#kechiwriteskinktober

[kechiwrites]

property lines

dark!steve rogers x neighbour!reader

kinktober countdown: day two (facefucking).

synopsis: your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject.

wc: 2.2k

cw: dark content, non con, oral (male receiving), femme language + afab!reader, pet names, internal victim blaming, pet names (sweetheart), a touch of misogyny

author’s note: day 2 brings us more dark!steve, i fear i may be incapable of writing him sincerely. he’s just a little too perfect. I like to take off a bit of the shine. thank you @katsukikitten u r my muse.

Your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Mostly because you can’t be sure if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s just overly friendly. Maybe it’s the signals you give off, bringing a plate of thick, sweet, cheesecake brownies over to the recently sold house next door, hoping to make a new connection. Suburbia can be isolating, and with all of your friends shaking ass in the city, you need to branch out. It really isn’t the kind of home you figured a single man like Steven Grant Rogers would buy, but then again, you lived in your suburban palace alone, willed to you by your late grandmother and only in need of a few renovations.

He’d been so bright, when you first met him, with a perfect white smile and twinkling blue eyes. He’d been happy to accept the desserts, even happier to return the plate a day later, extolling the praise he and his poker buddies lauded on you over the taste. You’d shrugged it off, “The least I could do for a neighbour. I’m just glad you all liked them.” 

Secretly though, the compliments had thrilled you, especially once you’d gotten a glimpse at the aforementioned “poker buddies”, the whole lot of them, handsome, built, big. All too happy to fix leaky pipes and paint fences in exchange for chocolate cream pie or a dish of homemade lasagna. But Steven  - “Steve, please”  -  was your most loyal customer, always lending a hand, pausing during his early morning jog to check up on you while you watered your flower beds, asking how your book is going, what you do in that “big old house all by yourself” when you aren’t working on “the next great American novel”, of course (his words, not yours).

It’s fine at first, a little disarming to be at the centre of his white hot attention, burning your flesh like he had you under a magnifying glass on a perfect sunny day. But eventually it’s not fine, eventually Steve Rogers takes more and more steps over the property line of overly friendly and into the front yard of wildly overbearing. Eventually, Mr. Rogers insists on weekly visits, popping into your house by using the spare key under the mat he shouldn’t even know about. Slinging his muscled arm over you during the neighbourhood block party, and your neighbour’s son’s 5th birthday party, and the Fourth of July barbeque. He fixes your car without you asking, brings in your groceries when he sees you unloading them in your driveway, brings your mail to you during his daily jog. It’s helpful sometimes, yes, but it’s also suffocating. And you were going to set him straight. You were! But it’s hard, hard to stare into the face of a suburban god, the literal king of the neighbourhood and tell him no. It’s hard to tell him that he’s making you uncomfortable, that you’d like for him to stop being so goddamn friendly all the time. 

So maybe a little of it is your fault. Maybe you should’ve been clearer on your boundaries. Maybe, when handsome, strapping Mr. Rogers came to your front door to ask you to essentially cater one of his poker nights, you shouldn’t have stayed to serve the food, playing happy little housewife in front of Steve’s friends, bringing them cold beers from the fridge and sitting next to Steve, playfully making faces at his hand, then plating up dessert when he asked you to. But it felt good to have his attention. His favour. So when “the boys” start to head home, laying praise and amazement at your feet, you’re sufficiently buttered up for Steve to ask yet another favour of you. It’s not much, of course. Just a little help with cleanup. Then he’ll escort you home himself. After all, there are some real sickos out there.

So you agree. What’s the harm, right?

The harm, it just so happens, comes quickly after you finish drying the dishes Steve washes. You slide the last plate, towel dried as best you could, into his cabinets, sighing in contentment at a job well done. The harm is when Steve turns you around and presses you against the sink, water soaking into the back of your blouse, making the fabric cling to your skin. You stay there for a minute, not processing what’s happening, ready to laugh off another inappropriate joke from Steve. 

You don’t really get the chance.

Two heavy hands clap down on your shoulders, exerting pressure on you until you crumple to the floor, knees hitting the tile of Steve's kitchen painfully. You yelp, struggling against him, pressing, then beating your fist against his tree trunk legs. 

"Stev-" you choke on his name when your neighbour unzips his trousers before you, undoes the fly of the pair you helped him pick out, with him bent over your shoulder while you held his phone, his front pressed close to your back. Pulls his half hard dick out of pants starched and pressed with the iron he'd borrowed from you because his was "on the fritz" again. 

"Open up." He cajoles, and you pin him with an incredulous, confused stare. No. No. This is all wrong. He doesn’t act like that. Steve Rogers isn’t like that.

The hand he doesn't use to stroke himself grabs your jaw, squeezing until you open your mouth, squeezing til it hurts. A sharp, purposeful punch of his hips is all it takes for him to make use of the opening. All it takes to put every little joke, boundary crossing, and stray touch into startling, horrifying perspective.

“It was the baking.” He whispers above you. “Peggy never baked, which was fine.” He sighs above you like he isn’t pistoning his cock deep into your throat with reckless abandon. “But I missed it, y’know? And you, you bake how angels ought to, sweetheart.” 

Tears stream down your face while Steve uses you, dragging your dazed, crying face back and forth on his hard-on. On a particularly strong thrust, he broaches your throat. Your eyes roll up, until he can barely see the perimeter of your irises, and you warble out a miserable moan, begging, all while wrapped around his dick, for a reprieve. Your head is pinned to the counter behind you, and even though you shove against the muscle of his thighs, Steve brooks no quarter.

“Just take it,” he coos, like he wants you to swallow cough syrup, “it’ll be over soon.” his breath stutters when your lips brush against his balls. Steve moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head, keeping you as close as possible when he comes down your throat, groaning in pleasure while you struggle to swallow stream after bitter stream of his seed, lest you choke on it or fucking drown. 

He finally releases you, and you pull back so fast you bang the back of your head on his pristine white counters. The pain radiates through your scalp, grounding you in the moment, cementing you to the spotless linoleum floor of Steve Rogers’ kitchen. You’re both panting, eager to fill your lungs with gulps of air. 

“Whew.” He sighs, hands on his hips, like that took a lot out of him. “I didn’t mean to get so rough with you, just didn’t expect the struggle.” He chuckles, patting you on the head. “But you settled down quick, didn’t ya?” His tone takes on…contentment? Happiness? 

No. That’s not quite right. 

It’s pride. Steve is looking down at you, your spit and cum slick mouth, the weepy, watery state of your eyes, and the disarray of the hair he’d used as a handle, with pride.

Your stomach roils.

He bends low and you flinch away from him, smacking your head on the countertop again. He cocks his head at the involuntary movement, and smiles at you. A familiar, warm thing. One that made your heart flutter with pleasure, beat fast with your own surge of pride when he accepted a pie, or offered a compliment. Now it does the same, your heart speeds up, your palms itch curiously, and your brain doesn’t know if you’re happy or sad. Doesn’t know if it craves those smiles anymore. 

“Just wanna set you on your feet. C’mon.” He speaks quietly, like he’s soothing a frightened animal, and hooks his hand under your armpits, heaving you up with the same startling strength he'd used to face fuck the fight out of you.

“It’s okay.” You bleat, voice as wobbly and unstable as the pair of legs struggling to keep you upright. And it’s not, it’s far from okay, the taste of him lingers in the back of your throat and if you think about it for even a second more you’ll throw up all over his shiny floors, on those godforsaken pants.

“I admit,” he laughs, ducks his head with that small town charm he does so well, “I wanted to last longer. But you were too good.” He winks at you, like you share a secret. Like you’re in league with each other.

He staring, waiting for you to say something, arches a brow like it’s your line and you’re fucking up the show.

But there it is again, that smile, sunny and open, and so pristine.

“Let’s get you home.” He herds you towards his front door, hand glued to the small of your back, his pinky finger stroking the skin exposed by the riding up of your still wet shirt. The two of you walk into the balmy summer air, and the spaces in between the black night, punctuated with the occasional white streetlight, designate your path home. Some of your neighbours’ houses are still illuminated, their warm yellow windows denoting the presence of life. You wonder what goes on behind their doors, you wonder if someone is having a good night somewhere close to you.

You come across your door faster than you were prepared for, the cheery yellow paint job Steve and James had done for caramel apple pie, mocks you. The way he’d smiled in your face, touched you, laughed. Steve shifts next to you, holding onto your extensive tower of pyrex and tupperware, for an instant your blood runs cold at the prospect of Steve inviting himself in, like he’s done so many times before. Not to bring in groceries or put together a dresser, but to pin you prone to the carpet of your bedroom and smile at you.

“So!” He turns, “Same time next week?” You gawk at him, and when you don’t say or do anything, he stoops and slides your extra keys out from under your Garfield emblazoned doormat. The jingle of two, simple metal keys against the little bell shaped key-chain makes your head pound, your blood boil. He unlocks the door, and gestures for you to take a step indoors. You raise both hands, palms upturned so he can give the keys back, so you can hide them, or melt them, or flush them down the toilet. Instead, you get to watch him slip the key-ring into his pocket, before he places your dishes into your uplifted open palms. “I gotta say, the lemon bars were a hit.” He tweaks your nose between his thumb and forefinger, his compliment tempered by the greedy shine in his eyes. You nearly scratch your own eyes out when you get that pleased, soft tingle in your chest.

He smiles and you salivate. He compliments you and your heart responds. He’s proud and your brain tells you ‘I’m happy’.

Why hasn’t it gone away? Will it ever go away?

“Maybe those brownies again, the cream cheese ones?” His voice is hopeful, soft and pliant, like he’s worried you’ll say ‘no’.

Like there’s a world where he’d take no for an answer.

You nod, a jerky, quick gesture that rattles your brain around in your skull. “Sure. Yeah.” You answer, sweaty hands slipping against tempered glass and plastic lids. “Yes. Brownies.” Steve beams, clapping his hands together, once, loud, drawing your eyes to the brutish width of them.

“Fantastic. I can’t wait.” He jogs down your front steps, and the fist secured around your lungs loosens with every step he takes away from you. He pauses at the side walk, one foot still on your property, the other poised to leave it.

“We make a great team. Don’t we?” He turns to you, and this time, he isn’t smiling. This time, his eyes cut through the night and the streetlight and the foggy haze of misfortune clouding your brain.

And the fear finally comes.

You kick your door closed, and you lock your door, and you drop your pyrex and tupperwear and serving spoons in the sink and you lock your windows and you get into bed, still dressed for a poker night you had no business being at, and you pull the covers up and up and over your face.

But the fear doesn’t go away.

And neither will your neighbour.

god i want him so bad. tomorrow, captain soap.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

support city girls who bought $50 of baked cheesecake today, reblog what you like.

[kechiwrites]

tepid

nanami kento x reader! kinktober countdown day 7 (b d s m)

synopsis: “I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

wc: 2.8k

cw: fem + afab!reader but no gendered language, bdsm + D/s dynamics, sex worker!reader, salary man!kento, angst, potentially unrequited love, mentions of unprotected sex, begging, oral sex (m!receiving), jealousy, bondage, brat-taming, toys, mdni.

author's note: FINALLY DONE. JESUS. writing/doing research for medic reader x ghost, then touched starved konig, really impressed on me how powerful saying a man’s name can be. they love that shit. thank you to kitten for proofing and to ketsl + kee for helping originate this story and giving me tiktoks as fuel.

The waitress places a teacup in front of you, plain white, with a matching saucer. The steam of which coils upwards and dissipates before it can graze your chin. Your posture is upright, but not rigid and Kento finds himself correcting his slouch to mirror you. Your ‘thank you’ to her is accompanied with a blindingly bright smile, visibly jarring the waitress, who must face the gruff, deep terseness of truckers all day. She smiles back, turning and retreating with a lighter step than when she came.

Your grin tapers down to a lukewarm smile when you face him again, and it makes Kento ache, though for what, he’s not quite sure. “I think we should start with what you’re looking for, Nanami.”

Your words from the week before ring in his mind;

He brought his champagne flute to yours, eyes twinkling under the ballroom’s low lighting. The blue of your dress is nearly black, and it wraps your figure perfectly, cresting over hip and thigh as though it was made for you. Hell, with the average tax bracket of the guests surrounding the two of you, it could’ve been. 

“And what is it you do?” his question seems to startle you for a moment, and your eyes swing to the side of him, looking for your date, he presumes. Quickly, however, you school your features into a warm kind of indifference. 

“There are people who need to cede their control, to relax. And people who want control ceded to them by someone. I’m that someone.” You bring your glass to your bottom lip, drinking deeply, to avoid further explanation, or to buy yourself time, Kento isn’t sure. Still, the realization of what you mean, what your career is, and potentially why you’re here, sends a tingle down his spine, curls warm and heavy in his stomach. Urges him to take your business card when it’s offered, and make the arrangements to meet with you a week later.

“I’m looking for someone to give me control.” He expects his statement to draw some sort of response out of you, but your face remains placid and cool, the only hint that he’s said anything, the gentle upcurve at the corner of your lips. Kento finds himself wanting to muss up your curated exterior, wants to crush that tepid facade under the rough surface of his fingers.

“I’m sure I can help you with that.”

He settles for tearing at the napkin under his coffee mug.

✧

When you meet again, it’s to discuss your terms. Time with you costs a pretty penny and if Kento was so dead set on what he had pitched in the diner, he was looking at a very extended payment plan. 

He drags his spoon across the bottom of his coffee cup, stirring at the remaining sugar, unmelted at the bottom. He’d added it too late. He hates that. 

“How long will you need me, Kento?” You ask. You keep saying his name, over and over. 

“Do you frequent this place often, Kento?”

“Have you done this before, Kento?” 

“Do you know what you want, Kento?”

It drives him crazy, gives him this frantic itch at the back of his knee so bad that it makes him jostle the limb, like he’s a dog, eager for a treat. For attention.

It’s that itch that keeps him from saying “forever”. From insisting on something he just knows you can’t give. 

“Three months. I want three months. Not everyday, just-”

“Regularly.“ you cut him off. “I understand, Kento.” Your smile is so sweet. Unmelted crystals of sugar, smeared between your nose and chin.

“No one else.” He mutters, chin tucked to his chest, gaze snagged on the candy red linoleum, where he rereads the same scratched in message. 

‘thee hotties were here.’

It forces an exhale out of his nose, and when he can finally bring himself to stare at you, he’s relieved to see the smile you gave the waitress. But this time, it’s for him.

“No one else.” You agree. And Kento feels like he’s breathing for the first time since he sat down.

✧

“So…” Kento tests one of the straps holding your limbs in place. It’s thick, dark, leather, the expensive kind you have to order from a specialty shop in Amsterdam. 

“So…” you respond, and you’re on your knees, nearly naked, at the foot of the lush, grand hotel bed (neutral ground, you’d said) and Kento is above you, standing, not naked. But you have the power here, you’re the one with experience, with stories, with the do’s and the don’t’s, and the not ever’s, not even once.

It’s not quite what he envisioned, and it’s nothing like the porn he watched. But you with that wide belt around your waist? With matching cuffs attached, cuffs that he helped you put your ankles into, that he secured the buckles for? It’s better. Better than the wet dreams and the research and the tight fist around the base of his cock the day after you first spoke in the diner. 

He crosses his arms and just stares, eating up the visual. 

“What?” You ask, wetting your bottom lip with your tongue. “You don’t like attitude?”

And he doesn’t know what he likes. But he knows he wants to learn. 

You start slow, taking him through the motions, explaining what exactly you have experience with, what both of your limits are, what his safe word should be, what he wants out of this.

And then, after all the discussion is said and done, he fucks your throat on and off for an hour.

After session one, you and Kento decide on twice a week.

✧

It turns out, Kento does not like “attitude”. But he does like reform. Likes for you to start sessions with a foul mouth, with rolling eyes and put upon sighs and ribs about him being an old man. Then he likes to fuck it out of you. Overwork your body until the only thing you can do is tremble underneath his palms. He likes to use his knee to press a wand to your clit until you soak the thigh of his dress pants, then he likes to up the setting from two to four and watch your chest cave in on itself. 

He likes to guide your limbs into a spreader bar and slide his tongue from the cleft of your ass to your clit. Adores watching you count the strokes of his dick inside you when your bent in half so he can fuck you in a mating press.

Kento likes the way your skin looks against shiny black leather and pristine white bed sheets. He likes how you look in lacey lilac lingerie with his favourite tie stuffed in your mouth. 

But above all, Kento loves how you look with his hands on you, on your throat, across your back, guiding your head down, or your hips up. His fingers inside you, his palm wrapped around your wrists, his forearms holding up your thighs. 

You make the dwindling amount in his savings worth it. 

You make his nights seem less lonely.

You give him something to look forward to.

✧

It’s nearly a month into your arrangement. Nine sessions, nine nights in the same hotel room, or one that looks exactly like it. Nine meetings in the lobby, nine instances of you looping your arm around Kento’s and walking together to the front desk, then to the elevators. Nine times Kento has peered over your shoulder and into the large leather purse you bring with you every time, eager to see what you’ve planned for him today. It’s always a surprise, unless he’s looked something up and texted it to you, or gotten something express shipped. 

But this time, the tenth time, things are different. This time he meets you at the station by his apartment, at 6 PM on the dot. This time when you walk arm in arm, he gets eight glorious minutes of it. This time, he doesn’t have to check in with the front desk receptionist with the icy eyes and disingenuous smile who always seems to be working when Kento rents a room. 

This time, you've both taken adequate measures, sharing clear bills of health and a firm set of boundaries, everything in place for Kento to forgo condoms for the first time. The hotel you regularly use for your sessions just didn’t seem concrete enough, felt hopelessly sterile, anonymous. And Kento likes to think you like him just a little bit more than your average hotel room client.

He has to think that way, or he’d never have the courage to see you again.

So at his behest, you’re in his space, in his drab beige and white apartment and he can hardly believe it. You drape your jacket over the back of one of his unremarkable dining chairs, and the sleek brown leather simultaneously blends in and stands out, he eyeballs it, while you look around, hears you comment on the amount of books he has everywhere, but he can’t respond, can’t part his gaze from the indelible foreignness of your things in his home. And when you catch him staring at the coat before he can casually look away, you fret aloud.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Kento. Should I have hung it up?” He watches you frown, your eyebrows coming together, separated by a miniscule wrinkle. He’s never seen that expression on you before.

He shakes his head, head already in a daze. You’re a worrier. You wring your hands. 

He hadn’t known that.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets closer, tears his eyes from your clothing and approaches. Instead of assuring you he doesn’t mind, could not care less, the salaryman puts his hands on you, watches you sink into familiar territory, watches your eyes darken and your lips part and Kento Nanami nearly preens when you shiver. 

“I’ll feed you.” He speaks softly, and he kisses you. Then quickly amends; “After.”

And it might be too much. Too intimate, to share a meal after you let him smack you across the face, and wrap his hand around your throat, and press his thumb over your tongue and fuck you unprotected.

But he doesn’t care.

And neither, it seems, do you.

“After.” You repeat. “Sounds good.” 

And you smile.

✧

Three days after his tenth session with you, he sees you, outside, in regular clothing, not a ball gown or lingerie or nothing at all, but in a black t-shirt and baggy, soft looking jeans, and you’re blinking and smiling and laughing with some man. You’re in a coffee shop across from his workplace, and he can see you from his office’s window. (They’re small time, only on the second floor of a mega-corporation building, and up until that very moment, he had liked being able to see other people from his cubicle).

The man gets up, and Kento hopes he stumbles into the street and gets hit by a car, not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough that he can’t leave the hospital for a few days. 

He returns shortly, with a drink for you, in a large white to-go cup. You don’t ask him anything. Don’t check the cup for details, you just take a sip and smile, slow and satisfied.

Kento blows out a large breath, turns to his desk and fishes out a small, amber pill bottle boasting the illegible, worn-down name of a medication ending in -loft or -pril or -pene. He tips it directly into his mouth, crunching down on two pills before he chucks the bottle across the room.

Kento doesn’t know how you take your coffee. If you even drink it at all. You had tea at the diner, and he was so busy with his own drink, with his own neurosis, he doesn’t remember what you added. 

He calls you. Watches you pick up the phone and excuse yourself to the street outside.

Now, you meet four times a week. He starts doing overtime again.

✧

“Say it.” All the lights are off in your bedroom, save a salt lamp glowing pink on your end table in the corner. It hadn’t stopped Kento from eating up every detail of how you lived with his eyes. He saw the few pieces of underwear you’d shoved under your bed. The one pot of soup? Pasta sauce? You’d left unwashed on your stovetop. The framed picture of you and your mother or aunt or older cousin on your overstuffed dresser.

It had to be one of those. The resemblance was undeniable. 

“Please.” You gasp, and wrench up off your bed, trying in vain to fight against the thick leather restraints keeping you spread eagle before him. The rabbit vibrator inside is blush pink and vibrating at full speed so deep inside you, twisted so it won’t touch your clit.

“You’re better than that, you beg better than that. Don’t make me drag it out of you. Beg. Me.” Kento can hear himself, can hear just how untethered, frayed he sounds. Every downward strike of his hand against your inner thighs is accompanied by a flash of you sipping from that godforsaken off-white coffee cup and smiling like the man from the coffee shop understands you, warm, comfortable. 

Does he know who the woman in the photo with you is? 

“Ken, Sir. Please, please let me come. I’m sorry for being a brat. Please.”

“Who gives you what you need?” He crouches down, sliding a finger along the straining line of your throat. Your lips are slick with your own spit, he’d enjoyed the gag for a bit, but your voice desperately warbling his name would always be better than the visual stimulation. Tear tracks have dried at the corners of your eyes, remnants of the first orgasm he’d ruined for you.

You are so goddamn pretty.

“You do.” You hiss, body arched and shaking, as if you could move the vibrator yourself if you fidgeted enough. He could hear how wet you were, could see beads of sweat pearl on your heated skin,

“Always?”

“Always.” 

✧

Meals after, sometimes before, become a regular occurrence. Usually Kento cooks for you. Sometimes you cook for him. Once, and never again, you got to his place before him, hefting a paper bag of groceries he insisted on compensating you for. When you called him, he had only a few minutes left at work, and the station was so close. So he told you where he kept his extra key. Told you to let yourself in. And you had. 

And when Kento got home, bone tired and overworked and wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to yours for hours, you welcomed him home. Eyes bright, smile hot and melting and so sincere.

And you had made dinner. For the both of you.

✧

“It was a pleasure serving you Kento.” You’re huddled in a winter coat, and briefly, Kento thinks about how fast the weather turned, how you chatted and teased and charmed a man that wasn’t him in a t-shirt two months ago, and now your arrangement with him is ending and you needed a scarf, and gloves. 

“Mm. I enjoyed our time together.” He feels like a liar, feels like the pills he took before this weren’t enough, He can hear his blood roar in his ears. Cold bites through his coat. His nose is probably red. He hates that, reminds him of being a child, small and out of control and sniffling with a fever, at home, missing school. 

Unmelted sugar in cooling barley tea.

“I…” You peter off, and frown. You stick your hands in your pocket and shrug. “Do you want to hug? I think we should…” You don’t finish that sentence either, you just open your arms at him and approach. Wrap your arms around him and squeeze. And Kento doesn’t like PDA, finds it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he thinks if the two of you stayed on the sidewalk, hugging forever, that would be fine too. He wonders if the people sidestepping around you on the sidewalk think you’re a couple. Think you’re married. 

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He can smell your hair. 

When you finally pull back, you stare at him, eyes wide, mouth tense. So he kisses your lips, and it’s obviously not the first time, he can kiss you whenever he wants, tilt your head back and slide his tongue into your eager, panting mouth when he fucking feels like it. Because he pays for it.

But he didn’t pay for this one. He drinks from your mouth again, once, twice, three times. Sucks and bites at the surface of your bottom lip and he would chew and swallow every bit of expensive Dutch leather you own to do it for the rest of his life.

✧

“Three more months,” he says, when you answer the phone two weeks later, and he can hear his own heartbeat when you don’t immediately respond. 

“I-if you’re sure.” You answer, and it’s the first time you’ve deferred to him outside of play. Gave him an out. No sugar crystal smile in tepid coffee. 

He wishes he could see your face.

“I’m sure.”

so...how are we holding up? :) find the rest of the masterlist here.

[kechiwrites]

kerberos

touya, natsuo, and shoto todoroki x f!reader kinktober countdown day four, (foursomes)

synopsis: "...the air is sucked out of the room, and you’re frozen in place as they move above you, forming a beast overhead, one with a sneering maw, frigid hands and a piercing gaze."

wc: 4k

cw: a dabi-less au, but touya is still a lil fucked up, fem + afab!reader, drunk sex, threats of violence/harm, anal play, fingering, dubcon, foursomes, creampie, oral (m + f receiving), praise, pet names (honey, baby), hair pulling, light choking, degradation, finger-sucking, a little bit of powerplay / dom sub undertones, mdni.

author's note: a fic that didn't make it in time for kinktober last year, finally finished. this originally started as a natsuo fic, but the other boys wanted to play too. (everyone is 20+)

 It sounds like someone’s humming, jovially, quietly, when you stir to consciousness, the alcohol in your system thrumming through your veins, loosening your limbs, making it near impossible to guess the hour. The curtains are drawn in the room, the lights low, leaving the room just bright enough to make out the figure above you. Then, the figure seems to split in three.

“I can't believe you got me to do this with you, and I can't believe you dragged Shouto into it too."

A derisive sounding scoff bounces off the walls, and the bed you're lying on sinks with the weight of someone sitting on it. The voice speaking is so familiar. You know you could place it if the world would just stop spinning so quickly.

“C’mon, you saw the way she flirted with us. She’ll love it. I promise.” Another voice stage whispers. A hand brushes your cheek and you follow it, nestling your face into the calloused palm, opening your mouth when a finger presses against your lips, letting the digit settle on your tongue.

“Cute.” The first voice sighs, and it’s too far away to be whoever is touching you, the person who pushes their thumb (you’re sure of it now) deeper into your mouth.

“Good morning sunshine.” Touya Todoroki smiles down at you, all big hands and white teeth and cerulean eyes that meet yours when you finally rouse from half-consciousness. Your face warms in embarrassment, and you draw back, Touya’s thumb withdrawing from your mouth and leaving it woefully, humiliatingly empty.

Your voice is high and tight in your throat when you finally speak, after your eyes have adjusted to the low light of the room. "Ah. Good morning?" You respond, apprehensive and more than a little startled. When you realize exactly who else is in the room with you, the last few hours of the night flood your mind in an instant.

Arriving at the Todoroki Estate for Shouto’s birthday party, drinking a ridiculous amount of tequila with Mina and Momo, grinding against Bakugo until he had to excuse himself to the bathroom, sidling up to Natsuo and Touya in their little “older brother corner”, pressing your hand to each of their abdomens and giggling before prattling on and on about the “family resemblance” and mumbling something about wanting to see if all Todoroki men had “super huge feet”.

You distinctly remember Touya’s knife-sharp smirk when he grabbed you by the chin and murmured to you, “Ask what you really want to ask, honey.”

You also remember whimpering before blacking out right in front of them, crumpling to the floor.

Jesus, that’s embarrassing. Pretty quickly you reason that they must’ve carried you upstairs, and you couldn’t have been out that long, because you can still hear the party raging on downstairs. Your friends are most likely getting drunk in your absence, assured of your safety stashed away.

“I didn’t mean to pass out like that. I just…” You drift off, peeking at the eldest Todoroki through your eyelashes.

“It's fiiiiine." Touya stretches out the word like a seedy car salesman, giving your eyes time to skip from him to Natsuo by his side, to Shouto, who's leaning against the far bedroom wall. "You know Natsuo wanted to keep you all for himself, wanted to lock you up and knock you up.” Touya laughs at his own joke, elbowing Natsuo in the side and receiving a scowl for his troubles.

"But I convinced him it’s only right to share, after all, he wasn't the one who saw you first."

You hear Natsuo mumble something that sounds suspiciously like "neither did you" before he crowds into your vision too. His face up close is a marvel. Steel gray eyes, clear skin and perfect white teeth.

"Is your head alright?" His fingers lightly graze the back of your head and it takes everything within you to not shiver at his proximity.

"Haven't had any complaints." You hiccup your response without missing a beat.

You are definitely still intoxicated.

Natsuo looks concerned while Touya laughs at your expense. Shouto stays blissfully quiet. And though it’s one of your favourite traits of his, it seems it’s short lived. He pushes off the wall and stands at the foot of bed, bringing all three men into your field of vision for the first time.

“Maybe we should wait. At least until we’re sure she doesn’t have a concussion.” the youngest Todoroki looks you over in concern, his face still typically placid.

You sit at attention, head swimming at the sudden shift in your position.

“Wait for what?”

“For us to give you what you asked for.” Touya intones, brows almost reaching his hairline.

Your palms sweat and your heart thumps in your chest, so loud you worry it can be heard over the pounding bass downstairs.

“I don’t wanna wait.” You mumble it so low you can almost convince yourself you didn’t say it. Like the words appeared out of nowhere, spoken by a stupid, reckless, horny spectre.

Four words.

But apparently, that’s all it takes. The air is sucked out of the room, and you’re frozen in place as they move above you, forming a beast overhead, one with a sneering maw, frigid hands and a piercing gaze.

Natsuo is the first to kiss you, and his skin is so cool, you're surprised you can't see your own breath when you pant a sigh against his lips. His kiss is slow and building, constant, consistent pressure that only stops when he pulls back to stare at your dazed expression. Touya is next, shouldering Natsuo out of the way, his hard on is urgent and searing against your stomach when he plasters himself to your front. Touya crushes his mouth against yours, impatient and searching. If Natsuo is a glacier then Touya is a goddamn wildfire, hot and fast and vicious, all teeth and branding tongue.

Your dress was pretty much non-existent to begin with, strappy black fabric and gold buckles. Natsuo and Touya's hands make quick work of the cloth, stripping you down to your underwear, clothing tossed haphazardly to the ground, discarded, unneeded.

"Are you just going to stand there, Shouto? Because if you wanna watch, that's fine. I just figure our girl here needs as much attention as she can get.” Touya calls over his shoulder, pulling your underwear down your legs. He drops the panties at his brother’s feet while Natsuo circles around you, situating himself behind you so you're reclined between his spread legs, your back resting against his chest instead of the headboard. His fingertips graze a trail in-between your shoulder blades, unhooking your bra, clasp by clasp, pressing a barely there kiss into the middle of your back. You smile at the tenderness of the action even as your brain struggles to catch up with what’s happening.

The moment doesn’t escape Touya’s attention.

There’s an indent between his eyebrows, betraying his irritation.

“Y’know,” He simpers, settling on the bed in front of you, leering, “I feel like my handprint would look so good,” The eldest brother places his open palm over one of your hips, “right here, permanently. It’d only hurt for a minute” You choke on your answer, but it’s not really a question to begin with. His palm heats on your skin and you scramble back further into Natsuo’s chest, letting him wrap his arms around you,

“Touya, don’t be an asshole.” Natsuo bites, his tone acidic, “You’re scaring her.”

“Then why don't you take charge for a bit, little brother?” Over your head, Touya meets his brother’s eyes, his challenge clear.

You can feel Natsuo bristle behind you, his hackles rising at Touya's goading.

"Fine. Touya, why don't you shut the fuck up and tongue her tits for a while?”

The corner of Touya’s lips curl up, before he descends on you as ordered, mouth nibbling, sucking and kissing at the skin of your chest. The piercings decorating the shell of his ears glint back the light from the lone illuminated lamp in the room, blinding you momentarily before Natsuo angles your head upwards, covering your mouth with his own.

He traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, groaning when you open up for him, the cool surface of his palm tightening around your throat. Your nipples pebble under Touya’s attention, he uses his teeth more than anything else, biting and scraping and only soothing the pain when you cry out when it gets to be too much.

“Fuck,” and Natsuo’s voice is already so wrung out despite you barely having done anything, “you like when he hurts you?” He whispers, rubbing his thumb over your cheek repeatedly, a perfect contrast to Touya’s canines on your skin. You nod frantically, letting the second oldest sink his teeth into your bottom lip, then soothe the pain with the tip of his tongue.

Shouto crouches at the foot of the bed, watching his brothers touch you with hooded eyes. “I would’ve done this months ago. If you’d just asked me. But you’re greedy aren't you? I wouldn’t have been enough. You wanted them to fuck you too. Didn’t you?” His eyes never stray from your cunt, his voice is pitched low and so, so quiet, it’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself. You stare at Shouto, jaw dropped in shock at the filth pouring from his mouth, and when he finally drags his eyes from your pussy, it takes only a second for him to shove Touya out of the way and kneel between your thighs.

“I-I.” You stumble over your words, the lingering haze of alcohol weighing your tongue down in your mouth, making you clumsy, needy. You give up on speaking coherently, deciding to just shift lower, spread your thighs further, so Shouto can situate himself in between. He places a hand over your thigh, digging his thumb into the underside, crowding so close you can feel the puff of his breaths against your pussy.

“I won’t touch you until you tell me the truth.” He mutters, and you aren’t sure if he’s telling you or reminding himself. Even with Natsuo behind you, away from view, you know they’re all staring at you, you know they’re all waiting.

And it’s mortifying.

You bob your head in the affirmative, hoping it’ll be enough.

“Say it.” Touya urges, his hand on Shouto’s shoulder, finger digging into the fabric of his brother’s shirt.

The words stick in your throat at first, like your tongue is sitting in your mouth wrong, blocking the admission. “I-I wanted all of you.” Touya whistles saucily, Natsuo smiles into the crown of your head, and Shouto sighs, then he gives in.

“What a slut.” There’s so much blood rushing in your ears you almost miss Touya saying it. Instead, you opt to focus on Natsuo sinking his fingers into your mouth, covering your tongue with the rough, cold surface of his digits.

“Our slut.” Shouto corrects immediately and his tone is so insanely earnest you hiccup a laugh, even with your lips stretched around two of Natsuo’s fingers.

Shouto makes good on his promise immediately, his hand sliding between your legs, palm covering your pussy gently before his calloused fingertips move in a silky slide down your wet folds. Your body breaks out in goosebumps, all while Shouto eases two fingers in and out of you, deceptively quiet, letting the room fill with the sounds of you creaming against his hand. Your breath flees as his fingers thrust just inside your slick heat, teasing you with soft friction. You try so hard to stop yourself from holding your breath, periodically remembering how to inhale.

Your thigh is almost uncomfortably warm where Touya’s head lies, cheek pressed to bare skin. He groans happily as he watches his youngest brother’s fingers disappear into the dripping, tight clutch of your cunt.

“Right.” He murmurs, sinking his teeth into the plush flesh below him. “Ours.”

Shouto drops his head to lave at your clit in sweet, probing circles, making your toes curl and your hips twitch. It’s all you can do to not rip his hair from his head when your hands fist in his red and white locks. Natsuo tugs at the tips of your chest, rolling your already hypersensitive nipples between his fingers. It’s mind altering, how badly you want to come from this, your skin is covered in a fine layer of sweat and you jerk and buck against Touya keeping you held down. It feels as though Shouto is doing everything in his power to keep you lingering right on the edge, balancing the rapidly tying knot in your stomach with your desire to have this go on forever.

“As fun as this is to watch, I’m getting a little impatient here.” You watch as Touya palms himself through his jeans, undoing the fly when he realizes he has your attention again.

“We agreed I’d go first.” Natsuo grunts from behind you and Touya's eyes turn flinty in response but his stare never leaves yours, even as he talks down to his brother.

“Well I’m the oldest, dipshit.”

Natsuo continues groping at your chest until you break eye contact with the eldest Todoroki. Your head hangs down, getting an eyeful of Shouto pulling away, licking the taste of you from his lips. You open your mouth, to thank him? To cuss him out for stopping? You just don’t know and ultimately it doesn't even matter because before you can say anything, Natsuo sinks his teeth into the nape of your neck, biting down so hard he almost breaks skin.

“Fine.” He concedes, and Shouto wordlessly pulls away from you, eyes downcast and disappointed, like he can’t bear to part his mouth from your cunt. You bear down around nothing while Touya replaces Shouto, tapping the already hard tip of his dick against the puffy lips of your pussy. You buck your hips, silently begging him to get on with it, hoping to provoke Touya into action.

“Should I hold her open, little brother? I wouldn’t want either of you to miss me breaking her in.” He slides his thumbs up the lips of your entrance, keeping you exposed while Natsuo grinds the hard column of his cock against the small of your back. The shine in the eldest’s eyes is borderline scary, his gaze strips all artifice, any blustering confidence. Under Touya’s stare it’s not just your body that’s naked, it’s your fucking soul.

God, you’re really drunk.

Touya fists the root of his dick, slipping the angry red tip over your clit, once, twice, teasing you until you tilt your hips, wordlessly pleading with him again to push inside you. Finally, Touya concedes, shoving himself deep all at once, letting the girth of his cock spread you open. You cunt drips its contentment all over his pelvis, the sound of your hips colliding with his almost drowning out your fevered, breathless pleas.

He presses both hands to your shoulders, pushing you impossibly closer to Natsuo, making it absurdly difficult for you to squirm away.

The way Touya fucks you takes you by surprise. He’s slow, maliciously so. The heavy weight of his dick carves into you inch by inch, like he wants you to go insane. It isn't until he’s halfway in that you realize Touya has a piercing, several actually, concealed by the angle he’d had from above. What feels like six stainless steel orbs bracket the underside of his cock, three on each side. They’re not massive, thank god, so the sensation is barely perceptible at first, but once he’s finally all the way in, his hips flush with yours, the metal nudges and presses against the spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars. You dig your fingernails into his shoulder and when he smirks at you, you struggle to not bite the motherfucker. It’s clear he takes pride in the overwhelmed and impatient expression on your face, keeping his predatory glare on you while he grinds in deeper, not stopping until your eyes turn skyward.

He barely thrusts in and out, opting instead to pick and prod at your already pathetic mental fortitude by crushing his front to yours, bullying your insides with the head of his cock while you shriek and hum and sob with the overwhelming pleasure he brings you. He presses a flat palm to your abdomen, pushing down hard and greedily rubbing his pelvis against yours; “Fuck, you really are something. Natsu, pull on her tits again, bet she gets so goddamn tight.” Natsuo follows the instruction, tugging mercilessly, coercing you into arching your back. Touya takes advantage and slides his free hand under your ass before you can bring your hips back down again. Two fingers rub boldly at the entrance below your pussy, and you flinch violently when Touya pushes against you. You shake your head, hissing from the beginning aches of a forced intrusion and Natsuo and Shouto bite in unison; “Knock it off!”

Touya, to his credit, merely rolls his eyes and moves his hand lower, rubbing at your perineum in slow purposeful circles that occasionally allow the pad of his fingers to catch the rim of your asshole. You squirm beneath him until he starts fucking into you again, piercings, now warmed by your body heat, brushing what feels like every nerve ending you’ve ever had. Touya watches you bounce on his cock, all while you lay in his brother’s arms, thrashing when the feeling gets to be too much. Your cunt pulses around him, milking an orgasm out of him before he can warn you.

Not that you think he would to begin with.

“Fuck. Fuck. That’s it, squeeze down on me, baby.” He jolts forward, and the sound of his pelvis hitting yours is punctuated by the long drawn out groan of Touya being spent. You kick your leg out in frustration when he pulls out, whining low and watery in your throat at not getting to come again. All Touya does in response is lay a quick open-palm slap at your thigh, wink at you and smile, pleased, you assume, to have gotten a nut off before anyone else.

Mission accomplished you guess.

Shouto shoves his brother aside, and you could cry to God with how happy you are to see him between your thighs again. When the youngest brother seals his mouth around one of your nipples, sucking in long, desperate pulls, it feels almost vindictive. Like he’s punishing you for enjoying yourself, for enjoying how his brothers touch you, fuck you. Occasionally, his tongue flicks against it, pressing the peak against the ridge of his teeth, all while he grazes his rough fingertips against your inner thighs. His cheeks are flushed and he’s panting, honest to god out of breath at the sight of you, pussy puffy and used, hazy eyes heavily lidded, mouth slick and parted around gentle, quiet sighs in the shape of his name. He thumbs at the lips of your cunt, pulling you open, spreading you so he can see everything, watching you clench around nothing, watching you leak Touya’s come onto the bed sheets. “So needy.” he mumbles, and you both hang there, just for a second, while Shouto stares, consumes.

And then...he’s on you.

He isn't as big as Touya, but dear god does he make up for it in enthusiasm. So unlike the teasing, drawn out grinding and half strokes of his older brother, Shouto ruts against you like your pussy is the only thing keeping him alive.

The black t-shirt Shouto wears makes his shoulders seem even broader than before, his frame looms above you, arms heaving up and pushing back the weight of your thighs, until Natsuo helps by holding them up too, until you're very nearly bent in half for them. your toes are curled and bounce with every thrust he completes against you. The slow, thick drip of his brother’s cum leaks from your cunt, where the greedy pace of his thrusts disturbs it, sliding down the plush curve of your ass before dripping down into an obscene puddle below you.

The easy glide is perfect, nudging over and over at the rough spot deep within you. The tip of his cock knocks repeatedly against your insides and the sensation disables any and all coherent thought.

You choke on your spit as he fucks into you, gripping the bedsheets so hard you swear you can hear them tear in protest. Your core protests at the strain but you manage it, keeping your legs steady while they bracket the youngest Todoroki’s ears. Shouto tugs you further down the mattress, forcing you to slide down Natsuo’s front, and when your cheek makes contact with the middle brother’s hard-on, you place wet, open mouth kisses on his fly. Natsuo takes a fistful of your hair and tugs, separating you from his cock, brutally. You keen in pain, but Shouto’s dick distracts you from the worst of it, tunnelling inside you and striking that spongy spot that makes your vision go blinding white. Natsuo fishes his cock out frantically, as though he’s been waiting for your go-ahead, which is...sweet. Rather, it would be if he hadn’t agreed to debase you with his brothers while you were still heavily intoxicated. The younger, white haired brother releases you only when he’s completely free of the confines of his jeans, and smacks the length of his cock against your mouth, rubbing the shaft over your tongue when you present it to him for use. Natsuo is thick, thicker than both his brothers. His dick is mouthwatering, straining and red and threaded with angry looking veins you are desperate to taste. He won’t let you take it all though, will only let you kiss and mouth at it while he jerks himself off. Guides you to suck on his balls and stare into his eyes while Shouto fucks you harder, bringing his thumb to the hood of your clit and rubbing with intention. He must’ve been at his limit, because of the three of you, Natsuo comes first with a pleasured grunt, jerking his hips and covering his hand and the side of your face with his come. And though you know logically that it’s impossible, you had kind of expected his nut to be...cold.

Hands trembling, the middle brother returns his attention to your chest, smearing his spend over your nipples, pinching at them in time with the swipes of Shouto’s thumb.

You finally get to come, waves of it hitting you and dragging you undertow, smacking into your body so hard you give yourself a burgeoning headache from clenching your jaw. Your body spasms, over and over and Shouto fucks you through it all, eventually adding his own seed to the mess between your thighs.

At least you think he did. It’s hard to distinguish what happens around the time you pass out from the fucked up cocktail of exhaustion, intoxication and the sedating power of the best dick you’ve ever had.

When you surface some time later, Touya is gone. “Fucked off somewhere,” Natsuo provides when you ask and...well you aren’t sure if it’s a relief or a disappointment.

Best not to think about it.

Shouto is there though, gliding a warm, damp towel over your heated skin, while Natsuo, who it seems, hasn’t moved from behind you, presses soft kisses to the crown of your head, your cheeks, your throat. He plays with the gold hoop earrings you're still wearing, rubbing your earlobes, and tugging on the jewellery every so often.

“How was it?” Natsuo asks, his voice quiet and soothing, and despite having just woken up, you could see yourself succumbing to its gentle tone and slipping into sleep once again.

“Good,” you respond, murmuring quietly. Shouto finishes cleaning you off, tossing the towel into a nearby hamper. “Really good.”

Natsuo chuckles, and his breath huffs over your ear.

“Good.” He tightens his arms around your middle.

“Good.” Shouto nods, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Good.” You repeat. 

and so, i make my glorious return to bnha. support city girls who would do anything, including kill, for one night with soft yet firm dom natsuo. reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

[kechiwrites]

| kinktober week one | ♱ diligence ♱ | kento nanami x reader |

synopsis: “kento takes careful note of what you like, just in case you want repeat performances”

wc: 2.5k

cw: femme reader, established relationship, oral sex (f receiving), bondage, light d/s dynamics, cunnilingus, squirting, petnames (honey, darling, princess), nanami is VERY observant. NO MINORS.

author’s note: late because i watched mugen train again and had to take a mental health day. this one goes out to @kee-does-things and @katsukikitten​ PREMIUM NANAMI ENJOYERS who hype me up so much. enjoy. atsumu comes tomorrow (get it? cause it’s smut? cause he’ll nut? alright). 

♱ find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here ♱

It’s unthinkable that Kento is hiding something from you. In fact, before this you had found yourself wishing he would hide things from you. Honesty has always been his number one policy, even when you really didn’t want to hear it. Even when the low, gravel of his voice was the only thing keeping you interested.

Lately, however, you've been seeing him scribbling things down in a notebook, an action which, by itself, isn’t much to provoke your curiosity - he’s always taking notes of some kind. What really piques your interest is that once he notices you're looking at him, he’ll squirrel one particular notebook away somewhere out of sight. You try to ignore it at first, everyone’s got their little isms and Kento is a case study in odd behaviours. But every passing day, every scritch-scratch of pencil against paper drives you further and further into madness.

So you look for it, and yes, every self-help book and social media post about relationships says to respect your partner's boundaries, their secrets, but you’re only human and Kento is a steel trap when he doesn’t want you to know something. Still, your curiosity can only beat back your conscience so far. Even as you overturn his carefully colour coded drawers in your shared bedroom to search for the accursed thing, the potential titles of your would-be biography are scrolling through your head;

"So You're A Psycho Spouse..."

"Why Not Everything is Your Business."

"Leave Kento’s Shit Alone!"

Okay yes, your subconscious made the last one particularly pointed, but it definitely wasn’t wrong.

Then you find it, a perfectly maintained, unscuffed, forest green moleskine notebook, silken fabric bookmark wedged a little less than halfway inside. The book feels like it's burning your fingertips and you drop it onto your bed. Maybe you should've waited until Kento was out of the house to look but you knew how long his showers were, you had plenty of time. Carefully, as though the pages would come apart in your nosey little hands, you pry open the book to where it's been bisected, eyes immediately honing in on your name. Below it, in Kento’s perfectly square script, is a very detailed account of the time Kento made you squirt on your third anniversary. Tiny diagrams of what were obviously Kento’s large, veined hands in different positions fill up the margins, accompanied with questions and comments on potential causation, how you'd responded and notes for "future engagements''.

It is mortifying but your curiosity pushes you to read more. This time you flip to the beginning, pages upon pages of suggestive drawings and text filtering past your eyes.

‘Press tongue flat against clit, follow with ring and middle fingers, push inward until she cries, add index finger, repeat until climax.’

A flash of heat courses through your body at the memory and you sit on the floor, settling into the journal entries. It’s clinical and detached and it shouldn’t be even a fraction as hot as it is, but the idea of being the subject of Kento's frequent and thorough study gathers slick between your thighs.

The next entry is rife with images and the contents rob you of your breath. A rough sketch of manicured hands bound by shaded rope in intricate knots takes up an entire page, below it in tiny text are the words; “She’d look good bound, anchor her hands to the bindings around her thighs. First silk, then rope.”

A printed picture of you with your handcuffed arms raised is paper clipped to the next page, a photograph taken during an, at the time, really funny magic show you’d insisted on attending, next to you is a figure holding a wobbly fake saw that you know is Gojo, his normally grinning face obscured by a perfectly round black circle. It makes you laugh, knowing Kento probably couldn’t find a picture from that night without Gojo in it, so your husband made do.

You pour over his notes, heart thudding in your chest so loud you worry you’re developing some sort of condition. One page dissects exactly what colour of rope would look best against your skin, Kento’s stream-of-consciousness notes turning over which items of clothing he likes seeing you in the most, what colours are easiest to find and how much he could get versus how soon they’d arrive. According to the paragraph near the end of the entry, he’d settled on the classic red, a fact that makes you roll your eyes goodnaturedly. Even when Kento surprises you, he doesn’t surprise you.

Another page is filled to bursting with bullet points on the pros and cons of “public scenes”, and you choke on your own spit after you read that Nanami has firmly decided your first foray into the more risky side of your sex life is coming very soon.

Christ.

A third of the way into the little green notebook, you’re reading Kento’s pristine script again; “She takes so well to authority, at least when we’re being intimate.” Your brows furrow together, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you mutter.

“What are you doing?”

When you whip your head up from the journal, Kento is standing over you, dripping wet with his towel wrapped low around his waist. If it weren’t for the thunderous expression on his face, you’d probably attempt to tug the fabric free, probably with your teeth.

“Ah…” You drop the book like it’s bound in hot coals, the spine thudding on your bedroom floor. “J-just…cleaning. How was your shower? You know I was actually thinking I’d take one too!” you scramble up from where you were sitting, steadfastly keeping your eyes aimed at the floor. “So I’ll just-”

“No.” Kento catches you around your forearm, his grip as solid as iron. “You read the book, didn’t you?”

“I can’t read!” You yelp immediately.

“Right,” The exasperation in his voice is clear, and his hold on you tightens by just a fraction. “Well, I’m sure you can understand pictures, can’t you darling?”

The rope is tight, expertly tied so it’s snug around your arms and torso but not so restrictive that you’ll get anything beyond a couple of suggestive bruises tomorrow. Your husband had made quick work of you, pulling you onto your bed and stripping off your clothes without much fanfare, sourcing the rope from the same drawer you’d found the book.

Now it’s no wonder he never wanted you to put the laundry away, you always figured he was just particular about how his shirts were folded.

Above you, Kento almost looks pained, the corners of his mouth are pulled down and his neck is very rapidly flushing pink. You open your mouth to ask if he’s alright, but he cuts you off, his voice dark and dripping like honey when he says; “I knew you’d look amazing like this.” Reverently, he runs his hand over the rope separating your breasts while he whispers to himself, “Perfect.”

“Let me know if anything I do or say upsets you, yes?” He murmurs, his eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort or anxiety.

“Kento.” You whisper, brushing your lips against his.

“Yes?” His gaze goes soft and sweet. 

“The tie you wear to work everyday upsets me.” If you were going to get him to ditch it, your best chance was now, apparently.

“Noted and dismissed.”

‘No such luck.’ You click your tongue in faux-irritation and wiggle against your constraints, only stopping your impatient squirming when Kento levels you with a raised eyebrow. Your response is impish, a smile that’s all teeth, your bare skin framed with crimson cord.

He draws back quickly, turning away from you to mask what you assume is Kento’s version of raucous laughter, his broad, bare shoulders rising and falling from small chuckles. He kneels on the ground, bent over something that his body obscures from your vision. You struggle, trying to get to your knees so you can peer over his shoulder, but you must’ve been making too much noise because your husband circles back to face you, only returning to his quandary when you let yourself fall back on your ass.

“I wanted to prepare more. Was going to give you time to acclimate. I was going to take it slow. But you just…can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you? Can’t just do as you’re told.” You whimper in protest, hands flexing where they’re bound behind your back.

“Couldn’t just be a good girl.” Kento intones.

Your chest burns with embarrassment as he approaches, dumping a handful of toys at the foot of the bed, most are familiar to you; bullet vibes and magic wands and dildos in varying sizes. You shift away from the collection, a whine building in the base of your throat at what the tools mean for you.

“No, no. No whining, not this time.” Kento snags your ankle, dragging you down over the covers and towards him, mounting the bed to situate himself between your legs. His hands are so warm when they make contact with the plush flesh of your thighs, unrestricted by rope like your torso but similarly unmoving. The blond hooks a finger into one of the knots and tugs you forward, nipping at your jaw before he sucks at the hollow of your throat, sinking the blunt edge of his teeth into the juncture until he leaves a stinging imprint behind.

“Legs up, over my shoulders.” You’re quick to obey, letting yourself fall back against the gathered pillows once again, spreading your legs and framing his head with your ankles.

Kento snakes towards you, revelling for a moment in your shared proximity, his palms anchoring your thighs around his ears, stifling his hearing and sight, allowing him nothing else but the stimulation of your heat against his face. His tongue skates over the soft lips of your cunt, the curve of his nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves nested at the top. You chew on your bottom lip, letting your head droop down. All the while your husband noisily laps at you, groaning in contentment while you periodically squeeze and relax your thighs. His tongue traces long, wet stripes through your puffy folds, smearing his spit and your slick all over the soft flesh between your legs. The sensation forces you to tilt your hips upwards to chase the warmth of his tongue. You twitch against your bindings, keening from left to right, your skin burning relentlessly.

"K-Ken-!" you hiss through your teeth, toes curling against your sheets all while your wetness covers his face. “P-please."  Kento smiles against your pussy, burying his face even further between your thighs so he can suck roughly at your clit. His teeth skim against it once, twice, three times until your eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut, hips making aborted movements that only increase in frequency when the man sinks two fingers inside your fluttering cunt. You leak down his wrist as he fucks you with his digits, your aching clit pulsing helplessly between his teeth. Another finger stretches your entrance before he curves them, seeking out the spot within you he’d written so fondly about.

“Come. Now. Make a mess of me.” He urges, eyes flashing with lust, his expression intense and fevered, locks of blonde hair falling over his forehead.

It feels as though your nerves are being set alight, the mix of Kento’s spit and your own slick sliding lewdly down the curve of your ass, making a small puddle beneath you. Tears begin pouring from your eyes, moans and cries escaping from your parted lips and filling the air around you. You wrench yourself up hard, squeezing your thighs around his head, rocking your hips until you’re basically riding his face. Your stomach tenses as an orgasm rips through you, wracking your body until you’re almost cramping. Your husband pulls away, wiping you off his chin with the inside of his wrist. His hand settles over your stomach, fingers spread so his pinkie just barely brushes the lowest knot keeping you in place, effectively smearing your own cream against your skin.

“I need another.” He murmurs, tracing his bottom lip with the very tip of his pink tongue, chasing your taste. Your answering moan is miserable, you shake your head back and forth, chest heaving against your restraints. You sob out a protest, your mind spinning from an unusually intense peak; “N-no.”

“You’ll give me another, honey.” His tone is so sure, so solid that you wonder if you’d refused him at all. He shifts away from you and you take the opportunity to gasp in relief at the cool air hitting the sweat slick flesh of your thighs. Relief that soon flees your still sensitive body when you hear the gentle buzz of one of the toys from the pile. The vibration is deceptively strong when he nudges it just under your clit, your whole body wrenching away from it. Your hips lift up from the bed and Kento moves fast, trapping your middle under his forearm and bringing you back down, back under his control.

“Kento~” You’re drooling now, your bottom lip quivering. Each time you jerk away he follows you with the horrid little thing, pressing it against your leaking slit, dragging it up and down the seam of your pussy while you beg for mercy.

“No more. I’m sorry!”

“Shh, you’ll be okay. Relax.” He commands, brushing the knuckles of the hand keeping you flush to the mattress against your sides.  

And you're trying. You try so hard to draw deep breaths, to calm yourself down while Kento works you over, the blush pink vibrator pushing hard into your clit. He makes a mess of your hole, finger fucking you again deep with a precision you now know is practiced. It’s loud and filthy and wet, the sound of him fucking you with three, long, dextrous fingers clouding your mind and bringing you closer to another climax.

“I can’t! T-too soon.” You hiccup, your arms and shoulders trembling with the moderate pain of trying to fight against the rope. Still, despite your breathless objections, you crest over another wave of pleasure, twitching and mewling as you squirt your release over Kento’s hand. You clench down on him, grinding down on his palm as you ride out the sensations. You crumble against the sheets once more, watching Kento dazedly, his fingers already between his lips. His cock is hard against your thigh, the leaking tip an angry mottled red. When he draws you into his chest you push your face into the muscle, murmuring incoherently.

“Okay. Okay princess, you’re doing so good for me.” He presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead, cupping your face with his dryer palm. You screw your eyes tight, panting heavy exhales as you try to catch your breath again.

“Okay.” Kento repeats himself from above, he sounds so pleased, content. He teases your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting full body shivers. Your husband lowers his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice deceptively gentle, almost cloying.

“Now the wand, okay?”

[kechiwrites]

| kinktober week two | ♱ final girl ♱ | slasher!steve rogers x reader |

synopsis: “for steve, you are a very special victim.”

wc: 1k

cw: dark content, fem reader, noncon, creampies, unprotected sex, biting, bruising, violence, minor character death, stalking, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart), dacryphilia. I am not responsible for your consumption babes. NO MINORS.

author’s note: first dark fic i’ve ever shared, and for my day one fixation, captain america. there’s something wrong with him. i just know it.

♱ find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here ♱

Your head is spinning, the light from your neighbour’s halloween decorations cast your room in sickly orange and yellow light. Everything about it is making you ill, and you screw your eyes closed to keep your stomach from expelling its contents everywhere.

“Open your eyes, pretty girl. Please.” You can feel him shift over you, and when he pats your face, you open your eyes, glassy with tears, to stare at him. There’s sticky, drying blood covering the lower half of his face, and the dirty penny smell of it threatens to make you sick all over again. He smiles at you, perfect white teeth and pink lips, blonde hair and blue, blue eyes. 

“Go on, you can cry.” 

How magnanimous.

You’re covered in bite marks, some are shallow, some lightly bleed out of tender and broken skin. Where you aren’t bitten, there are hickeys, pockmarking his journey exploring your body, staking his claim on your throat and chest and hips and thighs. The bruises aren’t so bad, in the grand scheme of things, you can almost forget they exist when he isn’t pushing his thumb into them to watch you squirm.

Hell, they’re practically bug bites compared to the state of your boyfriend’s dead body downstairs.

He looms above you and he is so goddamn big, blocking out the hazy stream of your bedroom lights while he fucks you desperately. Hands roaming mindlessly, without purpose but with so much pleasure over the rise and curve of your stomach, your tits, your face.

You choke out, "Please don't hurt me." and his hips stutter, balls slapping against your ass and staying there, like he's trying not to come. You bear down on him, and a fresh wave of tears spills over your cheeks as you’re pushed over the edge, mind swimming in pain and sorrow and hot, hot heat. 

“Steve, please. I don’t want to d-”

"Shut up. Shut up. Please, shut the fuck up.” He groans, closing his hand around your tit and squeezing hard. He’s getting off on it, you realize. You want to live through this so badly, and that turns him on. “Can't -, I don't want to" he trails off when he starts pounding you again, the squelching, wet sounds of you taking him, letting him burrow deep within you filling the cramped, cluttered room, bouncing off your childhood toys and boy band posters. Your pink princess sheets are soaked with slick and sweat and two of his loads soaking your back that'd been displaced by the brutal thickness of his cock carving into you.

You grip at his arms as they hold you down, your nails digging into his skin, and he stops again, anchoring up and off you to peer at your face. 

"Be good, like I know you can be and it'll all be over soon. I promise."

Impossible.

You choke on your own sob, and bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from lashing out. He’s clearly sick in the head, and when this is all over, when he lets you go like he promised he would, you swear to god in heaven and the devil below that you’d wipe this all from your mind. You’d burn the sheets and maybe even your bed too. And a little voice in your head whispers over the sound of him messily, greedily fucking you open, that you’d need evidence, some way of proving that it was local hero, universally adored firefighter, Steven Grant Rogers that’d been killing people for the past year and a half. Steven Grant Rogers who had been stalking you for weeks in an unfamiliar brown sedan before he’d made his move. Steven Grant Rogers who’d taken his sweet time cutting your boyfriend to ribbons before he’d chased you up the stairs, two steps at a time and locked the bedroom door behind him, as if he was worried someone would interrupt. 

You didn’t need evidence. Because no one would believe you. If you even got the chance to tell them. 

Your body shudders, fear and pleasure tangling together and burrowing deep in the pit of your stomach, snagging on your insides like hooked burrs, only tearing free when he rips another orgasm from your overstimulated, woefully overworked body. 

“Good, so good sweetheart. There you are.” You can tell he loves it, the involuntary show of ecstasy, the way you’re too far gone to resist anymore, the way your legs wrap around his middle and push you ever closer without your permission.

But your permission doesn’t matter much, apparently.

His hands sink into your flesh so deeply you cry out, but what’s more bruises on top of the ones he’s already given you? What’s one more round of his seed fucked into you, soaking the walls of your cunt? What’s one more scream into the apathetic, inky black night?

Steve’s teeth dig into the flesh of your chest, then he laves the stinging spots with his tongue. A particularly rough thrust pushes you up the bed, and without missing a beat he follows your aching body, forcing your pussy to part around him, to welcome yet another rush of his cum within you. He tugs at your nipples with roughened fingers, calloused by the fireman’s axe he used to obliterate your front door. His lips cover your pulse, sucking hard at the skin, like he was trying to taste your heartbeat, erratic and sugar sweet. Your clit thrums, untouched and begging for attention, but Steve pulls out, rubbing the slick skin of his cock over the insides of your thighs. 

“You know, I was so sure I was going to have to slit your throat after this. And I didn’t want to, not when I knew you’d be tight, so sweet.” His voice is broken glass and black velvet, it cuts and soothes, wrings everything out of you before it forces you to swallow it all down, only restart the process all over again. 

“But now,” He sighs dreamily, whispering like he’s sharing a inside joke between two friends, “I have to keep you.”

when my husband proofread this he said i was sick. :)

[kechiwrites]

| kinktober week one | ♱ denial ♱ | mob!au ushijima wakatoshi x reader |

synopsis: “Being with him was like falling off a cliff, sometimes you jumped, sometimes you’d tripped. Other times Wakatoshi would push you, over and over, and you never quite fell far enough for your head to meet the pavement racing forward to greet you.” wc: 5k cw: angst, power imbalance, language, unprotected sex, minor character death, NO MINORS. author’s note: finally! the prequel for approval arrives, it’s only 2 years late. it’s not necessary to read approval first, you can read them in either order honestly. also! most kinktober fics will be posted mon/wed/fri. enjoy.

approval (pt. 1) ♱ find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here

The kitchens are always so loud, but the sounds of working and cooking and cursing and laughing drown out your musings on what you’re doing with your life.

Your co-worker, Hana, whips past you with a tray heavily laden with food, opening the door to the dining room with her hip. It’s not all that busy, lunch service on a weekday was particularly slow for the kind of lofty, too-high-prices for too-small-plates restaurant you worked at, but a surprisingly large group of brunch moms had settled at the center of the dining room, right in her section.

“He's at your table again babe,” she’s about to push out of the door completely before she doubles back to add; “Well technically he’s at one of my tables but he asked for you. Again.” You nearly choke on the soup you'd been hunched over, and plunk the little ceramic bowl down, wiping nonexistent crumbs from your mouth and apron. Even through her laughing, the look on her face is ripe with insinuation and you know you’ll be recounting the exact details of what he said and what he did and if “he smiled this time?”

In your rush to see him, you nearly smack your head on the swinging kitchen door, your mild embarrassment at seeming so eager pushed askance. It’d been two and half weeks since you’d met, waiting on his table of business associates during an oddly slow dinner service. You’d placed plates and refilled glasses, trying in vain to keep your eyes off the cut of his jaw and the slope of his cheek. Every minute you could steal away from the table of men was spent catching your breath in the walk-in, goosebumps raised by his gaze maintained by the chill biting through your uniform sleeves.

When the meal was done and they’d called for the bill you were only too happy to slide the leather folder onto the table, careful not to angle it towards anyone in particular. Before it could even make contact with the linen tablecloth, Ushijima plucked it from your grasp, sliding in a handful of bills and depositing the filled sleeve into the pocket of your apron.

“Keep the change.” he murmured, voice pitched low and honey sweet as he rose from the table to loom over you. With a practiced, startling quickness, the men accompanying him also stood, clearly gathering themselves to leave. You mumbled out a thank you, eyes pinned to a scuff on the hardwood floors of the dining room, happy to be done with the entire encounter. Happy to have your temperature return from its fever pitch.

Just as you’d pivoted to escape to the kitchen’s safety, his arm shot forward to capture your forearm, and the sensation of his touch ricocheted up your arm into your chest where it spread like ice. For a moment you worried you had offended him somehow and that come that time tomorrow you’d wash up on some shore a thousand miles away from home. After a split-second of panic, his fingers slid lower to cover your wrist, your pulse beating against his fingertips, and the panic was quickly replaced with desire.

“What time do you have?” The question was so mundane it rattled your mind.

“Huh?” You’d managed to choke out, face twisted in confusion. You could hear the redhead who’d been sitting immediately to his left chuckle at you, catching the sight of his hand covering his mouth in your periphery.

“What time do you have?” His tone barely shifted, but looking back, you’d describe it as amused.

You glanced down at the watch wrapped around your free wrist and rattled off “10:28, sir.”

It had been the only words you exchanged that night, aside from his order, but for Ushijima, it had apparently been enough.

He’d left you half your rent as a tip.

You had known who he was, the moment he and his companions sat down, your manager had whispered his greatest hits into your ear. Protection fees, bribes, enforcement, probably murder.

Now he was a regular. Your regular.

“You know you keep coming by and I'm gonna start thinking you like me.” You pull the small notepad out of the apron tied around your waist and tap your pen against it. As always, it’s hard to meet his eyes, so you opt to doodle little flowers in the margins.

"Would that be so bad?" This forces your gaze upward, his voice is teasing, but his face, and what a face it was, is blank. Almost scarily so.

“Depends on how you look at it.” You abandon your flowers.

“How do you look at it?” His eyes are shrewd as he settles back into his chair. On anyone else, the movement would seem casual, but with him, it looked like a threat. Everything he did looked like a threat.

Sometimes you wished he’d make good on them. On you.

“I'll let you know when I've figured it out,” you snort, despite yourself.  “Can I get you anything, maybe a glass of wine?” you gesture to his table, empty of anything but place settings and spotless glasses, one for water and another long stemmed crystal that usually went unfilled.

“I don't drink.” He murmurs, voice just above a whisper while he drags the pointer finger of his left hand over the tines of his salad fork.

“Do you ever relax?” Your eyes are drawn to the movement, following the gentle path along the cutlery, and when he stops, you force yourself to meet his stare. The look he gives you makes you feel as though he’d given you a test, and try as you might, you can’t tell if you passed or failed.

“I indulge in other things.” The phrase is dripping with promise and you find yourself tingling with the familiar excitement his presence brings. He shoots you a meaningful stare, eyes now focused on the set of your mouth as you speak.

“I'll be right back with your water.”

Somehow the refuge of the kitchen is less hot than the dining room where he sits, waiting for you. Regardless, you still feel like sticking your head in the dishwater just to cool off.

When you can bring yourself to return with his ice water, Ushijima’s table is empty, save another exorbitant tip, and a perfectly square piece of paper, folded in half. You slip the tip into your apron and unfold the note, revealing text written in thin, slanted script; “Antonio’s, 9 PM”. The dark blue ink is slightly smudged over each following letter.

You stash the note away with his tip and think to yourself; ‘Hm. He’s left handed.’

That night, you’re hardly halfway into your meal with Ushijima, woefully trying to soak up your pre-dinner glass of wine with the fancy pasta he’d recommended to you, when he asks you a question.

“Do you have a man to take care of you?” He stares at you unflinchingly, hands folded in his lap, food barely touched. You almost choke on a noodle at his bluntness, and narrowly avoid coughing into your hand by forcing the stray fettuccine down with, you guessed it, more wine. The waiters here must’ve been paid by the pour.

“I don't see how that's any of your business.” You manage to spit out, covering your mouth with your hand daintily, pausing to set down your fork.

“I want to make it my business.” The phrase sends heat up your spine and you desperately tamp down your desire to lean forward and whimper “Whatever you want, Mister.”

Instead, you opt to answer diplomatically; “What if I told you I do?”

“You're not going to say that.”

Ouch.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, pushing on, not to explain himself; he never explains himself. Ushijima speaks to inform you. How kind.

“Not because I don't think men want you, I know men want you. I want you. I don't think you'd entertain me if you had someone in your life.”

If you were pressed later on, you’d say that’s when Ushijima Wakatoshi had you. That’s the moment you fit so sweetly in his palm. That’s when your heart swore fealty.

But in the moment, you just really wanted to fuck him.

“Fair enough.”

Your next sip of wine empties the glass.

All your following dates after the first have a strange shade of innocence to them. Ushijima, even with his thick perimeter of bodyguards and seemingly bottomless pockets, is content to take you out for ice cream, to pick you up after work and hold your shopping bags while he foots the bill. It’s all surprisingly pedestrian for a man with a body count in the hundreds. Allegedly, of course.

And then, after date number six, when you’re thanking him for walking you home, and the night around you is still and quiet and comfortable, he tells you to call him Wakatoshi, and you think that he might just be in your palm too.

The first time you have sex, the two of you are lying on your slightly too small bed, and you almost cry with how good it feels. He touches you so softly, but every part of him is so firm. And he kisses you so much, on your lips, your cheeks, your throat, the small of your back, where your thigh curves to make your ass, the inside of your wrist. It feels as though there isn't a moment where his lips aren't pressed to your skin, and you revel in the feeling. In the soft downward slope of his shoulders and the short puffs of breath against your temple while he drives into you. The first time he makes you come it stops all thought, every worry of how bad he was for you, how far and fast you were falling. It’s all so good that it’s only the pressure of him bearing down on you that stops you from passing out from the pleasure.

For a while you stay like that, with him inside you, unmoving, and you beneath him, gasping for breath. He hasn’t finished yet and he makes it painfully clear, rubbing his thumbs into the tensed muscles of your thighs and calves, urging you to recover. You almost ask him to stop, the contact is nearly overwhelming.

Then he asks you.

“That's not enough for you, is it?”

And you agree. You push him away and slide out from under his hold, twisting deftly until he is below and you are above. You straddle him and take his head between your hands and watch the most feared man in the city crumble beneath you. He pours himself into you, hips stuttering against you in his desperation, sweat slick palms sliding over your skin while he fucks you to completion.

Toshi is not sweet, or charming or even very kind, not unless his lips are pressed to yours while his hands go soft over your breasts, thumbing and grasping at the plush skin beneath your shirt. Regardless, where he goes, you follow, until you're tumbling head first into something you couldn't have possibly prepared for. 

There were times when the reality of what you were doing struck you upside the head and made you question everything. When you were alone and your mind could go unchecked, focus on something other than Wakatoshi burying his teeth in your shoulder while you came on his fingers. Times like when your boss couldn’t quite keep eye contact with you during front-of-house meetings. Or when you were sure a police cruiser was tailing you. Or when the intense bodyguard (with a fucking bowlcut) who so clearly disliked you slammed the town car door just a little too hard. But Toshi was close by, ready to wipe away worries with soft lipped kisses and lingering touches and presents he “thought you would like”. 

And he was always close by. He hoarded your attention like he hoarded power and influence. For the first three months you'd been together, he had refused to call you by your name in front of his men. As though it was knowledge only he should know, a power only he could have.

It was surprisingly childish, but the proclivity faded eventually. Instead, he showed his influence in different ways. 

Over time he develops this method of persuading you, of asking you questions until you gave him the answer he wanted to hear. Sometimes you weren't even sure if he knew he was doing it. It started with little things, things that branded you as “his girl”. Making reservations using his name, even when he wasn't present. Letting him fuck you in the back seat of one of his glossy black cars, even after insisting you weren't "that kind of girl" (whatever the fuck that meant), breaking your lease and moving onto his estate, into a bedroom across the hall from his. Not that you spent much time there.

Then the things Ushijima asked for weren't so little anymore.

“Put in your resignation.” He mutters, patting the inside of your thigh when he pulls away from you. The switch to Ushijima Wakatoshi, “the Underground Crime Boss” from Toshi, “man who just spent an hour grinding your clit against his tongue” makes your head spin and it takes you a minute to realize he’s talking about your job at the restaurant. Unfortunately, the feeling his command causes is familiar, and unwelcome.

“A place like that doesn’t need a resignation.” You laugh him off and rise to shower, legs pleasantly unstable, but before you can start wobbling to the bathroom, he catches you by the wrist. His fingers press forcefully against your skin, anchoring you to the spot.

“Good. Make the call then.”

His tone brooked no room for further discussion, and you acquiesced, just to get that cold, sharp gaze off your skin, out of your hair. Later you’d tell yourself he would’ve convinced you eventually and you were just saving the both of you some time, time better spent with him inside you. You’d tell yourself that you never really even liked your job, just the people and they’d be easy to reach.

But it didn’t make you feel any better.

Being with him was like falling off a cliff, sometimes you jumped, sometimes you’d tripped. Other times Wakatoshi would push you, over and over, and you never quite fell far enough for your head to meet the pavement racing forward to greet you. Mostly, you could only feel the air rushing past, whipping over your skin, watering your eyes. But occasionally, things would happen that force you to remember the ground, and fear makes your stomach flip flop into your throat. And you truly honestly think; “I’m going to die.”

The parties, however, are a definite bonus, you meet interesting people, you wear nice clothes, the top shelf, premium quality alcohol is free and you spend the majority of the night tucked securely into Toshi’s side. But the best part is the looks, the fear. You’d never really experienced anything like it before. People stare at you in reverence, they try to impress you, people you barely know stumble over themselves to make you happy. Because you’re Toshi’s girl.

It’s intoxicating.

The vodka helps too though.

And tonight it’s in excess. You’re not even quite sure what’s being celebrated but Toshi had thrown open your bedroom door, small, wrapped silver box in hand saying little but “get dressed”. When you asked what for, he’d shrugged and muttered something about a nightclub before placing the gift in your expectant hands. Inside had been a diamond tennis bracelet, each inlaid stone winking it’s own brilliance at you. Easily one of the most expensive gifts Toshi had ever given to you, and his small, indulgent smile as you’d secured it to your wrist confirmed its importance. He’d placed his hand on your cheek and pressed his lips to yours gently, whispering against your mouth; “Let’s show it off.”

And really, how could anyone say no to that?

“Quite the step up from bussing tables, ain’t it.” Tendou is addressing you, which is rare enough that it pulls you out of your reverie. What isn’t rare, however, is the seedy, leering smirk on his face when he looks at you over the rim of his crystalline whiskey glass.

“It’s nice.” You shrug, and Toshi adjusts minutely so you can lean forward, the movement jostling the diamond drop earrings you’d received for your birthday. You smile placidly at him and will your heartbeat to remain steady. In reality, everything about Tendou makes you nervous, where Ushijima is blunt and quiet, Tendou says a lot and means so very little. His eyes are sharp and unwavering for everyone, even for those you assume he likes and though it’s easy to forget that the men and few women who surround you on a daily basis are hardened criminals (many of whom treat you like a little sister of sorts), Tendou is undeniably dangerous, and he wants you to know it.

When you do speak again, your voice is deceptively even and playfully regretful; “I do miss the tips though.”

Tendou’s answering laugh is loud and abrasive. He raises his glass to you, seemingly satisfied with your answer and the breath you release is just barely a comfort. Toshi tugs you back into place and before you’ve even settled, his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“Be good.” The command sends a shock down your spine that settles as a flutter in your abdomen.

“When am I ever not good?” The flirting comes easier with the time that passes. Over the year you’ve spent together, you’ve struck a balance between what Toshi wants people to see of you and what you want to show. It feels almost like...putting on an act, saying the lines that will get a reaction, playing a part the audience wants to see. The Mobbed Up Girlfriend. Not quite as out of the know as you really are, beneath the jewelry and liquor and bodyguards.

All of that show just to strip it down when you’re by yourself, really by yourself, and you have to confront the constant, suffocating, looming threat of danger and secrets, of blood and money. Of Wakatoshi taking phone calls in other rooms, and harshly whispered commands and family meetings you aren’t allowed to attend.

But right now, in the dark, numbingly loud nightclub, nestled deep into Ushijima territory, you have a play to put on.

So you play. Ushijima turns and asks Shirabu for a cigarette, who quickly provides for his boss. Ushijima balances it between his lips and begins to remove the arm around you to light it. But because you’d forced Toshi to watch a gangster movie with you (“it’ll be funny. You can tell me what they do wrong.”) and you were apparently stupid, you sneak your hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, wrapping your fingers around his silver lighter, before you tug it out and light his cigarette for him.

Toshi, for a fraction of a second, looks shocked and the rise of his eyebrows delights you. Then his face settles into something darker, more...considering. And your delight melts into desire. Without a word to the hangers-on nearby, he stands, his hand clasping yours, tugging you through the dance floor filled with shaking, sweating bodies and into the restroom. Immediately, you’re met with three pairs of curious eyes, eyes that just as quickly swing to the man accompanying you.

“Out.”

The men’s room door is barely shut before your dress is rucked up around your waist and Toshi pushes inside your weeping cunt, trailing feverishly hot, open mouth kisses up the exposed column of your throat.

“What part of ‘be good’ don’t you understand?”

The interior of the car is plush and warm when you enter, the running engine thrumming pleasantly beneath your shaky legs. Goshiki’s knife-sharp gaze meets yours in the rearview window. “He’s still inside. I’m leaving a little early.” You mutter, not wanting to explain the tear up the side of your dress to Toshi’s most unlikeable lackey. Without another word, he pulls out of the club’s parking lot, speeding along the route to the estate. It’s silent for a while, after all, there’s no love lost between you and your “babysitter” and you’re content to sit in the bitter quiet, watching the streetlights zip by.

“You know it's a power thing right?” Goshiki snipes, eyes back on you when you drag your eyes back to the mirror.

“What?” You’re practically soaked in alcohol and you can’t be bothered to drum up even a little softness in your tone.

Not that he deserved it in the first place.

The way he looks at you makes you sick, makes you uncomfortable, like you're something stuck to his shoe.

"It's a power thing for him. Man like him can have anything he wants." his brows come together in the center, and you can feel the envy roll off him in waves, thick to the point of suffocating you. "Anyone, so he picked you. A little waitress from the big city." He sneers.

And you know, of course, that it's true. You, like all things, are just another facet of Ushijima's business, a more personal account he handles himself. Kept so close, to lose you would be a liability. He loved you, he said so himself, but he keeps you at a distance.

But that doesn't mean you have to let disrespect slide.

“Being rude to me won't make him like you, you know.” Your voice is so cold it almost shocks you, but for better or for worse, watching Toshi conduct business everyday has changed the way you speak. ‘Just a little bit’, you reassure yourself. “It won't make them take you seriously.” Your perfectly manicured nails dig into the buttery leather of the seat between you, before you lean forward to hiss in his ear; “You're just a foot soldier.”

“And you're a stress reliever.” He bites at you, his foot falling heavy on the gas pedal in irritation, forcing the car to accelerate further.

“Maybe.” You hum, “But I get to stay inside the house. Can't say the same for you, can we?” The harshness of your taunts fills your ears, and it may as well be another person speaking entirely. But the way he pales and tears away his gaze makes you feel….good. In a way you don’t want to examine.

Goshiki leaves you alone after that.

For the most part, everyone keeps you at an arm’s length when it comes to Toshi’s business, and you’re grateful. The ugly seediness of the city’s underbelly is a world you don’t care to explore, even though you're happily perched on the lap of the man who controls it.

That being said, there’s hardly anything you can do to stop his enemies from trying to get to you. It’s not intentional, not really, but it is business, and business is fucking important.

It’s business that has you leaving the estate earlier than usual. Apparently, Toshi has the entire underworld coming to the estate for some sort of “gangster summit” (Tendou’s words of course) and he wants you out of sight.

“Just for the day. I’ll make it up to you. Keep your head down, follow orders for once.” He’d murmured above you while you looped his tie, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before turning his broad back to you, the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind him eliminating any chance of your refusal. Not that you had one brewing anyway.

It was hard to turn him down when you first started seeing each other, now it’s near impossible. Now, the slightest downturn of his mouth, the incredulous uplift of his brow is enough to turn the “no” on your lips to ash. The shame only settles in when he’s not around to fuck it out of you. It trails behind you like smoke curling and cloying wherever you go, following you out of the main house and down the driveway, Goshiki, ever present at your side. You wave at Kai, who’s sitting sleepily in the driver’s seat of the slick black sports car at the end of the driveway. He returns the gesture, smiling back before turning the key in the ignition.

You’d never seen an explosion in person before, like any normal goddamn person, but before today you had figured it would be close in approximation to what you see in movies, and on tv. And yeah, you weren’t stupid, you knew those were controlled, and on sets and sound stages, but how far from the truth could they be?

Very far, as a matter of fact.

It’s the light that hits you before anything else. It’s impossibly bright at first, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll be blinded, if you’d keep your eyebrows, even though you weren’t very close at all.

Then the sound of it — the delay was a little disturbing — the crushing boom of Toshi’s favourite convertible exploding into flames came maybe a quarter of a second after the light, and your screaming started with the heat. You screamed and screamed even through the smothering presence of Goshiki’s palm.

You could’ve been in there. Wakatoshi could have been in there. Burning to death like the driver is right now, the driver with the small, sweet smile. Too sweet for the work he does. The driver who likes the chai lattes you bring him most mornings, even if “they’re not a man’s drink”.  For business.

Head? Meet pavement.

It’s four days after the car incident, the incident no one will mention around you, the one that left Ushijima’s favourite ride a smoking heap of burnt out metal, the one that almost killed you, the one that reportedly left a little girl fatherless. He’d all but shoved you out of the house, foisting you onto Goshiki, if only to evade your questions, your concerns, your night terrors.

“Go get something to wear, we’ll go out tonight.” The paranoia scratching at the inside of your skull almost makes it impossible to process what Wakatoshi is asking of you, but you nod anyway, slide the folded bills he offers you into your coat pocket and descend the stairs to where Goshiki is waiting, sullen but blissfully quiet. On your way down, you catch the beginning of Toshi’s conversation before he shuts himself behind his office door; “I don’t want any more close calls.” Your stomach flips in time with the door slamming shut and you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

What the fuck is happening?

Shopping is a dull affair lately, expensive clothes and saccharine perfumes slipping through your fingers with disinterest. Anything that does catch your attention is scrutinized with thoughts of how quickly it would burn up in a staged arson, how well it could stop a bullet, how much or how little it would hurt Ushijima to sell it or toss it out after he’d buried you in the estate’s garden. After hours of the same, of sales associates with the word “commission” sparkling in their otherwise dull eyes, of Goshiki grunting and sighing about having “better shit to do”, you call it, ready to slink your way over to some luxe hotel room to burn away the rest of your exile.

The car sits gleaming in the parking lot and as it has done every day since, your heart skips before you remember that every single vehicle that goes in and out of the estate has been checked thoroughly over and over. However, before you can stash yourself away in the backseat to pour over what the fuck you were doing with your life, you’re approached by a pair of uniformed officers, their faces smeared with tepid smiles, as if they wish to put you at ease.

“Excuse me Miss…” the officer trails off, leaving space for you to finish your name. You don't, instead you stare, placing three heavy shopping bags into Goshiki's waiting hands.

“We'd like to speak with you,” the taller officer with a goatee and long hair addresses you, his thumbs tucked into his belt. “regarding an incident that occurred outside your residence the other day.” The other police officer, wearing a badge brandishing the surname ‘Nishinoya’ eyeballs Goshiki, his entire — admittedly small frame — fraught with tension, as though he’s waiting to pounce. “If you have some time.” The first officer adds, his gaze never straying from your face.

The rules drilled into you by Toshi are so well ingrained you begin to speak on autopilot.

“Am I being arrested?”

The officer blinks, and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown. "No ma'am. But we are asking you to provide us with a statement."

Later on, when you’re sitting on the cold, cold steel chair in the precinct, shivering and willing yourself not to whimper under the detectives’ heavy, judging gaze, you’ll realize that it was the word ‘witness’ that set Goshiki off, reminded him of his fucking job.

Your babysitter-bodyguard steps in front of you, shielding you from the officer’s view, shoulders hiked up to his ears.

“You can let her come with us, or I can find a reason to put you in the cop car too, and I promise you the trip won't be quite as nice.” Officer Nishinoya chirps, shifting towards the two of you.

“It's fine.” You place your hand on Goshiki’s shoulder, hoping to stave off any upcoming outbursts, if not for his sake, then certainly for your own. “I'll come.” You circle around the men, almost relieved that you’ll be someplace, where for once, you are out of Wakatoshi’s grasp, out of his influence, at least for a little while.

“He won’t like this.” Goshiki spits, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as the officers guide you into the backseat of the cramped cop car they arrived in.

“He wanted me out of the house, Goshiki. I’m following orders.”

whew! longest fic yet i believe. again, you can find approval, which takes place directly after this fic here. scope the rest of my kinktober 2022 masterlist here!