“If I fail, I’m blaming you.“
❤︎ Synopsis. He swore he could last—thirty days of restraint, thirty days of self-control. But as the weeks drag on and your teasing turns cruel, the tension festers into something darker, something hungrier… until No Nut November isn’t just a challenge—it’s a countdown to his breaking point.
♡ 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 2
♡ Word Count. 11,739
♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, implied Stockholm Syndrome + husband x wife dynamics, dark humor, BDSM + DDLG, incest, language, forced orgasms, overstimulation + raw fucking, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + slight choking, fingering, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, fingering, fear + primal play + dacryphilia, drugging, somnophilia, slight omegaverse inspiration, breeding + knotting
♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧
He lasts exactly four days. Four miserable, frustrating, agonizing days.
At first, it was just a stupid challenge—something he saw online, some meme about mental fortitude, about proving you’re a real man by abstaining for a month. Gojo laughed at it. Scoffed. He’s an apex predator, above all these pathetic mortal compulsions. Sex? It’s fun. It’s entertainment. It’s a game he plays with you because he can.
The first day is easy. He’s amused by the whole concept, smirking at his phone as he lounges on the couch, watching you move about the apartment like some oblivious little prey animal. You’re always so serious, so unaware of how much he enjoys winding you up.
The second day, he’s a little irritated. Not because he’s struggling. (Of course not.) But because you look extra nice today, and he doesn’t appreciate being inconvenienced by his own self-imposed restraint. He tells himself it’s fine. He’ll just tease you a little, maybe rile you up for fun.
The third day, he starts thinking about how soft you are. How easy you are to break. How much he loves watching your body struggle, shiver, seize up around him. It’s not fair, really. You’re right there. In his space. In his home. His. He catches himself staring at you too much, fingers twitching with the desire to touch. He spends the entire night in bed, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, thinking about the way you sound when he fucks you deep enough to ruin you.
By the fourth day, he’s feral.
And it’s your fault.
Because you’re walking around, existing, breathing, wearing that stupid oversized sweater he bought you, drowning in the fabric like you don’t even realize how damn tempting you are. It’s infuriating. He watches you tuck your knees up onto the couch, tilting your head at your book, completely unaware that he’s sitting there, gripping his phone so hard it might crack, trying to remember why the hell he ever thought this was a good idea.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he mutters.
You blink, confused. “Doing what?”
His eye twitches.
Fucking hell. You actually don’t know. You’re sitting there, curled up like some delicate little thing, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s been battling the urge to pin you down and break you open for the past twenty-four hours.
“Doesn’t matter,” he breathes out, pushing himself up from the couch. He has to leave the room. Has to get away from you before he does something regrettable.
He barely makes it three steps.
You shift. Just slightly. Just enough that the hem of that godforsaken sweater slides up your thigh, exposing the soft skin beneath.
And it’s over.
He’s on you before you even realize he’s moved. A startled gasp leaves your lips as he yanks the book from your hands and tosses it aside, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.
“Satoru—”
“Shut up,” he hisses, voice raw, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.
His breath is hot against your ear. His fingers squeeze tight around your wrists.
“I’ve been patient.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear, his weight pressing you down into the couch. “I’ve been good. I’ve been so fucking good.”
Your stomach twists. There’s something unhinged in his voice, something dangerous in the way his entire body trembles against yours.
“But you just had to make it hard for me, huh?” His lips ghost over your throat. “Walking around like that. Looking at me like that.”
You weren’t looking at him in any particular way. But you know better than to argue.
His hands slide beneath your sweater, yanking it up and over your head, leaving you exposed. You shiver at the sudden cold, at the hungry way his eyes drag over your bare skin.
“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. He palms at your chest, rough and greedy, like he’s making up for lost time. “You’re unreal. So fucking soft. So fucking perfect.”
He’s already pulling at your shorts, dragging them down along with your underwear, fingers pressing against the heat between your legs. He groans, low and guttural.
“You’re already wet?” His voice is dripping with condescension. He presses a finger inside, slow, teasing. “You’re filthier than I thought.”
You bite back a sound, turning your head away.
He doesn’t like that.
“Aw, don’t get shy on me now,” he croons, shoving another finger in, stretching you open. “I want to hear how much you need me.”
Your body betrays you, arching into his touch, clenching around him in ways that make his restraint snap entirely.
“Fuck, I can’t—” His voice is a mess of frustration and desire. He shoves his sweats down, free hand gripping your thigh, forcing your legs apart. “I need this. I need you.”
You barely have time to gasp before he thrusts inside, bottoming out in one rough stroke. The stretch burns, forcing a strangled cry from your throat.
His head drops against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, shuddering, like he’s just barely holding on to the last thread of his sanity.
“Holy shit,” he groans. “So tight. So fucking tight.”
You dig your nails into his arms, gasping, struggling to adjust, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He pulls back and slams into you again, rough, deep, needy.
“I’m not stopping,” he warns, grip bruising as he pounds into you. “I don’t care how much you beg.”
You don’t beg. But you do sob. Do whimper. Do cry out as he fucks you with all the pent-up frustration of the past four days, holding nothing back, taking and taking until the only thing you can do is cling to him and endure it.
And he loves it. Loves how helpless you are beneath him. Loves how you squeeze around him, gripping him like you were made for him.
“You feel that?” he pants against your throat. “Feel how deep I am?”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Say it.”
You don’t, so he slaps your thigh, sharp enough to make you yelp.
“Say it.”
“You’re—” You gasp as he thrusts particularly deep, your whole body jolting. “You’re deep—!”
His laugh is breathless, wicked.
“Good girl.”
He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking beneath him, reduced to a mess of choked sobs and broken gasps. Not until he’s had his fill, until he’s spilling inside you with a guttural groan, pressing his weight against you, keeping you trapped as he rides out his release.
His breath is uneven against your skin. His fingers loosen just slightly on your hips.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Fuck that challenge.”
He kisses your temple, slow, mocking.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧
You were a good girl.
That was the problem.
The worst fucking problem, actually, because Ryōmen Sukuna had always been in fucking control. Of himself, of his gang, of every fucking thing in his miserable excuse of a life. He prided himself on his ability to override base instincts, to never get played by his own urges. He was a damn legend in the underground, and his name alone had men pissing their pants.
But it had been twenty-eight days.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-eight fucking days of No Nut November because his gang had called him out, and he was no shitty pussy. He’d laughed, sneered, spat on the floor, and told them all to eat shit if they thought he couldn’t handle it. And for a while, it had been easy.
He thought it was beneath him, just a dumbass social challenge that only weak-willed men struggled with. But now, staring at you—his wife, his property, his ultimate possession—he was realizing something.
He was going to fucking snap.
You weren’t even doing anything.
That was the worst part.
You were just there, sitting in his apartment in one of his oversized shirts that barely covered the tops of your thighs, legs tucked up on the couch as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. So fucking innocent. So fucking oblivious to what you did to him.
He wanted to rip that innocence apart.
His hands curled into fists as he sucked his teeth, his jaw flexing. He shouldn’t be this worked up, shouldn’t feel like his skin was on fire just from looking at you, but fuck, damn it—
You were his.
And he had rules.
“You should cover up,” he muttered, voice low and rough as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the throbbing in his jeans.
You flinched slightly at his tone, but your fingers tightened around your phone, and that made something ugly burn in him.
“I—”
He was already on you before you could finish.
His body moved on instinct, months—years—of control slipping like sand through his fingers. His knees hit the couch, trapping your legs under his weight as he wrenched the phone out of your grip and tossed it onto the coffee table.
You barely had time to gasp before his hand was fisting in your hair, dragging your head back as his mouth crashed against your throat.
It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t soft.
It was violent, teeth sinking into the delicate skin just below your jaw, his other hand yanking the hem of the shirt up, exposing your bare thighs.
“S-Sukuna—”
“I’ve had enough.” His voice was a snarl against your throat, frustration laced with something darker, something that made his vision blur. “You fucking did this.”
“I—” Your hands scrambled against his chest, pushing against the leather of his jacket. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Exactly.” His laugh was sharp, cruel, breath hot against your skin as his grip tightened. “You just sit there, acting all innocent, like you don’t know what you fucking do to me.”
You whimpered as he spread your legs apart with his knee, pressing between them, forcing them open.
Twenty-eight days.
He had never gone that long without fucking something—someone. His self-control had been admirable. Legendary, even. But you?
You were his fucking kryptonite.
His patience snapped like a live wire.
His mouth was on yours before you could scream, swallowing the sound with a vicious kiss, biting down on your lower lip until he tasted blood. Your nails clawed at him, a weak, pathetic attempt to push him off, but it only made him harder, made him hungrier.
“Too late to run now,” he growled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand.
His other hand shoved your thighs further apart, fingers pressing against your slit, finding you untouched, unready. He groaned against your mouth, grinding against your core through his jeans, feeling the rough denim scrape against your soft, sensitive skin.
You were shaking under him.
Good.
You should be afraid.
Because he wasn’t stopping.
Not this time.
His fingers forced their way inside you, stretching you open, punishingly slow, savoring the way you gasped and clenched around him.
“Fuck—so tight,” he gritted out, eyes flashing as he watched your face contort, your brows furrowed, your lips parted in an involuntary moan.
Your body betrayed you.
It always did.
And he loved it.
“Bet you thought I’d keep playing nice,” he murmured against your ear, curling his fingers inside you until you whimpered. “Thought I’d keep my hands to myself, be a ‘good husband,’ huh?”
Your eyes welled with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choked sobs as you shook your head frantically. “No—Sukuna, please—”
“Please?” He let out a cruel laugh, pulling his fingers out just to push them back in harder, deeper. “Please what? Please fuck you?”
Your face burned with shame, your body arching despite your desperate protests.
He ripped himself out of his jeans in the next second, pulling your hips up, spreading you wide.
“No—no, wait, please—”
But he didn’t wait.
He slammed inside you in one brutal thrust, forcing your body to take him, ignoring the way you cried out, ignoring the way your nails dug into his forearm.
You were too fucking tight, too hot, too perfect.
Twenty-eight days.
And it was worth every single fucking second.
His body caged you in, his weight pressing down, suffocating, drowning you in him. His pace was punishing, brutal, every thrust dragging a sob from your throat, every snap of his hips pushing you further into the couch.
He was going to ruin you.
Own you.
Like he always had.
Your breath hitched as he pressed his forehead against yours, his hand still pinning your wrists, his other hand gripping your hip so hard it would bruise. His eyes were wild, frenzied, filled with something dark and violent and all-consuming.
He wasn’t just fucking you.
He was claiming you.
Every single thrust sent you deeper into submission, your resistance breaking apart piece by piece, until all you could do was sob, moan, take it—take him.
Your body betrayed you again.
It always did.
You clenched around him, your walls tightening, pulsing, dragging him deeper.
And he laughed—low, breathless, almost cruel.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger, pressing his lips to your cheek, your jaw, your throat, biting down. “Fuck—squeezing me so good.”
You whimpered, shaking your head, the last vestiges of your defiance crumbling as he fucked you harder, deeper, faster.
“You love this,” he groaned, his pace growing erratic, desperate.
You gasped, body arching, your thighs trembling.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice dangerous, threatening.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out—only choked sobs, whimpers, moans.
His grip tightened on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
“Say it.”
You shuddered, your body going rigid as pleasure crashed over you, violent and unforgiving.
He felt it.
Felt you coming undone around him.
And he followed, his body tensing, his breath catching as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep you could feel every pulse, every throb.
A shuddering, possessive exhale left his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours.
He’s done playing. Done pretending he has control when you’ve stolen it just by existing.
Ryōmen Sukuna never loses.
Except to you.
And he’s going to make sure you fucking feel it.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧
The first mistake was overhearing his students. The second was letting his curiosity get the better of him.
It had started as a whisper—muted, nervous giggles from the back of his lecture hall. He didn’t need to look to know they were slacking, but the unfamiliar phrase caught his attention.
“No Nut November.”
A ridiculous mortal invention, no doubt, but it had his students flustered. When he turned his head, sharp ochre eyes slicing through the sea of desks, the culprits had frozen in place like rabbits caught before a dragon’s maw. He did not entertain foolishness in his lectures. A single raised brow had them fumbling for an explanation.
“Professor Zhongli! We—uh—uhm—it’s a, uh, challenge—”
A challenge? He expected something academic.
“—A celibacy challenge.”
He had scoffed, shaking his head at their nonsense. Mortal men and their desperate, pathetic attempts at self-control. What weak creatures, undone by the absence of indulgence.
And yet—he found himself entertained by the notion.
So he tried it.
For two days, it was nothing. For five, irritation gnawed at his patience. But by the seventh, he was suffering. His discipline had never failed him before, and yet every minuscule movement, every insignificant scent—everything—was suddenly too much. He smelled your perfume on his papers. He caught the memory of your voice in his empty office. And when you passed by, oblivious to the monster unraveling at the seams, he had to grip his desk to stop himself from dragging you inside and snapping the foolish, self-imposed chains that kept him in check.
It was no longer just about the challenge. No longer about proving his willpower. It was about you. It was always about you.
And now—now he was in heat.
His instincts had been manageable before. A nuisance at best. A buried instinct. A dragon who learned to sleep within its host. But the longer he held back, the stronger the cravings became. His rationality fractured, giving way to base urges he had long since tamed.
It wasn’t just about release anymore.
It was about sinking his teeth into the softness of your neck. About caging you beneath his weight, forcing you to take every inch of him, to whimper and tremble as he filled you again and again and again until his body had wrung every last drop into yours.
He had no choice.
✦✧✦✧
You were unprepared when it happened.
The door had been unlocked. You hadn’t thought anything of it—he was always in his office late, correcting papers, drinking tea, perfectly poised in the way that made your skin crawl. You had only meant to drop off the assignments, a brief interaction, nothing more.
But the moment you stepped inside, you knew something was wrong.
A heat—heavy and suffocating, thick in the air like the press of an unseen predator. The scent of him, something richer, muskier, clawed its way down your throat, leaving your head spinning. The papers slipped from your fingers.
He was already behind you.
“Professor—”
A hand curled around your waist.
The breath hitched in your lungs as a broad chest pressed against your back. Heat. Overwhelming, scorching heat, rolling off of him in waves, like the breath of a beast ready to consume. You stiffened, every nerve screaming in warning, but it was already too late.
“I tried,” he murmured, voice thick with something beyond mere desire. His lips ghosted along your neck, tracing the rapid pulse beneath fragile skin. “But you make it impossible.”
Your breath caught. A shiver raced through you, a stark contrast to the molten need coiling in his chest.
“R-Rex Lapis—”
A mistake. Speaking only made it worse. Your voice—soft, uncertain—had him rumbling deep in his throat, the vibration reverberating through your spine. He spun you in his grasp, pressing you against the desk in a single, fluid motion.
And then you saw his eyes.
No longer amber, but slitted gold, burning with something ancient, something ravenous. His pupils, narrowed to dagger-thin slits, raked over you with the ownership of a beast who had found its mate. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, scenting you, memorizing you.
Your stomach dropped.
“This isn’t—”
“You will take it,” he interrupted, tone brooking no argument. “Because I have held back long enough.”
His mouth crashed over yours, devouring, claiming. Fangs dragged against your lips, sharp enough to break skin. His tongue forced its way inside, swallowing your protests, your feeble resistance, smothering you in the suffocating press of his hunger.
Then his hands were on you. Tearing at fabric. Peeling away barriers that had no right to exist. His breath was ragged, his growl reverberating through your chest as he pushed you onto the desk, a predator pinning its prey.
Your voice was hoarse, words lost between desperate gasps. “No, please—”
His grip tightened.
“You’re mine.”
Then he was inside you.
A strangled cry tore from your throat as he forced himself into you, splitting you open, stretching you far beyond what you could handle. He was too thick, too long, a monstrous shape fitting into something far too small. Your body fought against him, instinctively trying to push him out, but he didn’t relent. He shoved in deeper, until you were filled to the brim, until your walls clenched around him, helplessly trying to accommodate his sheer size.
A guttural groan rumbled from deep within his chest. His hands caged your wrists above your head, rendering you utterly powerless beneath him.
“Perfect,” he hissed. “Made to take me.”
He pulled back, only to slam into you again, forcing a scream from your lips. Again. Harder. His claws dragged against your skin, leaving faint trails of red, marking you, branding you. His pace was relentless—brutal thrusts designed to break you, to mold you into something only he could own.
Your legs trembled, your body wracked with shock, overstimulation, helpless pleasure tangled with raw pain. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His instincts roared, demanding more, demanding everything.
Then you felt it—his knot swelling at the base, locking him inside, preventing any escape. His grip tightened as he rutted against you, chasing his release, desperate to breed, to claim you in every sense of the word.
And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a vicious snarl—a beast triumphant in its conquest. The sensation was unbearable—thick, scalding heat filling you, overflowing, your body forced to take everything he had to give.
You gasped, shuddering, trapped beneath the weight of him.
He exhaled heavily, nuzzling into your hair, inhaling the scent of his victory.
“No more foolish challenges,” he murmured darkly. “You are all I need.”
His knot throbbed inside you, locking you in place.
You weren’t going anywhere.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧
Alhaitham was supposed to be above this. Detached. Unmoved. The cold hand of logic, sculpting the perfect experiment.
But you—
You were the flaw in his theory. And now, he was going to ruin you for it.
It started with a challenge. A careless remark, thrown his way in the middle of yet another heated argument in the library. Your voice laced with that infuriating self-satisfaction, eyes gleaming with the prospect of besting him at something—anything.
“I bet you wouldn’t last a month without touching me.”
Foolish.
He had let the words sink into his mind, assessing the probability of your provocation being a genuine wager or simply a means to tease him. Either way, it was irrelevant.
He accepted.
Not because he feared losing—he wouldn’t. He was a man of discipline, of reason, of pure intellectual pursuit unmarred by base instinct. He’d observe. He’d collect data. And, at the end of the thirty days, he’d have the satisfaction of proving his theory: you would crumble first.
You always did, in the end.
Day one passed without difficulty. Day three, and he noted a spike in your awareness of his presence—sharpened posture, sidelong glances. By the end of the first week, your defiance had started to wane. You were always so easy to read, every shift of your body an unconscious confession.
Except you weren’t breaking.
Weeks passed, and you remained—infuriatingly—unchanged.
But he was not.
By day fifteen, his observations had turned into obsessions. He thought about you in the silence of his study, in the middle of lectures, in the suffocating hush of night when the only sound was the relentless pulse of his own breathing. The memory of your voice, your scent, the unbearable softness of your skin—he had assumed these were variables he could control.
A miscalculation.
Day twenty, and the frustration had settled into something deeper. A primal, gnawing hunger that reason alone could not temper. He found himself dissecting your every movement, cataloging the way your lips parted when deep in thought, the absentminded way you bit your pen. He should have been writing research papers; instead, he was memorizing the way your thighs shifted when you crossed your legs.
By day twenty-five, it was unbearable.
It was not merely the absence of pleasure that tormented him—it was the fact that you knew.
That look in your eyes, that slow, taunting smile whenever he stiffened under your gaze. The way you would brush past him just a little too close, your breath ghosting over his ear. It wasn’t conscious, it couldn’t be—you didn’t have the capacity for such deliberate cruelty. And yet, every unknowing tease was a blade to his restraint, carving away the last vestiges of his resolve.
Day twenty-eight, and he could taste the inevitable.
It was your fault.
You shouldn’t have provoked him. Shouldn’t have stared at him like that, shouldn’t have spoken in that hushed voice, shouldn’t have looked so damn untouchable.
Day twenty-nine. He lost.
You never saw it coming.
One moment, you were studying alone in the library, bent over your notes, and the next—a shadow loomed behind you, his presence a suffocating weight. The warning was barely a whisper, his voice a cold, shuddering rasp against your skin.
“Experiment concluded.”
Then he struck.
The chair scraped violently as he yanked you back against him, his grip bruising, unrelenting. Your protest died in your throat as he dragged you from the room, past the shelves, past the empty corridors—until the world narrowed to four locked walls, suffocating silence, and the realization that there was no escape.
You squirmed, thrashed, spat curses at him, but it only made his grip tighten, his breath slow, measured. Studying. Always studying.
“Do you even realize,” he murmured, his voice a velvet snarl, “what you’ve done to me?”
He forced you against the desk, the edge biting into your stomach as his hands traced their way down, pressing, claiming, branding.
“I was supposed to be above this.”
He buried his face against your neck, inhaling, reveling in the scent that had haunted him for weeks.
“But you—”
Fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, riding up. The moment he touched bare skin, something in him shattered. A growl, low and primal, ripped from his throat.
“You ruined me.”
Then he took you. Violently. Mercilessly. Every ounce of pent-up rage and starvation turned to raw, unforgiving force. He pinned you down, his body caging yours, devouring every sound you made.
There was no preamble, no warning, just the sudden, brutal stretch of intrusion. Your cry of pain only made his grip tighten, his hips jerking forward in a punishing rhythm. He didn’t care that you weren’t ready. He didn’t care that you were trembling beneath him, gasping, clawing at the desk in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.
This was his experiment.
And you were the data.
His thrusts were sharp, deliberate, calculated to tear you apart. His breath was ragged against your ear, words spilling out in dark, venomous whispers.
“Look at you. You thought you could win?”
Your hands scrabbled against his grip, but he only pressed you harder into the desk, bending over you, trapping you in place as he drove into you relentlessly.
“I should have known,” he hissed, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You were always so infuriatingly arrogant.”
A sharp slap against your thigh made you jolt, the sting amplifying your helplessness. He laughed at your reaction, a cruel, breathless sound.
“You wanted to break me.”
A particularly vicious thrust knocked the air from your lungs, and your whimper only seemed to spur him on.
“Guess what, little scholar?”
Another slap, this time against your ass. Your body jolted forward, and he caught you by the throat, dragging you back against him, forcing your spine to arch as his pace turned frenzied.
“You failed.”
And so he fucked you—until you were a ruined, trembling mess beneath him, until your throat was raw from screaming, until there was nothing left but the shattered remnants of his broken restraint and the brutal certainty that he would never let you go.
By the time he finished, spent and panting, his hands remained locked around your hips, his weight heavy against your back. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck—a mockery of tenderness.
Then he leaned down, his voice dripping with the satisfaction of a man who had just rewritten his own hypothesis.
“I lost the challenge,” he admitted, his lips curling into a smirk against your sweat-slicked skin.
Then he pulled you up, tilting your chin back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“But you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your bruised lips,
“lost far worse.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧
He sits at the dining table, posture elegant, swirling the wine in his glass with the practiced ease of someone who has long mastered the art of control. Everything about him radiates refinement—his pristine white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, the expensive watch that glints under the chandelier, the way he sips his drink with deliberate slowness. He is a man of discipline.
And yet, his hands tighten around the stem of the glass when she moves.
You sit across from him, oblivious, nursing your own meal in silence. The domesticity of the scene is normal, even peaceful—except for the way his muscles coil, the way his gaze darkens, the way his mind fights against the need that has been clawing at him for weeks.
No Nut November.
It was a ridiculous concept, a meaningless challenge men put upon themselves to boast about their so-called self-control. It should have been effortless for him. He had restraint woven into his very being, a man who lived by his own unyielding principles.
But that was before you.
Before you entered his life, before you became his, before the sight of you—your quiet defiance, the way you carried yourself, the way your lips pressed together when you were deep in thought—began to gnaw at his carefully maintained composure.
“Oh, I was talking to my friends today,” Robin chirps, her presence disrupting the heavy tension that only he seems to notice. She sits at the table beside him, completely unaware of the war raging in his mind. “Apparently, their boyfriends are all trying this thing called ‘No Nut November.’ Have you heard of it, Sunday?”
His jaw ticks. “Hn.”
“It’s, like, where guys don’t—y’know—for a whole month. Can you believe it?” She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t get it. Why do they do that to themselves?”
His grip tightens on the glass, knuckles whitening.
He doesn’t need to be reminded. He is already suffering.
“And guess what?” Robin leans in conspiratorially, grinning. “Most of them already failed. It’s only been two weeks. My friend’s boyfriend lasted like… three days. Can you imagine?”
You shift slightly, crossing your legs, and his gaze immediately zeroes in on the movement. His breath comes slower, heavier. His mouth feels dry.
“How pathetic,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. “A man with no control over himself is hardly a man at all.”
Robin giggles, nodding in agreement. “Right? That’s what I thought too! I bet you could do it, though. You’re, like, the most self-disciplined person I know.”
He exhales through his nose. “Of course.”
And yet, he already knows he’s going to fail.
The second Robin retires for the night, he moves.
✦✧✦✧
The bedroom light was dim, casting soft golden glows over your sleeping form. The sheets barely covered you, slipping off your body, revealing the delicate silk nightgown that clung to your curves.
Sunday inhaled deeply. He knew you weren’t awake—the drug ensured that. Your breath was slow, deep, your lashes fluttering slightly. He had done this before, after all. The dose was perfect: enough to keep you in a helpless dreamscape, not enough to endanger you.
You were so defenseless like this.
His beautiful, unwilling little wife.
His fingers ghosted over your bare thigh. He could already imagine it—the way you’d wake up aching, bruised, slick with evidence of what he had done. The confusion in your voice, the horrified realization when you shifted your legs and felt it. He almost smirked.
But tonight, tonight he was beyond desperate.
Undoing his belt, he let his cock spring free, thick and hard, twitching at the very sight of you. The weight of the past few weeks had been unbearable. The pent-up frustration, the heat, the sheer madness of knowing you were there, day after day, untouched. He had deluded himself into thinking he could endure it.
Foolish.
He spread your legs slowly, savoring the motion. You sighed softly, a small unconscious noise. His cock throbbed at that, at the sheer intimacy of it. You had no idea what he was about to do, what he was about to take.
It made it all the better.
He pushed inside you in one slow, relentless thrust.
Even drugged, your body reacted. A small twitch, a shift in breath, muscles unconsciously tightening. He groaned, gripping your hips as he buried himself deeper.
“So tight,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in your sleep, your body knows who owns it.”
The stretch was divine, the heat near unbearable. He moved, thrusting slowly at first, savoring every second, feeling the way you molded around him. His hands roamed, fingers trailing over your stomach, your breasts, your throat. His grip tightened slightly, just enough to feel your pulse beneath his palm.
He imagined you waking up like this.
The way your eyes would widen, realization dawning. The way you’d try to move, only to find yourself weak, helpless, at his mercy. He’d hush you, coo in your ear, tell you how beautiful you looked like this, how you should be grateful for his love.
The bed creaked slightly as he fucked into you harder. He was drowning in it, in you, in the sheer ecstasy of finally breaking his ridiculous restraint.
He leaned down, lips brushing against your ear.
“You should thank me,” he murmured. “I was such a good husband this month. But you don’t mind, do you? You love being my perfect little wife.”
A small moan escaped your lips, involuntary, soft and broken.
His cock twitched at the sound.
God, he wouldn’t last.
The past weeks had been pure torture. He should’ve never entertained the thought of abstaining. It had only made him crazier, made him need you more.
His thrusts turned rougher, sharper, the pleasure coiling hot in his gut. He gripped your chin, tilting your head slightly so he could see your face—so peaceful, so unaware, so perfectly his.
He came with a shuddering groan, spilling deep inside you, filling you with the proof of his obsession.
For a moment, he just stayed there, still buried in your heat, panting softly.
Then he pulled out, watching the way his cum slowly dripped from your abused hole. He traced a finger through the mess, pushing some of it back inside.
You shifted slightly, but didn’t wake.
Good girl.
He cleaned you up, smoothing the sheets back into place. He wouldn’t want you suspecting too soon. No, the true delight was in the morning—in seeing your confused, hesitant expression, the way your fingers would trail over your body, the way horror would bloom in your eyes as realization struck.
And when you turned to him, searching for answers, he would only smile.
Because, really, who else could it have been?
He kissed your forehead softly.
“Sweet dreams, my love.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧
The old bastard lasted a whole two weeks. Fourteen damn days without stuffing his cock into something soft and willing—or unwilling, like you. It was a personal best, truly, but you knew the moment you opened your bratty mouth and taunted him, he’d snap like a rusted barbed wire fence under too much tension.
“C’mon, Daddy. Do you really think you can last all month? Pathetic,” you scoffed, your arms crossed beneath your chest, the smirk on your lips something cruel.
Boothill’s eyes went dark with a simmering heat, the kind that scorched earth and burned bridges. A deep, slow inhale through his nose, like a bull about to charge, nostrils flaring as he set his jaw. His fingers twitched at his sides, gloved hands flexing.
“Darlin’,” he drawled, that thick cowboy accent heavy with warning. “You got a real bad habit of runnin’ that pretty mouth.”
You knew what you were doing. Teasing him, flaunting yourself around the house in nothing but thin little shorts and tank tops, stretching in front of him, acting so fucking untouchable. That damn mouth of yours spewed venom, but it was your eyes that really set him off—the way you looked down on him, like he was some old dog barking up the wrong tree. Like he was weak.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Of you prancing around, of him gripping his cock late at night and gritting his teeth until his jaw nearly cracked, all to keep himself from breaking this stupid fucking challenge. He could have anyone, any desperate whore in town, but it had to be you. It was always you.
And tonight, you’d made the mistake of calling him pathetic.
You barely had time to process the shift in the air before he was on you. A sharp inhale, a step back, but there was nowhere to run. He was bigger, stronger, faster. Always had been. A calloused palm caught your wrist, yanking you forward so hard you nearly tripped into his chest.
“Nuh-uh, don’t get shy now,” he cooed, voice syrup-thick with amusement. His grip tightened. “You was runnin’ that mouth just fine a minute ago.”
His other hand slid down your spine, slow, deliberate, before palming the curve of your ass through those little shorts. He hummed low in his throat, a deep, gravelly sound of approval that sent something ugly twisting in your gut.
“See, I been real nice, sugar. Real patient.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he exhaled, hot and damp. “But now, you done gone an’ poked the damn bear.”
You gasped as he hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, his arm locking over your thighs to keep you from kicking. The world tilted, your fists hammering at his back, but it was useless. He was solid muscle beneath that worn-out flannel, all brute force and raw power. You were nothing but a little thing in his grasp.
“Lemme go!” You snarled, twisting in his hold.
“Oh, I’ll let you go, alright,” he mused, kicking open the bedroom door with his boot. “Right onto my fuckin’ cock.”
The bed creaked beneath his weight as he threw you down onto the mattress. Before you could scramble away, he was on you, pinning you with his sheer bulk. His thighs caged yours apart, and he grabbed your wrists, forcing them above your head in a bruising grip.
His belt buckle clinked. The leather slid free in one smooth motion, and before you could fight, he looped it around your wrists, tightening it until the soft flesh pressed against the worn leather.
“There,” he murmured, admiring his work. “Now, ain’t that a pretty sight?”
He was hard. So fucking hard. The thick length of him strained against his jeans, the outline obscene as he rolled his hips against your trapped body.
Your breath hitched.
“Boothill—”
“Daddy,” he corrected sharply, fingers curling around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. Those dark, molten irises were blown wide, barely a sliver of brown left. “You wanna talk big, sugar, you better know how to address me proper.”
Your lips pressed into a defiant line, and his smirk widened.
“Mm. That so?”
The next thing you knew, he had you flipped onto your stomach, yanking those flimsy shorts down to expose the soft swell of your ass. A rough palm smoothed over the flesh before landing a sharp, stinging slap that made you jolt.
“Look at this. Ain’t even touched you yet, an’ you already squirmin’,” he chuckled, voice dripping with condescension. “Like a bitch in heat.”
You cursed, but it only earned you another slap. Harder this time. The force of it sent heat lancing through your core, and the shame that curled in your gut made your eyes sting.
A shuffling of fabric, the unmistakable rustle of a zipper being undone.
He pressed the blunt, leaking head of his cock between your legs, dragging it along your slick folds with a low, satisfied growl.
“Knew it,” he murmured, voice smug. “Knew this little cunt was lyin’ to me. Y’mouth says no, but this?” He rolled his hips, smearing precum along your slit. “This fuckin’ drippin’ little hole says ‘please, Daddy, fuck me stupid.’”
You tried to squirm away, but his arm looped around your waist, dragging you flush against him.
Then he pushed in.
A strangled cry tore from your throat as his cock stretched you wide, the intrusion too much, too thick. His hands dug into your hips, keeping you pinned as he bottomed out with a low groan.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped, breath hitching. “Takin’ me so damn good.”
You shook your head, nails digging into your palms. “S-stop—”
Boothill laughed, a sharp, mean thing.
“Nah, baby, you started this.” He snapped his hips forward, knocking the breath from your lungs. “An’ now? I’m gonna finish it.”
He set a brutal pace. Deep, punishing thrusts that had you clawing at the sheets, your cries muffled by the mattress as he fucked you like a damn animal. His grip was bruising, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks. Each roll of his hips sent heat sparking up your spine, every drag and push forcing your body to betray you.
The worst part? He knew it.
“Knew you’d take it,” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice thick with hunger. “Knew this little cunt was made for me.”
You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, but the way he was hitting that spot inside you made it impossible to hold back the pathetic whimpers spilling past your lips.
His hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles.
“Go on, sugar,” he murmured. “Give in. Cum on Daddy’s cock.”
You choked back a sob, body tightening, traitorous pleasure coiling in your stomach. The heat built, higher, sharper—until it snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave.
Boothill groaned as your walls fluttered around him, his thrusts growing sloppy. He was close.
“Holy shit,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Give this pussy what it’s beggin’ for.”
You barely had time to register his words before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied growl. His cock twitched, pumping you full, his breath hot against your sweat-damp skin.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.
Then, finally, he sighed, satisfied.
“Guess that means I lost the challenge, huh?”
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pressed a lazy kiss to your damp temple. “Oh well. ‘Spose I’ll just have to make up for it by fuckin’ ya all month long instead.”
You whimpered.
He grinned.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧
The challenge was a joke.
“There’s no fucking way you can do it,” they had laughed, slapping his back. “A whole month without touching her? Please, Caleb, you worship that woman. You’re going to fail day one.”
His smile was slow, lazy, that of a man humoring a bunch of idiots. “Watch me.”
And now, two weeks in, he wanted to fucking kill someone.
It was absurd, really, how much self-control he had to exert. He was a grown man, a rational one, and yet the sheer thought of you—his little wife—was enough to send blood surging to his cock. You, oblivious and sweet, existing in his space, completely unaware of how deep you were in his grip.
Caleb had been patient. Patient when you never saw him as more than an older brother. Patient when you played hard to get, not realizing you were never playing at all—because you never fucking wanted him. He had let you pretend you had a choice, let you live in blissful ignorance, all while orchestrating every step of your downfall. And now, after finally claiming you, this stupid challenge was forcing him to pull back.
It was unbearable.
He sat on the couch, watching you move around the apartment. You were in one of his old shirts—too big, slipping off one shoulder, riding up your thighs. No bra. He knew because he had been staring at the curve of your tits through the thin fabric, watching your nipples pebble against the cool air. His jaw ticked.
“Something wrong?” you asked, noticing the way he was looking at you.
Something wrong?
Yes. Everything was wrong.
His cock was hard. Had been for days. His balls ached with the force of his restraint, and every single part of him screamed to bend you over and fuck the challenge to hell.
“Come here,” he said instead, voice low.
You hesitated—smart girl—but you obeyed, stepping into his space.
Big mistake.
His hands were on you before you could react, gripping your hips, pulling you between his legs. You made a noise of protest, one that immediately died when he yanked you down onto his lap.
“C-Caleb—!”
“Shhh.” His voice was smooth, but there was nothing kind in it. “I’ve been good, haven’t I? Been real patient.”
Your breath hitched as he shifted, making sure you felt the full weight of his cock pressing against your core. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His laugh was sharp. “Lying’s not a good look on you, sweetheart. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Been prancing around like a fucking tease. And I’ve been trying so damn hard—”
His grip tightened, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in. “—but you’re making it impossible.”
You swallowed, stiffening against him. “This is about that challenge, isn’t it? The stupid No Nut thing?”
He grinned against your throat. “See? You do know.”
You shifted, trying to pull back, but he didn’t let you. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to make it hard for you—”
“You weren’t trying, huh? Walking around in my shirts, looking all soft, all sweet.” His hands trailed under the fabric, squeezing your thighs. “Making these little sounds when you stretch, like you’re just begging to be fucked.”
You shuddered. “Caleb—”
“Tell me to stop.”
You froze.
His hands didn’t move. His voice was calm. Controlled.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll let go.”
You hesitated. Because you knew the truth. Knew that even if you said it, even if you fought, it wouldn’t matter. Not really.
His fingers dug into your skin, dragging you harder against him. “See? You won’t. Because deep down, you know you’re mine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart hammering as he lifted you, carrying you to the bedroom with ease. He tossed you onto the bed, watching you bounce, watching the way your thighs pressed together in some futile attempt to block him out.
Pathetic.
“I was going to be good,” he murmured, stripping his shirt off, revealing the sheer size of him. The broad frame. The thick muscles. He looked like a gentle giant to everyone else. But you? You knew better. “I was going to win.”
You scrambled back against the pillows, shaking your head, but he was already on you, caging you in, his body massive over yours.
“But then you had to go and make it so fucking difficult.”
His mouth was on yours before you could reply, devouring, rough and insistent, swallowing your protests. His hands tore at your clothes, fabric ripping under his grip, baring you to his gaze.
And then—his cock.
Too big.
Your body tensed, panic setting in. “No—Caleb, I can’t—”
He hushed you, pressing you down, positioning himself at your entrance. “Shhh, sweetheart. It’ll fit.”
Your nails raked down his back as he pushed in, splitting you apart. You sobbed, body clenching around the intrusion, but he only groaned, sinking deeper.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he panted, voice wrecked. “Knew you would.”
Your legs kicked against the mattress, tears streaking your face as he bottomed out. He was too deep, stretching you too wide, leaving no room for escape.
Caleb pulled back only to slam back in, forcing a wail from your throat. He was rough, relentless, hands bruising against your hips as he fucked you into the mattress.
“Been holding back too long,” he gritted, breath ragged. “You think you can just exist like this? In my space? In my clothes? And I’m just supposed to sit back?”
You whimpered, nails clawing at his arms, but he only laughed, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re mine. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, his size overwhelming, splitting you apart like you were made for him. The weight of him, the sheer strength, was too much. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach, your body betraying you, responding to the brutal pace.
He felt it too. “There you go,” he murmured, licking the tears from your cheek. “Knew you’d take me like a good girl.”
You sobbed, shaking your head, but your body didn’t listen. Pleasure crept in, unwanted and cruel, mixing with the pain.
Caleb’s thrusts turned desperate, his grip bruising. “Fuck—gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make sure you never doubt who you belong to.”
You choked on a scream as he drove in to the hilt, his cock pulsing, his body shaking as he spilled inside you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, trapping you beneath him as he rode out his orgasm, hips still moving, making sure you felt every drop of him.
And then, finally, silence.
His breath was hot against your ear. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in place, ensuring you didn’t slip away.
You shivered, broken and spent, staring at the ceiling, mind blank with shock.
Caleb pressed a kiss to your temple, voice a satisfied murmur.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧
The first week, he almost made it.
Almost.
The challenge had been stupid to begin with, a dumb joke from Kirishima and Kaminari that escalated into some pathetic show of “discipline.” “Only the strongest can last all thirty days,” they’d taunted, slapping down bets, laughing like this was just another dumbass dare. Bakugo didn’t back down from dares. He never backed down from anything.
And in the beginning, it had been easy.
But then there was you.
You, moving through his fucking house like a damn temptation personified, not even trying—
—or maybe you were trying.
His wife, his property, his perfect little captive, his broken, docile doll who had learned (after so much screaming, after so much resistance) that fighting only made things worse. You had settled, grown quiet, learned how to exist within the lines he allowed, learned to be his good little girl.
And yet—
You were still so fucking infuriating.
Your soft, oversized sweaters slipping off your shoulder when you stretched. Your bare legs tucked under you on the couch, the delicate curve of your thighs exposed when you shifted. Your tiny little sighs, the mindless noises you made when you read, breathed, existed.
His patience, his self-control—both were a razor’s edge.
And by the second week, he was losing his fucking mind.
✦✧✦✧
Week Two. He Wants to Kill You. He Wants to Fuck You.
The gym isn’t helping.
Neither is patrol. Neither are the long-ass shifts as a Pro Hero, the brutal workouts, the weight of his responsibilities. Nothing burns out the heat coiling low in his gut, the aching frustration that tightens his fists, his jaw, his whole fucking body every time he steps into his own damn house and sees you.
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fucking fair that you get to sit there, oblivious, while he suffers.
He wonders if you really don’t know.
Or if you’re testing him.
It’s the only thing that makes sense—because lately, you’re worse.
Lately, you’re doing little things that make him want to rip his hair out, smash his fist through the nearest wall, grab you by the throat and—
You wear his shirts, the fabric drowning your smaller frame, barely covering anything. You hum in the kitchen, tapping your fingers against the counter, oblivious to how his eyes lock onto the curve of your hips. You chew your fucking lip, licking away the taste of your own chapstick, sitting in his lap when he pulls you there, squirming just slightly, the friction sending fire up his spine.
(You don’t fight him anymore. But you don’t obey the way he wants you to, either.)
He can barely sleep. Every night, he lies in bed, fists clenched, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw aches. You sleep beside him, curled up in a little ball, your breath soft and even.
You have no idea what you do to him.
You have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.
✦✧✦✧
Week Three. He Snaps.
Kirishima laughs when Bakugo loses his shit over something small—some dumbass villain encounter that didn’t even warrant a reaction. “Dude, you’re fucking feral.”
Yeah. No fucking shit.
He’s been on edge for days, his patience worn so fucking thin that every little thing makes him want to snap someone’s neck.
By the time he gets home, he’s seeing red.
And then he sees you.
Sitting on the bed in nothing but one of his hoodies, legs curled beneath you, a book resting in your lap. Hair messy, soft and sleepy, your bare thighs just fucking there.
He stops breathing.
Something inside him fractures.
And then—
He’s moving before he can stop himself.
You barely have time to react before he’s on you, yanking you down, his grip brutal, possessive. A strangled gasp leaves your lips, your book knocked to the floor, your hands automatically rising to shove at him—
Too late.
His mouth is on yours, harsh and bruising, his tongue forcing past your lips, swallowing your protests. His hands are everywhere—pushing up the fabric of your hoodie, gripping your bare waist, fingers digging so deep into your flesh he’s sure you’ll bruise.
“Fuck the challenge,” he growls against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You think I’d let some dumbass bet stop me from taking what’s mine?”
You whimper, your nails scraping at his arms, your body twisting beneath him. He doesn’t let up.
Not this time.
He yanks you beneath him, knees spreading your thighs apart, shoving them open with his body weight. Your breath hitches—
And the sound makes him snap.
A growl rips from his throat as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, trapping you. His other hand tears at your underwear, ripping the fabric aside, shoving his knee between your thighs to keep them spread.
“Don’t,” you choke, already struggling, your eyes wide, lips trembling. “K-Katsuki, don’t—”
“Shut up.” His voice is a snarl, his control shattered. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane, and you’re gonna pay for it.”
You gasp, a pathetic, terrified sound—
And then he’s inside you, forcing himself in all at once, stretching you too fast, too rough. You cry out, body jerking beneath him, legs kicking uselessly as he slams into you, bottoming out with a low, guttural groan.
“Fuck, you’re tight—”
You sob, your body writhing in pain, your nails digging into his arms, pushing, clawing—
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t want to stop.
Doesn’t care that you’re crying, that you’re gasping, that your body is desperately trying to escape. You’re his. His to touch, his to use, his to fuck whenever he wants—
And right now, he wants to break you all over again.
He pulls back and slams into you harder, setting a brutal pace, fucking into you so violently the bed creaks beneath you. Your breath comes in ragged, broken sobs, your hands flailing, grabbing at anything—
He grabs your throat, forcing your eyes on him, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You love this,” he sneers, panting, sweat dripping from his temple. “Doesn’t matter how much you fight me—your body always gives you away.”
Your face twists in horror, in shame—
And fuck, that look alone makes him cum.
He buries himself as deep as he can, grinding into you, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, his groan mixing with your choked sob. He stays inside you, panting against your neck, arms wrapped around you in a bruising grip, his cock twitching as his cum drips out of you, leaking onto the sheets.
You’re shaking beneath him, gasping for breath, body limp.
He presses a lazy, possessive kiss to your temple, teeth scraping your skin, smug, satisfied.
“Fuck November,” he mutters, lips curling into a smirk. “I’d rather fuck you.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧
It starts with a bet. A stupid, meaningless bet.
Osamu, smug and taunting, had thrown it at him like a damn challenge: “Bet ya can’t last a whole month without touching ‘er, Tsumu.”
It was meant to be a joke. Something to rile him up, make him snap back like always. But Atsumu, stubborn bastard that he was, had scoffed, chin tilted high like he was above it all. “The hell I can’t.”
And that was how he found himself in this hellish predicament. Day seventeen of No Nut November. Seventeen days of restraint, of tightening his jaw every time you so much as breathed in his direction. Seventeen fucking days of agony.
The worst part? You had no idea.
You—his wife, his possession, the woman he’d broken down piece by piece until you barely had a will left to fight—had continued living like normal. Walking around the apartment in those little cotton shorts, stretching on the couch with that arch in your back, oblivious to the monster watching you from the shadows.
You don’t even need to try. You just exist, and he is unraveling.
His balls ache. His cock twitches at the mere thought of you. Every night, he sleeps facing away from you, fists clenched tight, jaw locked—because if he so much as brushed against you, he’d lose. Every morning, he wakes up hard, painfully swollen, and he forces himself into a cold shower, panting through gritted teeth. His body is desperate, furious, screaming for relief. But he refuses. He’s strong. He’s better than this. He won’t let Osamu win.
But tonight…
Tonight, you ruin him.
It’s innocent. Of course it is. You don’t have it in you to be cruel. Not like he does. Not like the predator watching you from the doorway, his fingers digging into the frame so hard his knuckles go white.
You’re on the bed, reading some book, knees tucked to your chest, lips pursed in concentration. The neckline of your oversized shirt sags just enough to tease him with a glimpse of collarbone. It’s nothing. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. But after seventeen days of this torture, it might as well be a full-fledged striptease.
His cock throbs. His breath shudders out of him. His patience—his fragile, already-fractured self-control—snaps like a thread.
You hear him before you see him. A sharp, uneven inhale. The weight of his footsteps, slow and deliberate. You look up just as he reaches you, just as his hands find your ankles and yank you flat against the mattress.
“A-Atsumu—?”
You don’t get to finish. His mouth crashes onto yours, brutal, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the startled squeak that escapes your throat. His grip is unforgiving—one hand cupping the back of your head, the other pinning your wrists above you. There’s no room to breathe. No space to think. Just him, overwhelming, drowning, consuming.
You struggle, because you always do. It’s cute. Pointless, but cute. He growls into your mouth, shoving a knee between your thighs, wedging them open despite your weak attempts to press them together. His grip is steel. His strength is absolute. You are nothing beneath him.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he rasps against your lips, his voice ragged, frayed at the edges. “D’ya even know what you’ve been doin’ to me? Huh? Walkin’ ‘round like that—actin’ all innocent—when ya know damn well I ain’t touched ya in weeks.”
You shake your head, wide-eyed, breath coming in soft little pants. “I-I don’t—”
He laughs. Sharp. Mean. “Yeah? Then lemme show ya.”
The sound of fabric tearing fills the air. Your shirt—your only barrier—shreds in his fists, exposing soft skin to his greedy hands. He palms your breast roughly, fingers tweaking a nipple just to hear you yelp, just to feel you squirm. His cock aches at the way you tremble. His mouth waters at the sight of you sprawled out, helpless, right where you belong.
You try to twist away, try to push at his shoulders, but he’s not having it. Not tonight. Not after all this suffering. He flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing, shoving your face into the mattress, pressing a knee into the small of your back. You whimper, voice muffled, but he doesn’t care. He tugs down your shorts—no panties, fuck, you’re not wearing any panties—and suddenly, he’s gone.
Gone from reason. Gone from sanity.
His cock slaps against your ass, heavy, leaking, desperate. He fists himself, groaning deep and guttural, dragging his length along your skin, smearing pre-cum over your untouched, untouched—
“You ain’t ready, are ya?” he breathes, almost delirious. “I should prep ya. Should take my time.”
But he won’t. You both know he won’t.
He grips your hip with one hand, lines himself up with the other, and without warning, without hesitation, without an ounce of patience left in his depraved, feral body—he shoves in.
The scream you let out is raw. Broken. He barely gives you time to adjust before he’s slamming into you, pace ruthless, relentless. Your walls squeeze him, choking him, fighting him, and he groans through gritted teeth, fingers biting bruises into your hips. You’re sobbing. He can hear it, feel it in the way your body shakes beneath him, but fuck if that stops him.
“Tight—” he chokes, throwing his head back, sweat dripping from his brow. “So fuckin’ tight—” He should’ve done this sooner. Should’ve thrown the stupid challenge out the window and fucked you raw the second he started this miserable month.
You claw at the sheets, gasping, sobbing, body rocking forward with every brutal thrust. “Atsumu—please—”
Please what? Stop? Slow down? You know better than that.
“Fuck, princess—” He grits out a curse, yanking you up so your back slams against his chest. His arm snakes around your throat, forcing you to arch against him, while his free hand finds your clit, rolling it between his fingers. “Y’think I’d let ya go that easy?”
You jolt, breath catching, and he fucking smirks. “Ah, ya like that, don’tcha?”
Your head shakes wildly. Liar.
His thrusts grow erratic. His grip tightens. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet, filthy squelch of his cock pounding into your unwilling body—it’s obscene. It’s intoxicating. It’s all too much.
He’s close. So fucking close.
“Gonna fill ya up, baby,” he groans into your ear, rutting deep, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you jolt. “Gonna pump ya so fuckin’ full, you’ll feel me for days.”
You shake your head again, voice cracked and wrecked. “No, please—”
“Yeah? Too bad.”
His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, hard, hot, shuddering against you. He groans—loud, guttural, spent—but he doesn’t stop. Not yet. He fucks it into you, forcing you to take it, making sure every last drop stays buried deep inside.
You sag against him, boneless, wrecked, barely breathing. He exhales sharply, lips brushing the shell of your ear, grin smug, satisfied.
“Guess I lost the bet, huh?”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧
He thought he was untouchable.
A man like Shouei Barou—discipline incarnate, self-control molded into steel—wasn’t supposed to fall victim to something as humiliating as lust. He had survived years without it, untouched, unfazed, knowing his own body belonged to him and no one else. He had trained himself to deny distractions, to ignore useless desires. He had gone seasons without indulgence, untouched by the idea of another’s body—yours included.
Then you had to go and ruin everything.
No Nut November wasn’t supposed to be a challenge for him. He was the one who suggested it, who smirked at you with that cocky arrogance and told you he’d win easily. He had dismissed your playful taunts, shrugged off your teasing smirks, even when your eyes glimmered with something dangerous, something cruel.
But now, at the very last hour of the last fucking day, he is about to lose.
And it is all your fault.
Barou’s breathing is ragged, his broad chest rising and falling with the effort of restraint. His fists clench, his muscles locked so tight that he could snap his own bones if he dared to move. He stands there, hovering over you, his massive frame casting you in shadow, his sharp red eyes dark with something terrifying.
You did this. You set him up. A perfectly laid trap.
A simple, stupid trick—one that should not have worked.
But you underestimated how much he had been holding back. How much he had suffered, restraining himself.
Because you—his fucking wife—you had spent the entire month unknowingly torturing him. Every glance. Every accidental brush of your skin against his. Every time you stretched, yawned, or bent down to grab something off the floor. The tiny things. The things that should not have affected him. The things that burned themselves into his skull and ruined him.
And then, tonight, you had walked into the bedroom wearing something so fucking transparent he could see everything.
The challenge is over.
Because Shouei Barou, the self-made king, has just lost in the worst way possible.
He grips your waist so suddenly that your breath chokes in your throat. His fingers dig in, the sheer power of his grip forcing your body against his. His massive frame engulfs you entirely, heat radiating off him like a furnace. You don’t have time to react before he shoves you onto the bed, his body caging you in, his sheer weight pressing you down.
“You fucking cheater.” His voice is gravel, a deep growl that shakes against your bones.
His hands are everywhere—pushing up the flimsy fabric of your nightwear, spreading your legs open, forcing you to submit. The month of denial has turned him into something monstrous, something more terrifying than you’ve ever seen.
Your protests die in your throat the moment his mouth crashes against your skin. Sharp teeth sink into the tender flesh of your neck, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave evidence. He drags his tongue over the mark, hot and possessive, and then moves lower, his mouth claiming every inch of you, as if punishing you for making him wait.
His hands tremble. His entire body shakes with the sheer force of holding back.
“I should make you beg,” he snarls against your skin, voice rough with restraint. “I should make you cry for this.”
But he’s the one who breaks first.
Because the moment his cock—aching, twitching, painfully engorged from weeks of torment—finally presses against you, all control shatters.
He doesn’t ease in. He doesn’t take his time. He slams into you with a force so brutal it knocks the breath from your lungs. The stretch is instant, blinding, an intrusion so sudden your body struggles to accommodate his sheer size. A sound—half-gasp, half-sob—escapes your throat, but Barou doesn’t stop.
He can’t.
A broken groan rips through him as he bottoms out, his massive cock buried deep inside you, his entire frame shuddering with the unbearable pleasure of finally being inside you.
“You… you did this.” His voice is wrecked, barely coherent.
His hands pin you down—one gripping your thigh, wrenching your legs apart wider, the other wrapped around your wrists, trapping you beneath him. His body trembles, his cock twitches inside you, as he grits his teeth so hard they might crack.
Then he moves.
Brutal, relentless thrusts that leave no room for air, no room for protest. Every slam of his hips knocks your body against the mattress, every drag of his thick length against your walls forces another choked whimper from your throat. His hands tighten, his grip bruising, possessive, unyielding.
He growls low in his throat, a sound so deep, so animalistic, it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Fucking take it,” he grits out between ragged breaths, his voice strained with months of pent-up frustration, desire, and the pure fucking need to ruin you. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to see me lose?”
You can’t answer. He doesn’t give you the chance to.
His rhythm is brutal, every thrust shoving you deeper into the bed, every movement claiming you entirely. There is no escape, no reprieve. His cock pulses inside you, thick and unrelenting, stretching you in ways that feel impossible. The sheer force of his movements sends heat pooling deep in your core, your own body betraying you with the way it clenches around him.
Barou notices.
His red eyes darken, lips curling into something wicked.
“Oh, you like this?” His voice is dangerous, taunting. “You like getting fucked by a man who can’t stop?”
A hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding you of the power he has over you. His pace doesn’t falter, doesn’t slow, doesn’t give you a second to breathe. The bed creaks beneath his brutal thrusts, the room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of heavy, ragged breathing, of the wet, obscene noises of your body accepting him.
“You ruined me,” he groans, his grip tightening. “Made me wait. Made me suffer. And now you’re just gonna fucking take it.”
He’s losing himself.
His pace becomes erratic, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate. His breathing is uneven, his entire body tensing as he nears the inevitable. His balls, heavy and aching from a month of denial, slap against you with every movement, each impact sending another wave of pleasure coiling through his spine.
Then his body seizes.
A choked sound rips from his throat—a groan so deep, so raw, it barely sounds human. He buries himself as deep as he can go, his cock twitching violently as he finally, finally releases.
It’s endless.
Weeks of pent-up frustration, of restraint, of holding back—now completely unleashed inside you. His body shudders, muscles locking, as he spills inside you, hot and overwhelming. He groans against your neck, his entire weight pressing down on you, trapping you in place as he rides out the unbearable pleasure, emptying himself completely.
His grip loosens. His breathing slows. But he doesn’t pull out.
Instead, he shifts, his lips brushing against your ear, voice still rough with exhaustion.
“Next year… you’re not getting a fucking chance.”
His cock twitches inside you, still hard.
Barou isn’t done yet.
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 