neesu

[neesu]

New ideas?

Hello everyone!! My series 'the white fox' and 'the whisperer's game' will come to an end next week.

I still have to choose from which anime(s) i'll be writing next.

If you wanna help me don't hesitate to write it down on coments! (What character(s) and au you want) :)

[neesu]

Second Place Looks Good on You

Contains: Dom!Reader x Sub!Character, light verbal teasing, mild obsession, psychological tension, heavy flirting, emotional dependency

It happens like clockwork. Grades go up, the hallway fills with whispers, and—right on cue—you spot him. Standing there. Shoulders stiff, fists clenched, staring at the board like sheer willpower might magically bump his score up.

His name sits in bold under yours.

Second place. Again.

You stroll over, slow and deliberate. Your mere presence makes him tense like his whole body registers you before his brain catches up.

“Damn,” you hum, stopping just beside him. “By point five. That’s... rough.”

He doesn’t even look at you, jaw visibly tight. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Your voice dips into mock innocence. “Celebrating my victory? Not my fault you can’t catch up.”

His hands curl tighter at his sides. “It’s one mistake. I’m not losing next time.”

A lazy grin tugs at your lips. “You’ve been saying that since... what? The second exam?” You tilt your head just enough that your shoulder brushes his. “And yet... here we are.”

Finally, he turns to glare at you. His face is flushed, biting back a retort. But the second your gaze catches his, something falters in him. His mouth opens—nothing comes out.

“Aw...” You pout, trailing a finger casually along the edge of his sleeve. “You always look so cute when you lose.”

“Shut up!” His voice spikes—loud, cracked, desperate. “I don’t care what you think.”

“Mmm...” You lean in, letting your lips ghost just close enough to his ear to make him twitch. “Liar.”

His breath hitches, his whole body locking up like you’ve completely short-circuited him.

And it doesn’t stop there. It never does.

Library? You slide into the chair next to him, smirking before he can even pretend not to notice you. Lab partner? Guess who the teacher picks. Cafeteria? Somehow, you always find the empty seat directly across from him.

It’s like the universe itself is conspiring—and he’s suffering.

Every time he thinks he’s finally got room to breathe, you show up. A hand grazing too close, a knee bumping into his under the desk, fingers dragging along the edge of his notebook like it’s yours.

And every time? He falls apart in record time.

“Struggling again?” you ask one afternoon, casually dropping into the seat beside him. You prop your chin in your palm like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

He scoffs, snapping his textbook shut. “Not with anything you can help with.”

“Ouch.” You pout, half-grinning. “You wound me. Here I was thinking you missed me.”

“I didn’t—!” His head jerks up, panicked, face going from annoyed to straight-up panicked. “Shut up... I didn’t mean—”

You hum, tapping lazily on the cover of his notebook. “Sure, sure. Keep lying to yourself, baby.”

His ears are burning. His eyes dart everywhere but at you. But his knee? Still pressed against yours under the table. He hasn’t moved it. Not even an inch.

⸻

This time, you don’t even wait for the next exam to roll around. You’ve had enough fun watching him fluster from a distance.

As soon as the bell rings, you’re there. Cutting him off before he can leave, palm pressed flat against the door just beside his head.

He freezes. Slowly, his gaze lifts to meet yours—wide-eyed, trapped... and blushing so hard you swear his ears might catch fire.

“Running off already?” you tease, voice lowering, syrup-smooth. “Didn’t even congratulate me this time.”

“G-Get out of my way...” His voice trembles. Pathetic. Nothing like the bratty attitude he pretends to hold in front of everyone else.

You click your tongue, fingers curling under his chin to tilt his face toward yours. “Mmm... no. Not yet. I like seeing you squirm.”

His breath catches. His hands twitch like he can’t decide whether to push you away or hold on.

“Why...” he rasps, voice cracking halfway, “why are you... like this?”

Your lips ghost over his cheek—not quite a kiss, but close enough to send a full-body shiver through him. “Because,” you murmur, “you make it so easy.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “...I hate you...”

“No, you don’t.” You grin, thumb brushing just under his lip, dragging slow enough to watch his breath stutter. “You just hate how much you like this.”

His knees wobble. His breath shudders. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t even try.

And the best part? You know he won’t.

⸻

The next day, it’s the library again. Same corner. Same table. Same tense shoulders hunched over his notebook, scribbling like his life depends on it. Like writing fast enough might erase the sting of that point-five gap still haunting him.

Sliding into the seat beside him feels natural now. No warning. No asking. Just yours.

His pen falters. “...Don’t,” he mutters, voice strained. “Not today.”

“Not what?” You tilt your head, leaning in close enough that your hair brushes his shoulder. “Not reminding you you’re in second place?” You flash him that slow, playful grin. “Come on... tradition’s tradition.”

His jaw clenches. “Why are you always like this?”

“Mmm... because you’re cute when you’re mad?” Your voice dips—still teasing, but softer this time. Playful, but not cruel. “And because you make it ridiculously easy.”

He grips the pen so tight his knuckles turn white. “I swear—” His voice wavers. His breath stutters like something inside is fracturing. “You... You drive me insane...”

The pen drops. His notebook slides as he shoves it away like it suddenly offends him.

“Fine.” His fists tremble in his lap. His voice lowers, raw. “Yeah... yeah, you drive me insane. You distract me. You make me forget what I’m even doing. And I hate it...” His shoulders shake as he exhales, every word dragged from his throat. “I hate how much you get in my head...”

For a second, your teasing fades into something gentler. A smile—not mocking, not smug—but warm. Real.

“...You could’ve just said you liked me, you know.” Your knee nudges his under the table. Light. Almost affectionate. “Would’ve saved you a lot of suffering.”

His whole body jolts. “I don’t—!” His voice cracks, choking on the words. His hands fly up, burying his face.

“Oh, come on...” You chuckle, fingers gently tugging at his wrists to peel his hands away just enough to see that mess of red cheeks and trembling lips. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite.” You grin. “...Unless you ask nicely.”

“Stop teasing me...” he groans, voice muffled behind his palms.

“Aww, where’s that fire from earlier?” You tap his wrist, playful. “Look... I’ll be nice for once.” Your voice softens, genuine. “You’re smart. You wouldn’t be this close to catching me if you weren’t.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowers his hands. His eyes peek out, red-faced but a little less angry now. “...Stop being nice. It’s... confusing.”

You laugh, leaning back, stretching lazily. “Can’t help it. You’re fun to mess with... but also kinda fun to be around.” You wink, lighthearted. “Don’t read too much into it.”

He mutters something under his breath that you definitely catch—“too late.”

⸻

It’s been exactly one day. Twenty-four hours since that conversation in the library. You haven’t spoken since. Not a glance. Not a teasing comment. Not even passing him in the hallway.

And it’s driving him insane.

You watch from the corner of the cafeteria, pretending not to notice how his eyes keep drifting—over his shoulder, toward the door, scanning, searching. His foot taps under the table like a broken metronome. His friends are talking, but he’s not listening. Not really.

When you finally step inside, it’s instant. His head jerks up, like his body notices before his brain does. His hands grip the edge of his tray so tight his knuckles go white. His eyes—wild, desperate—lock on to you like you’re gravity itself.

You don’t go to him. Not yet. You make a show of chatting with someone near the entrance, laughing at a joke you probably didn’t even hear. His fists clench. His teeth grind. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until one of his friends nudges him.

“Dude... what are you—”

“Shut up,” he snaps—too fast, too defensive. His eyes don’t leave you for a second.

When you finally, finally start walking toward him, he straightens like a wire pulled tight. The tension radiates off him. His fork scrapes against the tray. His throat bobs when he swallows, like he’s trying to act normal, failing spectacularly.

You drop into the seat beside him without asking. “Miss me?”

His head whips to the side. “N-No. Wh—Why would I—?”

“Mmm...” You tilt your head, fingers tapping his tray like you own the space between you. “Then why were you looking at me like I hung the stars?”

His jaw works like he’s chewing through the words he wants to say but can’t. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—shut up.”

“Aw...” You pout, leaning closer. “Were you waiting for me? Poor thing...” Your knee bumps his under the table, stays there. His leg twitches, but he doesn’t move it.

“Y-You...” His voice trembles, fingers white-knuckling the fork. “You ignored me. All day. You—you knew what you were doing...”

“Of course I did.” You grin, letting your fingers trail lazily toward his hand, not touching—just close enough to make his skin buzz. “Had to see how long you could last without me.”

His breath shudders. “...Not long,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Not... not long at all.”

And god, the way he looks at you now—like you’re oxygen, like you’re water in the middle of a desert. Like you ruin him just by existing.

His fingers twitch, fists clenching like he’s fighting something internal. His mouth opens—closes—then finally, like something snaps:

“Then... then don’t look at anyone else.” The words fall out shaky, desperate, raw. “If you’re gonna mess with me... then just—just do it. Only me. Just look at me.”

For a second, the whole world holds still.

You blink. Slowly, a grin curls at your lips—part surprise, part something darker. “Oh?” Your tone drops, playful but edged. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

He flinches, face burning, but doesn’t back down. His eyes are glossy, biting, wild. “...I hate it,” he breathes out, voice barely holding steady. “How bad I... how bad I need it.”

Your hand brushes against his under the table—subtle, deliberate. “You’re dangerously close to confessing something, sweetheart.”

“Shut up...” He squeezes his eyes shut, but his knee presses harder against yours like he needs the contact to breathe. “Just... shut up and don’t look at anyone else...”

And oh... you’ve never seen someone fall this hard.

[neesu]

The white fox

MNDI +18 only

Contains: D/s dynamics, brat taming, degradation, bondage, edging/orgasm denial, face-fucking, power imbalance, possessive behavior, psychological control, humiliation

The white fox masterlist

Part 4

He stilled at your words.

And for once—for once—Gojo didn’t have a comeback.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just his breath, shallow and uneven, catching in his throat where your grip held him open.

You leaned down, lips near his ear.

“I already have,” you repeated, quieter this time. More dangerous.

The hand at the base of his neck tightened. Your other dragged down, from his hair to his jaw, forcing his head just slightly to the side—exposing the tendon of his neck, the throb of his pulse beneath skin gone pale from tension.

He was always beautiful in chaos. But this? This was different.

You could feel it in the way his body responded. Not with fear. Not exactly. More like resignation—but the kind he craved. Like he’d given up trying to pretend he didn’t want this.

“You feel that?” you asked, voice low. You pressed your chest against his back now, heat through fabric. A threat. A promise. “That little ache in your spine? That slow crawl of blood in your teeth? That’s not fear, Satoru.”

You ran your tongue just under his jaw, slow and calculated. He sucked in a breath.

“That’s submission.”

Gojo shuddered.

You laughed under your breath.

“Didn’t expect it to fit so well, did you?”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

You gripped his hair again—tighter this time—and yanked his head back.

“I told you what happens when you talk without permission.”

He hissed, jaw clenched. But didn’t resist. Didn’t fight you.

Your hand slid down his chest, slow and deliberate. His breath stuttered as your palm dragged over blood-stained fabric, down his stomach, until it rested—commanding—at the top of his waistband.

You felt him strain under your touch.

Hard already.

Pathetic.

“You’ve been hard since the moment I laid hands on you,” you said, cruel and quiet. “On your fucking knees, bound like a dog, bleeding out—and this is what you’re thinking about?”

He didn’t answer.

Your fingers slipped under the waistband, just enough to make his hips twitch.

“Do you get off on this?” you whispered, right against his ear. “Letting the enemy touch you? Letting me own you?”

Gojo’s breath caught again. Barely audible. Like he hated how fast his body betrayed him.

Your hand stopped.

Then you stepped away.

The sudden absence made him flinch.

He sagged a little in the silence, like he didn’t know if you were coming back. Like part of him was bracing to be left there—tied up, humiliated, wanting.

But you weren’t done.

Not even close.

You walked around in front of him. Looked down. Watched the way he tried not to lift his head. Tried not to make eye contact. He was always a showman—but now?

Now, he was wrecked.

You crouched to eye level, gloved hand resting under his chin.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to let you come,” you said.

He looked up, barely, eyes blown wide. Lips parted.

You tightened your fingers just a little. “But if I do—you’re going to thank me for it. Understood?”

Gojo swallowed. “Yes.”

You tilted your head.

“Yes what?”

His voice was gravel now. “Yes, sir.”

You smiled—just a little.

Then stood.

“Good. Now beg.”

Gojo looked up at you from his knees — jaw set, lips parted, wrists bound behind him. Sweat clung to his temple, his hair messier than usual, those ice-pale lashes fluttering just enough to betray how hard he was working not to show how badly he needed it.

But you saw it.

You always did.

“Beg,” you said again, tone as steady as a blade.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

A pause. Just long enough for his pride to burn.

Then: “Please.”

You stared down at him. Silent.

Gojo swallowed. His voice came quieter this time, a rasp.

“Please let me have you. Let me suck your cock. I—I need it.”

You watched him flinch as he said the words. Like they cost him. Like they were being ripped out of his throat.

“Louder.”

His eyes darkened, frustration flickering behind the heat.

But he obeyed.

“Please, sir—” his voice cracked, humiliatingly honest, “I want your cock in my mouth. I want to choke on it. I want to be used by you. Just... please.”

You took a step forward.

Unbuckled your belt. Unzipped. Let your cock rest against his cheek, heavy and hot.

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for hours.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you muttered.

Gojo leaned in. Mouth open, lips wrapping around the head of your cock with a slow, reverent groan — and you watched as everything in him softened. That bratty spark dimmed into something deeper. Hungrier. Almost worshipful.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pushed in.

He gagged.

You didn’t stop.

He blinked up at you with watering eyes as you held his face flush against your pelvis. His breath dragged through his nose, desperate, and his throat fluttered around you.

You didn’t speak — just used his mouth the way he begged you to.

You pulled back and snapped your hips forward again. Harder. His body jerked, bound arms straining behind him, but he didn’t fight you. He leaned into it — moaning around your cock now, drool pooling at the corners of his lips.

You looked down at him — at the strongest sorcerer alive, filthy and undone.

“You look better like this,” you muttered.

Gojo whimpered. His hips shifted — rutting helplessly against nothing, hard and leaking in his ruined pants. It was pitiful. Desperate.

Perfect.

“Pathetic,” you growled. “Is this what you wanted? To kneel for the man you swore you’d kill? To be used like some cheap fucking toy?”

He moaned louder.

You laughed — dark and low.

Then you fucked his mouth harder.

Pace brutal. Control absolute. The sounds were obscene — wet, choking, greedy. And he took all of it.

When you finally pulled out, his chin was soaked. Lips red and swollen. Chest heaving.

You gripped his jaw, forcing his head up.

“You want to come?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, sir, please—”

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you knelt, grabbed his throat, and kissed him.

Rough. Dominant. Possessive.

He gasped into it, moaning like you’d just given him the one thing he couldn’t beg for. He opened for you instantly, tongue eager, lips desperate.

You pulled back just enough to murmur:

“You don’t come until I say so.”

Gojo shivered.

And nodded.

You smiled.

“Good boy.”

Your gloved hand slid slowly down his chest again. This time, you didn’t stop.

You kissed the corner of his mouth — not sweet, not soft. Just enough to taste the salt of your own cum-stained skin on his lips.

Then your other hand moved to his waistband. He gasped when your fingers slipped inside, teasing over the wet patch at the front of his ruined slacks.

“Still hard?” you asked, amused. “Of course you are. Fucking pervert.”

Gojo moaned, throat too dry for words.

You pulled his cock out. It was leaking, flushed angry-red, twitching with every ragged breath he took.

He looked up at you like he couldn’t take another second.

You didn’t rush. You held him in one gloved hand — firm and cruel — and dragged your thumb over the slit slowly. Just enough to make him whimper.

“Say it again,” you murmured.

He blinked. Eyes wild. “W-What?”

“What you are.”

He choked on his breath. “Yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” he repeated, broken and desperate. “I’m yours, I’ll do whatever you want, just please—please let me—”

You started stroking him. Slow. Lazy. Like he wasn’t even worth your full attention.

Gojo’s body jerked.

You said nothing.

Just watched.

He was panting now, already close — too close. You hadn’t even given him much. But his hips were twitching, his bound arms flexing uselessly behind him, whole body begging.

You stopped just before he could come.

He let out a sound that wasn’t even a word — more like a strangled sob.

You leaned in close.

“No,” you whispered.

Gojo’s mouth opened, stunned. “Wha—?”

“You don’t get to come.” You gripped his jaw again, harsh. “Not yet.”

“Please—”

You stroked him again. This time faster. Just enough to push him to the edge — then stopped.

He cried out, hips stuttering forward. But you held him down.

Then again.

Stroke. Deny. Stroke. Deny.

By the time you pulled your hand away, Gojo was trembling.

Red-faced, soaked in sweat and spit and come he hadn’t even earned. His cock twitched untouched, leaking down his thigh, and he whimpered low in his throat when you stood up — like he thought you were going to leave him like that.

You didn’t.

You walked around behind him again. Slow. Measured. And then — without a word — you undid the restraints.

His arms fell forward with a groan. He slumped slightly, exhausted, head hanging low.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

But then you crouched. One hand curled around the back of his neck — firm, grounding. Not gentle. Just steady.

“You took that well,” you said, finally.

Gojo let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a broken exhale.

You moved in close again, your voice just above his ear.

“I don’t give rewards for obedience, Satoru. I expect it.”

“I noticed,” he rasped, and you felt the edge of his grin against your shoulder. “Still worth it.”

You didn’t smile.

But you didn’t push him away, either.

Instead, you pulled him forward — into your chest, onto your lap. One hand still in his hair, the other sliding down his back, slow, possessive.

He was shaking — whether from the high, the denial, or from being touched like this, you couldn’t tell. And didn’t care.

You let him rest his weight against you. You let him breathe.

And after a long, heavy pause, you spoke again.

“This city doesn’t belong to you,” you said. “You belong to me.”

Gojo didn’t answer. Not with words.

But he stayed there.

Let you hold him.

Didn’t try to run.

Didn’t try to reclaim control.

And for now — that was enough

[neesu]

The whisperer's game

Contains: Dom!Reader x Sub!Levi, Intelligence Broker!Reader, Military/Corps!Levi, power imbalance, slow burn, psychological tension, emotional control, subtle influence

The whisperer's game masterlist

Part 3

He didn’t knock. He never did anymore.

I heard the footsteps in the corridor before the door opened — precise, heavy. Levi walked like he didn’t owe the world softness, like every step could split bone from stone. But tonight, there was weight in it. A different kind of heaviness. The kind that shame carries when it doesn’t want to be seen.

The door creaked open. I didn’t move.

He stepped inside, slower than usual, gaze flicking across the room until it landed on me. I was sitting by the window, coat draped loosely around my shoulders, drink untouched at the table. Shadows stretched long in the candlelight, and silence hung thick in the air between us.

“You’re late,” I said, voice calm.

“I didn’t know I was expected.”

“You always are.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a second — just a second — like the quiet was pressing down harder than the city ever could.

“I did what you said,” he muttered.

“No,” I replied. “You did what you thought I wanted. That’s different.”

His jaw twitched.

I watched him. Studied the sharp cut of his profile, the tension under his eyes, the stiffness in his stance. Guilt radiated off him like steam in winter. And he hated that I could see it.

“Flegel didn’t need to die,” he said after a moment. Voice low, almost more to himself than to me.

“And yet he’s gone,” I murmured. “And now certain people sleep easier. You helped make that happen.”

“I’m not your weapon,” he snapped.

“No,” I said. “You’re something far more useful. You think for yourself.”

That made him look at me. Really look. His eyes were sharp, storm-grey — but beneath the anger was something quieter. Something dangerous.

He was unraveling.

I stood, slow and measured, and walked toward him. He didn’t move. His breath hitched slightly as I approached, but he didn’t take a single step back.

“You could have walked away,” I said. “You could have thrown the name back in my face and told me to go to hell. But you didn’t.”

His hand clenched into a fist at his side. “You twist things.”

I reached up, brushing a hand against his jaw — not forceful, not tender. Just enough to make him feel how close I was. How still I could be when I had someone exactly where I wanted them.

“I don’t twist. I reveal.”

“And what is it you think you’ve revealed?”

“That you don’t know how to walk away from me.”

His breathing shifted — tight, controlled, but there was heat in it. Not anger. Not anymore.

He hated how right I was.

I leaned in, speaking close to his ear. “You came here tonight for a reason. And it wasn’t to argue.”

He stayed still. That silence between us became a current.

And then — just slightly — he tilted his head toward me. Only a fraction. But enough.

Enough for my hand to slide to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his undercut.

Enough for me to feel the tension in his spine. The want. The conflict.

Enough for me to whisper, “Let go, Levi.”

He didn’t answer.

I kept my hand steady on the back of his neck, feeling the subtle tension under my touch. Levi’s eyes flickered—sharp, defiant, but something else flickering beneath: hesitation.

“You came here for a reason,” I repeated softly, voice colder now, stripped of any warmth. “Not to argue, not to fight.”

He swallowed, jaw tight. “Then what?”

I let my fingers tighten just a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him he wasn’t the one in control tonight. “To make a choice.”

His breath hitched, but his face didn’t betray it. He was stubborn, maybe too stubborn. “I don’t make choices for you.”

I leaned in slowly, close enough that my lips almost brushed his ear. “No,” I whispered. “But you do for yourself. And right now, you’re standing here, letting me decide what comes next.”

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, sharp and unyielding.

“Admit it. You need this. Need me.”

His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides, but his eyes betrayed the battle inside. In a low, almost whispered voice, he answered,

“Maybe I do.”

A cold smile spread across my lips, with not a trace of softness.

“Then stop hiding it. Because as long as you keep pretending, you’ll keep losing. And I always win.”

I stepped closer, locking my gaze on his, owning the silence between us.

“It’s not about who’s in charge. It’s about who can last the longest.”

He didn’t answer me. Not with words. Just stood there, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, and didn’t move. I could see the conflict twisting under his skin—part pride, part something far more dangerous.

When he left that night, he didn’t slam the door. He didn’t say goodbye. He just walked out with the silence stretched tight between us like a wire waiting to snap.

But three nights later, he came back.

No knock. No reason. Just stood in the doorway again, like a man who didn’t want to be seen needing something.

I didn’t look up from my desk.

“I didn’t call you,” I said without emotion.

“You didn’t need to,” he answered quietly.

A beat passed. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. I heard the click, felt the shift in the air.

I looked at him, eyes flat. “So why are you here?”

He said nothing.

“You say you hate this,” I said, almost smiling, “but you came back anyway.”

The next time, he wasn’t as calm.

“You sent me into a trap,” he said, voice sharp.

I tilted my head. “Two of your men got injured. You’re alive. The mission succeeded.”

“You knew what would happen.”

“Of course I did.” I stood, slow and deliberate. “You needed to learn something. Control is useless if you don’t understand loss.”

His hands balled into fists at his sides. “You’re a monster.”

“Maybe.” I took a step closer, staring into him. “But you’re still here.”

He didn’t deny it.

Later that week, it was raining. Again. Levi was soaked when he walked in, but he didn’t complain. He just sat on the floor near the foot of the bed, like he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

I walked behind him, slid my hand through his wet hair, let my fingers pause there, gentle for a moment.

“You don’t get to fall apart on someone else’s time,” I whispered, just above his ear.

He leaned into my touch. Barely. But I felt it.

And then I let go. Stepped away like it meant nothing.

He didn’t follow.

A few days later, I said it plainly.

“Everyone’s starting to notice you’re off.”

He looked up from the chair, posture stiff. “I’m not.”

“You’re quieter. You’re irritable. You haven’t slept in days.”

He stayed silent, gaze fixed on the floor.

I crossed the room, stopped in front of him. “They don’t see it. Not really.”

He finally looked at me. “And you do?”

My hand pressed flat against his chest. Calm. Controlled.

“Of course I do. I know what it looks like when someone starts to unravel.”

His breath hitched, but he said nothing.

The next time he came, he didn’t speak right away.

Just stood by the door, hand resting on the handle like he might walk back out.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

I didn’t answer.

“Tell me to leave.”

I stayed silent, watching him.

His voice cracked. “Tell me.”

I took a step closer. “Say it.”

He looked at me—exhausted, angry, stripped of all the armor he used to wear so well.

“I need you,” he whispered.

I smiled, slow and cold. “Good. That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night.”

He didn’t move.

And I didn’t let him go.

[neesu]

The white fox

Contains: Dom!maleReader x sub!Gojo, violence, blood/injury, power imbalance, bondage (belt restraint), verbal degradation, physical manhandling

The white fox masterlist

(This chapter is long)

Part 3

Two nights later.

The warehouse was cold. Silent, aside from the wind slicing through broken glass windows.

You were alone. Or at least, you had been.

Until the sound of shoes on concrete echoed behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around.

“I said next time you came uninvited, I’d chain you to my bed,” you said. “Didn’t realize you were in such a hurry to make that happen.”

Gojo Satoru’s voice curled through the dark like smoke.

“I figured it was either that or a bullet. This seemed more fun.”

You turned, slow, deliberate.

He looked like sin: suit half undone, lip split from a recent fight, eyes gleaming under the flickering light. The kind of man who smiled just before he put a knife between your ribs.

You hated him.

And that was exactly why you hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Yet.

“You have five seconds to explain why you’re here,” you said.

Gojo spread his hands, mock-casual. “Relax. I didn’t bring backup.”

“Because you’re arrogant, or because you’re stupid?”

“Because I know you won’t shoot me.”

You stepped forward, gun already in hand.

“I should.”

“But you won’t,” he said, voice low now. “Because you’re not done with me.”

The silence cracked like a match.

You grabbed his tie, yanked him forward, and slammed him into the metal column behind him. He grunted, but didn’t fight it. Didn’t flinch. Just grinned wider.

“I could slit your throat right now and dump your body in the bay.”

“You could.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

His voice was soft, maddening. “Neither am I.”

You hated the way his eyes darkened when you touched him. The way he leaned into the danger like it turned him on. You hated that you wanted to know what he’d do if you let him touch you back.

You shoved your thigh between his legs.

And there it was — that low, choked breath he never let anyone hear. But he gave it to you.

Always to you.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You pressed closer. “You’re supposed to be the enemy.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here we are.”

⸻

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It was war — all teeth and breath and broken restraint. You bit down until he groaned into your mouth, dragged your hand down his chest, and palmed him through his slacks.

Hard. Fast. No mercy.

Gojo’s hands stayed at his sides — a show of submission or self-preservation, you couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

“You want this?” you asked.

He swallowed. “I shouldn’t.”

You tightened your grip. He gasped.

“But you do.”

He nodded once, eyes fluttering. “Fuck, yes.”

“Say it,” you growled.

“I want you to ruin me.”

And then you flipped him.

Bent him forward over a rusted crate, kicked his legs apart, and dragged your knife from your thigh holster — not to cut, but to tease. The cold flat of the blade traced his spine, made him shudder.

“You show up in my territory again without permission,” you whispered, dragging the blade down the back of his neck, “and I’ll make sure you leave in chains.”

“…Noted.”

“You’ll be marked.”

“I already am.”

⸻

You didn’t fuck him. Not yet.

You wanted him to ache. To wake up tomorrow and still feel you on him — without ever having had the satisfaction of release.

You made him beg with your hand still on his cock, breathless, ruined, his voice cracking like he hated how much he liked it.

You didn’t let him finish.

You whispered, “Next time, you crawl,” and walked away.

Again.

⸻

Three Days Later — Yokohama, Underground Lot, 3:12 a.m.

The drop was a setup.

You realized it the moment you saw the blood trailing beneath the stairwell. Your instincts didn’t freeze — they narrowed. Cold and razor-sharp.

You followed the trail alone. You didn’t wait for backup. You didn’t need it.

The stairwell light above buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow halo over the blood pooling below. One corpse, throat cleanly sliced. One less rat in the city.

And then, slumped against the wall like he didn’t belong to any world, you saw him.

Gojo Satoru.

One arm clutched to his side, the other braced against the floor, soaked in red. His white shirt clung to him, streaked with blood, and his smile — that usual lazy grin — was ghosting at the edges of his mouth like it hurt to keep it there.

You stopped a meter away. Your gun didn’t lower.

Gojo looked up, breath catching when he saw you. He laughed, low and breathless. “Should’ve known you’d be the one to find me.”

You stared at him. Cold. Unreadable. “You’re bleeding on my concrete.”

He grinned wider. “Could’ve bled anywhere. I chose this place.”

You clicked the safety off.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not. Not tonight.” He exhaled shakily. “I intercepted the team meant for you. Guess they hit harder than expected.”

That made you pause.

“Why?”

His expression flickered, barely — a crack in the glass.

“Because you’re mine to kill. No one else gets the right.”

Your jaw tensed.

You stepped forward, crouched without softness. Gloved fingers curled around his chin, lifting it just enough to force eye contact.

“You always this reckless,” you said, “or do I just bring out your stupidity?”

Gojo’s lips twitched. “You bring out a lot of things.”

You pressed your thumb into the edge of the gash at his jaw, making him hiss. Then, with your other hand, you grabbed the front of his blood-wet shirt and hauled him to his feet.

He staggered.

Leaned on the wall, panting, his pride holding him up more than strength.

“You going to finish me off here?” he rasped.

“No.” You shoved him toward the car. “You don’t get to die until I’ve decided you’re done.”

⸻

Safehouse – 4:15 a.m.

You threw Gojo down onto the leather couch, tossing your coat aside without a glance. He groaned but didn’t resist.

You pulled out the medical kit and knife in the same motion — efficient. Gojo watched you the entire time, head tilted like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or flinch.

You crouched in front of him, knife flashing as you sliced open his ruined shirt. His chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“Try not to bleed out on my couch,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “What, no bedside manner?”

“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” you snapped. “You’re alive because I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.”

“Sure.” His voice dipped. “That’s why you’re touching me like that.”

You slapped gauze hard over the wound. He hissed.

“Still talking.”

“You like it when I talk.”

You stared at him, long and cold.

Then you stood. Moved behind him. Pulled your belt from your waist with a clean, practiced motion. The sound of leather slipping free made his head tilt slightly — but he didn’t move away.

“You know what this means,” you said.

“I’m not new to restraint.”

“No. But you are to submission.”

Gojo went quiet.

You grabbed his wrists and bound them behind the couch, your belt pulling tight around his skin. His breath hitched — not in fear. Not pain.

Need.

“You trust me to stop?” you asked, voice low.

Gojo’s reply was immediate.

“No.”

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “Good.”

Then you dragged him to his knees.

You stood behind him, one gloved hand wrapped in his hair, the other pressing firm against the base of his neck to keep him grounded. He could feel the heat of you, clothed but close, powerful.

“You show up in my city again without permission,” you growled, voice like gravel and smoke, “and you’ll leave crawling. If I let you leave at all.”

Gojo’s voice cracked. “Then keep me.”

You pulled his head back by the hair, forcing his throat exposed. Vulnerable. Yours.

“I already have.”

[neesu]

Give in, baby

MDNI +18 only

Contains: dom!reader x sub!katsuki, established relationship, initial power dynamic, brat-taming, jealousy, sexual tension, bondage, degradation, aftercare

Katsuki Bakugou was a brat. And you loved it.

You’d never had to chase him — you just existed, sharp-edged and self-possessed — and that was enough. He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how your voice, calm and precise, cut deeper than shouting ever could.

He called you arrogant. You called him predictable. And he kept coming back.

It started small. A “sit” that he refused, until he didn’t. A “good boy” that made his jaw clench hard enough to crack. You didn’t need to overpower him — you just needed to wait. Because Bakugou respected strength, and your control wasn’t just strength — it was terrifying.

The first time you put him on his knees, he’d cursed under his breath the entire time. The second time, he bit back a moan. The third, he whispered, “Yours,” without thinking.

But he was still Katsuki. Still explosive. Still full of pride.

So when he saw you talking to Todoroki — head tilted, smirking, hand lightly brushing the man’s arm — something snapped.

You felt it before you even turned around: that raw, molten energy rolling off him. Arms crossed. Eyes cold. That look. The one that said he was two seconds from saying something stupid.

You smiled.

“Jealousy?” you asked later, cornering him against the door in your room.

“Fuck off.”

You tsked, fingers grazing his jaw. “You’re cute when you pout.”

“I’m not fuckin’—”

You kissed him hard. His body jolted, then melted under your grip.

“Strip.”

His eyes burned into yours.

“I’m not your fucking toy,” he growled — and it was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

You pushed him hard toward the bed. He staggered, caught himself, and turned with a snarl.

“You act like you don’t need this,” you said, stalking toward him, “but your cock’s already hard, Katsuki.”

He flinched. Just barely. But you saw it. And he hated that you did.

“Hands behind your back.”

He hesitated.

“Now.”

He obeyed.

You tied his wrists with thick leather cuffs, looping them through the headboard, forcing him to sit up — arms stretched, body tensed, exposed. He looked obscene like that. Wild eyes. Sharp breath. Muscles coiled like springs. You straddled his hips slowly, not giving him friction — just pressure, enough to drive him crazy.

“I saw the way you looked at Todoroki,” he muttered, bitter. “You were flirting.”

“I was being polite.”

“You touched his arm.”

“I touched your cock five minutes ago. Want to compare?”

He growled.

You laughed quietly, tracing your nails down his chest. “You don’t get to act possessive when you belong to me, Katsuki.”

His jaw clenched.

“Say it,” you ordered.

“…I belong to you.”

“Louder.”

“I belong to you, mistress.”

You smiled. “Good boy.”

And then you ruined him.

Your hand wrapped around his cock — tight, merciless, fast. He choked on a moan and bucked his hips, only for the restraints to pull him back. You slapped the inside of his thigh, just to hear him gasp.

“You’re such a loud little bitch when I’m not even giving you what you want,” you hissed. “Look at you. Dripping for me like some desperate, needy whore.”

“M-Mistress—please—”

“Oh? Now you beg?”

You leaned in close. “You looked me in the eye and told me you weren’t my toy. But look at you — tied up, blushing, fucking leaking all over yourself.”

He groaned, humiliated, wrecked. His body twitched with every stroke, every word.

“Did you think being jealous would earn you kindness?” you laughed, tightening your grip. “No, baby. Brats get punished.”

You edged him again. And again. And again. Until he was sobbing your name through clenched teeth, muscles trembling under your hands.

“Don’t you dare come.”

He whimpered.

“Hold it.”

“I—can’t—”

“You will. You’ll hold it like a good little slut, and when I say ‘now,’ you’ll fucking thank me for it.”

His whole body arched.

“Now.”

He shattered. Loud. Violent. Hands pulling at the restraints like they might snap. Cum painting his stomach in thick, shaking pulses. You watched with pride, lips curled into a slow smile.

And then you let him fall.

You unlocked his cuffs and caught him before he collapsed fully, guiding him to lie back against the pillows. He was flushed, silent, trembling — used, adored.

You wiped him down gently, kissed his cheek. Ran your fingers through his hair while his breathing slowed.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He nodded into your neck.

“…You didn’t even kiss me before you started,” he muttered, voice thick.

You kissed his temple softly.

“Because you didn’t deserve it,” you said. “But you do now.”

He smiled — lazy and fucked-out — and wrapped an arm around your waist.

“I’m still your brat,” he said sleepily.

“And you’ll keep earning your place on your knees.”

His last breath before sleep sounded suspiciously like a moan.

[neesu]

The whisperer's game

Contains: Dom!Reader x Sub!Levi, Intelligence Broker!Reader, Military/Corps!Levi, power imbalance, slow burn, psychological tension, emotional control, subtle influence, mutual dependency (uneven), Levi begins to realize he’s being used, emotional entanglement

The whisperer's game masterlist

Part 2

The knock was sharp, deliberate. Three short taps, and then silence. I already knew who it was.

Levi never came without purpose. Especially not after midnight.

I opened the door without a word. He stepped in without looking at me, his cloak dripping faint traces of rain onto the floor. There was dried blood across his knuckles, a faint scrape beneath his eye. No limp, but tension in his shoulders like he’d been fighting all day and hadn’t put down the weight yet.

He didn’t wait to be offered a seat. Just paced once across the room, then stopped at the window, his back to me.

I didn’t speak first. He hated when I did.

“I followed the trail you gave me,” he said finally. “South wall. You were right. Shipment was there.”

“And?”

“They were ready for us.”

I sat down, resting one boot over the other. “Casualties?”

He nodded. “Two dead. One barely walking.”

I could hear it in his voice. The part he wasn’t saying.

“And you’re wondering,” I said, “whether it was your mistake or mine.”

He turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t guess. I deal in facts.”

“Then here’s a fact.” I rose slowly. “You’ve been operating on the edge for weeks. You’re overextending, second-guessing your squad because you’re using information no one else in the Corps is cleared to know. Eventually, something was going to give.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“You always do.” I walked to stand beside him, voice low. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t break you.”

He looked at me. No anger. Just that unreadable, sharp calm he wore like armor.

“I chose to rely on you,” he said. “I’m not here to blame you.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightened. He looked away again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

That stopped me.

Levi Ackerman didn’t say things he didn’t mean. If he didn’t know—truly didn’t—that meant something had shifted.

“Maybe,” I offered, “you just wanted to see if I’d still open the door.”

He said nothing. But he didn’t leave either.

So I stepped back, gave him space, and poured two glasses. He took the one I slid across the table, but didn’t drink from it. Just held it. Like something solid to ground him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a long pause, “that if I stopped coming here, things might get quieter. Simpler.”

“And yet,” I said, raising an eyebrow, “you’re still standing in my room.”

He met my gaze across the table. Tired. Worn. But something else, too. Not trust—but something dangerously close to it.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ve made yourself harder to walk away from than I expected.”

I smirked faintly. “You sound like a man who’s realizing he’s already made a deal he can’t back out of.”

Levi didn’t respond to that. He just downed the drink in one motion and set the glass down with a quiet clink.

Then he left.

Without another word.

But the silence he left behind said enough.

⸻

Two days later, I received a Corps-sealed message. It wasn’t marked with Levi’s name, but the route it took to reach me told me everything.

It contained a single location. A military checkpoint outside Trost. Off-limits, lightly staffed, possibly dirty. The note attached was short.

“I want to know what they’re moving. Discreetly. Report to me directly. —L”

I smiled.

It wasn’t an order. It was a request.

And that, from Levi, was more intimate than a confession.

I moved quickly. Too quickly, maybe—but some threads are too valuable to let slack. By nightfall, I had three names, two shifts, and a list of false manifest shipments coming out of that checkpoint disguised as relief supplies.

I didn’t wait for Levi to summon me again. This time, I found him.

He looked surprised when I entered the Corps intelligence barracks unannounced. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to me.

“You’re getting bold.”

“You’re getting careless,” I replied, handing him the files. “They’re moving weapons to an off-grid site north of Sina. Someone’s cutting a deal with internal rebels. Quietly.”

He skimmed the reports, fast, efficient.

Then he looked up.

“You got this in twelve hours.”

I shrugged. “You asked.”

He paused. “Why?”

“You want the answer you’ll believe,” I said, “or the one that’s true?”

He gave me that deadpan stare. “Both.”

“Because I know where the cracks are,” I said. “And I know how to slip through them faster than anyone in your clean, sanctioned Corps office ever will.”

“And the other reason?”

I smiled faintly. “Because I like watching you need me.”

His jaw clenched slightly. But he didn’t tell me to leave.

Instead, he sat back. Read the file again. Quiet. Focused.

I stood there, watching the sharpest weapon the Corps had in its arsenal, slowly being sharpened in my hands.

He didn’t realize yet—but he’d already stopped asking if I was necessary.

Now he only asked how fast I could deliver.

And eventually, the line between what he wanted and what I shaped him into would blur completely.

⸻ Levi's POV

Several weeks later.

The orders came in whispers now.

Not official ones. Not from the higher-ups. Not from command.

They came in late-night glances, in small slips of parchment slid into my hand before anyone else could see. A name. A location. A warning dressed like advice. And somehow, I always followed them.

I told myself it was just practicality. That the Whisperer knew more than anyone else. That his intel saved lives. That trusting him wasn’t weakness—it was strategy.

But that wasn’t the whole truth. Not anymore.

The truth was uglier. Quieter.

I was starting to follow his voice more than my own.

The last task had unsettled me. Not because it was difficult—but because of how I’d agreed to it without thinking.

The name he gave me, Flegel Reeves, wasn’t in any Corps watchlist. He wasn’t a threat to humanity. He wasn’t even connected to the rebellion. Just a merchant, low-profile, sitting on information about the old underground channels—routes only the desperate remembered. He’d made the mistake of being too curious about someone who didn’t want to be remembered.

I didn’t ask why the Whisperer wanted him silenced. I didn’t even ask what the man had done. I just went.

And I didn’t kill him. But I let someone else do it. Looked the other way. Allowed it to happen in the dark.

Because deep down, a part of me already knew it wasn’t justice. It was convenience.

His.

That night, I found myself back in his room. Again.

He didn’t look surprised when I walked in. Just poured me a drink, handed it over, and waited.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Then I said it.

“You’re using me.”

He raised an eyebrow, not in denial—just in curiosity. “And?”

I looked at him, the weight in my chest too sharp to ignore. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

“I think you saw it,” he replied calmly, “and you didn’t stop.”

That hurt more than it should have.

He stood then, approaching with that slow, unbothered confidence he always carried—like nothing ever touched him unless he allowed it to.

“I never forced you, Levi. You acted because you trust me. Because part of you wants to.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” I snapped. “That I want this?”

He paused—close enough that I could feel his presence, heavy and steady like cold metal against skin.

“No,” he said softly. “I tell myself you need it.”

I froze.

Because it was true.

In the silence that followed, he stepped even closer. His hand brushed my jaw—not firm, not demanding. Just enough to make me stay still. To let myself be held for a moment.

“You’re angry,” he murmured.

“I should be,” I breathed.

“But you’re still here.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t have one.

Because he was right.

And when he leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine—his hand steady at my neck, the other resting lightly against my waist—I didn’t pull away.

[neesu]

The white fox

Contains: Implied physical violence / rough handling, power imbalance and domination dynamics, sexual tension with aggressive undertones, mature themes (control, consent implied but not clearly established yet), psychological manipulation / intensity, mafia/crime setting, use of restraints (handcuffs, force)

The white fox masterlist

Part 2

It had been six days since that night at LUX. Six days since you pressed Gojo Satoru against a wall, your hand clenched around his collar and your control dangerously fraying. And yet, every night since, you caught yourself thinking about his voice. His breath. That grin.

You hated it.

You hated that he still hadn’t left your district.

And you hated that part of you didn’t want him to.

⸻

You got the call at 1:14 a.m.

Your men had caught an intruder on your property.

“I’m going to guess it’s not just any intruder,” you muttered, already pulling on your coat.

The safehouse was an old, repurposed industrial site on the docks. Quiet. Private. Only accessible to trusted members of your organization. Or, apparently, to men with a blindfold and zero self-preservation instinct.

The air reeked of concrete, metal, and arrogance.

Gojo Satoru sat cuffed to a steel chair in the middle of the room, lit by a single bare bulb swinging faintly above him. His white hair caught the dim light, and despite the restraints, his posture was damn near regal—one leg draped over the other, like he'd come here by choice.

He looked up as you entered, lips already curling.

“Finally. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. You just stared at him—long, slow, calculating. There was dried blood on the corner of his mouth. Probably from one of your guards. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked like he enjoyed it.

“You broke into my safehouse,” you said, voice low and steady. “That’s not something I let people walk away from.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Yet here I am. Sitting, breathing… and very curious what you plan to do next.”

You stepped forward, boots echoing against the concrete. Stopped just in front of him. His grin didn’t fade. Not even when you leaned down and grabbed his jaw, forcing his face upward.

You came close—closer than you should have. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, close enough to hear the subtle shift in it.

“You want to die, Satoru?” you murmured. “Because walking into my home like this is suicide.”

“Maybe I trust you more than I should,” he said, voice light, but something in it was strung tight. “Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do if I put myself in your hands.”

You stared at him. At the pulse beating steadily in his throat, just beneath your fingers.

Gojo’s smirk wavered.

Your hand moved from his jaw to his neck. Thumb brushing lightly over the skin—no pressure, just intent.

“Is that what you want?” your voice dropped. “To be at my mercy?”

His breath hitched.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You leaned closer, lips brushing just shy of his cheek, voice so low it trembled against him.

“I don’t need to like it,” you said. “I just need to know you’d beg for it.”

The tension rolled off his body like heat from coals—tight, restrained, expectant. He didn’t speak right away. Then, quietly, just for you:

“Maybe I would.”

It broke something in you. Not desire—something darker. Something that recognized itself in him.

You gripped his chin again, tilting his head so he had no choice but to face you. His lips were parted, his breath uneven, blindfolded eyes locked on where you were.

“You want me to break you,” you muttered. “You’re not here to negotiate or provoke. You want someone who’ll take the decisions away from you. Am I right?”

Gojo’s throat flexed under your grip. Still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile. There was heat in it now. Something real. Something dangerous.

“You’re the only one I wouldn’t mind losing control to,” he said.

Silence fell.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t let go.

“Keep testing me like this,” you murmured, “and you’ll find out what happens when I stop holding back.”

He didn’t argue.

You stepped back—but not far. Not really. The space between you vibrated with tension, heavy and sharp, like it could snap or ignite at any second.

“You break into my district,” you said, voice cold now, “you trespass in my house, and you sit here like you want to be chained up.”

Gojo’s lips parted. This time, he didn’t smirk. He just looked at you, still and deliberate, like the tension itself was holding him together.

“Maybe I did,” he said, just above a whisper. “Maybe I wanted to see what you'd do when no one was watching.”

You leaned down again, your hand resting on the back of the chair near his shoulder—close enough to remind him that the only thing holding you back was choice.

“Is this a game to you?” you asked, your voice low and cutting. “Get caught. Get cuffed. Get dragged into my space. Or is it something else you’re chasing?”

Gojo swallowed. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d break first.”

Your eyes narrowed. You gripped the chain of his cuffs, letting the metal slip through your fingers like a blade you could use any moment.

“I don’t break,” you said. “I bend others.”

You saw the shift in him then—like your words sank into something deep. His shoulders drew tighter. His breath was sharp. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was watching you with intensity that burned.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you murmured.

Gojo tilted his head slowly. “Good,” he said, smiling again—this time darker. “So are you.”

The air crackled. Like static. Like fire held barely in check. A silence thick enough to choke on.

But you didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, you loosened your grip on the chain and leaned down one last time. Close enough to make it count.

“Think very hard about what you’re doing, Satoru,” you said. “Because next time you walk into my home uninvited, I won’t chain you to a chair.”

Gojo’s lips parted slightly. “No?”

You gave him a ghost of a smile. One that promised nothing but danger.

“No. I’ll chain you to my bed.”

And then you turned and walked out.

You didn’t look back.

But you felt it—the way the room held your absence like a breath that couldn’t quite exhale.

And for once, Gojo didn’t say anything.

He just watched you go.

[neesu]

The white fox masterlist

You and Gojo are fierce rivals, always testing each other’s limits. Slowly, the tension between dominance and surrender turns your rivalry into something far more intense.

Gojo Satoru x Dom!Male Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Mafia AU

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 ...

[neesu]

The white fox

Contains: Violence (implied and physical aggression), power imbalance / dominance dynamics, threats and intimidation, sexual tension with aggressive undertones

The white fox masterlist

Part 1

The club reeked of perfume and fresh blood.

You stood in the VIP section of LUX, the newest neutral zone on the city’s west side — built on unspoken truces and layered with surveillance. The kind of place where killers smiled over champagne and politicians danced with criminals. It wasn’t your kind of place. But tonight, it had to be.

Because Gojo Satoru was here.

Word had reached you an hour ago: the so-called “White Fox” of the Jujutsu Syndicate had entered your territory, again, with no clearance, no guards, no permission. Just him, and that damn smugness.

Your fingers tightened around the glass of whiskey as your second-in-command leaned in.

“Boss. He’s downstairs. Lounge level. Looks like he’s waiting for you.”

Of course he was.

You descended the stairs like a king entering hostile lands. Music pulsed around you, thick with bass and smoke. And there he was—sprawled across a leather couch, legs apart like he owned the room, blindfold on, white hair a careless halo.

Gojo didn’t even stand. He tilted his head lazily, sensing you before you spoke.

“You move fast when you’re looking to piss me off,” you said coldly.

He smiled, slow and maddening. “And you’re still as charming as ever. I missed our talks.”

You didn’t take the bait. “This is the second time you’ve walked into my district without clearance.”

“And yet,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet, “I’m still breathing.”

The two of you stood a few feet apart, energy humming between you like a drawn wire. His presence was different from most—less threatening, more… disarming. That was part of the danger. He never looked like a killer. But he was. One of the best.

Gojo leaned in just slightly. Close enough to smell the cologne on your neck, expensive and clean. “You always this tense? You should let someone help you relax.”

You grabbed him by the collar—quick, instinctive—and slammed him against the mirror behind the bar. Glass rattled. No one in the lounge moved; they all knew better than to interfere.

Your voice was quiet, but lethal.

“You think this is fun, don’t you? Pushing me.”

Gojo’s grin didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened. “I think it’s fascinating how much you want to hate me. But your hands are always the first to touch.”

You pressed closer. Your forearm against his chest. His breath hitched, just slightly.

“I could break you right here,” you whispered, mouth near his ear.

He laughed, breath warm against your cheek. “But you won’t. Not yet.”

You stared at him. He was daring you. Testing the limits. And you didn’t even realize your grip on his collar had loosened until his fingers slid over your wrist — not to pull away, but to stay there.

“See?” he murmured. “You don’t know whether you want to put a bullet in me or put me on my knees.”

A beat of silence.

You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Then you let go, stepping back as if he burned you.

“Get out of my district. While I’m still being polite.”

He adjusted his suit like nothing had happened, that smirk still carved into his face. “You know where to find me… if you ever want to stop pretending.”

He turned and walked away, no fear in his step, just that irritating, self-assured calm.

You didn’t follow.

But your pulse wouldn’t settle for hours.

⸻

That night, you found yourself alone on your penthouse balcony, city lights stretching out like a sea of embers. You tried to focus on numbers, meetings, threats. But all you could see was the look in his eyes—sharp, knowing, amused.

You hated Gojo Satoru.

And deep down, dangerously, you wanted him closer.

[neesu]

The whisperer's game masterlist

In a dark, underground world, a secretive broker known as the Whisperer meets a young, ambitious Levi Ackerman. What begins as a simple exchange of information turns into a quiet, psychological game of control. With each favor, Levi becomes more entangled—used, but never lied to. As trust is replaced by tension and dependence, Levi clings to the illusion of freedom, unaware he’s already caught in the Whisperer’s web.

This is the origin of their twisted dynamic in Pathetic. — and also where the story continues.

P.S. This story does NOT contain NSFW content. It might have some suggestive themes, but it’s mostly psychological.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

[neesu]

The whisperer's game

Summary: A young Levi Ackerman forms a quiet alliance with a shadowy broker, unaware he’s being drawn into a web of control—thread by thread.

Contains: Dom!reader x sub!Levi, manipulation, emotional control, psychological tension, power imbalance, dependency development, subtle influence, underground to upper world transition

The whisperer's game masterlist

Part 1

The tavern was the kind of place where deals died quietly and alliances were born in shadows. Smoke hung in the air like rot, curling around crooked beams and empty bottles. It smelled like damp wood, old sweat, and desperation—perfect for someone like me. A whisperer. A broker of the things people weren’t meant to know.

I was seated in the corner, coat draped over my shoulders, glass untouched, posture straight. A man of silence in a room of slurred lies. And then, through the door, he walked in—Levi Ackerman. Not yet the figure he’d become, but already walking like a weapon. There was discipline in his every movement. A stillness that wasn’t born from calm, but control.

His eyes scanned the room once, then landed on me like a blade pinning paper to a wall.

Without hesitation, he sat opposite me.

“You’re the Whisperer,” he said.

I tilted my head slightly. “You’re well-informed.”

“I’ve been asking around.”

“Careful,” I warned, voice low. “Asking too many questions down here gets you noticed. And noticed gets you killed.”

His expression didn’t shift. “Word is you deal in truths. Real ones.”

I studied him. Sharp jaw, storm-colored eyes, guarded without being defensive. There was something under the coldness. Something unsettled.

“I do,” I said. “But I don’t trade in charity. Information has a cost.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I’m not here for games. I want out of this place. Upward.”

“And you think I hold the ladder?”

“I think you know who does.”

I smiled faintly. “Ambition like yours is dangerous. Gets people used.”

“I’d rather be used than buried down here.”

I liked that answer. Not because it was brave. But because it was honest.

“Alright,” I murmured. “But this isn’t a partnership. You don’t get my trust. You get my terms.”

He didn’t blink. “I’m not looking for trust.”

That was the first night. Not a deal. Not a promise. Just a thread.

⸻

Weeks passed.

The first time he came to me again, it was for a name. A smuggler passing information to a competitor cell. Levi gave me nothing but the alias and a time. I gave him what he needed—clean and efficient. He didn’t ask why I had it. He just took it and left.

The second time, he waited longer. Long enough for me to make him feel the space where I used to be. He needed coordinates—an illegal weapons transfer moving through a checkpoint no one was supposed to notice. When I delivered, I asked for something back.

“Track a courier,” I told him. “No questions.”

He hesitated, just a breath. Then nodded.

That was when the hook sank in.

The third time, he came without hesitation. This time, not for a name or a place. For a pattern. Movement logs in a corp district he wasn’t cleared to operate in. His voice was flat, but I could hear it beneath—tension. Uncertainty.

He was starting to feel the weight of it.

⸻

The room I used that night was different. Clean. Quiet. High above the city. I had eyes everywhere, and Levi knew it now.

He walked in without knocking. Wet from the rain, shadows under his eyes. His movements were precise as ever—but slower now. Like he was carrying something invisible.

“You knew,” he said, voice low. “You knew that lead would point straight to one of the Corp’s internal arms dealers.”

I stood by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. “Of course.”

“And you didn’t warn me.”

“No,” I said. “You needed to see it yourself.”

There was a pause. His jaw tightened.

“I’m being used,” he said, quieter.

I turned to face him, stepping forward, calm and unmoved. “Yes.”

He blinked. But didn’t flinch. Just stared at me. Waiting for the rest.

I gave it to him—voice smooth, precise. “But I’ve never lied to you. I give you what you need. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“You could’ve told me what I was walking into.”

“If I had,” I said softly, “you wouldn’t have gone. And then what? You’d still be chasing shadows. Still stuck.”

I stepped closer, closing the space between us. “I made you better. Whether you see it yet or not.”

He looked at me—truly looked. Like he was trying to peel me open. Like he wanted to hate me for it.

But he didn’t leave.

And that’s when I knew.

“I don’t like being in debt,” he muttered.

“No one does.” I smiled slightly. “But you keep paying it.”

There was no rage in his eyes now. No defiance. Just the quiet, bitter realization that he had already stepped too far into my world.

And I hadn’t once asked him to.

Thread by thread, I’d pulled him closer. Until he no longer knew where his will ended and mine began.

And the most dangerous part? He still thought he was free.

[neesu]

Masterlist

Welcome! This is where you’ll find all my published stories, organized by character. Most of these are reader-insert, and I’m always open to writing more, so feel free to send in requests (check my request rules in the pinned post).

✦ Levi Ackerman

• Pathetic (Dom!Reader, Sub!Levi) Levi Ackerman isn’t used to giving in—but he does for you. A slow unraveling of power and desire, where he falls apart under your control.

• The whisperer's game (Dom!maleReader, sub!Levi)

✦ Gojo Satoru

• He kneels for no one. Except you. (Dom!Reader, Sub!Gojo, NSFW) The strongest sorcerer bows for no one… until you come along.

• The white fox (Dom!maleReader, Sub!Gojo) Mafia! AU, Enemies to lovers

✦ Katsuki Bakugou

• Give in, baby (Dom!Reader, Sub!Bakugou, NSFW) Bakugou’s bratty defiance always crumbles under your control, leaving him desperate, jealous, and hopelessly yours.

✦ Unspecified Character

• Gravity (Dom!Reader, Sub!Male) A nameless boy in your orbit—fragile, quiet, and entirely yours.

• Second place looks good on you (Dom!Reader, Sub!Male) Rivalry turns into obsession when your teasing leaves him desperate for your attention, no longer caring about the competition—only you.

[neesu]

He kneels for no one. Except you.

Summary:

Gojo Satoru is used to being untouchable—strongest in the room, always in control. But not with you. With you, he kneels. Tied down, stripped of power, and willingly obedient, he finds something in submission he never expected: clarity, craving, and the terrifying comfort of being seen.

NSFW MDNI +18 only (dominant!reader × Gojo Satoru | slow burn smut | second person POV | emotional control | restrained Gojo | praise + degradation | tension-heavy)

You thought it would be difficult at first.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t kneel for anyone. He moves through the world like it belongs to him—effortless, arrogant, glowing with power. He talks like he’s always right, smiles like he’s never been wrong. Untouchable. Unrivaled.

And yet, here he is.

On his knees.

His wrists are bound behind his back with his own tie—your choice, of course. You told him there would be no Infinity tonight. No techniques. No shortcuts. Not with you. Not when it comes to this.

He obeyed.

He always does, when it’s you.

He’s shirtless, skin flushed, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the controlled stillness in his posture. He’s kneeling like he’s trained to do it, but everything about him screams anticipation. He’s waiting. For a word. For a touch. For your permission to exist.

You don’t give it right away.

Instead, you pace around him slowly, boots echoing on the floor, every step deliberate. You let the silence wrap around him like a leash. He’s used to noise—used to the constant hum of energy in his veins, the attention, the chaos.

But you?

You strip all that away.

You make silence heavy. Meaningful. Inescapable.

You stop in front of him, arms crossed.

“Do you remember the rules?” you ask, voice quiet but sharp.

He nods, a quick, tense motion.

You raise an eyebrow. “Say them.”

He swallows hard. His voice comes out softer than it should, uncertain.

“No Infinity. No speaking unless given permission. Don’t touch you. You’re the only one in control.”

You hum approvingly.

“Good boy.”

It hits him like a low-voltage shock—barely a flicker in his muscles, a subtle tremor in his fingers. But you notice. Of course you do. Praise works on him like nothing else. Because it comes from you. Because he’s desperate to please.

You crouch to meet him at eye level. He keeps his gaze low at first, trained on the floor. Waiting. Submissive.

Your fingers curl under his chin, lifting.

“Look at me.”

He obeys.

And there it is—that familiar flicker of awe, fear, reverence. His lips part slightly. You can see his pulse ticking under the skin of his throat. You could ruin him right here with a word.

“You’re not untouchable now, are you?” you whisper. “You’re not the strongest with your wrists tied.”

He doesn’t answer. He knows better.

But his eyes say everything.

You stand slowly, letting your fingers slide along his jaw as you pull away. He shifts slightly, like his body wants to follow the movement. Like he already misses your touch.

You step behind him and drag your fingertips lightly down his spine. He tenses, then relaxes under the contact. You lean in, letting your breath ghost over his neck.

“You look so fucking pretty like this.”

A soft sound escapes him—a whimper, low and barely-there. He’s biting it back, still trying to behave. Still trying to be good.

Your hand travels lower, brushing past the waistband of his pants, teasing him without reward. He shivers. He’s hard already, straining against the fabric, but you don’t touch him there yet. Not until he earns it.

“Tell me what you are,” you demand.

“Yours,” he says instantly. “I’m yours.”

You wrap your hand around him in one smooth motion, dragging a sharp moan from his throat. He chokes on it, thighs trembling with the effort to stay still.

“That’s right,” you whisper, close to his ear. “Only mine. Say it again.”

“Yours, I’m yours, please—”

You stroke him slow and steady, watching the way he falls apart from just that. No power. No control. Just you, and the way your hand owns him completely.

He’s already close. You feel it in the way his hips twitch, in the broken gasps leaving his lips. So desperate. So good.

And then you stop.

His whole body jerks.

“Please,” he begs, barely able to form the word. “Please don’t stop, please—”

You crouch beside him again, grip tightening in his hair as you pull his head back enough to look into his eyes.

“Are you going to come without permission?”

“N-no, I— I wasn’t—please, let me—”

You consider him. Shaking. Red-faced. Entirely at your mercy.

And finally, you speak:

“Come for me.”

He shatters.

It’s a beautiful thing—watching him unravel completely under your command, moaning your name, body trembling as he comes hard in your hand, hands still bound, mouth open, mind empty.

You let him collapse against you, his forehead pressed to your thigh, breathless and wrecked.

Your hand strokes gently through his hair now, slow and comforting.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmur.

And even ruined, even gasping for air, he smiles.

Because even like this—no, especially like this—he’s exactly where he wants to be.

[neesu]

Hello! I’m Neesu, I’m 20 years old and I recently started writing short stories as a hobby in my free time. I mostly enjoy writing dom!(male)reader content, but I’m totally open to requests—so if you have an idea or something you’d like to see, feel free to reach out! Haha

By default, I write in English, but I’m a native Spanish speaker, so feel free to request a story in Spanish if you prefer—I’m happy to do both!

You can find my masterlist here.

I’m currently accepting requests, and I’m always happy to collaborate whether you’re into romance, angst, fluff, or more mature themes.

If you’d like to request a custom piece, please make sure to include the following details so I can deliver a story that fits exactly what you’re looking for:

• Character name

• Character and reader gender

• NSFW or SFW (Please specify your comfort level and boundaries)

• Sex Role Preference (Dom!Reader or Sub!Reader)

• Topic or Setting (e.g., modern AU, fantasy, college life, enemies to lovers, etc.)

Feel free to be as detailed as you’d like!

Updated

What i don't do:

Bestiality

Necrophilia

Any kink involving bodily fluids (piss/poop kink)

Non-con

Gangbang

[neesu]

Pathetic

Summary:

Levi Ackerman was never meant to fall apart for anyone—but he did for you. Now he’s on his knees, clinging to something that’s already slipping through his fingers. And you? You never promised to stay.

Contains: (dominant!male reader × Levi Ackerman, emotional manipulation, power dynamics, obsession, soft control, slow unraveling, psychological tension, angst with heat underneath)

Levi was crying.

He was on his knees, clinging to my leg like his life depended on it, trying to stop me from leaving. Who would’ve thought? The great Levi Ackerman, reduced to this, begging for me.

“Please… don’t go,” he sobbed, red-eyed and trembling, his hands gripping my pants tighter.

I clicked my tongue, annoyed, and gave him a light push with my foot to make him let go. I was getting tired of this scene.

“Pathetic…” I muttered, looking down at him with disgust.

And he really was. Utterly pathetic.

I watched him flinch at my words. He didn’t dare lift his head. He just knelt there, silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. I remained standing, towering over him. He stayed down, head bowed, the picture of submission.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. So the effect I had on him hadn’t faded after all.

I crouched down, slowly, until I was at his level. I raised his chin with a single finger, forcing his eyes to meet mine. In that moment, I saw it all—his sadness, his fear… maybe even love?

My expression didn’t change. I studied him, watching how his body tensed under my gaze. He squirmed slightly, uncomfortable, but said nothing. Just let me look.

I sighed and stood back up.

“Don’t follow me. I’ll contact you when I need you,” I said, coldly, not even glancing back as I walked toward the door.

It had been interesting, getting to know him—his preferences, his fears, his weaknesses.

Especially the weaknesses.

Those were the most useful ones.

--------------------------------------------------------

Check out now the story where you meet Levi! (not completed)

[neesu]

Gravity

Summary:

He writes in silence and stares like he’s waiting for permission to breathe. You don’t ask to take space—you fill it. In the quiet corners of the library, he learns to follow your voice like a lighthouse in fog. He gives you his poetry, his eyes, his quiet obedience. You take your time. You take him apart. And he loves you for it.

(dominant!reader × sub!boy)

He always sits in the same spot—back corner of the library, hunched over a notebook that’s more scribble than sense. There’s something quiet about him, something that draws you in like a whisper in a dark room. You’re not even sure why you approach him the first time. Maybe it’s the way he curls in on himself, like he’s trying to disappear but secretly hoping someone will notice.

And you do.

You sit across from him without asking, unfold your laptop, and start typing like you belong there. You do. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch his eyes flicking up every few minutes like he’s waiting for you to vanish. You don’t. You never do.

You speak first, of course.

“You always stare like that, or am I just special?”

He flinches, barely, like he wasn’t expecting you to catch him. Then he smiles, small and uncertain. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Sure you didn’t,” you cut in, calm, amused. “What are you writing?”

He hesitates. You know he’s the type that wants to be known but doesn’t know how to let it happen. So you lean forward just slightly, resting your chin in your hand, and wait. The moment stretches. Then he slides the notebook across the table like it weighs too much to hold.

You read a few lines, quiet.

It’s poetry. Messy, raw, unfiltered. It aches. It’s good.

When you look up, he’s watching you like he wants your approval more than air.

“You’re not terrible,” you say, tone flat on purpose. He exhales a laugh, like it’s the highest praise he’s ever gotten. You know it is.

After that, he waits for you.

He never texts first. Never asks you to come. But he’s always there, always in that same seat, always with a new page in that battered notebook like he’s writing just for you. And maybe he is. You start reading his poetry aloud, right there in the library. Slow. Clear. Each word hangs in the air like it means something important. He listens with that look again—like you’re gravity and he’s tired of floating.

He starts asking questions after a while. Quiet ones. About your favorite books. Your favorite songs. About the scar near your elbow or why you always wear rings on your index finger.

You never lie, but you don’t give everything either. You like the way he leans in to understand. Like he’s trying to map the stars just to know where you’re standing.

Sometimes, you tell him what to read. What to listen to. What to write about. He does all of it. No hesitation. You never ask—just say, and it happens.

One evening, when the library’s empty and the sky outside is bleeding orange and pink, you say,

“Come here.”

He pauses for half a second before obeying, like it’s a reflex. You tilt his chin up with your fingers, study the faint blush on his cheeks, the way his breath hitches.

“You always listen this well?”

He nods. Barely.

You smile. “Good.”

You don’t kiss him—not yet. You don’t need to. Not when he’s already given himself over in a hundred quiet ways. In the way he waits. In the way he listens. In the way he watches your hands like they hold the answers to questions he’s never been brave enough to ask.

Later, when he finally breaks and says,

“I think I’d do anything you asked,”

you don’t act surprised.

You just take his hand and whisper,

“I know.”

And he smiles like he’s just been ruined in the best way.