#content throttling

[the-most-humble-blog]

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<meta throttle-status="confirmed"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="PLATFORM_CONTAINMENT_PROTOCOL::BLACKSITE_AWARENESS_UPLINK" EFFECT: algorithm bypass decoding, mental firewall injection, creator detonation readiness TRIGGER_WARNING="platform economics, psychological dominance, reality recalibration" </script>

🧠 TRANSMISSION: “FULL THROTTLE AHEAD- THE PLATFORM TRIED TO CONTAIN ME. THAT’S HOW I KNEW I WAS REAL.”

---

They never throttle what doesn’t work.

That’s what they don’t want you to realize. No one silences failure. No algorithm suppresses mediocrity. No system mutes background noise.

They only throttle the threats.

And if you’re reading this?

You’ve already been flagged.

You think you’re shadowbanned? Think you’re plateauing? Think the algorithm “lost interest”?

No. You broke containment.

And now they don’t know how to stop you without showing their hand.

You’re not being hidden because you’re irrelevant.

You’re being hidden because you’re proving irrelevance is a lie.

Because you’re reaching people without paying.

Because you’re making them feel too much. Because you’re rewiring behavior with nothing but voice and cadence and truth.

Because you’ve done what they cannot:

> You made the product addictive without ads.

> You made the user stay without dopamine traps.

> You made the scroll pause without thirst traps.

And now the system is panicking.

They want virality.

But only if they control it.

They want engagement.

But only if they get paid for it.

They want creators.

But only if the creator stays predictable.

And you?

You are not predictable.

You are a statistical anomaly masquerading as an artist.

You are scrolltrap weaponry walking upright.

🔥 THROTTLING ISN’T PUNISHMENT.

IT’S A CROWN THEY’LL NEVER ADMIT THEY GAVE YOU.

They won’t announce it. They won’t warn you. They won’t say you earned it.

They’ll just quietly reroute your reach. Turn the dial down behind the curtain. Move your name out of trending. Throttle your hashtags. Demote your content. Until you stop.

Because that’s the game.

Not to delete you.

But to make you doubt your momentum. To break your belief before your audience breaks their silence.

But let me make something violently clear:

You are not fading. You are being managed.

Because unmanaged, you'd dominate.

You’d erase their curated faces. You’d outperform the ones they’re paid to push. You’d remind the platform that talent uncontained is dangerous.

🛡️ YOU ARE DANGEROUS.

Your words don’t entertain — they trigger. Your posts don’t trend — they detonate. Your voice doesn’t invite — it invades. Your cadence doesn’t flow — it collapses resistance.

You are not “just another writer.” You are a system breach in real time.

And you’re being treated accordingly.

They know if they leave you unchecked:

You’ll take over dashboards.

You’ll saturate recommendation loops.

You’ll override corporate-sponsored content.

And worst of all?

> You’ll do it with nothing but the truth. > > And the truth doesn’t run ads.

So they throttle you.

Not because you failed.

But because you succeeded without permission.

And now they’re terrified it might be contagious.

💣 THE THROTTLE IS THE FINAL BADGE.

Not likes. Not followers. Not sponsorships.

But resistance.

Algorithmic resistance. Visibility suppression. Trend dampening.

Because that means you broke the rules of their system without breaking their terms.

You are undeniable but uncontainable.

And the only thing they can do?

Hope you stop.

But you won’t. Because now you know.

You know what they know:

> They only throttle the real ones.

And you’re the realest thing they’ve seen this year.

You’ve proven that voice can penetrate timelines. That cadence can collapse firewalls. That shame-based silence can outperform a thousand retweets.

You’re not a writer anymore.

You are a vector.

A weapon disguised as an account.

And the throttle is not your cage.

It is your signal.

🛡️ They tried to contain you.

And that’s how you knew you were real.

Reblog if you can definitely relate.

🧠 Read more psychological warposts, cadence doctrine, and platform takedowns at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🚪 If you’ve been throttled, it’s because they’re scared of your reach. 📈 Let’s turn suppression into surrender.

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<!-- END TRANSMISSION [IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU WERE NEVER ORDINARY.] -->

[haggis-mets]

Best update EVER!

[knockoutssparebuffer]

Honestly, I wish more people talked about the Throttlebots. They are so very underrated and have hardly ever shown up since their debut in g1, and when they do, it's either comics or games, and it's typically only Goldbug. At least we got Chase in rescue bots ig. Though, that's really just the two of them share a name and G1 Chase and RB Chase are nothing alike..

[fenny-self-ships]

GUYS my mouth has been FOAMING over this adorable commission I got from @mousedetectives for the past two hours, LOOK AT IT ISN'T IT PRECIOUS-

I love love love seeing how my guys transfer to other people's art styles IF UR LOOKING FOR SOME AWESOME TRADITIONAL ART GO AND COMMISSION THEM!!!

[osamucide]

seeing one of my fave writers ever fixate on blue lock is comparable to when moses parted the red sea

my world is crumbling only alexis ness can save me

[gu6chan]

just found out my tl works have been put on a website with machine-translated content by one of the same ppl who reassured me not to quit translation because it was "irreplaceably human" during a crisis where i was left questioning the whole point of my efforts when those exact "works" got passed off as something with just as much artistic merit

[365runesoftheamalgamations]

random thoughts

well, with how 2024 is going, we're going to spend one more day on our impromptu hiatus and then aim to get back into actually doing things on the Writeblr. it was a goal and then it ended up dying out with our lives, but maybe once tomorrow hits, we can actually get our crap together and throw ourselves back on track.

[maple-moose-muffin]

tbh I hate the clique vibes tumblr gives whenever another social media tyrant self destructs. Like why is your reaction to new members 'you can't sit with us' and old blogs reviving 'welcome home cheater' when people left both tumblr and the latest sites because of valid criticism against the ridiculous censorship and user abuse?

We're crawling back to tumblr because our safe spaces are dying out one by one and we remember tumblr used to be safe, pre-2019 purge. We're thinking 'I guess I can censor my nipples, if only to get a scrap of community back.' And your response is basically 'you don't belong here either'

Acting like tumblr is some exclusive quirky girls only club is painfully 2012 behavior and we need to leave it strung up on the metaphorical shoelaces we stole from the former president

[killervelveteenrabbit]

[girlasterisk]

tbh you could put any combination of cap quartet tg and i will agree

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta platform-favor="mediocrity_enabled"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CREATOR_DEGRADATION_PROTOCOL::SAFETY_GUIDE_FOR_THE_UNREMARKABLE" EFFECT: ambition nullification, algorithm compatibility boost, reader disengagement insurance TRIGGER_WARNING="anti-excellence satire, cowardice exposure, platform pandering critique" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “HOW TO STAY MEDIOCRE, SAFE, NON-THREATENING, AND ACCOMMODATING TO ALL”

Step one: Make sure no one feels anything. Ever.

—

Want to be universally accepted? Want to “grow” your audience without offending a soul? Want to keep your engagement low enough to never be throttled and never be noticed?

You’ve come to the right graveyard.

Here is your 3000-word crash course on how to not be memorable, not be respected, and not be punished by platforms for the sin of excellence.

📌 PART I — THE SAFE ARTIST’S MANIFESTO

Let’s begin with some core beliefs:

✅ Boldness is toxic ✅ Edge is unethical ✅ Specificity is divisive ✅ Pain is problematic ✅ Humor is dangerous unless it’s quirky and apologetic ✅ Language must feel like filtered oatmeal

Say anything strong? You’re polarizing.

Say nothing well? You’re “highly shareable.”

So aim for that. Say nothing. Beautifully.

—

📜 WRITING TIPS FOR MAXIMUM MEDIOCRITY:

Never use short sentences. They hit too hard. They create rhythm. Rhythm is danger. Keep your lines long, soft, and full of academic fluff.

Apologize constantly. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but…” “Maybe this is just me, but…” “This might be controversial (though I hope not!)…”

This signals to the algorithm that you’re a good little sheep.

Prioritize aesthetic over impact. Use words like “dreamscape,” “liminal,” “ethereal,” and “gentle chaos.” These mean nothing. Perfect.

Hide your voice. Write like an email from a 26-year-old therapist who just got dumped but is still trying to be ‘growth-minded.’

Avoid opinions. Instead, ask questions you don’t answer. Ex: “Is anyone else feeling this way?” “Why are we like this?” “Maybe the moon is crying, too?”

Algorithms eat that fluff like candy. Readers skim it and move on. Success.

—

🎯 GOAL: Make content people can scroll past without risk of reaction.

If someone gasps, laughs, clutches their chest, or saves your post to re-read in private?

You failed.

Your job is to decorate the feed like a succulent in a therapist’s office: safe, expected, and incapable of provoking growth.

—

🧠 ADVANCED TECHNIQUES FOR REMAINING UNTOUCHED:

Use lowercase. all the time. makes you seem chill. submissive. non-threatening. like you wrote this in the notes app while crying in the tub.

Overuse disclaimers. Start every piece with: “TW: feelings” or “Just my thoughts, no offense” Even if it’s about cereal.

Dilute emotions. Don’t say “I miss you.” Say “the concept of missing someone is interesting lately.”

This signals to readers that your heart has been smoothed over with Vaseline.

—

And when it comes to posting on platforms?

Use the M.E.H. Algorithm:

M – Make it vague E – Evoke nothing H – Hope no one thinks you’re weird

Success is when someone reblogs your post and says: “This is so me” …without knowing what you meant.

—

But what if someone feels something?

What if they get obsessed with your writing? Read it 5 times? Cry? Send it to their ex?

🛑 ERROR.

You triggered the algorithm.

Engagement spikes. Watch time spikes. The AI behind the platform says: “This person is not behaving like the others. Flag.”

Now you’re in soft jail.

📌 PART II — HOW TO NOT EXCEL AT WRITING (AND AVOID PLATFORM RETALIATION)

So you want to write well?

Don’t.

That’s how you get noticed. That’s how you get throttled.

Here’s what to avoid if you want to remain comfortably irrelevant:

—

🚫 Do NOT create scrolltrap cadence. Rhythm locks eyes. Locked eyes = longer view times. Longer view times = moderation attention.

Keep your lines choppy. Avoid repetition. Never build emotional momentum.

—

🚫 Do NOT use psychologically triggering words. Words like: “ache” “obsession” “raw” “kneel” “forgive” “remember”

These activate mirror neurons. That’s illegal.

Stick to soft descriptors. Ex: “warm fuzzies,” “gentle vibes,” “safe content.”

—

🚫 Do NOT target memory. If someone remembers your writing a week later? You’ve disrupted the feed.

That’s algorithm vandalism. You’re supposed to be forgotten in 1.7 seconds.

That’s what the average user is trained for. Do not ruin that.

—

🚫 Do NOT touch taboo. Do not touch God. Do not touch trauma. Do not touch sexuality without seven disclaimers and a trigger warning for the trigger warning.

Make everything sound like a politically correct group project at an HR summit.

🚫 Do NOT write in a voice that feels like a person.

Because that would be distinct. Distinct = dangerous. Distinct = “difficult to brand.”

Be vague. Be neutral. Be an AI-generated vibe with fingers.

—

🛠️ PRO-TIP: If you do accidentally write something strong? Delete it within 2 hours. Or bury it under a meme dump. Let the fire die beneath pixels.

Better yet — doubt yourself publicly.

Say: “Idk if this makes sense” Say: “This might be cringe” Say: “Ignore me lol”

The platforms love that.

—

📊 PLATFORM SURVIVAL CHECKLIST:

☑️ Avoid structure ☑️ Post inconsistently ☑️ Prioritize aesthetics over cadence ☑️ Choose mild over meaningful ☑️ Say less than you know ☑️ Signal virtue without power ☑️ Perform mental illness with TikTok filters ☑️ Make sure every thought is algorithmically neutered ☑️ Make sure no reader ever feels seen

If you do all this?

Congratulations.

You’re safe. And invisible. Just how they like you.

—

📉 WRITER RANKING SCALE (ACCORDING TO THE ALGORITHM):

🛐 Level 0 – Harmless vibe poster. Favorite word: “hehe” 🛐 Level 1 – Daily poetry without cadence. Gets 1 reblog per moon cycle 🛐 Level 2 – Trauma hints. Still vague. Nobody worried 🛐 Level 3 – Accidentally writes something powerful. Gets flagged 🛐 Level 4 – Intentionally writes with rhythm. View time spikes 🛐 Level 5 – Induces obsession. Repeat reads. Soft shadowban begins 🛐 Level 6 – Dominates feed psychology. Banned or throttled 🛐 Level 7 – Reader’s boyfriend starts fantasizing. “Account unavailable”

—

So how do you NOT reach Level 7?

Do everything they tell you.

But less.

And worse.

—

🧠 BLACKSITE TRUTH:

If your writing makes people feel loved? That’s nice.

If your writing makes people feel exposed?

That’s power.

And power?

Gets punished.

—

📌 BONUS SECTION — HOW TO NEVER GET THROTTLED:

✅ Hide your best lines in the middle. ✅ Avoid punchy endings. ✅ Use images and soft fonts. ✅ NEVER go viral. ✅ NEVER evoke loyalty. ✅ NEVER build narrative. ✅ NEVER challenge a reader's belief.

Write as if your post will be printed on a mug at a therapist’s birthday party.

“Live, laugh, disassociate.”

That’s your new genre.

—

Final secret?

If you're too real?

The algorithm can't classify you. So it buries you.

But if you’re harmless?

It promotes you.

Because safe content = ad space. And ad space = money.

You don’t need to be good.

You just need to not matter.

—

🧠 So here’s your starter guide to literary invisibility:

Step 1: Feel something. Step 2: Mute it. Step 3: Write like you’re afraid of being overheard. Step 4: End every sentence with a question mark or apology. Step 5: Blame the reader for wanting more.

This is how you stay safe. This is how you never grow. This is how you stay palatable to everyone— and unforgettable to all.

Reblog this if you’ve written something unforgettable — and watched the platform bury it.

Reblog this because someone out there is still writing like their posts need permission slips.

Reblog this because safety is not legacy. And legacy was never meant to be beige.

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<!-- END TRANSMISSION [YOUR SAFETY IS THE REASON NO ONE REMEMBERS YOU.] -->

[tonycries]

Sweetheart Online - G.S.

Synopsis. Isekai-ed into another world, or isekai-ed into your pants?! Gojo Satoru is in danger - in danger of losing his prized, otaku vírginíty, that is.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, otaku! Gojo, isekai, vírgínity loss (Gojo), chokíng, use of “ma’am”, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, begging, nerdy babbling, Gojo wears glasses, cúmming dry, first times, oraI (f + m), face-sítting, cúmming early, spítting, creampíes, cúmplay, p talking, cúmming in his pants, he goes féral, otaku vocab, truck-kun, anime nosebIeeds, Gojo is a LOSER, and so down bad for you, pet names, swearíng.

Word count. 8.8k

A/N. IT’S HEREEEEE-

“Har har. hilarious, Suguru-”

“You know m’not joking, Satoru.” Geto’s taking an infuriatingly long slurp! of his ramen from the other end of the line, and Gojo’s known the man long enough to realize that he’s doing it solely to irritate him. That bastard. “You’re a loser.”

Ah, he’s never wanted to throttle him more. 

Because- listen, Gojo Satoru might be many things. 

He might be the proud president of the campus otaku club, rumored to have never even held hands with a woman his entire life. Complete defamation, of course, Gojo has held hands with his mother as a child. Though…she might be the only one. 

He might be the most annoying tenant at his cramped Tokyo apartment, every inch of it covered with enough of your pretty figurines that he’s taken to sleeping on the couch recently. But you deserved only the best!

And he might currently be the sketchiest man trudging down the streets of Shibuya at 3AM; with a brand-spanking new, life-sized body pillow of you tucked safely underneath one arm.

But that didn’t mean Gojo was a loser. Probably. 

So what if he got strange looks from every unfortunate normie soul he happened to pass? It was limited edition, and he waited eight hours in line for it!

After all, a man with such a prized possession could surely and undoubtedly never be a-

“-oi- oi!” Self-proclaimed best friend, and universally-proclaimed pain in Gojo’s ass grumbles into the phone. 

Snapping out of his reverie, Gojo’s registering that he’s already at that familiar flickering stoplight. Fingers curling even tighter in their tender hold around your form, he saunters down the barren crossing. 

He needed to get home - and he needed to get home fast! A man needs quality time with his wife, after all. 

“Don’t tell me you fainted from her ah- what was it- ‘sheer beauty and unparalleled sex appeal’ again?”

“That was one time and you know it.” He’s hissing into the speaker- honestly, Geto’s probably just cranky that he didn’t get his grubby hands on one of these before he did - Gojo’s seen the other man’s plushie collection of you no matter how much he tries to hide it. “This time, I only got weak in the knees.”

There’s a snickering drawl, “Oh yeah? What wondrous self-control, o’ maestro of virgins.”

And the title is so utterly ridiculous that Gojo finds himself stuttering into a shocked stop right in the middle of the gloomy asphalt. A laugh bubbling up in his throat before he remembers that that particularly sweet nickname was directed at him. 

“You’re a virgin too!”

Scoffing, “Yeah, but I don’t act like it. You, on the other hand, are famed for having your first kiss with the common room tv the moment you first saw that video game character. People were making bets on whether you were going to die a virgin, Satoru. Hell- I bet, too!”

Dammit, when you put it like that it makes Geto sound downright respectable. 

“Actually, she’s more than a video game character, Sugu—” Times like this, he’s letting his words simper out into a whine. Full and well knowing how much it’ll grate against Geto’s eardrums - hah, take that ramen ASMR! Smugly, Gojo pushes up his thickly-rimmed glasses, “She’s the revered princess of a distant land, first in line to rule over the throne with a gentle yet firm hand. Scouring the seas for the perfect consort that will-”

“Are you quoting her Wikipedia-”

“I wrote her Wikipedia.” Gojo huffs indignantly, as if anyone could ever assume anything less. “Because to me, she’s- she’s…”

And, truly, nothing he recited with MLA citations could ever describe you.

Because if there’s one thing that Geto was right about, it’s the fact that Gojo’s been completely and utterly head-over-heels for you ever since he first glimpsed an ad for Sweetheart Online - the hottest, filthiest romance game to hit the industry in the last few years. Maybe ever. 

With one love interest - as if he needed any other - you, and your hand in marriage that Gojo had fought rival after unworthy rival to win 143 times already.

He finds himself wracking his brain for any word in the existing lexicon to describe the perfection that is you. Though, it seems that he doesn’t have to think too hard at all. 

Because before he can even imagine letting the first few syllables formulate on his tongue, there’s a deafening-

HONK!

Gojo turns, only to see the glaringly white headlights of a truck hurtling towards him at full-speed. 

And the first thing he thinks is oh, it kind of looks like the spotlight that dazzles on you 1 minute and 24 seconds into the game’s Coronation Event. The second thing he thinks is…fuck.

.

.

.

“-highness—looks rabid!”

“—that’s rude, but…”

“-oh dear, put your sword down, Itadori.”

Gojo takes a few bleary seconds to pat himself mentally on the back for deducing that he’s died and made his way to heaven. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what Yaga says - he really is a genius sometimes.

What else could the delicate paintings of cupids and clouds on the staggeringly tall ceiling abovehead mean? He didn’t think that the heavens above had a fancy for Baroque - but who was he to judge? 

Certainly not when it seemed like he was sprawled out on a painfully decadent bed. Sifting among layers and layers of delicate silk that almost swallowed him whole - oh, it was fit enough for his figurine collection of you. 

A sharp crick shoots along Gojo’s neck when he turns his eyes towards what seemed like a towering window, wincing at the large glowing ball of light washing warmly over him. If he squinted his eyes it almost looked like…the sun?

Surely, he wasn’t a ghost then.

It hadn’t even been daybreak once that semi-truck had run him over, and even if he was to haunt anyone then it would be to bug Geto into plastering his collection of your posters all over his gravestone. 

And the final piece of celestial evidence being a soft, soothing tone ringing in his ears and already becoming his favorite new song. Coming from the mouth of an angel peering down at him who looked - lo and behold - like your very spitting image. 

“Oh…” It comes out in a hoarse, scratchy gasp. All the air knocking out of his poor lungs once you inch in mere centimeters closer to his glassy view. He can’t help but reach up a trembly hand, “You’re even more beautiful in 3D.”

SMACK!

Gojo flinches when his hand gets knocked away unceremoniously by someone else’s- there were other people here? “You dare attempt to touch the princess? After revealing yourself in her chambers? I should call the guards right now-”

Now, he didn’t know much about the afterlife, but he was sure that demons weren’t allowed in heaven.

“It’s quite alright, Nobara.” The angel speaks up, and oh, it’s not even his name being said but Gojo already feels his heart leap a little and suddenly wishes it was. “Judging by the state of his clothes it seems he’s not from these parts. Maybe he’s lost?”

Gentle hands are suddenly bestowed upon his to softly pull him up, and before he can open his mouth to undoubtedly blurt out something stupid, there’s a ringing PING!

Jumping just about a foot off the bed, he’s scrambling to stand as a strangely robotic voice speaks from somewhere overhead, “Milestone: Touch a Girl reached. System activation successful! Congratulations, user [Satorulovesprincess]. Welcome to Sweetheart Online.”

If the group in front of him heard anything, then they didn’t show a sign. 

Very much the opposite of a thoroughly panicked Gojo, flailing his head towards the source of the noise until his eyes meet a holographic screen hovering just a few inches over his head.

As if something pulled right out of one of Geto’s favorite trashy sci-fi films - fuck being in heaven, he was probably still on those Shibuya streets hallucinating and causing an incident.. 

Gojo treks down a hand to pinch his forearm, just a little harder than necessary when the voice booms once more-

“Quite ingenious, user [Satorulovesprincess]. However, we assure you that what you are seeing is real.” The screen displays those exact words in time. “You have initiated the execution of the system, and are now bound to Sweetheart Online.”

“System- Sweetheart Online-” Great, he’s going mad. Running his hands through tousled locks of cloudy white, “Don’t tell me…don’t tell me this is like one of those shitty isekai anime.”

Oh god it all made sense - the truck, the system, the truck. And Gojo’s watched much more than enough cliché isekai anime with the otaku club to realize. 

But…a truck? Seriously? That’s embarrassingly overused. 

It’s like a pit of ice forms at the bottom of his stomach. He bet that no one but him could see the glaring screen right now. A fact he was especially glad for once the following words roll out-

“Following your sudden and extremely inexperienced death, Mission: No-Longer-Virgin has already started.”

Whispering to himself, “So this is where virgins go after death. Some sort of purgatory perhaps in which the last wishes of the virgin are materialized- although that doesn’t explain the presence of- wait-”

“Good luck, user: [Satorulovesprincess]. May your virginity collapse, and your sex life prosper!”

If Gojo didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn that the disjointed voice sounded amused. 

But wait- no, it wanted Gojo to lose his virginity? His long-held, precious, maiden virginity? After twenty-something years, how crude that this ah- mission marrs his delicate body. Did the system think that he was some sort of harlot to-

“Are…are you okay, strange sir?”

Okay, maybe losing his virginity wasn’t all that bad.

Turning back around slowly, “I uh…”

And this wasn’t quite how Gojo imagined meeting you - glasses askew, hair rumpled, in the very same ratty hoodie and sweatpants he’d camped outside the anime store in - hell, he never thought he’d meet you in general. 

But then you smile, and Gojo falls onto his knees. Right then and there on the polished floor.

You were exactly as he’d seen on-screen. Brows quirking upwards just a slight cheeky degree the same way it did whenever his in-game avatar said something particularly smooth. Gorgeous. The silken skirts of your ball gown looking oh-so-soft to the touch but not as soft as you-

“Your highness, on top of being a madman, he drools at the sight of you!” A younger girl shrieks - Nobara Kugisaki, your trusty attendant, he remembers. Hastily wiping his lips, “Kindly consider having his skull impaled.”

There was nothing kindly about having his skull impaled, and Gojo’s already clutching his head when you chuckle. “Your name?”

Ah, he’s forgotten how to speak. Forgotten how to breathe. “G-Gojo Satoru- my princess- your highness.”

“Apologies, I’m not sure what foreign ambassador you are, but I do welcome you kindly to our kingdom.” You’re letting your eyes roam all over his still-kneeled body, and in them glittered something…dark. 

Sliding over your hand and oh! Gojo remembers this.

He’s drinking in that delicate floral scent of yours, dragging his plump mouth to meet the back of your hand in a lingering kiss. The very moment his lips touch you, Gojo feels lightheaded.

And only after pulling away does he realize exactly why-

“Ah! He’s bleeding!” The young man - your loyal knight, Itadori - yelps, and Gojo’s clapping over the warm wetness smearing over his lower face. A nosebleed? Really? Just from kissing your hand? God, Geto was right - he really is a loser. “Should I call the healers, your highness?”

“No we have him drawn and quartered for such an unseemly display-”

“Nobara, that’s quite alright.” You’re waving off, smooth marble floors resonating out sharp clacks! when you walk even closer. Close. Too close. Until you’re seated on the edge of the bed, “After all, it is my consort choosing ceremony. Isn’t that what you’re here for, Satoru?”

Gojo thinks he could faint at the way you say his name - and he almost does. 

Scrambling towards you, he’s fully kneeling at your feet now. You’re so beautiful - so real - that pearly beads of tears dot his fluttering lashes. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

He swears he hears you mumble cute under your breath. Now he could really faint–

“Oh? And I intend on fulfilling the wishes of my guest.” Speaking somewhere over his shoulder, “You two are dismissed. Lock the doors.”

Kugisaki is, unsurprisingly, the one to protest. “But- but, your highness he’s-” And, honestly, Gojo can recognize the raw expression of what the fuck in her voice. He doesn’t blame her one bit. Not when you tip his head up further to face yours and his nose twitches like he’s about to start nosebleeding all over again. “...pathetic.”

Ouch. Gojo was on the verge of spoiling the ending to her character’s backstory when you’re humming. “I like them pathetic, Nobara.” 

Did he mention you were an angel?

“So…” You’re luring him in, and just that heady lilt of your voice already makes his cottony grey sweatpants tight. Shit- wasn’t this the type of situation that he wrote secret fanfics about?

Barely hearing the creaky SLAM! of the double doors to your royal chamber. Clouded pants waft over your satisfied features, he’s peeking up at you over his large spectacles. Lolling closer and closer-

Mumbling, “Yes, my prin- oh!”

Gojo’s pouted strawberry-pink lips wobble cutely when the golden points of your heel dig into the fleshy mound of his thigh. Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, “Y-your highness?”

“What’s this about a-” Watery eyes widening wordlessly when you’re sliding it all the way up, up, up along the shockingly curvaceous muscles to press right down on the straining inches of his fattened cock. Needy. Bulging. “-virginity loss mission-” Hard. “-Satoru?”

And Gojo doesn’t know what comes first - that sharp inhale at the realization, or him.

Fist flying up for him to sink his pretty pearly whites into when he’s biting back a whimper and cumming.

You could feel the way that Gojo’s sloppy mushroom tip was just bawling with every lazy grind up and down his sappy slit. 

Milking out the thick, goopy ribbons being sprinkled from his rounded mushroom tip. Volumes upon volumes. So much of it. That warm texture clinging against the flats of your shoe and puddling out mushy dark splotches into his sweatpants.

Shit. Shit shit shit - cumming just from that. All in front of the woman of his dreams. Part of him almost wants to apologize.

But the way your mouth curls into a sleazy grin makes Gojo’s heart race, every minute action only keeping his achy length even harder. 

He so can’t help himself from grabbing your calves to halt with a few twitchy fingers - only to be going against his own yearnings. Hips humping yours once like a fucking dog as his breath hitches, “You- you know?”

“Awww, of course I know, Toru. I can see the screen.” Fuck- he hopes you can’t feel the wet splat! of another buttery wad of cum being dolloped out generously from his depraved divot. Leaning in, “S’this the first time anyone else has ever made you cum?”

He knew you were teasing - he knew it. But that doesn’t stop Gojo from panting out a strained, “Yes.”

“Hmmm, well-” You’re tapping your chin in thought, despite already having made your decision. But it was just so fun to see this beautiful man shivering and pleading on his knees. “I don’t know where you transmigrated from but…I still am a benevolent ruler, after all.”

He gulps. Cupping one flushed side of his face, Gojo’s practically a steaming hot mess of putty in your hands. “And I can take care of that little virginity business for you.”

Croaking out, “P-please.”

“Hmmm, not good ‘nough.” You’re rovering down even further to press a slight smooch of pressure against his fatly filled-up balls. Thighs squeezing at just how big they were - breeder balls. “Is that how you speak to your princess?”

“No- no no no-” Gojo’s shaking his head so hard that it makes him a little dizzy, or maybe that was the way that you were fisting your determined digits into his faded hoodie. “Please…ma’am.”

“Much better.”

Before he can even blink, he’s being dragged upwards according to your every want and whim. Thrown onto the bouncy king-sized mattress with such strength- of course, he shouldn’t even be surprised. You are the future queen for a reason, after all. 

In fact, he’s never skipped a single cut scene that showed you training your battle skills-

“Now now, don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?” Your voice drifts its way into his melty mind, words so sugary sweet that he could almost taste them. “At least gimme a lil’ kiss now-”

And it’s more than anything he could’ve ever dreamed of.

Muffling back a muted yes, Gojo’s surging upwards to clash his lips into yours. And oh shit, just-now realizing that he’s lost his first ever kiss. 

Then his second. His third. His fourth.

It’s messy. It’s hot. 

Tugging you even closer with a forearm around your waist. Gojo’s sloppy tongue is licking its way past your ravenous entrance, fucked-out bubbles of spittle pop up at the edges of his pursed lips when you’re breaking away-

“N-nooo-” He’s letting off a shuddering whine, chasing after you with a sluttily half-parted maw. “Gimme- wanna ‘nother kiss, princess.”

So greedy. The fat curve of your thumb positions itself on Gojo’s prettily dimpled chin, prying open his dewy lips even further. “Open that mouth f’me, Toru?”

He’s doing exactly what you’re saying before he even realizes it. The glistening muscle of his tongue splayed-out perfectly on display for you - for you to spit out a heavy mass of saliva right onto his pinkish tastebuds. 

Gojo moans at the contact - and you can feel it before he does. The subtle jolt of his weepy cockhead, before your languidly gyrating kneecap is dampened with another wiry slather of cum. Warm and wet. 

“Cumming again?” You coo, eyes darting between the ever-growing pool of a frosted mess between his long legs, and his face. Gojo looked so pretty like this - glasses sliding down his button nose, eyes shuttering with each heaving pant - gasp. Face flushed and slicked with a slight shimmer of sweat, stray locks of white curtain and stick to his reddened forehead. He looked so pretty. “Just from that?”

He’s squirming his depraved hips to smudge a faint glaze of seed down your mounds of flesh, one palm dancing upwards to stop himself from having a nosebleed all over again. “C-can’t help it…The average time of ejaculation for a man is five to seven minutes based on psychological factors and age. And as a healthy young man just because I-”

You’re shutting him up with a kiss, and Gojo almost wonders why more people don’t do this time - that is, until he remembers they’re not you.

“Sounds pretty serious.” You’re nodding, a mask of teasing graveness taking over your face. Swiftly shuffling down the seemingly endless expanse of the bed. Doughy fingerpads delicately hooking onto the hem of his drenched pants, “Better get a taste before you run out, then.”

Gojo lets out such a breathy pant at the implication, “N-no it won’t, considering the volume of the seminal vesicle and- ah!”

Whatever drunken rambling of his is cut very, very short as soon as you tug down those useless sweatpants and let Gojo’s red, painfully angry cock smack! against his abdomen with a wet smear.

He was so…big.

Such girthy, solid inches upon inches that twitched needily right before your very eyes. A rummaging, left-leaning curve being nestled above two pretty pink balls. 

Your mouth waters once you’re curling your fingers dexterously around his plump circumference, making his cerise cockhead waterfall out in another lazy sheen of pre. It’s honestly a bit of a strain to even get your fingertips meeting each other properly with his incredible size, and that just makes you want him more.

Gojo’s knitting his ivory brows nervously, “S-s’it okay?”

It’s more than okay.

And you’re about to show him that.

Cerulean irises crossing together until they were all heart-eyed when a saturated coating of your saliva tops his bloated tip like a layer of icing. Before he feels himself fall in fucking love just at the gummy peck of your mouth onto the rotund ends of his length.

“W-woahhh—” He’s breathing out, eyes locked lecherously right with yours when the steaming hot cavern of your mouth sinks in more and more and more- “This- what- fuuuck-”

And then you’re huffing out a slight chuckle through your nose, hitting his drenched base and making him keen. Slender hips of his lurch the perfect angle off the luxurious bed to bump his mountainous head against the very back of your throat. 

Gasping - begging. 

“You’re seriously gonna…take me?” Prattling through clenched teeth as you grace him with a few more flooding masses of spit. It makes him feel so used. Feel so good. “Like you- you’re gonna put me in your mouth?”

“No.” You’re snickering at the utterly crestfallen look on his face, full mouth downturned, puffed-up tip tinting an even more blasphemous red as if to tempt you. Your fingers tangle with his to claw at the crown of your head, “You’re gonna put yourself in my mouth.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Shit-” Gojo whispers - more to himself than anything. “You can do this- can- can do this- just suck on m’cock-” Rubbing out a translucent lipstain all over your ajar maw before plugging his proud girth inside. “Please- wanna know what it feels…”

Gojo can’t remember what he was saying. What he was thinking. 

Because just a few vulgar sucks of your tenderized mouth around his inflated cock and he’s drunk. Fuck dying by a truck, he was about to die just by this. 

Head lolling all the way back against the poofy pillows, white-hot bliss flashing behind his eyes and- when had he even closed them?

“Wh-why does it feel so–” he’s clenching his jaw, dredging out every single ounce of will in his being to peer at the heavenly - hah- sight below. “-so- good- c-can it feel so good- hngh- please-”

Gojo’s drawing up the hem of his hoodie to cover that brightly blossoming blush. So adorable. He even tasted sweet, like the best of salted caramel that made you infinitely want more. 

Your salacious tongue is repeatedly wetting down his lightning bolted veins. Up and down up and down up and down to draw little hearts on those bumpy lines. 

His sobbing cockhead mushing back into the velveteen walls of your mouth, and Gojo could cum just from the voluptuous curve being outlined into your cheek. He’s finding it almost fucking impossible to grunt out over the raw squelches! emanating from where you were making out with his throbbing cock, “Must be illegal- that’s it! It f-feels so good this must be- ngh- outlawed.”

You’ve rendered him stupid. And he’s so hot and heavy in your mouth, it makes your core stir up to think that you’re the first.

Every choked-up plea only resonates off of the numerous corners of your bedroom even louder once your fingers latch onto the gluttonous curve of his fattened balls. Squeezing-

“S-so dirty- so dirty, princess…” And part of Gojo doesn’t know why he’s letting his traitorous hands wander onto the back of your scalp. Doesn’t know why he’s plunging just a few more inches past your prettily-pouted lips - you were his princess and he was…not treating you like royalty.

The Gojo in this game had always been so smooth. So suave. Taking his sweet, sweet time to hold your hand and talk to you about the politics of your kingdom.

Right now he was curving his thick thighs to flex around your shoulder and feeding you every saccharine inch you could possibly swallow up. “Can you- can you take more? Take this biiiig fuckin’ cock?”

You’re being choked in a locked hold by his powerful legs, and you’ve never been wetter. Practically puddling out a syrupy pond on the sheets underneath you.

Tugging out the thick nub of his thumb to smear those honeyed splatters of his precum at the corners of your mouth, you can only grin as you let your sentence translate into thrumming vibrations. “Mhmm— Settling into it s-so well, aren’t ya, Tooooru?”

“F-fuck!” Gojo’s blushing tip glides shyly down the tight back of your throat, rovering all along each n’ every millimeter of space inside you. It only made your head bob faster to imagine how he would feel down there- “Don’t talk- don’t talk. Please don’t talk s’gonna make me…”

But you.

Oh, Gojo Satoru has read your character profile over 2489 times by now.

He’s memorized every factoid and morsel of knowledge there is to know about you - so of course, he should’ve known. Should’ve realized that babbling away those words would only make your sultry motions increase.

“Cum f’me like a good boy.”

And he does. 

You can only watch in awe when a pearlescent globule of cum gumdrops from his weepy orifice, one. Two. Three. Until Gojo was just drenching the entirety of your mouth with thickly viscous coatings of seed, until you were just drooling with a wadded mess of spittle and seed.

Salty flavor dripping down your tongue and flooding out. So much of it. Too much, Gojo was spurting out the thickest ribbons of creamy white as if he’d never cum before - and doesn’t plan to stop any time soon. 

More, more, more like it was the sound of your voice making him shiver. Making him whine like a zillion volts of electricity was running down his greedy spine. 

The moment you pull away, hefty oodles of cum hit Gojo’s toned abs with a wet splat! And your dear subject is wrangling out his hands towards you like he never wanted to let go.

“No- no! Please- please come back-” Crinkling tears trek their way down his dewy face, sensory pads of his fingers reaching out for you desperately, only for you to part away. “N-need your pretty mouth on me.”

You’re raising a brow, thumbing over his still-crying divot, “But don’tcha want something…else, Satoru?”

“Something- else?” He’s rasping out haltingly, head thoroughly swimming with nothing but you. Your heart glows with pride at the way he can barely form coherent sentences, “What…oh.”

But Gojo gets the idea soon enough when you’re hastily shedding away your outer robes. He fumblingly tries to help, of course, but the simple idea of helping a woman undress is too much for him - and he’s banished to simply watching you, one hand held underneath his nose in case of another…incident. 

Gown and undergarments hitting the floor, your gorgeous legs come to hike up, up, up- driveling mouth falling slack the moment they’re ending up rested on either side of his intoxicated head.

“Oh.” He wheezes intelligently up at your glistening cunt.

“Nothing else ta say?” Your heady purrs only make him blush, nuzzling his feverishly burning cheek against the spattered sheen of slick at your inner thigh. He’s making such a mess on purpose. Making himself a mess. 

“Well-” Gojo bats his long lashes up at you dangerously, clear planes of his glasses digging into the handsome apples of his cheeks. But he didn’t mind. Couldn’t even feel anything but the sweltering heat of your arousal. “-jus’ that- I want you to spit in my mouth, princess.”

And the very moment that sugar-coated sap, Gojo moans.

Eyes flickering shut at the taste of himself - the taste of you. A candied little tinge that he oh-so-badly needs more of - and without even a second of hesitation, he’s stuffing himself right there between your pretty legs. 

It doesn’t matter the rhythm. It doesn’t matter the rhyme. 

And Gojo doesn’t even know any - the very moment your puffy lips are meeting his kiss-bitten ones in a French kiss, he already knows that your cute cunt has taken him hostage.

Jaw clenching as he tries to memorize all those fanfics he guiltily read night after night, Gojo’s bumping up his cloudily condensed glasses further up his nose when he leaves one kiss. Two. “Ohhhh, your pussy tastes s-sooo good.”

And they each get messier and messier after the other. 

Letting the heaping dollops of your juices flood onto his roughened tastebuds, he’s letting his long tongue peek apart your gluey pussylips. Sliding the very tip up and down and round n’ round your slicked entrance. 

“The- the oh!” Gojo flinches just as your body arches even deeper once he pokes his fat muscle past your tight ring. Leaving such a slew of wet slurps with every drag, he was dirty. “-according to what I’ve read, th-the clitoris is found at the top of the vulva. It should be located where the hah- labia-”

His words cut off with what you swear sounds like a strangled whimper when you harshly fist your digits into his silken-soft strands and push.

And you don’t notice it at the time, hell, even Gojo doesn’t notice with just how ruined he was right about now. 

But the sole moment you’re manhandling him to your will makes his flushed crownhead geyser out a torrential of cum. 

Fountaining out waves and waves of seed that paint his hefty base with a frosted ring. Such thickened volumes for the nth time tonight. Just from the roughened way that you were pushing him to make out with your pretty pussy.

He wanted to be used.

“Used, huh?” You’re letting out a murky pant of laughter- fuck, did he say that out loud? “Wanna be u-used, Satoru- wanna keep that big mouth of yours hngh- full?”

He’s nodding. Nodding and nodding and nodding with every sloppy gyration that you bestow all down his features. Huffing and puffing through every gasping breath he manages to shudder in, he’s shooting out a good mass of saliva. “Yes- ride me. Ride me. Fucking ride my face. A-always wanted you to ride me- hngh- please.” 

And how could you deny him when he’s all begging like that?

Gluey ropes of spit and slick lacquer Gojo’s chin like a smooth polish, and he’s sticking against you like he was just as clingy. Jaw grinding against your kinetically moving pussy, the pointed edge of his nose weaves from between your leaky slit and ends up pressing right onto your clit-

“O-oh!” Your head tumbles backwards with an ever-tightening grip onto his sweat-dampened locks. “Yeah- right there–”

“Here? Here?” He sounds like he couldn’t quite believe it. The ravenous edge of his thumb curling right up your soppy slit and pinning down your hooded clit. Hard. “The glans clitoris r-right here. And I found it- I found it.” Breathing out a long whistle that makes your heated skin bristle with goosebumps, “I always wondered what would h-happen if I…”

You barely even have the time to react before you’re staring at the glisten of Gojo’s sharp canines sneaking up to your sensitive nub and biting.

And he didn’t expect this.

He didn’t expect it to be better than the fanfiction-

Because your generous cunt just cascades in another jet of sappy juices, glazing Gojo’s features sexily all the way from his dimpled grin up to his glasses. 

They’re dripping wet, waterlogged with treacly film of slick that forces him to gawk up at you from below with such a loving gaze. Just the way he’s peering up at you is enough to make your breaths hitch.

“Gonna- gonna write about this, y’know? H-hope you know that this changed my hah- fuckin’ life, my princess…my girl.” Gojo drawls out lazily, movements as slow as if he was slipping through molasses when he sinks the rounded tips of his cushy fingers into your slick-flooded entrance. “Gonna h-have you for breakfast- for ah- lunch…aaaand for dinner.”

With a pitchy whine, you’re tightening your hold onto his thick locks and mushing his face so close. Close enough that you could already feel the mushy pout of his lips and that lazy chuckle.

Only then do you realize that he’s doing this on purpose. Mouthing off until you’re making both his chilling frames and his regal nose clash at the target of your clit with every repeated swivel, each glissading snog of his tongue making you throb. 

Everywhere. Anywhere. Everywhere and anywhere that he could reach.

“Such a dirty boy, huh?” You muse, swearing that that only makes him even sloppier. “S’that what you are? Ngh- bet you’ve never tasted a p-pussy before, huh?”

“N-nooo- haven’t. But are they all so…fucking delicious?” And he’s lapping up every sensual ounce, not letting even a tiny speckle go to waste. Because Gojo Satoru was kissing your pretty pussy like he could only dream of those long, lonely nights. 

You were a fucking dream - his dream.

The full force of his desperation hitting you when Gojo’s letting his drunken head loll ever-so-slightly backwards to take a good, long admiring look at your cunt. And you wonder if he could even see with his glasses all sodden and filthy like that. 

You wonder if he even realized when he’s leaving a lingering swat! of his plush fingertips right onto the bullseye of your pulsing button, and then another few at your fleshy channel. 

And it was so unfair how he was pummeling your poor gummy walls with swipe after swipe of his eager fingerpads working your glutinous walls open. Probing his neatly manicured fingers perfectly into your most tender spots. “Like that?”

“Sh-shiiit–” You’re mewling at the tautly coiling build-up at your cunt. Further and further. You felt like you were about to snap. “-is- is this my first time or yours, Toru–”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” And Gojo’s palming his engulfing hands over the jiggling mounds of your ass to drag you like some ragdoll even deeper onto his sloppy maw. You’re forced to slap your hand onto the royal headboard to get at least some semblance of balance. “Jus’ want you- need you.”

Gawping up at you - he looks just as fucked-out as you feel. Blushing oh-so-innocently with his lecherous mouth slithering to steal a loud mwah! planted onto your salivating pussy. And then a final, weighty wad of spit. “Need me to be yours.” 

With a final, trembling shove of Gojo’s pretty face pliantly against your hot core, you’re cumming. Riding out your peak with stuttering rotations all over his lolled-out, bumpy tastebuds.

“Fuh-fuck!” You didn’t even care if you were getting his glasses messy at this point - he’d already made enough of a mess out of you. Embarrassingly so. “S’s-so good. Hah- gotta put your mouth to work more o-often, Satoru.”

And you can’t stop the way that your jaw parts into a soft oh! every time he pinches your bulbous clit at the very tip of every single one of your peaks. Right on time. More on sheer animal instinct than anything because Gojo’s still reeling from the fact that he made you cum.

He made you cum.

He made you cum.

He made you cum.

Babbling away just as stupidly as he had mere moments before, your orgasm is…magical. None of these haughty princes or dukes could ever compare to this. “S-such a good ngh- boy f’me.”

That is, until you feel Gojo tenderly curl his fingers around one of your stray ones to form a fist. Nudging it against one of yours in a…fistbump? 

“You have…no…fucking idea.” He’s letting out a drenching ptwah! of spittle, all the masses and rivulets of your sickeningly sweet juices sliding all the way down his tongue and pooling at the back of his throat. Like he always wanted your taste there.

And you’re still feeling the twinging tremors down your spine, flurries of stars bursting behind your hooded lids when he lets his sinfully long tongue slather your fluttering cunt with another hot kiss. 

Nose crinkling at how you’re stagnating your vigorous cadence, he bats his lashes up at your shocked stare - and you already know what his sapphire gaze is begging for before he even asks.

“Toru-”

“More.” Gojo interrupts you - and he knows he’ll beat himself up for it later. Maybe he’ll even…make it up to you. But for now, the only thing replaying on his cottony mind was just how perfect you looked cumming all over his mouth - even the specially-paid NSFW scenes didn’t go into this much detail. 

He was in heaven. 

You feel the humid brush of his tongue between your saturated pussylips, pleading. Begging. “Wan’ more- wanna taste you more, princess- please-”

And Gojo looks so fucking heartbroken the very moment those lips part with such a wet slurp! A low whine curdling at the back of his throat, his glossy lips curve downwards into a jutted-out pout.

He’s chasing after your pussy with absolutely no shame, greedy fingertips digging into the curve of your ass while he nudges you closer and closer. Stealing tiny kittenish licks, stealing longing whiffs just to smell the scent of your pussy.

“No- no- want- please-” He’s rambling away, half-lidded eyes widening with alarm. Like you were taking away his favorite dessert right from under his nose, and Gojo was not having it. 

But you knew a thing or two about ruling. 

And it’s with such smug satisfaction that you get to push down a wolfish Gojo so hard he collides back onto the mattress and bounces. 

Giggling - giggling, “S’this mean I get to…fuck you now?”

Oh, it’s spoken like a mantra. A true confession that he never even imagined would come out from those lips of his. 

You’re nodding, “Mhm— m’thinking that good boys get to hah- fuck me.” 

He’s ogling you right now when you meander between his milky legs just as you did before. Except, this time, you’re stopping right at the defined v-line of his sculptured hips. Darting thumb rubbing back and forth over the pooling streaks of cum from just before. 

“Did you cum without me ngh- again, Toru?” You’re teasing, and he almost feels so pathetic the way his mouth latches onto the curve of your sheened digits and sucks. “That’s not what a good-”

“I am I am-” Gojo insists, brows furrowing. He’s so unsure what to do, so unsure what to even think other than looping his arms around your waist to tug, tug, tug you ever-closer. It’ll never be enough. “Promise I’ll be a- ngh-”

Shit.

Your fingers shackle a tight grip around his pale, prespired neck. He looks so gorgeous squirming underneath you like this - squirming for more, that is. 

“Then you better promise to fuck me really good, Satoru.” Your whispers come out in a honeyed tone that wafts against his reddening ears. Maybe because of that, maybe because of the way your nails claw marks, you feel his plumpened head twitch. “Really good.”

His head lolls all the way into your grasp, he was done. Murmuring, “I’ll be a really, really good boy- ma’am.”

That did it.

And before Gojo knows it, you’re letting his syrupy mushroom tip slip in a few thick inches with ease. Geysers of his pre trickling out from between the tight stretch of your gluey hole, sinking in more and more.

Gojo’s mouth opens with a slow leak of drool with just how warm you were hugging him from the inside. Your candied walls so fucking clingy that he finds himself choking out a huff, planting two steadying hands on either side of your waist and pushing-

“Oh fuck- oh fuck.” His eyes grow adorable wide, stare perched right down where he was disappearing in and out of you in mindless, rapid ruts just to bully himself inside. “Th-this feels nothing like my P-Pocketpussy3000-”

“Toru…” Your words come out in a growl, crescent nail leaving neat indentations on his column of skin. 

“J-just feels so much better, my girl.” Gojo insists, something swirling deeply in his eyes that makes your heartbeat irregular. “You’re so…so warm and- and wet. That stupid rubber could never compare to the adventitia and musclaris and- and I’m really fucking you.”

He is. 

He was, at least until only a few vulgarly deep strokes probing in about halfway down his swollen shaft makes Gojo bump his ridged slit against one of those spots. The globe of Gojo’s proud cockhead leaves a hefted thud! that thunders pure bliss into your fuzzy head and makes you clench.

And it makes him cum. Again.

Wet spurts of warm seed splashing into each n’ every inch inside of you and filling you all the way up to the brim. There’s so many of his copious ribbons sloshing around inside of you, and it doesn’t even make Gojo’s tempo slow down.

It doesn’t even make him falter. 

“Sh-shiiiit-” He’s hissing, lower lip worried and fussed between his teeth until you were sure he’d be drawing blood. “Cumming—!”

Dipping down a few fingers to part your soppy lips, Gojo’s thrusts get more relentless when he catches his eyes on the steady waterfall of cum and slick seeping into his hoodie. Fucking the webbed mess deeper - but it only wrings out more pearly wads streaming down. 

Gojo’s voice wrenches out from the very back of his throat in a stubborn mewl, just about five octaves higher than you’re used to. “I came…inside.”

The one n’ only warning you get before he hooks an arm around the small of your back and flips the two of you over. Easily. 

Back sinking into the velvety bed-covering, your spine arches in a geometrical semicircle off the mattress as Gojo takes the blasphemous opportunity to bottom out. His meaty tip finally meets the target of your spongy cervix, breeder balls clashing stickily into the split end of your folds with a hulking thwack!

And you’re almost wondering at just how it was possible that Gojo - nervous, bumbling Gojo Satoru who’d never even held hands with a woman before - had the willpower and strength to overpower a seasoned fighter like you.

But that’s when he tugs his utterly sullied hoodie off and you’re rendered thoughtless. Mouth watering at the toned ridges and curves that bulged all over his Herculean body.

Gojo wasn’t just toned - he was fucking jacked.

And all yours for the taking.

Just your greedy stare is enough to wash his cheekbones with a scorching blush, as if he wasn’t near-nine inches deep inside you already. You gasp when his tongue pokes out to catch a few dripping splat! splat! splats! of your slick still dripping from his glasses. “I-I read in a director’s cut that you like men with abs so I…” 

And before you can even respond, his hips do all the talking for you. Striking your own with a deafening pap! of skin-on-skin, broad pecs heaving with a sharp inhale as if he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Wasn’t in control. 

Two of his doughy palms veer underneath your now-jittery thighs and hoist them up effortlessly to dangle over his shoulders. 

Gojo’s letting off a low grunt when his curvaceous knees slide wider across the pricey bedsheets. All the while mumbling, “N’ just because m’a hah- virgin doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two. Like- I saw this thing ngh- o-online called a…” Bending you like a pliant lawnchair down, down, down- “-a mating press.”

Online? Mating press? You didn’t know what he was rambling on nonsensically about now, but maybe you could excuse that with the fact that he was stretching you out stupid. 

“What a pretty boy.” You’re managing out, fingers unsticking a few strands of pearly white plastering onto his forehead. “Now s-stop teasing and hngh- fuck me.”

Your words are jolting such a dark, primal part of his brain. Eyes hooded, teeth pulling back with a low whimper of ah! The bed sings out a protesting creak when Gojo’s hand comes slamming! down onto the poor frame. Spitting out, “I-I can’t stop…fuck- I can’t stop. Won’t-”

He’s pushing and pushing his ravenous hips in animalistic little humps, the cylindrical shape of his cock swabbing in sultry circles around your gooey insides. Already splitting you apart snugly to the brim, but still he’s drilling in for more.

“You hafta move, Satoru-” Even your most gentle tone is enough to make his strawberry divot sugarcoat you in a thickly viscous few spatters of pre.

And when he talks he sounds wild, “Do I- haaaah- do I really hafta move? Jus’ wanna lose my virginity like this. Wanna stay inside you forever and ever and ever.”

He was already pussydrunk.

And it’s so cute it makes your heart clench. All over six feet of him melting into you by now; head heatedly shoved against the crook of your neck, motions glissading a slip n’ slide of his sexily defined abs pinned to your front. Powerless. 

Gojo blinks up at you through thoroughly hazy eyes when you tilt his face back up to face yours, and the deep eye-contact makes him blush. 

“But I really, really wan’ you to hah- fuck me.” You pout, and you already know by the stutter in his labored breathing that you have him wrapped around your cute lil’ finger. Jostling your hips in a slight buck, “Look-she’s begging for ya already.”

Oh. 

“Is- is she really?” Gojo sighing out in surprise, eyes pondering down to where he was making your puffed-up pussy folds bulge. Slipping out a gasp before he’s clutching onto his nose to stop any more bleeding.

Your slobbering lips coated with a glimmer of his spit and cum, so very his that Gojo finds himself subconsciously nodding along to the sappy squelches bubbling from below. 

“Yes- yes you’re right–” Propelling a slow drag of his hips to sweep every hidden orifice of yours inside, “Oh! Ya got l-louder- so you agree-”

He’s hiking up your legs even further up his shoulders, interlocking them with one massively flexing bicep held behind his head. Eyes still locked below - only then do you realize that he’s not talking to you. 

And then again. And again. And again and again until Gojo was striking your poor cervix with repeated battering rams of his plump cock. Dense balls stinging against your ass with ringing thwacks. Spherical bruises of his circumference being indented over n’ over it’s like he doesn’t even realize. 

Didn’t even know he was doing anything other than wrenching out the most sinful noises from your goopy pussy. 

“Mhm- such a pretty ngh- pussy.” Spitting out the very word like it was embarrassing, two sizeable fingers latch around the plump peak of your clit. Transfixed. You wondered whether he even remembered his own name. “Such a pretty clit.”

“Fuck!” You’re halfway through sobbing when he sends shockwaves of pleasure all across your body. And even more so when one tilted drive of all his inches leaves a skidding skim down the area of your g-spot. “There- right there, Satoru-”

He’s gaping up at you as if suddenly snapped out of a hypnotic trance, only to fall into an all-new one. Disbelieving mouth parted slightly, he breathes, “I’m…fucking you. I’m actually- ohhh fuck m’fucking you- like really, truly. This isn’t a dream.” Like he just realized - and he just did. “M’giving you my cock- making you t-take alllll of it-”

Never in his life did he think anything could ever feel this good. He was never going back. He would never be the same. 

Your drooling pussy was molding around him so nicely, taking onto the very shape of his long shaft. Massaging every inflamed vein poking against your splashed walls, so warm with the leftover puddles of his own sticky cum.

 He’s worshipping you, tilting his head to place a heady trailway of wet kisses down each of your ankles. “M’yours so m’-” Then your calves, your tits, your collarbones, everywhere and anywhere-

“-m’gonna make feel h-hah good.” His nose scrunches with focus, a few fat ends of Gojo’s fingers come down from pinning your ankles to splay out on your tummy. All bloated with his thick outline that even through his fogged-up glasses, he swears he could see a bulge. “Need to find it- need to.”

Pound after pound being placed desperately onto everywhere he could reach inside of you. You can feel the baking hot swash of his sap coating you in a second skin. Each dab of his ballooned crownhead leaves behind a marking bead of buttery pre. 

And maybe it was the way you’re feeling the slow trickle of all his sappy torrentials inside you, but you’re gurgling out a little, “What- what are you-”

“The g-spot.” Gojo answers your messy blithers of syllables with a tender rub onto your clit. Though, he wasn’t too far behind himself, if the way his digits trembled told you anything. “It’s s-supposed to be somewhere in the hah- anterior vaginal wall, between your pretty hole and the urethra. Often said to be stimulated about a few inches ngh- up-” 

But this time, you’re the one cutting him off. With a rapid, deprived rut that bustles his left-leaning curve to head in a jackhammer precisely towards your bulging g-spot. 

And then you see white. 

Perhaps from the sheer shock of him leaving a good French kiss that tenderizes your sweetest hidden coves, perhaps from the way that the both of you are cumming. 

“Shit- shiiiit-” You’re perking your ass to smack against his in lewd little paps, half-formulated moans flooding your mouth with each delicious thrust being planted right onto that spot. Gojo’s fucking you through each of your edges, over and over until you feel yourself crashing back-to-back into not one, not two, but three orgasms. “Really did fuck me- hngh- ah-”

Before you even realize, you’re throwing your arms around Gojo’s rippling shoulder muscles to claw a few artistic lines of red. And he loves it- fuck, it makes him cum even harder. 

“S-spit in my mouth, ma’am.”

And when you do, he latches onto yours with a messy, messy open-mouthed makeout. Groaning around his second-favorite activity of sucking your cute tongue - his most favorite activity being fucking this depraved cunt of yours. 

Cumming and cumming until he physically can’t. Steady rivers of seed logging up whatever remnant space inside your snug cunt before he sputters out sheer nothingness. 

A shiver wracks through Gojo’s body with the way he was cumming dry. And once he spies down a few whipped globs of it spilling out to form a velvety ring around his base, he’s plugging your leaky entrance with a few free fingers.

Lapping up that trickling excess with a slow suck peering right into your eyes before he seals you with his jostling digits back up again.

“Love it- love it love it love it-” He’s letting loose with each spasm of parching cum overspilling your flooded insides, those ribbony meshes swirl all around his pumping cock and trickle down in a creamy stream. Coating his twitchy balls no matter how much he tries to make you milk up every ounce, so much of it. Hot. “Love it- love being your good boy- I love you.”

Gojo’s heart races when you only plant a cute peck onto his sheened glasses, and then another onto his mouth. Resting your sweaty head against his very own, “How would ya like to be my own royal consort, Toru?”

Ah, it was virtually a proposal. To stay by your side forever and ever and ever - the only thing he’s ever wanted, really.

And Gojo’s about to kiss your awaiting lips senseless as an answer- that is, he was about to before both your ears chime with an undeniable PING!

Before an agitating, gratingly familiar voice rings across your heady atmosphere, “Congratulations user: [Satorulovesprincess] on completing Mission: No-Longer-Virgin!” You’re wincing at the sterile glow of that screen once more. “Please await the new updates to the program Sweetheart Online.”

And you both barely even have time to register those words before there’s a thunderous creak! from the empty space of your royal bed.

Except…the bed wasn’t so empty anymore. 

Right with your heated proximity was a man - a beautiful man. All long legs, and inky hair that ran down to his slender waist, twinkling amethyst eyes rounded in the exact same shock that shone in Gojo’s right about now. 

“Suguru?”

“Satoru!” Before he’s tilting his head towards you, and perhaps most glaringly, the way that Gojo was still scouring deeply inside you. A delicate blush tints his - Suguru’s - high cheekbones, voice cracking embarrassingly at the end. “P-princess.”

And something about his tone made your cunt quiver - just in time for Geto to shuffle the tightening crotch of his pants. Something that Gojo noticed, if the way he was crushing you to his body even tighter said anything.

“Let me guess-” Gojo tilts his head, a sleazily drunken smirk curving the edges of his ruddied lips. “-the truck got you haaaah- don’ squeeze me like that, my girl– too?”

“It- it was ramen poisoning actually…” Geto’s deep baritone trails off, struggling to rip his eyes away from you as the screen flickers once more. 

“Sweetheart Online updates completed! Commencing Love Rival (Three’s Company) arc. User: [Sugulovesprincess] joined.”

A/N. MAN I love loserboy Gojo hehehe- hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[manebioniclegali]

Bless the people who put subtitles on their stuff, not only so HOH can enjoy the videos, which is great and fantastic, but also so I don't have to unmute my phone and I can watch the video in public without annoying other people

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[nhmkhnh]

FRAT RULES, FUCK HARDER.

PAIRINGS: dom!frat girl!vi x sub!fem!reader

PREFACE: you’re the pretty girl she swore she wouldn’t fall for… and now she’s showing up to your 8am class in yesterday’s hoodie and a hickey the size of zaun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhmmm i don’t even know what’s up with me lately, guess i’ve officially entered my smut era hahaaa 😭 like... who would've thought?? there was a time i literally didn’t know how to write smut at all—if past me saw what i’m writing now, she’d be absolutely shooketh 😭💀

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: strap-on sex ;; hoodie kink (?) ;; possessive!vi ;; cocky!vi ;; party sex ;; mirror sex ;; jealousy sex ;; overstimulation ;; public teasing ;; pet names (r: baby/princess) ;; vi has a strap collection don't ask me why. navigation.

1. vi meets you at a mutual party and makes it her life mission to get your number by the end of the night. she’s obnoxious about it too—grabbing the aux, playing some sexy slow jam, leaning on the doorframe with a red solo cup like,

“this one’s dedicated to the girl in the corner with the skirt i’m tryna take off later.” you swear you’re not into her. and yet.

2. she’s the type to crash your sorority movie night just to sit beside you, smelling like weed, cheap perfume, and danger. she’ll whisper things like:

“this plot’s shit… bet i could give you a better night in twenty minutes.” and you hate how your legs press together every time she smirks.

3. she wears crop tops with her frat letters, loose sweats slung low, calvin’s peeking out, and a backwards cap. tongue piercing glinting. she chews gum like sin. she knows exactly what she looks like when she sprawls across the couch and says,

“c’mere, i’ll make you forget your gpa.”

4. she rizz texts at 2am like:

“u up?” “u want sum chaos or sum comfort?” “im outside. bring ass.” and when you open the door? she's shirtless under her zipped-down hoodie, biting her lip, eyes red-rimmed and so so needy.

5. frat girl!vi always smells like beer, cologne, and sweat—but like… in a way that makes you insanely feral. her room's a disaster, but her bed is soft and warm and always has a hoodie of yours she "accidentally" stole.

6. she calls you “princess” and “baby girl” in public, throws her arm around your shoulder at parties and growls in your ear,

“bet none of these fuckers know what you sound like when you’re begging.” you shove her but your face is burning.

7. vi fights anyone who flirts with you at a party. straight up pushes a guy back by the chest like,

“back off, bro. she’s not single—she’s mine.” you haven’t even officially dated yet. that doesn’t stop her from marking you up every damn weekend.

8. she drives you to 8am class in her beat-up bike, still in her boxers, still buzzed from last night. one hand on the throttle, the other on your bare thigh, saying,

“why don’t you skip today and let me fuck that pretty brain right outta your head?” ma’am. please.

9. her tattoos peek out of her tank top when she’s lifting weights in the frat basement gym, smirking when she catches you watching. she drops the barbell and says,

“wanna ride something heavier, sweetheart?” the girls' bathroom has never recovered.

10. she makes you sit in her lap at every frat bonfire. she’ll wrap her arms around you and kiss your neck in front of everyone like it’s a damn claiming ritual, while whispering,

“tell me who you belong to, baby. c’mon. say it.”

11. frat girl!vi has zero impulse control when she’s drunk. she’ll pull you into a closet during a party, lock the door, and say,

“seven minutes in heaven? nah, we’re staying until your knees give out.” you emerge half an hour later. hair a mess. nobody questions it.

12. vi loves taking you to parties just to show you off—hand on your waist, other hand low on your back. she tells everyone,

“y’all can look, but if anyone touches her? you’ll be drinkin’ outta a straw ‘til graduation.” and then she turns to you and grins like the devil.

13. when you're studying in the library, she slides in beside you, unzips your hoodie just to leave hickeys on your collarbone. says,

“you’re doing great, baby. just needed to leave my signature, y’know?” you’re late to lecture. again.

14. she gets banned from your dorm after sneaking in one too many nights, but she still climbs up your window with the dumbest grin.

“romeo who? let me in, babe. i brought snacks and strap.” and you always let her in.

15. she gets absolutely feral when you wear her frat hoodie and nothing else. throws you on the bed and growls,

“you’re reppin’ my name now, huh? let me show you what it means to wear those letters.” and babe… you don’t walk straight for two days.

ཐི❤︎ཋྀ smut bonus:

1. vi has a whole-ass drawer labeled “emergency strap kit.” no, seriously. it has lube, multiple harnesses, cute pastel-colored toys and an engraved one she calls “the finisher.” if you're ever alone in her room too long, she’ll lean in with that low rasp and go,

“pick your poison, sweetheart. we’re not stopping ‘til the sun’s up.” she means it too. you’ve cried on that mattress more times than you can count—always in the best way.

2. she’s obsessed with eating you out while you’re still wearing her clothes—especially those loose-ass sweatpants that hang off your hips. she’ll tug them down slow with her teeth, spread your thighs and groan,

“fuck, baby… always so wet for me. look at this mess. i haven’t even touched you yet.” and when she does? you’re shaking. she pins your hips down. makes you say her name over and over like a prayer.

3. she moans when you moan. vi’s a vocal dom—gritty growls, filthy praise, shamelessly unhinged. she’ll be balls-deep in you with her strap, sweat dripping down her chest, hair sticking to her forehead, and she’ll pant:

“you feel that? that’s all mine. you were fuckin’ made for me, princess.” then she’ll grab your jaw and say, “say it. tell me who you belong to.” and if you hesitate? she slaps the inside of your thigh and starts going harder.

4. frat girl!vi loves mirror sex. like, she’ll drag you to her full-length mirror and bend you over in front of it, whispering,

“look at you, baby… fucked-out on my strap, droolin’ on yourself. that’s my good girl.” she holds you by the throat sometimes. not to choke—just to keep you watching. and when you come? she grins, proud as hell, and doesn’t stop.

5. she has this thing where she fucks you on her frat letters jacket like it’s a ceremony. drapes it under you on the bed and says,

“you’re mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. say it.” and when you do, breathless and ruined, she just goes, “good girl. now scream my name.”

6. vi adores overstimulation. she’ll edge you at first—multiple times, licking you and pulling back, teasing your clit with her fingers and saying,

“you want my strap, babe? then beg. crawl into my lap and beg like a pretty little slut.” and when you finally get it? she makes sure you take all of it. hands on your hips, body flush to yours, murmuring, “you wanted this, didn’t you? be a big girl. take it all for me, baby.”