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syrupyuu · 5 days ago

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MY GOODNESS?? SMILE?? 😭😭 i need to lie down. like this whole work was just. chef's kiss.

and MARCELLE?? MARCELLE?? AJGFAH my princess... my wifey.... he's actually so pookie here, like?? Marcelle has my life, actually. (｡•́︿•̀｡)

"The so called angel was no divine being, but the infamous lieutenant who had his sights set on you, perhaps too closely.

He didn’t hesitate to take the other man from his throat, his thick fingers wrapped around the rugged man’s neck, his nails dug into the thick muscles like the teeth of a bear trap.

The separation of meat from muscle was quick and brutal, Marcelle’s hand ripped the man’s throat out like tearing fat from a chicken leg. It was a disgusting show of force and power, and it was all done for some girl."

oh and btw, this has GOT to be my favorite portion of this fic fr. i mean?? just the tone shift in and of itself?? ahgfs i actually cannot believe you pulled it off this well, it's so violent?? but you can also?? feel his devotion towards reader, that's just not outright told but implied?? aaaaaaaaa........... i'm srsly so obsessed i'm gnawing on Marcelle like a chew toy.......

i'm actually so in awe of your writing, (╥﹏╥) the pacing, the emotional payoff, the raw violence of marcelle balanced with his raw and tender love for the reader?? like it's all SO well-crafted, it honestly made my brain short-circuit a lil. your tone control is unreal. like btw did you know i was giggling and biting my lip and clutching my pearls while reading this?? fdgdf genuinely, this is one of those works i'll be stuck thinking about for days. you're insane(affectionate) and your skills are sickening (i love you) (*/▽＼*)💕

𝐈’𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . gore . blood brought up very often. sexual assault attempt towards reader (not by yandere) . wounds

જ⁀➴ Your legs burned, limbs clearly unprepared as you sprinted out into the field like a wild gazelle. You hadn’t even begun to work, all you could feel was the sting in your chest, your heart brimming with adrenaline.

Your heart thundered in your ears, you could feel the vibrations of the organ in the right of your chest. Sweat dribbled down your back, mixing with the rain sprinkling from above, bullets zipped past your form just narrowly missing you by a silk thread.

You didn’t know where you were running to, you just were. You were quick and lithe, not a single bullet or stray piece of debris grazed you.

You slid to a stop, the muddy ground underneath your combat boots squelching under your weight. A man, clearly a soldier, judging by his camo uniform and badge, clutched his side while crying out in pain, he kicked his feet on the ground in a way to try and release some of the pain.

He got mud and rainwater all over you but that wasn’t important, you had to help this man, somehow. You studied his wound with the focus of a scholar, features taut with anxiety and the slightest hint of foreboding.

This was the hardest part of your job. Not the blood and bodily fluids, not the close monitoring of wounds, not the procedure but this— Knowing that the decision of letting this man live was in your hands, that a single mistake could send this man to his early grave.

You applied pressure with a cloth you had in tucked in your cargo pockets, your palm firmly pressing against the gaping hole in his side.

You watched how the once white fabric turned a murky scarlet color, warmth seeped underneath your palm and soaked your hands.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe, you’re going to be okay.” You reassured the injured fellow, making sure to keep a calm, even tone of voice.

You seemed sure and collected on the outside, like you had everything coldly calculated, almost as if you had already saved this man.

But the truth was far from it. You were a nervous wreck inside, tears pricked your vision, your throat burned and closed in with the need to weep for this man. Your knees were shaking even though you weren’t the one in pain, you allowed him to softly place his hand on your forearm.

“Please stay awake, I need you to stay awake.” You implored, your mind working like a tiny machine, an encyclopedia of methods and practices you had done in the past opening inside your brain.

You carefully planned your next action, his hand tightened on your arm, his dirty nails digging into your skin as he gave a weak cry, you pinched your eyebrows together in deep confusion.

“Sir. Sir? What’s happening?” You asked frantically, finally, panic seeping into your tone. He mouthed something, his whole body shuddering as he tried to muster the last of his strength to point at something behind you.

You read his bloody lips.

‘BEHIND YOU.’

You didn’t even have time to blink, because as soon as you opened your mouth to speak to the soldier, he was already dead.

BANG!

A bullet was planted between his brows, from

how loud the gun sounded it was like someone had shot him almost face to face.

Warm blood sprayed across your face, someone was behind you. Someone was behind you. Someone was behind you.

You breathed in, but you couldn’t move. There was nowhere to go anymore. You were stuck between the sword and the wall. Cornered like a lamb at the mercy of a vicious wolf.

The tears you had been battling against drained out your eyes, and as soon as the first salty droplet could hit the ground a boisterous sound filled your ears.

Before you could formulate your last words pain ripped through you endlessly, with no warning or hesitation. It shot you in the side, you could feel the foreign capsule burying itself in your guts.

The metal felt hot, god. It felt so hot. It felt like you were forced to touch boiling iron, but you weren’t allowed to pull away. There was nowhere way to escape the scalding heat of the bullet because it was inside you.

You had never screamed so loudly in your life, you hit the ground with an ear splitting wail, you curled in on yourself next to the deceased soldier.

IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts

You let out a choked sob, something between a cry of pain and a scream.

A grand man chuckled at your pain, you could see the vague outline of his body out of the corner of your eye. He was large, built like a ravenous wolf, his teeth were bared, sharp and crooked like daggers as he bent down beside you.

His cold hands took a careless grip on your ankles, a new feeling arose, fear. Raw, primal fear.

His grip was so tight and hurtful that he might have shattered your bones without even noticing— But it wasn’t like he even cared.

What was he going to do to you? You screamed and kicked in desperation, his hands creeped higher up to your knees.

Were you going to die like this? Why? What did you do wrong? You did everything they told you to.

Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?

Tears didn’t stop, the dam behind your eyes broke. The walls of the well had ruptured, it held years upon years of hate and suffering, and now that it had burst a tidal wave, one with the height of a tsunami had left nothing in its wake.

Your throat felt stuffed with rocks, your vocal cords strained inside you, clawing at the ground, soil settling underneath your nails.

You had tried to fight, you really did but blood was starting to settle in a pool underneath you. Your hair had chunks of dirt and blood, your skin had small cuts and was debauched by debris and flesh that wasn’t yours.

The clouds had parted, a single beam of light pushing through the skies and falling on the burly figure of a soldier with hair as golden as the sun.

Was that an angel? Was he here for you?

Peace at last, why did you feel peace? As soon as you caught a glimpse of those cold, steel blue eyes you felt.. free.

The fight inside had left you.

Like you could rest, maybe it was the blood loss getting to you. The ground underneath suddenly felt warm and comfortable, like the dreamiest of beds, the ones filled with swan feathers that only royals had the luxury of using.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a soft exhale leaving your lips. Blood and rainwater soaked your clothing, you lost consciousness with a small smile.

It was a blessing that you had closed your eyes, because at the least that had protected you from the carnage and absolute inhumane cruelty that would exhibited in front of your unconscious body.

The so called angel was no divine being, but the infamous lieutenant who had his sights set on you, perhaps too closely.

He didn’t hesitate to take the other man from his throat, his thick fingers wrapped around the rugged man’s neck, his nails dug into the thick muscles like the teeth of a bear trap.

Marcelle’s chest heaved, pure rage ran through his veins like adrenaline, his nose was scrunched up like a rabid bear’s would. Someone had hurt you, the light to his darkness, the moon among so many stars.

They tried to tear you from his arms, tried to take advantage of your weak build and gentle heart.

Hate wasn’t an adequate word for what he really felt, it was an understatement of what was going through his twisted head.

The wolf-like man’s larynx dropped on the floor with a wet splat, blood rushed out of the exposed maw that once used to be his throat.

Marcelle was nowhere done with him though.

A tactical knife strapped on his thigh was dislodged, then driven into the wolf’s stomach, the blonde pressed the blade so tight against his flesh that the peritoneum had been torn apart like a bag of candy on the hallow’s eve.

Guts spilled everywhere, slimy sausage shaped innards were the first to go, unfurling from his stomach like climbing rope.

Everything dropped down at his feet, contaminated filth mixed with blood and mud. Marcelle scoffed at how easy it was to kill this one, it wasn’t a big show of strength to pull this guy apart like tender teriyaki.

The mangled one lost his balance, falling onto his knees while choking on carmine, it sprayed everywhere along with chunks of meat, or what was left of it.

The blonde bear grabbed the disfigured man by his hair, then pressed a dirty boot onto the small of his back. He yanked with vigor at the other’s scalp while maintaining hard pressure on his back.

Then a sick crack came from the crumpled’s spine, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, swollen with blood and severed capillaries.

His spine had been severed in two, cleanly snapped like a toothpick.

The man bent backwards in the fashion of an arc, the cadaver looked like it was doing gymnastics, but really his body was so greatly damaged that his spine couldn’t maintain his weight, he was bent at such an unnatural extent it hurt just by looking at him.

Marcelle kicked away the body and its innards, sending what was of a man into a puddle, leaving his organs and blood to mingle with the water.

He saw you, curled up like a kitten. But blood streamed out your side like a river, it wouldn’t stop, he panicked.

He dropped beside you, picking you up with the gentleness of what could only be compared to picking up an injured baby bird. He touched your face with the delicate touch of a feather, your face was dirty, streaked with dirt and crimson.

He pressed his ear against your chest, the soft thump of your heart whispering that you had limited time.

His breath caught in his throat.

He was taught to never cry. That a man should never cry in the presence of anyone, but in this moment, this miserable and unfortunate situation he could do no less than weep.

All he could see was the tiny smile on your lips, your precious visage ruined by destruction of war. You didn’t stop bleeding, you can’t stop. His eyes watered, for the first time in decades he allowed himself to shed a tear.

“No.. No— You can’t.. You won’t leave me!” He yelled to your unconscious form, his dirtied hand grasping your limp one. He squeezed tightly, hoping that if he gripped hard enough you would react, that those pretty (e/c) eyes would look up at him one last time.

His distress was heard, a group of young soldiers trotted over to him, finding their great lieutenant distraught over the soon to be corpse of a nurse.

He hugged the body close to his chest, trying to share warmth to the wounded girl, his chin rested over her head, his thick fingers smoothing over her filthy hair, they weren’t sure if he was trying to soothe the injured woman or himself.

They came up to him, touching his shoulder and trying to reach the nurse in his arms. He didn’t take well to that.

He snapped at them, snarling like a furious bear protecting his young. He clawed at them, finding a discarded gun somewhere, it shook in his hands as he aimed at them. His finger looped into the trigger, only to hear a click.

Blank.

The gun was empty of bullets, so he took the next alternative, the only thing he knew to do, fight with his fists.

There was no one that could go up against him, they knew that Marcelle could divorce their head from their shoulders clean.

“You are not going to take her.” He rasped, putting himself between you and the men. Now they all looked like enemies, like big red training targets with white swirls.

The cadets glanced at each other, just barely noticing the lifeless bodies surrounding the blonde and the wounded girl in his arms.

“Holy shit..” one of them murmured as he looked around, Marcelle had gone berserk, especially on this man at his feet, completely disemboweled— Where was his throat?

He stared at the human remains on the floor, feeling the urge to vomit his stomach out right here and there.

A new voice pushed through, the head nurse shouldered men away as she jogged towards the pair of bloodied lovers.

“Look. I don’t care who you are or what your rank is—“ she began, walking towards Marcelle with no fear whatsoever.

“But that girl is going to die if you keep hoarding her like an aggressive mutt!” She yelled, beads of sweat collecting on her brow, she plowed through the mud and dirt just to make it to you.

Marcelle stared at her with a vacant look in his eyes, he didn’t have it in him to touch a woman with intent of harm.

His grip tightened as she approached, water dripped now his face, sweat and rain soaked his uniform. He wasn’t about to let her tug you away, over his dead body.

She tried to pull you away, her hands gripping your forearms as hard as she could but Marcelle’s hold was unrelenting and soon she would have to call herself defeated in the strength game.

“Fine. You can carry her.” She said with an edge to her voice, she took the collar of her uniform in her hands and pulled him up how a dog would pick up a puppy by its scruff.

“But she is going to to live and you are going to take her back now.” She demanded it like his first drill sergeant, he listened to that one order, he slowly ascended from the ground and followed the nurse.

He stared at your face the whole way he walked, his finger curved gently, his pad brushing away your hair behind your ear.

You’re going to be okay, you’re going to live.

His jaw tensed as a new wave of emotions ran over him, he couldn’t break down, not yet. He had to be strong for you.

He gently pressed his forehead against yours, his palm gently residing over your chest, feeling the soft thump of your heart under his hand.

He didn’t remember clearly when but he got ushered out of a room, he woke up in a sterile area surrounded by other people in what seemed to be a waiting room.

He vaguely recalled that he had to be restrained by four men, he got stabbed with a tranquilizer and that’s when everything went dark.

Where were you? His heart picked up in his chest, what had happened? Were you alive?

With a sudden movement he got up from his seat, a clipboard fell from his lap onto the ground. It held only a blank paper, with a single room number in it written in blue ink.

Marcelle had never ran faster in his life, he didn’t know or care how many people he knocked down as he sprinted through the halls. Nurses and doctors turned their heads at breakneck speeds as he zipped past them like a wild animal.

He opened your room door with a bang, sweat gathered on his forehead and his body burned, there you rested.

You, covered in bandages, body clean of dirt and blood, your hair looking soft like nothing had ever touched it. Soft morning light entered through the window, you glowed under the sun like a white dove.

You were hooked up to a monitor, constant beeping telling him you were still alive, it seemed you were breathing on your own, judging by the way your chest slowly rose and fell.

He was filthy with grime and sweat, he could never touch you, afraid he would taint you he stood back. He wanted nothing more than to touch your face, to see your smile again.

It wasn’t long until he was unceremoniously kicked out your room by your main caregiver.

Marcelle came back the day after, and the day after and the days following that. He kneeled beside your bed like a puppy nudging his owner’s hand with its muzzle.

His hand gently held yours, he placed it over his head, on his cheek, just to feel your touch again. Just to feel the way your fingers would run through his hair again, to feel your fingers curing his wounds again.

He weeped more in that hospital than he had cried in his whole life. He was sure that he would drown in his own tears if he kept it up, he missed you so much, he wouldn’t leave your side for a moment.

There were times he would refuse to leave your room at all, security was forced to tranquilize him and at one point threatened to place a restraining order if he didn’t abide by their rules.

Then that day came, he sat by your bed, holding your hand to his heart, praying to whatever was up there to bring his baby back to him.

He had never been a faithful man, but if that’s what it took to make you wake up, he would pray all day, everyday no matter the hour or situation.

The slightest twitch from your fingers made him jump, a glimmer in his grey eyes showed that he had hope. He stared at your hand, waiting for that little movement to come back.

Your eyelids moved, your facial muscles twitched, Marcelle stood from his chair abruptly, the furniture scratching the floor and making an unpleasant screech.

You opened your eyes, your beautiful (e/c) hues flitted around the room with confusion, the grogginess of consciousness filling you again.

You looked through your blurry memories, it felt like looking through frosted glass but you remembered a few things, the one that stood out to you most was the blonde angel.

There he was again.

Why was he crying? You wondered, trying to sit up only to give up when the pain was too unbearable, the man pushed you back down, scolding you and forcing you back into the bed.

You recognized him, your first patient ever. Marcelle.

Just when you were about to speak he basically pounced, he hugged you like you would disappear in that moment. He felt warm and comfortable, you could barely bring your hands to wrap around him.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs, he couldn’t stop crying again, but this time it wasn’t out of sorrow but happiness.

You were back. You were alive and in his arms.

He pulled away, looking you in the face as if this was all a dream, he touched your every feature, trying to re assure himself that this was no fantasy.

“I love you.” Were the first words he said when you woke up, that might have sent you to another coma in that moment.

The blood from your wound had rushed up to your cheeks, you searched his face for any trace of a joke but then remembered.

Marcelle doesn’t do jokes.

He kissed your hand softly, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t kiss you yet, you were healing and could catch sicknesses especially quickly.

So he would wait, wait until you were ready.

“I think.. I love you too.” You shyly smiled, fingers trembling with embarrassment.

To Marcelle, waiting would prove to be more difficult than he thought.

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syrupyuu · 5 days ago

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Hello ;3

If you’re comfy with this ask.. What are your current oc’s kinks??

I love your art and writing!

lol this is such a fun ask!! thanks for sending it in!! (≧◡≦) i’ve definitely thought about this ngl so here’s some of my ocs and their kinks :3

MAJOR yapping under the cut:

So to start with Kisa.. he actually doesn't have a lot of set kinks, esp since he's pretty much a biologically engineered military killing machine, and his core memories about prior to experimentation are pretty much all wiped.

That said, he does have some preferences! For one, he's very responsive to praise—like. embarrassingly so. you tell him he's doing good and he'll turn putty in your hands! ♡

he’s also got a pretty strong scent kink, tho he doesn’t realize it at first. for example, outside of a lab setting, he just finds himself gravitating toward your worn clothes or bed, getting a little too comfy breathing them in...

also: being ordered around? yes. service kink? very yes. give him something to do, a way to please someone, and he’s genuinely happy—doesn’t even need to be sexual. he just runs well on structure and purpose, y’know?

he’s not super exploratory on his own, but he’s happy to go along with whatever you want. adaptable lil guy. a blank slate with a praise kink lmao. overall? very puppy-coded, please call him a good boy. he deserves it.

anyway, as for our resident nekomata? hooo boy.... let me tell you, he is a FREAK.

Kotetsu is a complicated case. in the centuries he'd spent lurking among humans in search of your next reincarnation.. he's basically seen all there is to know about "human culture"(re: sexual relations).

but like. despite it all, he's not one to initiate anything. he believes he's lesser and unworthy of you, so unless you explicitly affirm that you want him? he's keeping that respectful distance. once he knows you do want him, though? it’s over. he’s yours. fully. no hesitation.

he's got a praise kink, sure, esp when it's coming from you—his master, but it's tangled up w degradation too. tell him a good boy or pet and he'll melt. a filthy slut? he's thanking you for that.

ABSOLUTELY into edging and overstim, btw. he doesn't mind getting pushed past his limits, as long it's pleasing you. rough sex? yes. bondage? also yes. temperature and even just sensory play in general is a huge turn on for him.

power play hits hard for him. he thrives on being given orders, being owned, being used, but only if it’s by you. again, he wouldn’t dare initiate, wouldn’t assume he deserves to touch you unless explicitly told to. centuries of worship have baked that deference deep into his bones. but once you make it clear you want him? oh, he’ll give you everything. over and over and over again.

in the end, he's really just a sad wet cat deep down.. so won't you give him some love? ( • ⩊ • )

#asks #suri answers #suri's ramblings #oc: kisa #oc: kotetsu #male yandere #sub yandere #sub character #yandere x gn reader #sub male #yandere x darling #yandere oc

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syrupyuu · 5 days ago

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How tall is kotetsu?

mmm..... around 5'10 by default. but he’s a shapeshifter, so… he can be taller, shorter, whatever gets you feral :3

#asks #suri answers #oc: kotetsu

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syrupyuu · 6 days ago

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Bae your writing is so gorgeous i absolutely eat it up every single time, give my best regards to kisa and his cute ass

- sincerely, obsessed anon :3

ahsdga tyty nonnie, you’re way too kind ;; I'm melting onto the floor rn 💔💥 …and here’s a very slightly suggestive sketch under the cut to show my thanks (/▽＼*)｡o○♡ Kisa would too, but he’s still recovering (｡・//ε//・｡)

(I was actually gonna release the finished version alongside Kotetsu’s, but... I got lazy. oops.)

#asks #suri answers #suri's art #oc: kisa #yandere oc #male yandere #sub yandere

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syrupyuu · 6 days ago

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Your writing is addicting, like fr so good. Don’t go bald 🙏🙏🙏

thank you... but what.....

(you shan't worry nonnie, i currently have a head full of very healthy hair :3💗💗)

#asks #suri answers

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syrupyuu · 6 days ago

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what do you think of Yandere sleepy bunny boy?????

Mmmm.... delectable.... ty for the brain snack, anon. That's definitely going on the to-do list now.... (ΦwΦ)つ🍽️

#suri answers #asks

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syrupyuu · 6 days ago

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AJH LMAO STOP UR KILLING ME RN😭😭😭

I'm giggling my feet and screaming into a pillow... im actually short-circuiting like. SMILE. you're literally?? The Best Mutual Ever?? and you're so real though.... like yea i would also eat him out if given the chance....

And YESS MEAN MC RIGHTS!!!! we are DONE with the softcore submissive mc types, its time to step up our game and bring in the actual freaks... i'm on my knees fr just reading this btw YOU HYPED ME UP SO BAD I'M DYINGGG 💥💥💥

Btw???you hyping me up like that??? i’m grabbing you by the shoulders and telling you to look in the mirror. you’re amazing and cool and funny and ilove being mutuals with you so bad. your energy keeps me ALIVE. i’m so so grateful 😭💗

LOVE YOU LOTS OKAY??? <33333 MMMWUAH!!!! ( ˘ ³˘)~♥♥

— 𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆.ᐟ⋆˚࿔

M!YANDERE! HUMAN EXPERIMENT × GN!READER — mdni | unedited. dubcon undertones(?), sensory restraint, handjob, fingering(m!receiving), overstimulation, power imbalance, orgasm denial. reader is secretly a sadist AND a freak... oops

The restraints are new—soft lined and medical-grade.

Truthfully, they're unnecessary. K-154 never resists, anyway. why would he? He's always obedient for you.

Always yours.

This time, protocol demands data on tactile tolerance under direct external stimulus. The paperwork used phrases like desensitization threshold and stress response gradients, terms you didn't mind filing out.

Not when it meant this.

He sits exactly where you instructed: bare from the waist up, wrists secured to the padded arms of the chair. His chest rises and falls in slow, uncertain rhythms. His head remains bowed, chin nearly tucked to his collarbone—but you see the subtle flick of his eyes, stealing glances at you from beneath long lashes.

Helpless. Needy, your mind supplies.

"Color?" you ask, voice warm, and deliberately so.

He swallows hard. "..Green," comes the breathless reply. He shifts faintly, his thick, muscular thighs tensing beneath pale fabric. You nod once, then pull on a fresh pair of gloves. Snap.

The sound makes him jolt.

"Kisa," you mutter gently, "you'll stay still for me, won't you?"

He nods too quickly. The gesture lacks composure—an indistinct twitch more than consent, betraying the tension that pooled beneath his skin in the process. "I—I want to, I will," he stammered, voice pitched just above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would destroy whatever fragile control he clung to.

You smile. "Good boy," and the praise landed like voltage.

His breath hitches as your gloved hand traces along the line of his abdomen, above well defined pecs; his chest stuttering followed by a small, involuntary twitch of his hips. The body remembered what the mind tried to suppress: that he had long since stopped being immune to your proximity. That he had never been.

"You're very responsive," you hum, observing aloud as you took mental inventory of every shiver beneath your palm. "I'll need to record that."

You let your fingers trail lower, then shifting aside the low hem of his pants. Not by much, but just enough to access the soft swell beneath—already flushed and rising against the cotton. The tip of his cock strained the fabric—blushed dark, wet with pre-ejaculate, twitching the moment you rest your palm against it, still clothed. The heat was immediate and unmistakable, and the throb beneath your hand only made to worsen it.

He sobs—small and raw: "Nnh—"

"Focus, Kisa," you hum the command with mild disapproval, dragging your hand slowly along the clothed shaft. You move steadily, allowing friction to grow with minimum effort, watching his thighs tense and breathing grow uneven. "I need to access your sensory recovery window. Can you be good for me while I test your limits?"

A whimper catches in his throat, and he nods again, this time more frantic than the last. His hands flex within cuffs, tendons straining.

"I'll be good—" he breathes. "I'll be so—so good—please don't stop—"

You don't answer. Instead, you hook your fingers onto his waistband and drew the fabric down his thighs in one smooth motion. His cock springs free in an instant—flushed to the tip and heavy with arousal. A thin thread of slick clung to his slit, already beading again. It glistened under harsh laboratory light, seemingly out of place in such a sterile environment.

You take in the sight of him—flush heavy at the tip, already weeping. His hips jolt against your touch, breath catching on something like desperation and fear, yet fully aroused in seconds.

When you close your gloved fingers around him—firm and intentional—he gasps, whole body jerking against the restraints as his hips instinctively lift, chasing for more friction. You gave him none.

"Ah—d-doctor, wait—!"

But you didn't.

Your free hand trails down, fingers grazing the taught skin beneath until you reached the vulnerable space behind his balls. Experimentally, you press your thumb against the tight ring of muscles there and felt his body flinch, trying to both pull away and lean into contact all at once.

"Kisa," his moniker came as a low warning, controlled, yet intimate by force of habit. "I need you to relax."

"I—I can't—ah—!" he stutters, thighs trembling deeper and spasming beneath your hold. "nngh, please, I—I'm sorry!—"

"But you will." Your grip slightly tighten around him as you spoke, just enough to remind him who was in control. His cock twitched again, leaking more freely now, dripping over your gloved knuckles. Every breath he took came out staggered, half-lost between a moan and a sob. "You're going to take everything I give you, no matter how much you think you can't."

The words didn't register as cruelty, you knew that. Not to him, of all people.

He moaned then—loud, unguarded, and utterly desperate.

Not just from arousal, or from relief, or from the unbearable intimacy of finally being touched: from the feeling of being seen again—not through one-way glass or filtered reports, but by your hands, your voice, your intention.

And so despite the restraints or protocol, his body leans into every inch of you it could reach, like hands aching towards a fire they know will burn.

You press further.

Your fingers tease the tight ring at his entrance again, this time with more purpose—gloved digits slicked by his own arousal where it dribbled down the length of his cock, pooling warm beneath him.

He tenses under your touch, every muscle drawn taut as a wire, every inch of him trying hard not to buck. His breath came ragged now, dampening the edge of his collarbone.

The rise of his chest had become an uneven flutter—each inhale sharp, and each exhale caught between surrender and panic, like his body didn't know how to process pleasure delivered so precise and expertly.

You move again, sliding slow over the slick length of him—one hand curling around the flushed hand while the other continued to drift deeper, two gloved fingers circling around that tight, trembling ring between his legs.

"Doctor—!" he gasps—high and guttural—the sound wet with disbelief. His muscles clench right then, trying to resist the instinct to flinch away from that vulnerable pressure, but even more terrified of you stopping.

"Kisa," again, you remind him, "if you tense like that, you'll make this worse for yourself."

His thighs only twitch in response, spread wide against the braces. Helpless. He breathes in sharply, a shuddering inhale that trembles through his spine, and tries—truly tries—to relax for you.,

You feel it the moment his body gives up its resistance: a subtle drop in tension, a low, ragged breath—and so you press in, just a single finger—slow and firm.

He cries out.

The sound itself isn't loud, neither is it meant to be. It's a broken gasp behind gritted teeth, tears already forming from the sudden invasion and pressure. Poor thing doesn't even register the way his cock twitches against his abdomen, drooling another thick strand across his navel.

"Too much?" you ask softly, but it's not a real question. You curl your finger just enough to feel him clench again, then settle.

He shakes his head again, cheeks flushed deep red, eyes glassy. "No-No please—I want—!"

He chokes.

His cock pulses violently in the space between his thighs—so swollen now, flushed dark and slick from constant stimulation. You don't stroke it yet, you only watch it—watch the way it jumps helplessly with every curl of your fingers, every slow twitch inside him.

His mouth moves soundlessly now, lips forming words that don't get past his ruined voice. his head lolls back against the headrest, exposing the long line of his throat, which shines faint with sweat.

"You're holding back." you murmur, more observation than scold. "Why?"

"I—" he sobs, throat raw. "I—I'm trying not to—ah!—please don't stop—!"

His desperation is intoxicating, truthfully; so you hum, slow and approving. Your fingers move again, deeper this time—curling slow, coaxing against the place that makes his whole body jerk.

He screams; not in pain, or fear, for that matter. It's the sound of a man being undone at the seams by your touch.

His cock twitches violently again—leaking freely now, so wet and ruddy it almost shines, painting obscene trails down his stomach with every movement of his hips.

Your other hand steadily moves to tightly grip the base of it. He nearly breaks.

His body bucks against the restraints, arms yanking instinctively against the cuffs. The chair creaks beneath him. His moans are wet, strangled, shameless. Nothing about him is still anymore.

His voice cracks when he speaks. "F-fuck, I can't—Doctor, I—"

"You can." you interrupt, your words like poisoned honey oozing sweetly down his throat. "You're doing so well, Kisa. You want me to see how far you've come, don't you?"

He nods too hard. You can feel his cock throb wildly against your palm.

"Yes—yes, please, I want—I want to be good, I am—I can be—"

His voice fractured again when you slid a third finger fully inside him, slow. Merciless. His flushed hole clutched greedily around the intrusion, twitching, straining. You watched his face closely—the way his eyes fluttered open just barely, glassy and unfocused, glasses damp, mouth parted like he'd forgotten how to speak.

You pumped your hand around his cock in tandem with the fingers moving inside him, curling slightly upward with each pass. Each motion drew out another weak sob, another gasp that scraped the air with need so thick it was filthy.

You were breaking him, and he hadn't even came yet.

Every twitch of your wrist made his thighs spasm against the chair, bound but reactive—like a livewire tethered to an impossible current. His cock leaked faster now, coating your knuckles in a mess that slicked the rhythm of your wrist and made the obscene sounds of your stroking echo against the walls.

"Kisa," you hum, smiling faintly, "where's your focus?"

"O-on you," he cries, trembling and struggling to speak, "you, you—you—nghAH?!"

You rewarded the obedience: a long, deliberate drag of your palm from the flushed based to the swollen head—firm, gloved fingers milking the slick that spilled freely now, painting your grip in a sheen of his helplessness—even as your other hand twisted inside him, hitting that molten place again, then again, until his cry peaked sharp enough to echo off the sterile tiles.

His legs jerk. The restraints catch, steel groaning under the strain of his convulsing thighs. His cock pulses furiously in your grip, twitching between the wet slick of your palm and the clench of your gloved fingers milking his prostate.

He sobs like its being wrung out of him.

"That's right," you coo, sweet and merciless, "I'm here. You just have to open for me, Kisa."

He does, with his body split around your fingers, flushed and helpless, the muscle of his abdomen jumping with press into his weak spot. His hole spasms visibly now, fluttering around the stretch like it's struggling to keep you in.

So sensitive. So utterly, ruined.

His whimper is a broken thing, some dying creature of a sound dragged from the base of his throat. "I—I—can't—please—Doctor, I—"

To that? You simple reply: "You will."

You twist your wrist once, then again, just at the head—just enough to make him cry out with a ruined sob. Your fingers inside him move deeper now, purposely, grinding slow and unrelenting against the spot that makes his whole body shudder and jolt. He spasms violently, cock pulsing in your grasp, and you feel his thighs jerk in raw protest—too much, too much, too much—

"No—no, I—!" he screams—sharp, feral, and desperate.

It should be enough to bring most men to the brink- But you? You just don't let him.

You tighten your grip at the base, cruel and steady, choking the orgasm in his body like a noose pulled taut. His back arches off the chair, spine bowed with tension as every nerve in his body lights up and collapses inward.

His cock throbs wildly in your hold, slick spilling in hot pulses that never quite crest into release. He shrieks now, open and ruined and gorgeous.

"Not yet," you simply remind him, "You don't cum until I say."

He thrashes, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry. His cock jumps uselessly, whole body trembling in overstimulated need, trapped in the knife edge between climax and arrival. Every breath he takes is a stuttered sob, raw and begging.

"You'll stay here," you say, "on the edge. Until I've gathered enough data."

A cracked sound escapes him, half a sob, half a plea. The restraints groan for the nth time. You wonder, vaguely, if the chair will survive the session.

Then again, he might not.

You lean in, your breath hot at the edge of his sweat-slick jaw.

"You want to be a good test subject, don't you?" you ask, and though your voice is soft, it lands like a fist.

He nods violently, eyes wide, glassy with tears and adrenaline and unreleased pleasure.

“Y-Yes, yes, please, I—please, let me—anything, I’ll do anything—!”

“You’ll do everything,” you correct, your mouth against his skin now, lips grazing the pulse hammering at his throat.

His agreement is barely intelligible now—cracked syllables slurring through gasps, drowned by the wet, humiliating noises spilling from every part of him. Your fingers never still, not entirely. The slow twist inside him continues, anchoring his consciousness to a singular point of unbearable sensitivity.

Your grip at the base of his cock remains cruel and fixed—halting every desperate spasm in his shaft with firm, practiced expertise. There’s no rhythm anymore; no build-up, no climax—only the constant, maddening plateau of denied release, the blistering edge of pleasure that cannot be resolved. His body isn’t used to this, not this level of sustained tension, not this degree of prolonged exposure.

“Still green?” you ask, almost idly, thumb rolling against his perineum with an agonizing slowness. You feel the shudder roll through him like a wave through glass—fragile, unspeakably tense.

“Yes,” he sobs. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m still—ah!—please—!”

“Good.” You press your palm to his chest, feeling the frantic, fluttering tempo of his heart beneath sweat-slick skin. “Then we continue.”

You lean forward—close enough now that the edge of your lab coat brushes his knees., close enough that he can feel your breath against the crown of his cock. He twitches violently, a cry catching in his throat at the possibility—that maybe you’ll finally give him what his body’s been pleading for in choked, raw sobs.

But you don’t. Of course not.

Instead, you drag your teeth slowly up the inside of his thigh.

The whimper he makes is gut-wrenching. It's not just the sound of desire, it’s grief—the hollow ache of someone who knows he’s not being touched, but toyed with—and still, his body obeys, because that’s what it’s been trained to do, that’s what you taught it to do. He shivers, hips trying to rut upwards, to chase even the illusion of contact.

You press a warning kiss to the base of his cock—slow and obscene.

He screams. “Doctor—Doctor—please, I—I’m gonna—if you don’t let me—”

“No,” you continue to deny him. “You’re not.”

Your hand slides lower again, until your fingers hook around the backs of his knees and force them further apart. His restraints creak in protest, thighs trembling violently at the strain, every inch of exposed skin flushed red, glistening, twitching in anticipation and horror.

You remove your hand from his cock.

His breath hitches.

“No—nononono, please, please—!”

He's beyond shame or coherence now. There's drool at the corner of his mouth and sweat collecting at his temples. His cock jerks against his stomach, untouched and swollen to the point of agony—weeping, still. The head is flushed purple, pre-cum dripping in fat strands now that cling to his navel, his thighs, your gloves.

"Do you know what happens," you ask slowly, "when the nervous is overstimulated without release?"

He barely hears you, caught in his own wreckage— but you continue anyway, the words for yourself, not him.

"Neural signals start to loop. The threshold between pain and pleasure dissolves. Sensation become distorted, and you lose the ability to tell where your body ends and the stimulus begins."

You run two fingers between his thigh and pelvis—slow, teasing, never quite touching where he aches. He flinches, noise escaping him like a dying breath.

"Do you feel it, Kisa?"

He chokes, and tries to speak but fails. Instead he nods, violently.

"Yes—you—so much—so much, I—!"

"Good."

You kneel between his legs, positioning yourself with practiced ease, a breath away from full contact. You press your gloved fingers back to his entrance, now gaping, twitching, wet with the slick of his prior arousal. He sobs again at the contact.

This time, you don't press in right away.

You trace circles around the rim instead, slow, firm, and methodical. His hips try to buck but the restraints hold him in place. His cock is so flushed now it looks like it might bruise. Every twitch pulses more slick from the slit—his whole body begging to be touched.

“I—I can’t—Doctor, I—”

“That wasn’t a question.” Your voice cuts cleanly through his stammering, steady and cold, like a scalpel laid to the throat. “You’ll endure it. Because I said so.”

He gasps, choked, panicked—and nods, almost violently. His hips jerk against your hand in a helpless, involuntary twitch.

You study him then—his trembling thighs, the way his cock jumps with each pulse of blood, his flushed, tear-damp face—and offer the faintest curve of a smile.

How adorable he looks in this state.

"You'll endure," you add, matter-of-factly, "or I'll find new ways to make the point stick."

“I—I'll endure,” he gasps, nearly choking on the words. “I swear—I’ll—”

“Good,” you cut in, “then don’t waste my time with begging.”

You push in.

Two fingers, at first—then three, then four.

The stretch is brutal. It's really no surprise when he shrieks the moment you insert your fourth digit.

His body convulses beneath you, every muscle locking tight in revolt—but you don’t stop. Not until your hand is almost to the knuckle, your palm flush against the curve of his ass and your thumb gently stroking along the ridge of stretched muscle. He can’t think. Can’t breathe. The pressure is devastating. His cock kicks violently before your eyes, and you feel it—feel the orgasm try to rise again, only for your grip to shut it down once more.

The reaction is immediate—limbs drawn taut, throat clicking on a breath that never quite becomes sound. A broken cry tears from his throat, half-swallowed and raw.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just his cock exploding in your grip, untouched, thick streams of cum painting both your gloves and his stomach in hot, frantic spurts that seem to go on forever. His whole body seizes, head thrown back, throat raw, mouth stretched wide in a silent cry.

You never gave permission.

So, you decide to tighten your hand around the base again. How cruel.

He sobs through the overstimulation, tears streaking down his face, his body shaking like something short-circuited. His hole clenches wildly around your fingers, drawing you in, milking nothing. His cock continues to twitch, helplessly, hopelessly, sticky and leaking and empty.

With an unreadable expression, you lean in again, your breath cool against the heat of his flushed skin.

"There it is," you mutter, more to yourself than him. "threshold reached. Now we see how long you last."

He shudders, unfocused and wrecked, tears streaking down his temples. His body spasms in small, residual twitches—unspent and overwhelmed.

You make a note on the clipboard beside you, then glance back down at him.

“No breaks.”

Fresh gloves now in place, your touch returns—unhurried, exacting, and pitiless in its intent.

..the experiment continues.

#reblogs #suri's ramblings #suri's lovely moots<3

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