part, a broken moan spilling out as he flicks his tongue against your swollen nub, never once relenting.
“Give it to me,” he murmurs, half-dazed, half-commanding. “I want it. I want all of it.”
Your body betrays you, pleasure ripping through your spine, leaving you breathless, trembling, undone. You sob as your climax crashes over you, your body writhing against the sheets, against him.
But he doesn’t stop.
Not when you whimper, not when you try to push him away, not when tears slip down your cheeks, and certainly not when you beg.
Because it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
His lips move against your oversensitive flesh, relentless, insatiable. His fingers curl inside you, coaxing more, demanding more. Your thighs twitch, your back arching against the overwhelming sensation, but he doesn’t stop.
He won’t stop.
Not until you’ve broken completely.
“I told you, little sister.” His voice is a breathy whisper, almost regretful. “You only need me.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧
The room stinks of old wood and cigarette smoke, a haze of whiskey and sweat clinging to the air. The walls creak, ancient with dust and decay, pressing in like a silent audience. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. The only sound is the soft hum of the ceiling fan, slow, deliberate rotations slicing through the quiet.
Then, his voice. Low. Drawling. Dripping with amusement.
“Darlin’, reckon you know why yer sittin’ there all stiff-like.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your body is frozen in place, perched on the edge of a bed that feels too large, too suffocating. The door is locked. You heard the click behind you when he walked in, boots heavy against the floorboards, the distinct jingle of his belt unbuckling echoing in the suffocating air.
Boothill tilts his head, pushing the brim of his cowboy hat up with a lazy finger. Those sharp grey eyes glint under the dim light, dragging over you like a slow, cruel brand. He looks at you the way a starving animal sizes up fresh meat.
“Aw, darlin’… ain’t no need to look so damn scared. Ain’t like I’m gonna bite.” His grin is a razor-thin slash across his face. “Unless y’want me to.”
You swallow, pressing your thighs together, fingers knotting in the fabric of your dress. But it doesn’t matter. He notices everything. The way your breath catches. The slight shiver running through you. The way your knees twitch inward, like you think that’ll stop him.
He steps forward. Closer.
“Go on now,” he murmurs, voice syrup-thick and full of wicked intent. “Spread ‘em.”
You shake your head. A mistake. The rejection makes his expression shift, the casual amusement twisting into something darker, hungrier.
His knee presses between your thighs, forcing them apart, and you gasp. He leans in, breath hot against your cheek, the scent of tobacco and whiskey filling your lungs.
“Ain’t like you got much say in it, sugar,” he whispers. “We both know that.”
His hands are rough, calloused from years of hard work, gripping your thighs and dragging them further apart. The sound of your heartbeat pounds in your ears, drowning out everything but him—his breath, his heat, the weight of his stare as he drinks in the sight of you.
“Ain’t this a damn shame,” Boothill tuts, sliding his fingers up, slow, teasing, barely grazing where you don’t want him. “Gotta teach ya how to be obedient.”
Your breath stutters as he hooks his fingers around the edge of your panties and yanks them down. The cool air hits your bare skin, sending a violent shudder through you. He groans at the sight, his pupils blowing wide.
“Fuckin’ hell, darlin’… look atcha. Y’look real pretty when yer scared.”
You whimper, a fresh wave of humiliation and horror surging through you. He doesn’t care. If anything, it fuels him.
His mouth finds your inner thigh, teeth scraping against soft flesh. The wet heat of his tongue follows, slow and indulgent, dragging up the sensitive skin. The sharp stubble on his jaw scratches as he moves, teasing, tormenting, making you squirm.
“Shhh, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Let daddy take care of ya.”
The words make you choke.
His tongue flicks out, dragging a wet stripe right over your slit, and you jolt violently, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat.
“Oh-ho,” Boothill chuckles darkly, voice muffled against your skin. “Sensitive lil’ thing, huh?”
His grip tightens on your thighs, locking you in place as he presses his mouth against you, slow, savoring the way you twitch and struggle.
“Fuckin’ divine…” he groans, rolling his tongue over you, licking you open like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. “Holy shit, darlin’—ya taste so sweet, might get drunk off ya.”
You let out a broken sound, hands flying to his hair to push him away—but that only makes him groan deeper, rumbling against your core.
“Nah, sugar. That’s real fuckin’ cute, but ya ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
He sucks hard, the obscene sound of his mouth working against you filling the room. It’s too much. Too wet, too hot, too depraved. His tongue pushes inside, curling, tasting, licking, and he moans like he’s the one being pleasured.
“S’like honey,” he slurs, his voice pussy-drunk, heavy with lust. “Fuck, darlin’… need more.”
You shake your head wildly, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, hands spreading you wider as he devours you, the slick noises mixing with his groans. He grinds his hips into the mattress, rutting against it like a desperate man, like just tasting you is enough to get him off.
“Mmm, yeah, sugar,” he grunts, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it again and again until your legs shake violently. “Give it up for me.”
You sob. Your body betrays you, trembling under his ruthless tongue, the unwanted pleasure blurring into something unbearable. He knows. He can feel it. The way your thighs quiver. The way your breathing turns ragged. The way your body—traitorous, weak—reacts to him.
“Atta girl,” he growls. “Fuckin’ knew ya’d be sweet on my tongue.”
Your vision blurs, the pressure building unbearable, twisting into something shameful, something you don’t want but can’t fight. Boothill doesn’t let up. He’s relentless, dragging you right to the edge, his hands gripping you so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow.
“C’mon now, sugar,” he coaxes. “Be a good girl an’ cum all over daddy’s tongue.”
Tears streak down your cheeks. You shake your head, a final desperate denial—but then he moans, vibrating against your clit, and your body locks up with a strangled cry.
Pleasure crashes over you like a violent tide, dragging you under, drowning you. You convulse against him, and he groans like he’s the one coming, drinking you in, licking up every last drop as you shatter beneath him.
“Fuuuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Shit! Damn.” He pulls back, licking his lips, his chin glistening with you. “Knew ya’d be the best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted.”
You barely register the rustling of fabric, the clinking of his belt.
“Now,” Boothill drawls, voice thick with arousal, “reckon it’s ‘bout time we get to the real fun.”
Your stomach drops.
He grins down at you, his cock hard, leaking against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red.
“Don’t worry, sugar,” he purrs, gripping your hips, lining himself up. “I’ll make sure ya feel every damn inch.”
And then—
Pain.
Pleasure.
Terror.
The bed creaks. The ceiling fan spins. The world outside is silent.
And Boothill fucks you like you’re his.
He ain’t never been good at sharin’. Ain’t never been good at lettin’ go of somethin’ that’s his.
And, sugar—you’ve been his since the day you were born.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧
He isn’t your brother. Not really.
That’s what you tell yourself, have always told yourself, a little mantra inside your head every time you catch him watching you. A comforting phrase, a dividing wall. Older step-brother. Not blood. Not real. Just family on paper, through marriage and circumstance. That distinction should mean nothing.
But it means everything to him.
The first time he met you, he knew. He always knew, from the second you walked into his life with those sharp, tired eyes and that constant aura of detached calculation, of dismissive apathy. You were different. You weren’t swayed by his easy charm, his golden-boy image, his “gentle giant” reputation. You tolerated him, at best. Mocked him, at worst. He hated it.
He loved it.
It made him want to ruin you.
And he would.
Tonight.
✦✧✦✧
Your apartment is quiet.
It’s late. Too late for visitors. And yet, when you unlock your front door, the first thing you hear is the heavy scrape of a chair against the floor.
He’s already inside.
Sitting at your table like he owns the place, long legs sprawled, fingers drumming against the wood. He looks up when you enter, expression neutral, but there’s something in his eyes.
You stop. The keys in your hand tighten. A slow, creeping unease spreads down your spine.
“Caleb.”
His name feels foreign on your tongue. You’ve said it a million times before, but tonight, it’s different. There’s something off about him. The way he watches you, completely still, something restrained simmering just beneath the surface.
He smiles. A slow, lazy thing. “Hey, kid.”
You bristle. “Don’t call me that.”
He laughs. “Still so prickly.” He stands, stretching, broad shoulders rolling beneath his hoodie. He’s always been big—tall, muscular, thick in a way that most men can’t compare—but tonight, it feels different. He feels different.
A predator in your home.
Your heartbeat picks up. You shift on your feet, fingers twitching toward the pepper spray in your pocket. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.” He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing the waters. “Haven’t spent much time together lately. Thought we should change that.”
“You could’ve called.”
“I did.” His smile widens. “You ignored me.”
The air in the room turns suffocating. He’s close now. Too close. His presence looms, and you realize, with a sick twist of dread, that he’s cornering you without even touching you.
You swallow. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
“Work. Friends. My own fucking life.” You glare up at him, refusing to show fear, even as your stomach twists itself into knots. “You don’t own my time.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Then he moves.
Fast. So fast that you barely register it before he has you against the wall, your wrist pinned above your head, his other hand gripping your waist. The pepper spray is ripped from your pocket and clatters to the floor. Your breath stutters.
His grip is firm. Unbreakable. His body is hot against yours, his size overwhelming, the scent of his cologne and something deeper—something uniquely him—filling your lungs.
He leans in. His nose brushes against your temple. “Busy, huh?” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Too busy for me?”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Let me go.”
“No.”
You struggle, but it’s useless. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could. That he will. His breath ghosts over your cheek, slow, measured, savoring. “I’ve been patient,” he murmurs. “So fucking patient.”
You thrash. His hold doesn’t budge.
“You don’t look at me,” he says, voice rough. “Not the way you look at other men. Like I’m some harmless fucking puppy, like I’m just there. Like I’m nothing to you.”
His grip on your waist drags lower, fingers teasing over the curve of your hip. A shudder rips through you, disgust and fear colliding, twisting into something sick and vile.
“You’re sick,” you hiss. “You—”
A gasp tears from your throat as he presses his mouth to your neck. Wet heat. Teeth scraping. A pleased sound rumbles in his chest when you squirm, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your stomach.
“No more ignoring me,” he whispers against your skin. “No more pretending I’m just your fucking brother.”
Your world tilts. The next thing you know, you’re on the floor, the cool wood against your back, his weight pressing you down.
Panic flares. You kick out, thrash, fight with everything you have, but it’s useless. He’s too strong. Too big. His hands pin you, restrain you, force you open beneath him.
Then his mouth is on you.
Your shirt is yanked up, his tongue dragging over your stomach, trailing lower, lower—
“No—!”
His teeth sink into your hip. Sharp. Possessive. A warning. You gasp, hips jerking, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. His hands part your thighs, grip unyielding, bruising, spreading you wide open for him.
Then his mouth meets your core.
It’s obscene. The way he groans, the way his tongue moves, slow and thorough, as if he’s savoring every fucking inch of you. His grip tightens when you try to twist away, holding you still, forcing you to take it. His tongue dips, presses, curls, and your body betrays you, a traitorous jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine.
You bite your lip, refusing to make a sound.
But he notices.
He always notices.
“Still so stubborn.” His voice is husky, thick with hunger, muffled against your slick. “I can feel you shaking.” A wet, lewd sound follows as he suckles at your clit, groaning into your skin. “God, you taste so fucking good.”
Shame coils in your gut. Your hands fist in his hair, meaning to shove him away, to stop this—but when your fingers tighten, all it does is make him groan.
“Yeah?” he breathes, looking up at you, his lips glistening. “You finally touching me?” He grins. “Bet you don’t even realize what you’re doing.”
Tears burn your eyes. “I hate you.”
“I know,” he murmurs. Then he dives back in.
His tongue fucks into you, slow and purposeful, one thick finger pressing in, then two, stretching you open, fucking you open, ruining you for anyone else.
You gasp. Your back arches, your thighs tremble, but there’s no escaping him. No escaping this.
“Gonna make you cum on my tongue.” His voice is a dark promise. “Then I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never think of another man again.”
Your breath stutters, and you realize—with horror, with devastation—that he’s telling the truth.
You will never be the same after this.
And he knows it.
Because he’s already won.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧
There’s blood in your mouth.
Maybe it’s his, maybe it’s yours. The copper sting burns through the alcohol on your tongue, mixing with the bile climbing up your throat.
The air is thick with sweat and spilled liquor, bass thumping through your ribs, but none of it drowns out the sharp slap of his palm against your cheek.
“Bitch, you listenin’ to me?”
Your head snaps sideways, vision momentarily whiting out from the impact, but it barely fazes him. Bakugo’s grin splits wide, sharp canines glinting in the dim light, eyes feral as he watches the slow tremble of your lips.
The party roars on behind him. You can feel the weight of bodies pressed into each other, the drunken cheers, the careless indulgence of college students too fucked up to care about anything but the heat of their own bodies.
He doesn’t give a fuck about them.
He only gives a fuck about you.
Bakugo jerks your head back by the roots of your hair, dragging your gaze up to meet his, the burn of his fingers against your scalp anchoring you in place. The red flush across his face isn’t just from the alcohol, not when his pupils are blown wide and his breathing comes in uneven pants. He’s high on this. High on you.
“You really think you’re better than me?” His breath fans across your lips, soaked in whiskey and spite. “Fuckin’ stuck-up little bitch—actin’ like you don’t see me. Actin’ like you ain’t got my fuckin’ eyes on you every shitty day.”
Your stomach lurches as he yanks you forward, the crowd parting around you both like a goddamn spectacle. You try to brace against him, hands weakly shoving at his chest, but he’s immovable. Bakugo only snarls, spinning you around and shoving you against the sticky countertop, pressing the heavy weight of his body against your back.
“Nah,” he breathes, hot and vicious against the shell of your ear. “Not runnin’. Not tonight.”
You barely get the chance to suck in a breath before he kicks your legs apart. One of his arms loops around your middle, dragging you back against his chest while his free hand snakes up your thigh. A violent tremor wracks through you when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down in one swift motion.
“Katsuki—”
He laughs.
“Oh, now you wanna say my name?” His fingers ghost over your exposed slit, barely there, but enough to make you jolt. “Now you wanna fuckin’ act like you got somethin’ to say?”
He doesn’t wait for a response.
Two fingers push inside you without preamble, knuckles deep, dragging out a choked, unwilling sob from your throat. Your hips twitch, trying to pull away, but he presses you down harder against the counter, keeping you trapped between his body and the wood. His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against your walls in deep, slow strokes, his cock twitching against your ass at the way you pulse around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he growls. “Ain’t nobody ever touched this pussy before? Hah?”
You want to scream. You want to thrash and claw and bite.
But the laughter behind you tells you that no one would care.
Bakugo spreads you open with both hands, prying apart your folds to get a better look at the slick beginning to smear between your thighs. He groans, low and hungry, shoving his face against you. The first hot drag of his tongue across your cunt makes your stomach turn, makes your nails scrape against the counter in desperation.
But he doesn’t stop.
He moans like he’s fucking drunk on the taste of you. His tongue laps through your slit, slow at first, savoring it. Then, like a man starved, he shoves his face deeper between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit while his tongue flicks and sucks. You jerk, a stifled cry ripping from your throat when he buries himself into you like a ravenous animal.
Your hands fly back to shove him away, but he only growls against your cunt, nipping at your inner thigh in warning.
“Don’t fuckin’ run from me,” he pants, voice ragged. “Ain’t gonna let you.”
He sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, and your knees nearly buckle. His fingers dig bruises into your thighs, forcing them open wider as he eats you out like a man possessed, like he’s never had anything so fucking good in his mouth before.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
Your body shouldn’t be responding to him, shouldn’t be trembling under his grip, shouldn’t be letting his tongue push so deep inside you it makes your spine arch.
Bakugo laughs when he feels the way you clench, the way you twitch and shake against him, the way your hips push back just a little against his face.
“Yeah,” he breathes, mouth slick with your juices, eyes burning with something wild and unhinged. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch. Fuckin’ knew you’d melt for me.”
Your cheeks burn with humiliation.
Because you can feel it too—the slow, creeping pressure building inside you, the traitorous heat pooling between your thighs despite every single cell in your body screaming at you to fight.
His fingers dig into your ass, bruising and possessive, spreading you open for him even wider as he groans against your cunt, the vibrations making your knees give out. He grins against you, eating you out with wet, obscene sounds, completely unbothered by the way your thighs tremble, by the way your hands desperately grip the edge of the counter as he shoves his tongue inside you as deep as it can go.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “This pussy was made for me, hah? Fuckin’ perfect little hole…”
Your vision is swimming, the air in your lungs thinning as his tongue drags over your clit, relentless, ruthless, until you can’t take it anymore, until your body betrays you completely and your orgasm crashes down without warning.
Your back arches, a strangled sob ripping from your lips as you tremble against him, the shame and pleasure a sickening mix that makes your head spin. Bakugo groans, slurping up every drop of your release, licking and sucking even as your body convulses in his hold, completely and utterly spent.
He doesn’t stop.
Even as your thighs twitch, even as your nails carve into the wood, even as tears spill down your cheeks from the overstimulation, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps devouring you like he can’t get enough.
“Fuckin’ pussy-drunk off you, baby,” he breathes, voice ruined, eyes dark and desperate as he stares at the mess he’s made of you. “Ain’t never lettin’ this go.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧
You shouldn’t have smiled at him.
Atsumu has never been the jealous type—at least, that’s what he’s always told himself. Possessiveness? Disgusting. Clinginess? Even worse. He’s a fuckboy, not a damn sap, and yet here he is, hands clamped so tightly around your wrists that your bones groan in protest, dragging you through the dimly lit hallway of the party like you’re nothing more than a ragdoll.
It’s funny, really.
All it took was a lingering glance at your so-called best friend, and he fucking snapped.
The closet door slams behind you, plunging you into suffocating darkness. The sharp scent of cedar and mothballs invades your nose, but all you can focus on is him—his panting breath, the brutal way he shoves you against the wall, his fingers bruising the delicate skin of your throat.
“Think yer funny, huh?” he hisses, voice thick with something dark, something dangerous. “Batting yer eyes at that piece of shit? Laughin’ at his dumbass jokes? Y’like him or somethin’?”
Your lips part, but the words die before they can escape.
Because Atsumu is angry.
Not the playful irritation you’re used to—the kind that ends with a scoff and an eye-roll. No, this is something else entirely. Something lethal. His fingers tighten around your throat just enough to make your head spin, your pulse hammering like a caged animal against his grip.
“Atsumu,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath. “I didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
His knee shoves between your thighs, spreading them wide, pinning you in place. Your heart slams against your ribs as his free hand slips under your skirt, rough fingers skating up the inside of your thigh.
“Y’wanna act like a slut? Then I’ll treat ya like one.”
Your stomach twists violently. Panic claws up your throat, but he doesn’t give you the chance to fight back. His mouth crashes against yours—hot, desperate, punishing. Teeth sink into your lower lip, tearing at the delicate flesh, the taste of iron blooming across your tongue.
The room is too small, too hot. His scent surrounds you, drowning you in sweat, cologne, and something unmistakably Atsumu. You thrash, nails raking against his biceps, his neck—anywhere you can reach—but he only groans, grinding his thigh against your core like he’s getting off on your struggle.
“That’s it,” he rasps, his breath scalding against your cheek. “Fight me. Gimme a reason to break ya.”
Your breath stutters when he yanks your panties down, leaving them bunched around your knees. His fingers are on you before you can process what’s happening, rough pads sliding through your folds, spreading you open.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Always so damn warm. So fuckin’ wet. This for me? Or were ya hopin’ that little shit out there would be the one touchin’ ya?”
Shame burns beneath your skin, hot and humiliating. “Please—”
“Please what?” He sneers. “Y’want me to stop? Then why’s yer pussy beggin’ for me, huh? Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ fingers.”
Two fingers sink into you without warning, stretching you wide. A strangled gasp rips from your throat, your body arching instinctively, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Atsumu is everywhere—all-consuming, relentless, insatiable.
“Fuck, fuck—look at this pretty little hole, takin’ me so easy,” he murmurs, mesmerized. “Like ya were made for me.”
His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles that send electricity crackling up your spine. The pleasure is too much, too fast, coiling low in your stomach, threatening to snap.
And he knows it.
“Yeah? Y’gonna come already? So damn easy, holy fuck.” He laughs, mean and breathless, curling his fingers just right. “C’mon, slut. Make a mess for me. Show me who ya belong to.”
Your body betrays you, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves. A choked sob wrenches past your lips, and Atsumu watches, eyes dark with hunger, as you shatter against his hand.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, withdrawing his fingers, watching the slick strings between them. “Yer so fuckin’ perfect. Y’don’t even know.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s sinking to his knees, shoving your skirt up around your waist. His grip is bruising as he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, pressing you back against the wall.
“Atsumu—”
The first lick steals the air from your lungs.
Hot, wet, obscene—his tongue drags through your folds, collecting every drop of slick you’ve spilled for him. A ragged moan vibrates against your clit as he buries his face in you, licking, sucking, devouring like a man starved.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he slurs against you, drunk on the heat of your cunt. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby. Could eat ya for hours.”
You try to squirm, try to shove him away, but he only growls, pressing his tongue flat against you before flicking it over your clit, slow and deliberate.
“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snaps. “Let me fuckin’ enjoy this.”
Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, nails digging into his scalp as his tongue fucks into you, messy and desperate. Slurping, sucking, swallowing—he doesn’t care how filthy it is, how humiliatingly loud. He wants you to drown in it, wants you to hear how much he fucking needs this.
You feel him rutting against your calf, grinding his cock against your skin like he’s getting off just from tasting you.
“M’so fuckin’ hard,” he groans. “Fuck, baby—gonna come just from this. Just from this pretty pussy.”
Your head spins. The pleasure is too much, too overwhelming, your body strung so tight it hurts.
“Atsumu, I—”
He hums against your clit, sucking the swollen nub between his lips, and you break.
White-hot pleasure crashes through you, tearing a scream from your throat. Your body locks up, every muscle seizing as you come, and Atsumu moans, drinking it down like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“That’s it,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ knew ya could gimme one more.”
Your legs nearly give out as he pulls back, chin glistening, pupils blown wide. He looks utterly debauched—cheeks flushed, hair a mess, lips wet and swollen.
“Y’ain’t done yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, standing to his full height. His fingers work at his belt, the soft clink of metal making your stomach plummet. “M’not nearly fuckin’ finished with ya.”
The sharp sound of a zipper fills the tiny space.
And then he’s pulling his cock free, thick and flushed, dripping with need. He strokes himself once, twice, watching the way your eyes widen, the way your thighs tremble, the way you shrink against the wall as if that’ll save you.
It won’t.
Atsumu smirks, stepping closer, pressing the leaking tip against your slick folds.
“Gonna fuckin’ ruin ya.”
The closet door muffles your scream.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧
You were always a quiet little brat.
Not the loud, obnoxious type. Not the kind that pouted and whined. No, you had your own way of getting under his skin—an infuriating, unreadable defiance that mocked him in silence. It was in the way you held your ground, unwavering, giving him that blank, unimpressed stare no matter how much he towered over you.
And he tolerated it.
Because you were his.
Shouei Barou, king of the field, ruled with dominance. His presence alone forced submission. Opponents cowered, teammates fell in line, and yet, you? You never crumbled.
You, with that little smirk.
That disrespectful little smirk that told him you didn’t take him as seriously as you should.
It drove him insane.
Tonight, you finally pushed too far.
He wasn’t even trying to be threatening. For once, he had been patient, letting you sit on his lap after a match, letting you play with his damp hair. He had let you touch him however you pleased, because for all his pride, for all his control, Barou was addicted to you. Your hands, your warmth, the scent of you—you had ruined him in a way he didn’t understand. So he let you get away with things no one else could.
Then you said it.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
He had stilled, jaw locking. You leaned closer, chin on his shoulder, whispering low. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You’re too much of a self-righteous control freak to let anyone touch you.” Fingers trailed down his nape. “Bet you’re scared. All that talk, all that attitude, and you’ve never even had a girl squeeze your cock?” You sighed, deliberately unimpressed. “Tch. Figures.”
You hadn’t expected much of a reaction.
After all, Barou was always restrained with you. A little rough when you got on his nerves, but never violent, never crossing any real lines. He was harsh, cruel at times, but still kind in a way that made you stupid enough to feel safe.
But then, the air shifted.
You felt it before you saw it—that break in patience. A crack splitting the careful lines of his control. His fingers flexed against your thighs.
And then he was moving.
Fast. Too fast for you to process what was happening before he had you pinned to the floor, legs spread wide, breath hot as he loomed over you.
“You think this is a game?“
His voice was so fucking low. That controlled, authoritative tone that made men freeze on the field now sent pure fear rolling down your spine.
“W-Wait—”
Too late. His grip was bruising, hands ripping your clothes aside. A loud tear, fabric shredding under his brute force. Your stomach dropped, realization slamming into you. He’s serious.
Your mind screamed at you to fight, but your body betrayed you, frozen under the sheer weight of him.
“Gotta put you in your place.” His breath came hot against your thigh. “Since you like running that fucking mouth.”
His head dipped, and you barely had time to gasp before his mouth latched onto you.
Oh, fuck—
It was instant, the shock of it, the raw, desperate heat of his tongue. He didn’t even hesitate. No build-up, no hesitation—he dove in, licking into your cunt like a man possessed. Like he had something to prove.
And fuck, he did.
The first swipe sent you reeling, pleasure and horror crashing into each other as his tongue flattened against your slit, dragging upward in one long, hungry stroke.
You yelped, legs kicking, trying to squirm away, but his grip was unrelenting.
“Stay. Fucking. Still.“
A sharp slap landed on your thigh, the sting making you jolt. And then he sucked on your clit, a filthy, wet sound filling the room as his mouth devoured you.
It was obscene.
Raw, messy, sloppy.
You had never seen him like this. Never. Barou was always calculated, always composed—but now? Now he was drunk off of you, groaning like he was the one being pleasured, rutting against the floor as he licked and sucked like a starved fucking animal.
“Fuck.” His voice was hoarse, barely a rasp. “You’re gonna eat those words, brat.”
You whimpered, trying to push at his head, but he was fucking relentless, tongue rolling against you with terrifying precision. Your body was betraying you, heat coiling, legs trembling. No. You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress it, trying to deny the wetness pooling between your thighs.
Barou noticed.
“Hah. Look at you. So fucking wet for me already?” He chuckled, dark, pleased. “And you had the fucking nerve to mock me?“
His teeth grazed your inner thigh, making you gasp.
“Please, d-don’t—”
A growl, and then he was shoving his tongue inside you.
Your breath hitched, back arching as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then fast, messy, each stroke making a wet, lewd sound. His grip tightened, nails digging into your hips as he held you still, kept you at his mercy.
Pussy-drunk. That was the only way to describe him.
Completely lost in it, drowning in the taste of you. His groans vibrated against your cunt, deep and guttural, like he was losing his fucking mind.
“Mine.” The word was muffled against your heat, growled into you like a vow. “You fucking hear me?“
You squeezed your eyes shut, choking back a sob. The way he was touching you, devouring you, it was too much. It felt too good, and that made it all the more terrifying.
Barou didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
He kept going, eating you out like it was his last meal, like his life depended on it. Like he was punishing you with pleasure.
His fingers slid between your slick folds, pressing in, stretching you open. The intrusion made you gasp, but your body was so fucked out, so overstimulated, that it barely registered before another wave of pleasure crashed over you.
And Barou felt it.
He knew you were close.
His movements grew rougher, more intense, his lips sealing around your clit, sucking just right—
You shattered.
Your body convulsed, pleasure ripping through you so violently it left you gasping, trembling. Your legs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking, milking every last aftershock until you were sobbing.
Only then did he pull back, panting, lips shining with your slick.
His gaze burned.
Dark. Hungry. A man completely, utterly ruined.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he was shoving his sweats down, revealing his cock—thick, hard, twitching with need.
“Hope you’re ready for the real thing, brat.“
Your stomach dropped.
You weren’t ready.
But Barou?
Barou was done playing games.
If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.
Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles
Character TAG LIST of “HSR Sunday”: @yandere-romanticaa
❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.
♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:
♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology
♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.
♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.
♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.
♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution
♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.
♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.
♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 