Oh Shit A Bit Of A Monkey Wench In The Plans, I Hope Girl Holds Strong Tho

Oh shit a bit of a monkey wench in the plans, I hope girl holds strong tho

𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝

Toji Fushiguro

[Chapter 2] Toji's Miserable Attempts to Change Your Mind

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

You’ve had many plans for your life, but packing your clothes to move out from your apartment– Toji’s apartment, at twenty seven years of age wasn’t one of them. Even though it was your decision, you never thought you’d be getting divorced. You really love Toji, and while part of you really wants to stay, you know you need to leave.

He tries to convince you to stay, loving you the best way he knows how to: having sex. You don’t turn him down even though you probably should since you’re separating. It’s temporary as you move out. You keep each other entertained, as bad as it sounds. He has sex with you to get you to stay and you simply enjoy it.

Things have changed though, a month later you find an apartment that you can afford with the new job that you got. You have some savings from the occasional allowance that Toji gave you (once a month and it couldn’t even buy you a damn loaf of bread), and of course apart from your day job as a receptionist, you’ve gotten a waitressing job during nights. You’re trying your best to save up and move out. You’re not taking care of the house or anything and you’re hoping that maybe that’ll finally get Toji to sign the divorce papers that he refuses to sign. 

Toji didn’t expect to come back home to this. You’re grabbing your clothes from the closet and shoving them into a suitcase. There must be a better way to do this all but it seems like you’re in a rush to leave. You don’t seem to notice his presence or at the very least, you ignore it.

“Are you really doing this?” Toji clears his throat and speaks up to catch your attention. You give him a side eye before walking into the closet to get more clothes. Toji really thought for a moment that sex would be enough to get you to stay, you had no problem accepting it anyway; but you’re still packing your stuff, “I hope you know that I won’t support you. You’re doing this because you chose to, I will fight tooth and nail so you don’t get a single penny from me.”

“I don’t want your stupid money.” You’re clearly annoyed and you display it in your tone. You feel underappreciated because he doesn’t care to notice that you’ve been working and that you’ve stopped doing housework. You feel more invisible than ever. Toji watches as you put more stuff into the suitcase, at this point it’s overfilled with clothes. “I have two jobs, Toji. I wasn’t counting on you, I never was.”

“Can’t we talk about this?” Toji asks, and you chuckle but it soon turns into a fit of laughter. Toji crosses his arms and watches as you laugh your heart out, and he wonders what he said that causes such a reaction. A tear streams down your face and you wipe it away, calming down and taking a deep breath.

“We’ve had a month to talk about this, Toji. You just thought that throwing yourself at me would solve all of our problems.” You point out, and he bites his tongue. He ends up sighing, loosening the tie that’s tight around his neck. He takes a seat on your side of the bed, watching as you zip the suitcase close. “Believe it or not, sex doesn’t solve all problems– In fact, for our situation it doesn’t solve anything.”

“You wanted attention and I’m giving it to you.” It’s as simple as that, at least in his mind. You roll your eyes before looking through drawers to get stuff that you bought, items that belong to you and you’re taking to your new place. “I don’t know why you’re so complicated–”

“No, I’m simple! I want a divorce and you won’t give it to me.” You slightly raise your voice. You find a couple items and throw them on the bed before looking for another suitcase. You can’t believe just how complicated Toji is. You get another suitcase, but this one has a couple things in it. You open it and you find a couple CD cases, and you take them out. They don’t belong to you, you don’t have any CDs, so the only reasonable explanation is that they’re Toji’s. You put them aside, but you know you’ll be putting them into your laptop and playing the contents of it later. 

You walk back to the bedroom with the suitcase, and throw it on the bed. You begin to throw your stuff in it, and Toji can’t help but watch. He hears as his heart slowly breaks, he just didn’t think that you’d be doing this. You sleep next to him without a problem, and you have no problem giving in to his touch. The first night you told him you still wanted a divorce, but you stayed with him; you still kissed him back, you caressed him, you laughed at his awful jokes (granted not as hard as before). Toji really thought that he had you back, you just needed time.

“How about we… Tomorrow, will you give me a chance? Let’s go out.” Toji doesn’t know what to say. He’s realizing that after you leave, it’ll be hard to see you again. Nothing is tying you down. You’re ignoring him, your eyes focused on organizing the items in the suitcase, something that you didn’t care to do for your clothes. “Just– I promise that I’ll sign the divorce papers without a problem if after tomorrow–”

“Fine. Let’s go out.” You say but you continue packing everything away because you know it’s not going to work. Nothing Toji can do will make you change your mind. 

Tossing and turning in your bed leads you to look again for the CDs that you had put aside earlier. You had forgotten about them since your mind was preoccupied with what Toji has planned for tomorrow– Or today since it is past midnight. Toji’s snoring so you’re not too worried about him hearing you get out of the bed, get the CDs, get the laptop, and then go to the living room.

You put the first CD in, the one that has the oldest date. You wait a while for it to boot up, but when it does, you hate the video immediately. His late wife, Toji’s, appears on the screen and she’s so strikingly beautiful; it’s not because of her, she’s a woman that you respect and admire. What you hate is how you see Toji. So happy about the fact that he’s married. Your chest feels heavy and for some reason tears well up in your eyes.

Toji wasn’t this happy when he was getting married to you. You were like her, over the moon and smiling during every minute of the event… Toji on the other hand wasn’t like he’s in this video. He looks so genuinely happy, and so in love with her. You doubt he’s ever looked at you like he looks at her.

You have to skip forward because you take heavy breaths to keep yourself calm. You pause right at Toji’s toast, and while you know that you should skip forward because what he’ll say will shatter you, you keep the video playing. You’re not a woman that usually gets jealous, the fact that you stayed with Toji after his betrayal is telling of that aspect, but when he opens his mouth your hands are shaking. Your whole body shakes due to the immense jealousy that runs through your veins. You have to try your best to hold back your tears when he calls her his soulmate and the love of his life. What really sticks with you is:

I don’t know what I’d do without her, she’s everything to me.

You have to take out the disk because there’s tears running down your face. You’re not mad because he loved someone else, you’re frustrated because he never grew to love you like he loved her. Matter of fact, you’re not sure if Toji even loves you even when he’s been trying to assure you of it lately. You put in the other disk because you just want to know the contents of it. You take a deep breath as you wait for the video to start.

“Is this working?” Toji’s eye is right on the camera, and you chuckle as you watch your husband try to figure out how to work the camera. He finally adjusts the camera and you get to see him, and her as well. She has a cute baby bump and you smile. She sounds so sweet,

“We’re so excited to meet you, baby.” And Toji wraps her arms around her, his hands landing on her baby bump. “What name did you choose again?”

“Megumi. He’s our little blessing.” It’s cute, it’s really cute. It’s so nice to see Toji smile like an idiot, and look how he looks so lovingly at his beloved. He’s so excited to be a father too… The same Toji that told you he didn’t want kids, that in order to get married you had to accept the fact that you wouldn’t have children. He just simply didn’t want them, no other reasoning than that. You wanted kids but you accepted it. Being a mother is something that you’ve always wanted but for Toji you were willing to give that up; additionally, you had Megumi as a stepson and that was sort of enough even when you weren’t supposed to act like his mother.

You’re bawling your eyes out for the rest of the video, even when you’re supposed to smile. Toji kissing his wife’s belly, blushing as she brushes his hair with her fingers. He talks to the baby and is as sweet as ever with her, and you’re comparing yourself to her. You’re wondering why you aren’t enough, why can’t Toji love you? He would never treat you like he treated her, and you don’t mind not being treated the same but Toji doesn’t even try. You’re just an afterthought. 

The video ends and you take the disk out again, and you put in the last one. You take a deep breath, wiping away the tears. You knew Toji had a whole life behind you, you shouldn’t care. You’re separating anyway. You laugh seeing a tiny baby Megumi, really nothing like the angsty teen that he is today. A chubby baby, who’s so sleepy. 

Toji looks so happy as he holds his son. Over the moon with his baby, and you begin to wonder why Toji doesn’t want kids. Maybe he just wants one woman to be the mother of his kids but since she’s no longer in this world, he doesn’t want to have more. There’s so many cute moments, mostly focused on Megumi. When he learned how to talk, calling Toji dada, and it’s so visible how happy Toji was. Watching as Megumi learned how to walk, you realized something: you’re not willing to give up having a baby for a man that doesn’t love you. You want your own family, one where you’re loved.

You’re tired of not being loved enough, and it causes your heart to ache. A sob leaves your lips and you’re about to shut the laptop when you hear him ask, “Why are you watching that? It’s three in the morning.”

You turn to look at him, the bit of light coming from the laptop illuminates your tears. You want to ask him why you’re not enough, why he chose to marry you, why he doesn’t love you, why he insists on you staying, why he chose you. There’s a lump in your throat and you’re not able to ask him anything though.

“Do you want a baby?” He asks, and you end up nodding in response, wiping away your tears. And he might not want to be a father again but he’s willing to do it all over again if it means that you’ll stay. “We can have one.”

“We’re getting a divorce, Toji.” You remind him before shutting off the laptop. You stand up from the couch and walk back to the bedroom. He walks behind you since he stood up because you weren’t by his side. He has to get used to it though, you’re leaving soon.

“When are you moving out?” He asks.

“In two days.”

Toji makes sure you dress appropriately for your date. It’s supposed to be a surprise, and you’re not exactly too excited to go out with him. No matter what, you’re leaving. You’ve been saving up for this. For the first time, Toji is actually worried that you’re going to be late and he rushes you to leave.

You wonder what you’ll be doing since he’s in such a rush. And then you get to the movie theater. When you’re in the parking lot, you ask, “What movie are we going to watch? The new dolls ones?”

“It’s a surprise.” He responds, turning off the car. He gets out and he rushes to open the door for you but he never does that for you so he can’t do the chilvarious act since you’re already out of the car. He throws his arm over your shoulder as you walk to the entrance. You’re going up to the ticket booth to get the tickets, but Toji has a different idea. He waves at the worker as if they know each other, and you two walk inside the movie theater. “Do you want anything?”

“I guess… A small popcorn.” You’re unsure. Toji never buys anything from the movie theater during the rare occurrence he actually goes. He walks away to get the popcorn while you patiently wait, looking around. You’ll be moving out tomorrow, and that’s the only thought that runs through your mind when you look at him. It makes you want to cry… It’s for your own good, yet you don’t want to go.

“Let’s go.” There’s a small smile on his face when he’s walking over to you. You’re not sure where you’re supposed to go since you don’t have any movie tickets so you have no option but to follow him. You get to an empty auditorium, and he tells you, “Choose where you want to sit.”

You do get excited, even though you told yourself you weren’t going to get excited over anything during this date. You walk to the very top, and he follows you. You begin to munch on your popcorn while watching the previews, and you can’t help but ask, “What movie are we watching?’

“It’s a surprise.” He responds. You try to think of all the movies that are currently being shown, however, none sound interesting enough to draw Toji in. You won’t push it though, you don’t care. You’ll stick around for one bad movie if it means that Toji will finally sign the divorce papers. 

You finish eating the small bucket of popcorn before the movie actually begins, and when Toji notices, he’s kind enough to take it from your hands and stand up. Before he leaves though you request, “Could you get me a drink? And some candy?”

“Of course, honey.” He says before walking away. You’ll take advantage of this since you’re leaving soon. Your eyes then go to the screen to look at the previews. You know they’re ending and the theater is deserted which makes you assume that it’s an unpopular movie. You don’t care all that much about it, you’re just hoping that Toji will come back before it starts because you aren’t all that great with summaries.

When it does start, he’s still gone. You make sure to pay attention so you’ll be able to explain at the best of your ability. You begin to realize how familiar this movie feels– You try to recollect your thoughts, trying to remember all the movies you’ve watched and then it hits you. You watched this movie years ago with Toji during your first official date.

You’re overflowing with emotions lately. Maybe it’s because a divorce isn’t an easy process, especially when Toji wants you to stay and you love him so much. You’re tearing up watching the beginning of the movie, and your glossy eyes are so focused on the screen that you don’t realize Toji has come back with everything you’ve asked and more.

“Everything okay?” He asks, and you nod in response. You smile at him.

“You remember.” You say as you take the popcorn and drink from him, allowing him to keep the other stuff.

“Of course I do.” He responds. Years ago you came to watch a movie but instead, you did anything but watch the movie. In your defense, you tried to but it wasn’t all that entertaining especially when you had Toji next to you. Your heart softens as you realize that he did this for you.

“How much did this cost?” You question, feeling bad because you know what’ll happen next. His efforts are in vain.

“Not much.” He tries to play it off. Toji isn’t a man that saves up a lot of money, and while this didn’t cost a lot, it costed the little amount of money Toji had saved up. 

The scene is about to play out like it did in the first time. He cups your face and pecks your lips, “Any price is worth it when it comes to you.”

It’s not much effort either, but his words and his actions are making you reconsider even when you had set your mind to leaving. But then you remember how happy he was in those videos, how he called her his soulmate. Toji can’t do that with you, at least he hasn’t in the five years that you’ve been together, and you doubt that he will if you stay. If you decide to stay, it’ll take a week for Toji to go back to being himself. And while he offered to start a family with you, you know it won’t end well.

“Toji…” You begin, your voice nearly breaking. You slowly blink, trying to hold back your tears. He knows what’s coming as he stares at your face.

“If this is about having kids, I told you I’d have one with you.” He reminds you. You take a deep breath, trying to gather all the words you need.

“But you don’t want one. We’re not having a kid to try and save this marriage. That’ll just end up horrible. You won’t love my baby and I’ll have to raise them by myself.” You point out. “Toji… All I want is for someone to love me, and have my own family. You once had that and… You know how it feels. I want to start over with someone else as fast as I can.”

You have to look away because just looking at Toji makes you want to burst into tears. Your heart holds so much sadness, and the last person you want it to unfold with is Toji.

“I know you don’t know how it feels like to be unloved by someone you hold dear to your heart, but let me tell you, it fucking sucks.” You try to chuckle as tears run down your face. You’re not sure why. Maybe you want to disguise your tears, but it’s a horrible cover up. “If I stay, everything will go back to how it usually is within a week. I just want to start over and not be a placeholder for anyone.”

“That’s not how this is, baby. I love you.” He tries to assure you but your mind just replays the video of how happy and in love he looked when he was with her. He’ll never look at you like that, and thinking about it breaks your heart. You deserve someone like that. 

You give him the popcorn before standing up. You weakly smile at him, and you’re about to mutter an apology to him but you end up biting your tongue. He doesn’t deserve one. He chose this. Out of the two of you, you’re the one deserving of an apology. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

You leave to go to the bathroom to fix your makeup and try to watch the movie. Maybe you’ll finally grasp the plot of this movie the second time around– You also really want that candy. You look in the mirror and try to smile at yourself. Your makeup isn’t all that bad, just tear stains ruining your foundation.

It hurts to see him try so hard but you wonder why he’s trying. You’re not the woman he loves, and the man also seems to not care for housework all that much because he hasn’t noticed how your apartment is a damn mess. Maybe Toji does love you… But you shake the thought out of your head because it’s ridiculous. 

There’s a tap on your shoulder and you turn to see what looks like a teenage girl. You raise your eyebrows and she asks, “Do you have a pad or tampon I could use?”

“Uh… Yeah.” You search in your purse for the pad that you keep in case of emergencies, and when you find it, you hand it to her. She thanks you before going into one of the stalls, and you focus on finishing up your makeup.

You freeze, the brush in your hand falling into the sink when you realize something that’s so very important.

You’re late.

This man would work my last nerve but damn that hotel room window scene was spicy 🌶️

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer NSFW Profile

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, non/dub-con, manipulation, I know I might break some hearts but I actually think Chrollo is very vanilla, loud sex, begging, h*nd holding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, unethical usage of a copying nen ability, masturbation, stalking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

HABITS:

Generally speaking, sex hasn’t been a huge part of Chrollo’s life. Of course, being a man with charisma and questionable goals, he’s had his fair share of partners to woo and use for information, sneakily extracting names and facts from them as he kisses and touches them, a husky, whispered question of and where might those gemstones be exactly against his temporary lover’s lips seeming strangely erotic, though the intent is anything but.

He’s never really viewed sex as something meaningful; rather, it’s simply a tool, a means to an end for whatever it is that he wants to steal next, and thus it’s never been much of a concern. Why should it be, when Chrollo finds connections and genuine human interaction something of a chore, unless it’s towards his own Troupe members?

Sex is a means to an end, and while there’s something strangely alluring about the idea of having sex for pleasure, he’s not one to simply go out and find a hookup to relieve himself. He likes to think he’s more refined than that – besides, while he isn’t especially wearing of intimacy or touching others, he doesn’t want to touch anyone he isn’t at least needing to, for some job or another. Casual sex just isn’t his thing.

Of course, then you come along, and just with everything else in his life, you’re to blame for his sudden change in opinion, his sudden changing belief that maybe, just maybe, sexual desire and intimacy has more of a purpose than he originally believed.

It’s not instantaneous, his desires to be touching you and making you moan so prettily and feel your skin against his. He doesn’t see you and immediately imagine bending you over and fucking you until you’re sweating and panting and spent. He doesn’t immediately imagine spreading your legs and getting you gripping at his hair, your pretty slick smeared all over his lips.

It’s not immediate, but rather a culmination of his obsession with you deepening over time. It takes him a long time to develop his feelings for you, and even longer to make sense of them – he’s not particularly hostile towards them, but it takes a while for his obsession to fully set in, for him to realize that he wants you in a romantic, genuine way. It will be a solid few weeks after his obsession form for him to get to the point where he’s fantasizing not only about the way you’d smile at him and softly sigh as he reads passages of his favorite gothic poems to you, but also about the way you’d quote certain stanzas as you kiss his neck, run your fingernails against his back, tug at his hair and keen his name.

It’s slow going, and to be honest Chrollo doesn’t even really notice that it’s happening until he’s suddenly so pent up that he just can’t take it, his hand itching to reach down and quell the dull throbbing coming from between his legs.

He’s never been one to masturbate much, the act seeming tiresome and without little reward, and as a result he’s more curious than anything that you’ve managed to inspire within him such primal urges, animalistic desires to see you stuffed full of his cock, cum leaking from your spent, sore pussy, your eyes dazed and hazy as he kisses you breathlessly.

He’s impressed, more than anything, but Chrollo isn’t too surprised once he thinks about it – you’re something of a breath of fresh air to him, someone real and interesting and oh so intriguing, so why wouldn’t he want to fuck you until you’re crying?

Why wouldn’t he want to map every inch of your skin out with his lips, feel your muscles clench and stiffen up under his fingertips?

He’s mildly surprised by your ability to essentially get him horny, and while it doesn’t happen too often (maybe two or three times per week), it’s still sizeable – and so is the amount of time that he begins spending in the company of a candle, a novel, and symphonic music in the background, blending in with the airy gasps and groans of the evening. 

When it comes to actually touching himself, Chrollo has a bit of a dirty secret; his nen ability (and its extensions, of course) comes in handy to the extreme in a lot of ways regarding you, but as soon as his more sexual desires towards you begin emerging, he’s suddenly so grateful for the sheer amount of nen abilities that he’s accumulated over the years.

That is, he’s particularly grateful for a certain one he picked up towards the beginning of the Phantom Troupe’s existence: an ability allowing partial recreation of an individual’s body parts, up to the whim of the wielder.

Guilt has never been something he’s given too much thought to, and so as he lights the few candles surrounding his place at the edge of the queen sized bed he's used the last few evenings, he merely closes his eyes and smiles, the aroma of a blissful, peaceful evening settling around him, the feeling of moonlight hitting his pale features and the crackling of the flames relaxing his body and preparing him for the next few events.

Chrollo is nothing if not a man of culture, and so as he carefully removes his jacket (folding it on top of the Victorian style chair in the corner of the room) along with his pants, he lets out a small sigh and grabs the book laying atop his nightstand, the golden cover with its black lettering making a small shiver run down his spine.

The book is, admittedly, a bit more graphic than his normal tastes, but there’s something about the way the narrator describes the female lead that makes his mind immediately shoot to you – something about the description of her hair, her body, her mannerisms, her everything, though Chrollo could say without a hint of hesitation that you were still better in every possible way. He’s read the novel dozens of times; it’s a classic, cliché love story of a dashing, mysterious man who swoons a sweet, traditional daughter of some nobleman, their romance dark and swift and taboo.

It reminds him a lot of his situation with you, really – he’s the handsome, dark man who comes and sweeps you off your feet, tempting you into leaving your good-girl, righteous persona and instead letting him taint you. Just the thought gets him throbbing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and wills himself to calm down, to not ruin the ambiance he’s diligently set up for the night.

He flips to the marked section towards the middle of the book, the chapter detailing the night of passion and romance that ensues between the two characters. He’s quick to begin pouring over the words, and though he’s read this multiple page passage easily hundreds of times, the image still comes together in his head as if it’s fresh – the woman pinned below the man, the collar of her silky, white nightdress pushed down to just above her breasts, collarbone exposed along with her neck, half lidded eyes staring up at the lead while she gulps and breaths a bit raggedly.

Her wrists are beside her head, her whole body open and exposed for his future pleasure, and immediately he’s imagining you in a frilly, white nightgown, the material short and sheer and making you look angelic, like something for him to ruin.

Chrollo licks his lips, eyes still rapidly scanning the page as a hand snakes down to the slowly stiffening length resting against his thigh, the tip turning a deep shade of red, the trimmed forest of black hair standing out against the pale skin surrounding. A brush of his fingertips against the sensitive base has him exhaling slowly, the fantasy of the heroine’s knee slightly rising to brush against the lead’s clothed cock making a blush rise to the back of his neck, images of the way you’d bite your lip and whisper his name making him feel hot, every nerve on fire as the excitement and anticipation of pleasure – of you – rolls through him.

He knows the passage by heart, knowing every event taking place between what he pretends to be you and himself, his own imagination even filling in the details, imagining little additions to the plot that the book doesn’t even mention – you whispering his name and tracing the tattoo across his forehead, the feeling of your soft fingers against his skin making him groan ever so lightly. And with that thought in mind, he’s gently bookmarking and placing the book back on the stand, instead taking a deep breath, black eyes appraising his throbbing cock desperate for attention and stimulation, your attention and stimulation.

He spends a moment stroking himself, the pulls of his wrist languid and slow, just barely enough stimulation to feel good – hesitant, almost, like he imagines you being. Would you be nervous, the first time you see him naked? He likes to imagine you’ve never been with a man before (though he knows it’s likely untrue), or at least that you’ve never cared so much about pleasing one, about making him feel good and pleasured and satisfied.

(He decides you would be a bit anxious – your touches small, unsure, your pretty eyes always flicking back up to his, your soft lip caught between your teeth, your thumb just barely brushing over his tip and making him murmur your name with a slightly strained voice.)

He’s quick to pull up his book of nen abilities, flipping through the pages until he finds the correct one, the familiar black lettering describing the ability making him shiver in anticipation. It’s easy to conjure up the familiar image of your face in his mind, the corresponding physical image appearing before him immediately, and as he opens his previously closed eyes, he sucks in a sharp breath at the image of you, your lashes and cheeks and pretty eyes staring up at him.

It’s perfect – a complete replica of you, down to every last mole, hair, and scar decorating your face. It’s a bit disorienting to see a version of just your head and hair floating, your eyes gorgeous yet lifeless, muscles unable to move freely on their own, but Chrollo moves past it quickly – how can he not, when you’re right there, so pliable and beautiful and for his use?

He swallows harshly as his free hand comes down to lightly run over your strands of hair, the texture familiar and pleasing to the touch, and he watches with unblinking eyes as he slowly pushes your head down, further until your unfocused eyes are level with the now pulsing erection sitting between his legs.

He bites his lip as he recalls the words of the passage, the eloquent language not diminishing the meaning behind the words. She kneeled before him, a servant to her master, lips parted and eyes appraising him as if he were a work of art, the single most valuable thing to have graced her gaze.

He imagines the way you’d stare at him, your eyes raking over his sculpted chest, the ‘v’ of his navel, your tongue flicking out over your lips as you appraise the pale length of his cock, the soft, smooth set of balls attached.

He hopes you’d be impressed, but impatience gets the better of him as he once again moves your head further forward, so that his tip brushes against your lifeless lips.

They’re cold, a stark difference to what he’s sure is an inviting, riveting, and wet mouth you possess, but he’s in no position to complain – certainly not when he remembers how the woman swallows him as if he were the most divine, succulent meal, savoring his taste as if it were her last.

It’s difficult to recreate the scene with your unresponsive mouth, but he’s carefully pulling your lower jaw down, your lips parted and tongue lolling out as he slowly, ever so fucking slowly, pushes inside, the small groan fighting its way up his throat telling of how even your cold mouth can affect him.

He shivers, the sensation climbing up his spine, and his fingers gently scrape your scalp as he gets a good grip, his head lolling back slightly and his eyes closing as he begins moving your head up and down, up and down, your cold saliva coating his length as he sighs and whispers your name under his breath.

The music in the background is soft, romantic, orchestral and something Chrollo very much imagines fucking you to. He likes to imagine the way your moans and breaths would blend in with the melodies and crescendos – though, the sounds you’d make when he’s got you creaming all over his fingers and cock would drown out any sort of background music, he’s sure.

Once again musters up more aura, conjuring up a replica of your hand that he quickly intertwines with his own, his fingers joining yours in shakily holding up his nen book. The pace is slow, soft, the moment feeling sweet yet erotic, and as he opens his eyes and stares half liddedly down at your unseeing eyes and unresponsive mouth, Chrollo curses, a small l-love, you’re so beautiful…

His fingers tighten around your hair as he comes closer, the book’s scenes flashing through his eyes as he picks up the pace of his wrist, your head coming down over his throbbing, sensitive skin quicker, the sensation climbing and climbing as his breath steadily gets harsher, soft groans tumbling past his now puffy and overbitten lips, the light flush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose almost endearing.

He’s fairly quiet, only the occasional deep groan or murmur of your name, and as he gets closer, his grip around your fingers tightens, his breathing getting more ragged and uneven. His complexion reddens, his skin shining with a light sheen of sweat, abs clenching and twitching as the pleasure grows stronger, more acute, the feeling of you and your spit and your soft skin only spurring on the twitching of his cock.

The music climbs to a crescendo, his eyes peeling open to see the way your lips suck him in again and again and again, his cock glistening with spit and his hips bucking to get even deeper inside you, the visual of him fucking your face just too much too much –

He’s coming with a strangled gasp of your name, dark eyes blowing wide as his hips start thrusting on their own, plunging forward and down your throat, untimed and uneven.

He imagines the way you’d gag, your throat tightening up and your pretty eyes dotting with tears as he shoots load after load of watery, semi-bitter cum down your throat, the thought only making his hips jerk harder, his body spurred forward by the motivation to get as much of his cum as deeply down your throat as possible, to claim you as his in the most carnal, natural way.

He’s panting by the time the feeling dies down, a few strands of his carefully gelled back hair loose and framing the pale skin of his forehead and the tattoo decorating it. Beads of sweat frame his temples, his chest heaving still, his nipples hard and pebbled in the cool air of the bedroom.

It takes a moment for him to slowly regain his composure, giving your floating facial replica a gentle, long kiss on the forehead, his eyes fluttering closed and eyebrows scrunching up as he kisses you harder, more fervently, more desperately, trying to express every ounce of love and appreciation and want he has for you, even if it’s merely a cold, carbon copy of you that he’s kissing.

Then, he’s shutting the book and watching you disappear, a cold, familiar sense of loneliness settling into his chest.

The music is still on in the background, lulling him into a relaxed state as he lays on his back, body nude while he thinks back to the way the novel describes the post-sex cuddling, soft touches and sweet, affectionate words, lulled promises of loving each other forever, claims of ownership and commitments to stay together.

He sighs softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he imagines the way he’d hold you, your sweaty bodies pressed against one another, cum seeping from your cunt as you clutch onto him, your hair tickling his chin and neck, your soft breaths as you drift into sleep, feeling safe and protected by him…

Occasionally, on nights where he feels particularly restless for you, where the stress of running a wanted criminal group begins to get to him, he’ll conjure up your full body, and while it’s cold, unresponsive and unable to speak or look at him, it’s enough. Cuddling you, kissing your freezing skin and running his fingers over your jawline, collarbone, your supple curves is enough to have him slowly drifting to sleep, secure in your arms and dreaming of the day when you’re finally there to enact the scenes of his romantic, smutty novels with him in person, just as you should be. 

(He’ll never actually fuck your nen-conjured self, however. He feels it would be crossing the line – as if fucking your mouth isn’t – and although it wouldn’t feel nearly as good as the real you, he wants your first time together to be special, to be a true exploration of each other’s bodies and genuine reactions. So, rest assured, he doesn’t use the fuck doll he makes of you as a stand in for actual sex – he’ll just use your hand, or your mouth, or your breasts, or your thighs. Never that perfect cunt between your legs, the one that makes his mouth water and his fingers twitch.)

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Collarbone

In a lot of ways, Chrollo is a traditional man. Surely not with his profession, nor the company he keeps, and certainly not the way he feels for you – but still, some aspects of how he views intimacy are very classical.

That is, while he adores the sight of you in revealing, slutty clothing, with your tits nearly bursting out of the pathetic, stringy bralette and your pretty, puffy lips clearly visible through the sheer thong, there’s an appeal to the more sensual parts of your body that aren’t as oversexualized.

Specifically, Chrollo finds himself drawn to your chest – of course, your breasts are alluring and wonderful and fit in his hands so very perfectly, but his favorite spot of all is right above them.

The expanse of your collarbone is a sight that always manages to catch his eye, his dark gaze lingering on the symmetrical, pretty bones. He likes to trace them with his finger, his touch light and soft but insistent, running over the lines and pressing his thumb into the dip in the center.

It doesn’t matter if your collarbone is prominent or not – there’s just something about the intimacy of it all that makes him giddy, the fact that no one except him gets to feel this part of you making his possessiveness flare up and shivers race up his spine.

When he’s kissing you, his lips always find purchase there, traveling down your neck and the juncture of your shoulder, before settling heavily against your collarbone, soft lips pressing kisses and hickeys and biting against the skin.

When he’s pressed you up against the wall, his figure looming over you and his presence making you feel small and weak, he’ll leave a hand at the base of your throat, the heel of his palm pressing against your collarbone so that he can feel your pulse, feel the way you breath, feel you you you.

You’ll often wake up after nights of long, passionate fucking (love-making, he likes to say, though the way he loses control after his first orgasm and fucks you so hard it nearly hurts really only resembles an animal, not a man) with dark marks all over your collarbone, the entire area bruised and swollen and aching, a constant reminder of Chrollo’s presence.

When he kidnapped you, it was a very spur of the moment, rushed affair, and as a result you weren’t able to bring any of your own clothing – which means, outside of just roaming around naked (something that Chrollo certainly wouldn’t argue against), you’ll be left to dress with whatever he deems appropriate.

More often than not, that means shirts with very low necklines, off the shoulders, or with wide necks that show off your collarbone.

(It also means skirts and dresses, sheer tights or thin materials, things that show off your thighs and the curves of your legs – Chrollo’s second favorite spot on your body.)

You’ll catch him staring idly, his eyes hyperfocused on the area even when you’re speaking to him, and sometimes you can even actually see the way he zones out ever so slightly, an internal war taking place inside him because he wants to hear what you’re saying and watch your lips as you speak to him, but he just can’t stop staring at where he’d left a large, prominent hickey on the right side of your collarbone, feeling your pulse under his lips while he made you cream and squeeze and come all over his fingers, just for him.

He thinks you’re beautiful, and even if you aren’t, Chrollo finds your body to be elegant, truly a work of art, and your collarbone is the crowning jewel of said art.

So don’t be surprised when he’s forcing you to wear chokers and tight necklaces, the combination of the jewelry and the sleeveless top leaving the expanse between them open and vulnerable, perfect to suck on and kiss.

He’s just in love, and is it so wrong to find your body perfect, wonderful, so damn alluring that it drives him insane?

His fingers

From the moment his sexual urges towards you begin, his fantasies tend to revolve mostly around using his hands to please you.

Of course, he likes the idea of using his mouth on you or stuffing you full of his cock, and those fantasies are most definitely present, too.

(As are the ones where you’re pleasing him – he has to be careful with these fantasies, though, because if he’s in public, any thought of you dropping to your knees for him or pressing your pretty tits together and moving them up and down his cock gets him hard immediately, his orgasm already halfway there from just the thought of you wanting him to feel good.)

The majority of what he imagines in detail is really just him working at your body with his hands. They aren’t too terribly veiny, but they’re the perfect amount, just enough to get your gaze lingering on them, and seeing the way the tendons and muscles flex when he moves will make your throat feel dry.

Even the way his hands are connected to his forearms, veins dancing up the expanse of his pale arms can get you staring, embarrassment making your neck feel hot when he catches your gaping with a knowing look, that prideful, cocky smirk on his face making you feel hot in anger and a bit of excitement.

(He’s noticed your staring, and makes it a point to roll up the sleeves of his shirts to expose his wrists and forearms, even purposefully flexing the muscles when he sees your eyes on them, his own gaze eagerly examining your face for even a hint of awe, or attraction, or enjoyment.)

But the real draw of his hands are his fingers; they’re pale, nimble and surprisingly smooth, given his past and occupation, and they’re long. They’re always cold, the feeling making you shiver, and Chrollo has them pressed against you as often as possible.

He’s touchy, really, and while this often manifests as his hand sitting on the small of your back or your shoulder or brushing against your cheek, this habit certainly doesn’t change in the context of intimacy and sex.

When he’s got you underneath him, staring up at him with wide eyes and your lips all swollen and bruised from his harsh kisses, he’s immediately touching you, his hands coming up to rip off the shirt he’d picked out for you this morning, tearing the flouncy skirt he’d helped zip you into cleanly in half in his desperation.

He can’t control himself, really – he’s gripping at your thighs and the fat of your stomach, squeezing and kneading and wanting, and while that entertains him for a while, eventually he’ll be nudging your legs apart, fingers immediately tracing up the insides of your thigh, tickling you and making you suck in a breath as he gets closer and closer to where you need him. (Or, at least, where he thinks you need him.

He’s convinced he knows your body better than you do, though, so any amount of denying this claim will result in that same, familiar patronizing smile and a soft murmur of it’s okay, darling, your body says what your mind won’t.)

He likes to tease you, even though it ends up teasing him too, by pressing feather-light touches against your folds and sensitive clit, dark eyes flicking between your cunt and your face, eagerly taking in every expression and sound you give him.

He’ll ask you if you want more, for you articulate what you want, all because he needs to hear you say please Chrollo, I need your fingers inside, I want to feel you fuck me with your fingers! Eventually, though, his patience will snap, and he’ll push them inside, listening to your little gasps and moans as he immediately curls them, rubbing and pressing against the spots he knows make you moan and writhe.

He’s unfairly good with his fingers – he’s got the pacing and motions down perfectly, his stamina high enough to keep going throughout the entire night.

He’s always got a finger steadily working at your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles against the sensitive area until you’re coming for him, and while a lot of his desire to make you feel good genuinely comes from the place of wanting to please you, a lot of it is selfish, too.

By constantly stimulating your clit or loosening you up with his fingers, he’s making sure you’ll enjoy him, that when he’s fucking you and stuffing you with his cum, you’re wet enough and receptive enough, and god, the feeling of you coming on his cock, the constant pressure against your clit tipping you over the edge?

Well, don’t blame him when he’s gasping into your ear, a strangled sort of noise that almost sounds like your name, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you, before you feel warmth spilling into you, his black hair tickling your cheeks as he rests his face in the crook of your neck.

DRIVE:

In general, Chrollo’s libido isn’t the highest. Obviously, he desires you sexually and loves to kiss you, touch you, fuck you, make you scream his name and clutch onto him like you’ll otherwise die, but he doesn’t need to be in bed with you at all times. He doesn’t have to be making you cream and stuffing you full of his cock, fingers and cum every day.

(Every other day is ideal, or – if he’s particularly stressed or busy – maybe every two days, but that’s pushing it.)

No, Chrollo isn’t that sexually driven – though, he is that clingy, even if he’s good at not showing it. In general, there’s something about you that makes Chrollo feel, and he’s found that any sort of physical contact brings this strange, fluttering emotion in his chest, one he’s fairly sure is love – which ultimately results in the conclusion that in order to feel good, wanted, loved, touching you is something that he must do often.

The reality is that he’s never really had a partner, someone to give and receive genuine love and affection with, and the moment that he realizes how wonderful a hug can feel or how good of an experience simply locking pinkies can be, he’s hooked. Suddenly, those cliché, overt couple actions that used to intrigue him in a clinical way are much, much more interesting, the idea of wrapping his arms around your waist enticing in a way he can’t quite describe.

From pretty much the beginning of your time as his captive, Chrollo will be forcing affection onto you. It’s little things, mostly – things that make your skin crawl because they’re so innocent and sweet and pure that it makes you sick.

He’ll gently intertwine your hands with his, staring down and marveling at the sight of your fingers wrapped around his own, your smaller hand looking perfect against his.

He’ll press a kiss to your cheek or forehead after he compliments you (though, the compliments are always a bit strange – slightly threatening, or too specific, or just weird).  

Of course, while this affection and surplus of physical contact is generally innocent, slowly Chrollo’s tastes and urges begin to change slightly, going from wholesome, sweet acts to more questionable touches, actions that have you slightly cocking a brow, slightly not comfortable with the implications of his behavior.

Because really, while you’ll likely be just fine with him lacing his fingers with yours (though, it’s likely that you’ll be less happy with it and more just complacent, figuring that with his criminal status and abilities, there’s far worse he could do to you), things will get a bit complicated when his hands start resting at your waist, dipping ever so slightly lower to your hip, his fingers pressing just a bit tighter against your skin than you’re comfortable with.

What starts out with a mostly tolerable chaste kiss to the cheek will turn into his lips against yours, his tongue running along your lower lip, a small groan tumbling into your mouth as he forces his tongue inside, running it along your teeth and coaxing your own tongue to participate.

What begins as a simple pair of hands resting against your shoulders will become him running them down the length of your sides, thumbs pressing circles against the area right underneath your breasts, those dark eyes seeming to shine with something that makes your breath hitch.

Because really, while Chrollo does absolutely bask in the innocent affection he can garner from you, there’s just something about you that makes his more natural urges kick into gear, the area between his legs feeling warmer, more insistent, more desperate the more he kisses you, the more he holds you and whispers to you that he loves you so much my dear, won’t you let me show you the extent of my feelings? 

However, Chrollo is a smart man – when it comes to actually having sex or any sort of intimacy on the same level with you, he’s willing to be patient.

He doesn’t want to force you into anything, to make you uncomfortable or dislike him, to reverse any progress he’s made in getting you to fall utterly, completely in love with him, so he steels himself, mentally reminding himself every time he sees your plush thighs that he must wait.

He’ll chastise himself for almost losing control when you stretch, the sliver of exposed skin of your stomach and your cute little grunt nearly making him throw caution to the wind.

He has remarkable self control, and while you likely won’t know it, you’ll be seeing it in action nearly every moment he’s around you, especially when you’re already doing something affectionate, like hugging or sitting in his lap.

(He’s the one that’s forced you into these things, of course, but it doesn’t matter – if you make any sort of movement that isn’t prying him off or swatting his hands away, Chrollo considers you as being willing, happy, enjoying touching him, and the thought makes this pleasant, warm feeling bloom in his chest.)

He’s working incredibly hard to not push too far, but after some time of you not seeming to come around, not voicing any desire to go further, Chrollo decides he must resort to certain measures in order to speed up your progress.

Thus, he begins subtly trying to plant the idea in your mind, trying to tempt you into admitting that yes, you want him to reach underneath the frilly, white shirt he provided to you and cup your breasts, to roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, to feel you shiver and hear you sigh against his lips.

He wants to lay seeds in your mind so that you’ll come to the conclusion sooner that you want him to rest between your legs and use that talented, smooth talking mouth to make you talk, to hear you babble and cry out his name.

He’s talented at being discreet, and so as he moves his hands to rest closer to your ass, squeezing the plush of your thighs, leaving fluttering kisses against your neck, he’s hoping you’ll slowly come to the conclusion on your own, your own body and desires betraying you.

And quite honestly, while you’ll likely be uncomfortable at first, confused and a bit scared, eventually it’ll work – after all, charisma is something Chrollo possesses in mass quantities, and while you’re obviously not happy that you’ve been kidnapped, that the leader of a mass group of international criminals is holding you in his lap and nuzzling against your mouth, whispering to you that you’re so lovely, won’t you say my name darling, it’s difficult to not let the ideas form, the lack of human contact forcing you to imagine paths you rationally have no desire to.

It’ll make you feel dirty, like you’re betraying yourself and letting Chrollo win, but he’ll ultimately get exactly what he wants – he’s observant to a tee, and so once he notices the way you start clenching your thighs together ever so slightly as he tells you that he’d love to take care of you tonight, he’s inwardly smiling, pride swimming in his chest because finally,  finally you’re beginning to be affected by the subtle touches and words, things that could leave you second guessing, the possibility that maybe he wants to go further unrelenting in that sweet little head of yours.

And so, as he begins probing you, asking you how you’re feeling, if you’re satisfied, if you’re feeling like I give you everything you desire, he’s waiting with baited breath for you to embarrassedly admit that you want more, that you want something only Chrollo can give to you.

He’ll goat you into admitting it, telling you to be more specific, to tell him exactly what you want, because otherwise he won’t know, and then he can’t improve, now can he?

He’s calculating, smart, analytical and damn good at getting what he wants, and so ultimately you’ll cave, admitting that you want him to fuck me please, I just – just please…

He won’t outwardly be affected, but just know that the speed with which his erection makes itself known is directly tied to you, the eagerness of his body and his movements to undress you betraying him.  

And as he starts breathing a little heavier, stripping you of your clothing and his as well, it becomes hard to miss the way he’s eager, anxious, frantic to touch you.

You’ll see the signs of months of repressed sexual tension, months of desiring you but needing you to consent first, even as pressured as your admittance may be.

But in the end, does it matter?

Because when Chrollo’s hovering over you, those dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that’ll make you shiver, you’ll feel oh so taken care of, the small signs and subtle pushes making you insatiable for something you didn’t even know you desired. 

And Chrollo will be happy to keep providing for you – what kind of lover would he be if he didn’t? Besides, no one else canmake you feel like he does – not even you – he’ll make sure of it.

You only need him.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Loud Sex

Generally speaking, Chrollo is a quiet man. He’s polite and personable, yes, but he doesn’t bother with unnecessary chatter – when he speaks it’s purposeful, calculated, commanding, and this is true even when it comes to you.

 You make him feel the closest he’s ever felt to being nervous, but he’s still not especially loud around you. He never shuts up, that’s true, always asking you questions and telling you about his day, about a flower that reminds him of you (a petal or two was missing, making him think of how you aren’t truly complete unless he’s with you), or even, on rare occasions, telling you a reason why he’s in love with you.

(It’s not as romantic as it sounds – the way he speaks about romance is too clinical, and the reasons he’ll give you are far too specific and detailed to really make you feel good.)

So yes, he speaks often, but he’s not loud.

And during sex, this stays true – the most you’ll get out of him is a low groan and a few heavy, drawn out sighs, or a few chants of your name when he’s getting close and he’s particularly pent up. He’s still not quiet though – he’s talking the whole time, dirty talk spilling from his lips about how you’re so beautiful, especially when you’re falling apart around my cock or that he loves when you moan, can you feel how I’m throbbing inside of you? It’s all for you, does it feel good to know you’re affecting me like this?

His voice is always sultry, always whispered directly into your ear, and while his particular brand of dirty talk is, more or less, mediocre (it’s always too long and makes you think too much; you’d prefer something shorter, something more explicit, something coming from anyone aside from him), Chrollo likes the concept of sex not being quiet. Specifically, he likes when you fill in the silence.

There’s something about the noises you make that make him absolutely feral – similarly to his curiosity about you in everyday life, he wants to understand you sexually. He wants to hear every sound you have to offer – he needs to understand what’s causing you to make that noise and how to keep you making it. He needs to hear every little thing, to have a mental catalogue of the different noises and cries he can pull from your pliable body.

It doesn’t matter if you’re naturally loud or quiet – he will be expecting you to put on a show for him, your body a canvas for him to create a masterpiece on, your every gasp, moan, and sigh a paint stroke that eventually comes together to form you, a piece of art Chrollo wants to keep stolen away from the world forever.

He’s not particularly shy about this desire of his, either – it’s very easy to tell that he’s striving to get you to moan for him, because you’ll feel his fingers work in that certain way, grinding and rubbing in that particular spot, those dark eyes wavering in excitement because he absolutely loves the way you sound gasping his name.

You can tell he’s aiming to get you vocal when he’s pressing his face between your legs, dark hairs tickling your thighs as he diligently works his tongue against your clit, the sensation partnered with the insistent thrusting of his fingers inside you not stopping until you groan his name, and then only getting harder, that same motion being repeated over and over because he needs to hear it again.

He’s like an addict, really – once he hears a noise he finds pleasant (every noise you make, really), he’s trying everything in his power to get you to make it again, wanting to have auditory evidence (to match the slick coating his fingers and the smell of your arousal) that you’re enjoying this, that you’re enjoying him and the way he’s touching you. It’s selfish, really, because while giving you pleasure is great and brings you a step closer to desiring him as he desires you, it quells his possessiveness.

It makes him feel good because it’s proof that he’s affecting you, that the motions and pleasure his body is bringing you is making you feel good, that your brain is mush because of him. It’s proof that your thighs are trembling and shaking because of the way he’s massaging and toying with your clit.

It’s proof that your lips are swollen and puffy and parted because of the way he’s kissing your neck and kneading at your breasts. It’s proof that he’s the only one on your mind, that your every thought is revolving around him him him, that your body and brain can only focus on Chrollo alone.

It makes him feel good, knowing that no other man could possibly be in your thoughts in moments like these, and the more he can get you moaning and screaming and sobbing in pleasure, the higher the likelihood of you focusing solely on him. So really, any time the two of you are intimate, expect your voice to be hoarse the next day – he needs you to be making noise, and he’ll even tell you as much.

He’ll tell you to show me how badly you need me inside you, moan my name and cream on my fingers and I might consider adhering to your wishes.

He’ll tell you to say his name, to tell him that he feels good, and even to narrate exactly what you’re feeling.

(That last one is a favorite of his – it’s so dirty, and it fills him with pride and arousal to hear you say that he feels s’good, your fingers are so big and it’s making me feel so full and good and fuck, Chrollo, please let me come!)

It’s an obsession, truly, one that rivals the one he holds for you – so really, just give him what he wants.

Fake the moans (but be careful, because he can normally tell – though, as he gets closer to his own orgasm, his façade slips and the true lustful, crazed man underneath his carefully constructed exterior rears its head, his snapping hips and messy hair evidence of just how much you affect him. He’s less able to tell apart your fake moans from real ones in these moments, and when he’s right on the edge, any noise from you will have him toppling over, gripping onto you and coming, filling you so fully that it leaks out, white spilling all over your thighs and dripping down his balls.)

He just wants you to be vocal, and it’s in your best interest to meet his demands – the night will be long and very, very painful if you don’t; Chrollo knows your body well enough to overstimulate you past your threshold, the pleasure melting into pain with each orgasm he tears from your body.

Begging

While Chrollo is a difficult man to decipher, one thing you’ll learn about him is that he’s very, very susceptible to your begging.

Of course, he doesn’t always give in to what you want – your escape and freedom, for example, are things he’ll never grant you, no matter how incessantly and long you beg. (And no matter how you offer your body or your fake affections or any number of things.)

He’s stringent about many things, but in the bedroom he’s more or less easy to win over – you just have to know how to do it correctly.

It takes a very specific methodology to get him to listen to your wishes, to have him do exactly what you need in order to feel good. And that methodology is mostly rooted in begging him to do what you want, what you need in order to seek the pleasure you’re wanting.

And frankly, just hearing you say his name and beg him for literally anything has his hips stuttering, arousal spiking through him because god, you must really want him, huh?

There’s something so riveting and right about the power imbalance that you begging him for pleasure sets up; he’s the one in control, giving you what he deems as the right amount of pleasure, controlling your orgasm and deciding when – and if – you’ll be allowed to come.

It’s a power trip that gets his heart racing and his cock flushing bright red, his chest swelling with pride and greed because god, every fucking inch of you belongs to him, and when you acknowledge that it makes him want to fuck you hard enough to make you scream his name.

You’ll need to beg, but even more than that, you’ll need to mix the begging with some sort of compliment. He’s good at telling when you’re lying, though, so the compliment must be somewhat genuine – tell him his fingers feel so good, oh Chrollo you’re gonna make me come, don’t stop! Tell him that he’s so big, you feel so – so big inside me, oh god, please harder, I need you harder!

If you intermix the compliments in with your begs, Chrollo is almost certain to at least consider your wishes, fucking you harder or deeper or angling his fingers just right, anything and everything to get you to keep talking, to keep paying attention to him and telling him how much you need him.

He may not show it, but he really, really wants you to enjoy sex with him, both because seeing you writhe in pleasure gives him pleasure, and also because it means you’re giving him all your focus and attention. So really, if things aren’t going quite as they should to really get you off or to make you feel good, using this master formula will often yield the results you desire – he’s a sap, even if he doesn’t show it, even if he’s not fully aware of it himself.

What he is aware of, though, is this little strategy of yours.

He’s figured it out; you’re not as smooth as you think, and although it boosts his ego and makes his heart race when you compliment him, Chrollo knows there’s an ulterior motive behind your words. And so begins a game of cat and mouse – he likes the way you beg for him, and he doesn’t want you to stop, so he’ll only slightly give in to your request.

This will, in turn, make you beg for more, a new compliment and moans slipping from your lips that get Chrollo gulping and steeling his resolve, his fingers moving slightly to the spot you want them, his pace getting slightly faster, only half-assedly doing what you’d begged for.

The cycle repeats, Chrollo managing to milk you for every last possible bit of praise and desperation for his touch, until he’s eventually giving in, doing things just as you ask for so that you’re a shaking, moaning mess for him, completely falling apart on his fingers. He’s aware of the game you’re playing, and frankly, as time passes Chrollo will begin purposefully not touching you like how he knows you like.

You like to be fingered quickly, with a certain angle and a certain rhythm? Well, he’s finger fucking you at a moderate pace, aiming for a certain spot an inch or so away from your sweet spot, the rhythm just slightly off.

It’ll be enough to get you squirming, your face scrunching up in pleasure and need, your eyes teary and watery as you beg him to go just a hair faster, because it always feels so good when you go fast, please make me feel good, Chrollo!

You’ll go through the cycle three or four times, but he’ll almost always eventually give in – with one big, glaring exception.

Chrollo really likes to bring you to orgasm, it’s true – however, he really, really likes when you beg for permission to orgasm, waiting to fully let go until he’s given you the okay to make a mess all for him.

He wants you to beg him to please let me come, please Chrollo I wanna come for you, all the while he’s holding off just a bit, not quite pushing you over the edge with his thrusts or flicks of his tongue.

He knows your body so well that he’s able to hold you right where he wants you, right on the brink of coming but not quite, just so that you’re unbearably close but needing that one final push. And he’ll milk this out of you, too – he’s unashamed with how he asks you to repeat yourself, to tell him exactly what you need, to moan his name and show him just how badly you want to come for him.

He wants you to be prickling with embarrassment at how unabashedly you shame, loving the way you get all shy and bashful when he tells you to beg me to fuck you into an orgasm, love, and then you’ll get it.

It makes him giddy to see the way you writhe and cry out his name so wantonly, your desperation to find your high trumping over any bit of self-respect you pretend to have, because ultimately you’re choosing him and the pleasure he can give you over this stupid, rebellious side of yourself that’s unwilling to accept his love.

It’s good, a step in the right direction, and by forcing you to beg him permission to orgasm (an orgasm caused by him, no less), Chrollo simultaneously gets to push you a smidge closer to willingly being his, and he also gets to feel you come for him.

(A sight that normally pushes him unbearably close to his own orgasm – just a few thrusts inside you and he’s blowing his load, cum spurting inside you as he gasps your name under his breath, the warmth settling into his stomach both a result of his orgasm and giddiness that you’re starting to come around, aren’t you?)

He just loves when you beg, and although you think you have the power in the situation, thinking you’ve got him figured out, you really, really don’t. You never do, after all, and Chrollo will always outsmart you.

So just tell him you want his cock, beg him to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and he’ll give you just that – not without a few caveats, though.

Oral Fixation

While your collarbone may be his favorite part of your body, Chrollo really, really grows to love your mouth.

He’s always been entranced by the gentle curve of your lips, the shape playing behind his eyelids as he sleeps at night, driving him crazy when you aren’t yet by his side, making sleep – already elusive enough for him – nearly impossible to find.

(You’ll never know, but on nights where he can’t stop thinking of your lovely lips and how soft and warm and bitable they’d be, he’ll begrudgingly turn to his pillow, his own pale pink lips pressing against the silk, his eyes fluttering closed as he presses hesitant kisses against the material. As he gets more comfortable, he’ll move towards using his tongue; letting it flick out against the pillowcase, imagining it’s actually pressing into your mouth, brushing against your own and coaxing it to rub against his, to suck, his own tongue running along your teeth and reaching deeper and deeper into you until there’s not an inch of space he hasn’t touched and licked and tasted -)

He’s thought endlessly of how you might taste; would your saliva be sweet, or perhaps a nice, neutral taste? He’ll lick his lips while he contemplates, unconsciously salivating himself as he imagines how you’d taste as he kisses you, your scent and feel and everything else about you overwhelming him and making him dizzy in the best possible way.

He’s thought of the way you’d place kisses against his skin, how soft your lips would feel against the hard planes of his chest, against the firm, defined muscles of his thighs, against his neck.

He’s spent many, many nights imagining the way your mouth and lips would worship his body; he imagines you’d start with his own lips, kissing him and moaning into his mouth with fervor, your tongue slipping out to meet his, saliva and spit getting all over your chins because every time he imagines kissing you it’s messy, sloppy and earnest and dirty.

He likes to think you’d move onto his jawline next, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line, tracing it from his chin all the way back to the juncture of his jaw, leading up to kiss and lightly suck at his ear.

You’d take his lobe gently between your teeth, lightly pulling and tugging just to hear him harshly exhale, your tongue even coming up to lick at the shell of his ear, your breath warm and sensual as you breath and whisper his name.

You’d move onto his neck, next, sucking kisses and hickies against the pale skin, the perfect canvas for you to leave your artwork against. He wants you to mark him up – he may be the dominant one in the relationship, sure, and he may the one indisputably in charge of everything, but there’s something endearing about wanting to stake your claim on him. It makes him feel good, desired, possessive over you, and he’ll proudly don his coat with the dark marks all along his neck, perhaps even pulling the collar to the side a bit so that others can see that he’s yours.

Then you’ll move down to his chest; he wants to feel you press fast, quick kisses all over the plain of his chest and abdomen, your tongue tracing the lines of his abs and making him shiver. He wants to feel your lips wrapped around his nipples, sucking and running your tongue over the sensitive skin, leaving a wet pop noise as you pull back.

He wants you to kiss along his thighs, the kisses here more harsh and demanding, maybe even sinking your teeth into his skin just to get his eyes rolling to the back of his head, your sudden display of dominance (or brattiness, rather) making something primal sound from the back of his throat.

And of course, Chrollo’s fixation with your mouth extends towards your ability to suck – before you two reach a point of sexual contact, he’ll firmly trace your lips with his fingertips, only to push past them and situate his fingers against your tongue, a small smile on his lips as he sighs softly and tells you to suck, my love, I’m sure you know how.

He’ll watch with wide eyes and baited breath as you work your tongue along his digits, slipping between them and letting your lips suction, the warmth and wetness making his pants tight and his cock ache, desperation nearly sending him over the edge as precum drools from his tip. And god, when you use your mouth on his cock?

Chrollo is a fairly composed man, yes, but even he can’t keep up that image when you’re sucking on him like you’re trying to suck out his soul, your lips gliding up and down his length, the suction and feel of your tongue rubbing against that sensitive spot on the underside of his tip making his abs clench and contract, his hips getting a mind of their own as they thrust and buck and hump.

He loves when you use your mouth on him, and although he tries to let you set the pace yourself and do things at your own leisure and speed (mostly because he likes seeing what you come up with, how you think he’ll be pleased), he’ll reach a point as he nears his orgasm where he takes over, his hands grasping onto your head and physically moving it up and down, controlling the depth and pace as he groans lowly, his orgasm powerful and heady and numbing as he comes, cum spilling down your throat as he holds you tightly against his pelvis, the short black hairs sitting at his navel ticking your nose.

Another spot that makes him melt when you lick and touch is his balls.

They’re always full, heavy, swollen, aching and begging to be fondled and licked and emptied, and what better way than with your soft, pretty lips and your nimble tongue? He likes to watch the way you stroke at his shaft and move your attention to each sack, tongue coming out to lick and tease, the sensation making him suck in a shaky breath – the sound so quiet you very nearly miss it.

He wants you to take on in your mouth, the warmth making his knees feel weak, the feeling of you lightly sucking making him have to clutch onto whatever surface is nearest just to steady himself.

It’s so dirty – seeing the way your lips stretch to accommodate something so big, and by the time you’re through with them he wants his balls to be positively smothered in your spit, glistening in the light and sensitive to the touch because you’ve worked him up so well.

Of course, Chrollo enjoys when you touch him in pretty much any way, but there’s just something about your mouth that he finds himself gravitating towards, because while it’s intimate and wonderful to fuck you, when you use your mouth – something that feels more taboo, more personal, more sacred – well, that’s a different thing, isn’t it? It means you want him, you want to taste him, that you like his aftertaste of musk and cum to linger in your mouth long after you’ve finished him off.

Chrollo just likes the implications of it all – and seeing you on your knees or feeling your lips against his neck will just make him shiver, excitement and lust and love pooling in his gut, all directly at sweet, perfectly little you.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Holding your hand

It’s not really a kink, but you’ll notice quite quickly into your sexual relationship with Chrollo that he has a habit of always managing to interlock your fingers when he’s fucking you.

The first few times you’ll think it’s sweet, deciding that although it seems out of character for a mass murderer to want to hold you hand when he’s already stuffed as deeply inside of you as possible, it’s kind of endearing.

It seems like a manipulation tactic at first, honestly – you don’t trust Chrollo, not at all, and despite the fact that you’ve caved and given into your bodily desires to have him touch you and pleasure you, you don’t like him. Maybe this is some ploy to get you to fall for him – you’ve seen him reading articles and researching on ways to make women feel loved and valued during sex, his dark eyes diligently and eagerly scanning the words.

(You didn’t bring this up to him, however – the conversation that would’ve ensued would’ve been unbearable, and what would you even say? Chrollo, why do you want me to feel wanted during sex? What are you playing at? Is it not enough for you that I’ve already admitted I want you to touch me?)

The truth, actually, is none of those things – of course, he does view sex as a way to bring you closer to him and get you closer and closer to returning his feelings, but the hand holding actually isn’t something he’s meticulously planned.

The constant stimulation and attention to your clit, he’d known from the beginning – making you come feels good, yes, but he needs you to enjoy it, to realize that he can give you pleasure consistently, that he knows his way around your body. But the hand holding?

Well, the first time he fucks you, he’s genuinely gone – you can’t tell, not really, but from the moment he slips inside of you, he’s fighting to keep his composure, his hips begging him to just ruin you, to fuck into you as hard and fast as he can – even if it means spilling himself inside of you in as little as two minutes. He finds himself drifting away and getting lost in the pleasure that first time, and subconsciously his hand is finding yours, needing something to grip onto, something to ground him and keep him from coming much too early.

His cold fingers lace with your own, pressing your hand against the mattress as he continues humping his hips into yours, and he’ll squeeze your hand when the pleasure gets especially strong, his grip so tight it nearly bruises you.

He needs to hold your hand – it’s comforting, but more than that it keeps him connected to you.

It feels intimate, like something reserved only for you, because even though he’s slept with other women before, never has it been like this. Never has he actively been trying to make them feel good, and never has he actively been hoping they’ll want to fuck him again and again and again, something that he ardently, feverishly hopes you feel.

Holding your hand becomes something of a tradition; it gets easier to not immediately orgasm when he slips inside you, but still his hand moves on its own, capturing yours and squeezing, his dark eyes boring into yours and the veins on his hand standing out.

It’s romantic, he thinks, and even when he’s kissing you and throwing your legs over his shoulders, balls clapping loudly against your ass as he pants and whispers your name under his breath, his hand will stay in yours.

And his grip is tight – you can’t pull your hand out, he won’t let you. You’re not allowed to, because this makes the sex special, intimate, meaningful – it makes the two of you closer, your bodies truly united in more ways than one.

He loves you, he promises, and frankly, it’s best if you don’t mention this habit – he won’t tell you the truth, instead letting a small smile flit his lips and telling you cryptically that it helps me know if you’re feeling good.

That’s bullshit – it’s all for him, but you don’t need to know that gripping your hand like its his lifeline is the only thing keeping him sane when he fucks you – it’s the only thing keeping him from bucking into you like a wild animal, filling you full of cum like some sort of predator.

Voyeurism

Chrollo has a rather nasty habit of watching you. He’s not quite as overt as some other members of the Troupe, but it’s not hard to notice the way those dark eyes are always trained on your figure, observing, scrutinizing, staring with an intensity that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope.

He just finds you utterly fascinating, and he honestly finds himself unable to look away from you. You’re captivating in every sense of the word, and his feelings don’t change when it comes to the bedroom – he’s constantly, constantly looking at you.

The eye contact can be sexy, sometimes, in the right circumstance, but most of the time the intensity makes you nervous, embarrassment settling in your gut because you feel like he can see every inch of you, every imperfection and flaw.

He’s always looking at you while he’s fucking you, those eyes boring into yours as his hips snap into you, faster and faster and harder and harder, watching your face as you get close to coming, seeing how you fall apart for him and cry out his name.

He’s staring and breathing a bit harshly when you’re taking him down your throat, mesmerized by the way your lips slot around him, how his cock appears and disappears again and again, your little gagging noises when you take just a bit too far down making him near feral.

He’s even staring at you while he sucks on your clit, fingers curling inside you as he looks up at you from under his lashes, the eye contact making you shy away and close your thighs around his head, just wishing he'd stop staring at you like you’re some slab of meat for him to devour.

But more than anything, Chrollo likes to observe the way you look when you’re feeling good – pleasure looks good on you, and especially before you allow him to touch you in an overtly sexual way, Chrollo will have you touch yourself for him, all the while he gets a front row seat.

It’s thrilling, the way you spread yourself open on your fingers, tugging your lip between your teeth as you rub small, tight circles against your clit, your thighs trembling from both the pleasure and the weight of his gaze.

He’ll settle himself into a chair at the end of the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his fingers digging into the armrests, his eyes trained directly on you. He’ll alternate between staring at your face and staring at your cunt, too entranced by it all to fully commit to one or the other.

He likes seeing the way you work yourself, how you flick your fingers or turn your wrist, the pace and tempo and precision of your movements.

He likes to stare at your breasts, watching them heave in time with your chest, seeing your nipples perk up and pebble up, looking hard and pinchable and suckable, like the perfect spot to rest his lips.

He’ll stare at the way your thighs tremble and jerk together occasionally, the pleasure and risqué of being Chrollo’s entertainment making everything feel heavier, stronger, more intense.

He’ll request that you finger yourself or play with your clit or touch your tits, anything and everything because he wants to see everything.

 Of course, it’s nothing new to him – he’d watched you masturbate countless times before he stole you away, enjoying the vulnerability of it all, your weak, alluring form totally unaware of the eyes watching your most intimate moments.

But now, now, it’s different – you know you’re being watched now, and that adds a certain layer to your actions that makes Chrollo lick his lips, because while seeing your naked body and hearing your barely contained moans has his cock standing at attention in mere seconds, the fact that you’re reacting so strongly to knowledge that it’s Chrollo staring gets his ears feeling hot and his hands twitching, aching to reach out and touch you.

There’s something alluring about the fact that you’re acting all shy and bashful because it’s him that’s watching you like a hawk, his cock clearly hard against his stomach as he stares, obviously enjoying the sight.

He likes to know that he’s affecting you, that you’re thinking of him, that he’s on your mind as you play with yourself and make yourself come – it’s hot, frankly, and although it’s a test of his self control (one he struggles with far more than you’ll ever know), watching you bring yourself to orgasm is the best foreplay he can imagine.

Because then, he can watch himself bring you to orgasm, and isn’t that just the prettiest, loveliest sight?

Isn’t you falling apart for him, moaning and writhing and scratching down his back, the single most valuable thing on this Earth?

He’s a thief, after all, and anything valuable is his for the taking – including you.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Chrollo is, without a doubt, extraordinarily possessive. You’re completely and utterly his, his property and under his ownership, to the point where he’ll often refer to you as such in passing with another Troupe member, no matter how demeaning and belittling his hummed response of yes, she’s my most prized possession may be.

You’re the only thing he’s ever wanted this badly, the only thing he’s ever wanted so much that it physically hurts, and he has no qualms with acting on these possessive urges, claiming you as his and only his.

However, Chrollo presents an odd juxtaposition in bed – while he absolutely does not want anyone else to ever see you in such a vulnerable, intimate position, there’s a certain allure to the idea of fucking you in public that he simply can’t shake off.

Of course, he’s thoroughly unwilling to allow you to be seen by other people, for your perfect, lovely body to be ogled by other human beings, those who are completely unworthy of being graced by your soft curves, your pretty moans, your twitching thighs and dripping hole.

You’re his to ogle and play with and make a mess of, and although the idea of another man watching you fall apart for Chrollo is appealing in its own right, he’d never be willing to stomach the idea of you seeing another man – or another man seeing you – when you’re in your most vulnerable, intimate position.

And these conflicting desires lead him to a sort of problem. On the one hand, he wants more than anything to fuck you in front of an audience, because what signifies ownership more than claiming you publicly, and what more can he do to show the world that you’re his, that he’s made his mark on you and you’ll never be loved by another?

But on the other, he can’t stand the thought of actually fucking you in public, which leads to a compromise – that is, it’s just so easy to spend a night in a bedroom high, high above the streets, the city skyline out the window and from the balcony mesmerizing, the dark night making the lights shine and the people they illuminate shine as well.

It’s not ideal, but Chrollo has found that the only way he can think of to satisfy this intense sexual fantasy with you is to simply fuck you in a space where no one can see you, but you can see everyone – thus, the window of some fancy, swanky hotel should do the trick, right?

Then everyone, whether knowingly or not, will be witnessing Chrollo claim every fucking inch of you, right?

It’s perfect, and something he’s so, so desperate to try out with you – just the thought gets his body feeling hot, his pants uncomfortably tight, and this strong, dizzying excitement brewing in his chest.

“The room is really lovely, Chrollo.” You compliment, appraising the room bathed in maroon and gold, the intricacies of the wallpaper and bed sheets catching your eye. It’s a simple one bed room, an adjoining bathroom to the side, but the real showstopping aspect of the horribly overpriced room is the set of floor to ceiling, pristine glass windows facing the night city, the various buildings too far to truly make out any specifics. It’s situated downtown, but Chrollo has made sure to secure a room on the fiftieth floor – towering above any nearby skyscrapers, thus giving him the privacy he’s been fantasizing of. 

            “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Comes his response, smooth and suave, though you think you can hear the smallest smidge of pride.

            Making your way towards the windows, you stare across the sleeping city skyline, trying to memorize every detail you can, while Chrollo watches you from across the room, excitement swirling in his chest at the prospect of what’s to come. 

            He’s quick to join you, standing beside you and glancing towards your awed face, chuckling softly and using his thumb to trace the line of your cheekbone. “You’re staring, love.”

            You blink a few times, before throwing him a playful glare. “And so are you.”

            He’s silent for a moment, before he leans down to press his lips against your own, his dark eyes fluttering closed. “How could I not, when something so beautiful is standing before me?”

            His words are sweet, and they have you bashful despite yourself – something Chrollo doesn’t hesitate to exploit, as he pulls you in deeper to the kiss. His hand rests snugly at your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, his lips working faster against your own, though the kiss is still softer, less insistent. 

            That changes quickly though, as your hand reaches out to brush against the growing bulge resting in his black slacks, a small hum pressed against your lips as Chrollo unconsciously moves closer to the action. Soon you’re unabashedly groping him, fingers idly squeezing and lightly pressing against him as he deepens the kiss, lips getting needier as the minutes fly by, small gasps and breaks for air the only sounds reverberating through the night air of the hotel room. 

            Insistent hands grasp onto the hem of your shirt, pulling upwards and exposing the expanse of your stomach, the soft skin immediately felt and caressed by the man before you, his fingertips oddly soft for his line of work. He pulls back slightly from the kiss, dark eyes slowly opening to meet your hazy gaze, a small smile quirking on his lips as he moves forward to your ear, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin. 

            “Undress for me, darling.” His words are sin, his voice smoother than silk, the timbre making a shiver race up your spine as you gulp and follow his instructions, peeling each layer of cloth separating your body from his wandering touch. Chrollo’s dark eyes take every movement in, excitement burning in his chest as your body is slowly revealed to him, your skin soft and supple and touchable. 

            His fingers twitch. 

            He’s quick to follow suit, sliding off his jacket, pants and undergarments, leaving him nude in all his glory, prompting you to rake your eyes across his sculpted chest, the lines of his biceps, the sharp ‘v’ of his navel, and of course, the eager, flushed cock pressing harshly against his lower stomach, practically begging for your attention and touch. 

            “You’re beautiful, my dear,” He starts, approaching you and bringing a thumb up to trace your cheekbone, that same small smile decorating his lips. His lashes are long, easy to see from this distance, and as your lips part to respond, he cuts you off with his thumb placed against your tongue, his eyes shining brighter. 

            “Why don’t we show the world just how beautiful you really are?” His voice is oddly uneven, the excitement dancing in those dark depths of his gaze making you arch your brows slightly, confusion lacing your features as Chrollo gently pushes your shoulders. The glass hitting your backside is cold, the smooth surface alien against you as you squeak slightly.

            “What – what do you mean?” You ask, voice small as he sharply inhales, his other hand coming down to run along your side as his eyes trail along your lips and down to your breasts. He smiles as he takes in your nipples, the skin puckering. 

            “Wouldn’t it be such a shame to keep a beauty like you hidden from the world? Don’t you want everyone to know,” he starts, leaning into your neck before kissing down until he reaches the juncture of your shoulder. “That you belong to me?”

            He bites down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to get you gasping out and throwing your head back slightly, the glass cold against your scalp. 

            “Would you like that? Do you want the world to know how much you crave me?” He asks, his voice low and husky. 

            You bite your lip and nod, murmuring out an agreement. 

            “Can’t hear you darling, try again.” 

Embarrassment creeps up your neck as you tell him in a louder voice, “Yes Chrollo, please, want everyone to know that my body was made for you, please!”

He shivers against you, his bare skin against yours making your head spin. His eyes are wide as he stares down at you. “Good, because I’m going to fuck you hard enough that no one will question who owns you.”

And with that, he’s spinning you around so that you’re face to face with the glass. The material is cold, your nipples rubbing against it and making your thighs rub together at the strange sensation. A sea of lights fall before you, the city glowing from so many meters in the air. 

His hands settle at your waist, squeezing slightly before sliding down over your hips, the smooth breath he exhales by your air making you shiver. Every sense feels heightened, and although you know no one can see you from so far below, it still sends a thrill through you at the idea that someone could, if they tried hard enough. Eventually his hands lightly pull at your hips, pulling your ass back towards his pelvis and making you bend over slightly, so that your cunt is poised out for him while your breasts still press against the cold glass.

Chrollo hums from behind you, a finger tracing down your spine and ending up right over your fluttering hole, slipping inside carefully and feeling the way you clench down on him, the sharp little gasp you give him only making another bead of precum drool from his tip, his groin throbbing and pulsing with the need to bury himself inside you, to thoroughly fuck the tight, warm cunt he’s feeling around his fingers.

He pulls them out abruptdly, making you whine a bit and wiggle your hips, the sight forcing Chrollo to tightly shut his eyes, grappling for control over himself. “Now love, in order to let everyone know just who you belong to, you’ll have to be loud enough to hear, yes?”

You nod, muttering something in agreement, but Chrollo cuts you off with a wide smile, his eyes flashing as he grips his cock and lines himself up. “Scream for me.”

And with that he’s pushing himself inside, not pausing for a moment to let you adjust. He’s thrusting into you with force, the sheer strength making you rock forward with each pulse of his hips. Your hands press against the glass, your cheek smooshed against the cold material as you moan and cry out his name, the angle hitting you deep and the eroticism of the whole situation making your head swim.

Chrollo leans in close behind you, his breath already a bit heavy and ragged. “Do you like – ngh, do you like this love? Getting fucked while so many people could be watching?”

You moan out a yes in response, gasping and feeling your whole body shake as his fingers snake between your legs and begin working at your clit.

He laughs breathlessly behind you, his chest pressing against your back. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot and heavy, and you feel him twitch inside you, his orgasm looming near.

“Let’s give them a good show, yes?”

            And when he pulls out a few minutes later, turning you around and letting his cum spraying from his tip and landing on your chest and stomach in ropes, he can only flutter his eyes closed and mutter your name, before peeling them open and exhaling shakily.

            He’ll push you right back up against the window, a knee forcing itself between your legs to open you back up again, his cock still hard and insistent and aching to finish inside you this time. Meanwhile, his cum smears against your skin and the glass, leaving a film that makes you shiver – the glass is cold but his cum is hot. You moan as he forces himself back inside you, immediately continuing with the brutal, rough pace he’d taken earlier, determined to let the whole city see how prettily you take his cum inside you this time.

            And when you’re done, some forty five minutes later, with two loads of warm, runny cum spilling from between your legs, the smears of his first orgasm all over the glass and your tits will only make him lick his lips, arousal once again simmering in his gut.

            Maybe this time the city would like to see how pretty you look when you squirt.

Oh….. I mean…. Money’s Money’s 🤷🏽‍♀️ he gotta raise Megumi somehow

Also that HAS to be Gojo sending them pics frfr

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝟑𝟖𝟏

Toji Fushiguro

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist

[Chapter 12] Toji's Second Job

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Getting something for Toji is a task that you find impossible. You’re not sure what kind of gift he’d appreciate. Your big issue with Toji is that while you think that you’ve got his personality right, you’re not too sure about his interests; so when it comes to buying something, you’re completely clueless. 

You’re making him a cake, cooking something special for him, the last thing you’re missing is his gift. You have no idea what to get him, and since Toji is back to work in new years, you’re taking care of Megumi; no one knows Toji better than Megumi. Of course, you hadn’t thought it through.

“What do you think your daddy would like for his birthday?” You ask him, his eyes are just focused on the buttercream that you’re working on. He sits on the counter while you’re working.  He licks his lips, his mouth salivating at the sight. You chuckle, “Megumi, I’ll let you taste the buttercream if you tell me what you’d think your father would like.”

“Um… Your teddy bear.” Megumi answers, pointing to the big bear that you have in your apartment. You chuckle, and you tilt the bowl so he can stick his finger in and get some of the frosting. He gave you an answer, just not the one that you were expecting. Maybe a shirt is good enough.

“Thank you for your help, Megumi.” You pat his head. Once he gets the bit of frosting, he asks to be put on the floor and you help him down and watch as he runs to the TV. You keep thinking about what you should get for Toji though, even though a shirt should be enough, it isn’t. He’s the same man that got you a charm bracelet for the holidays even though you weren’t expecting anything.

Toji isn’t expecting anything from you but you still want to give him something. Maybe when Megumi is asleep in his apartment you can… No, sex isn’t a birthday gift. You’re completely empty, and you try to occupy yourself with the cake that you’re making. A shirt will suffice.

You’re doing more than what you intended, and definitely more than what he expects. You just have to finish the cake and you’ll go out shopping with Megumi to get Toji’s shirt. Maybe you’ll go to his apartment to look at the size he wears (most likely a large or extra large) before going shopping.

“Do you want to go shopping, Megumi?” You ask, and he’s too focused on the television to care about what you’re saying. It makes you laugh; you’ll repeat the question later, but now you have to assemble this cake.

Your phone rings, and you almost miss it, but thankfully Megumi hears it. He breaks from his trance and walks over to you, holding up the phone that displays Toji’s name. You pick it up, a smile on your face before you mutter a thank you to your little helper.

“Hey, Toji. What’s up?” You greet him. You watch as Megumi walks back to his spot, ready to continue watching his show.

“Hi…” He sounds embarrassed. You wait for him to say something else because you’re not going to repeat yourself. “I’ll be showing up late.”

“Late? How late?” You ask him. You don’t want to spoil the surprise, so you’re just hoping that he doesn’t have to work till too late. He tells you the time, and it’s a bit late but you can make it work. “Alright, I’ll see you then, Toji. Megumi and I will have so much fun without you.”

“You’re mean.” He responds with a chuckle. You laugh as well, saying your goodbye and hanging up the phone. 

You stare at the buttercream of the cake, and realize that you have a lot more time to spare now.

There’s a knock on the door, way past midnight. It awakens you. You realize you’ve got your arm thrown over Megumi and you’re both on the floor. You get up from the floor, a yawn escaping your lips as you stretch. There’s another knock, and you begin to walk to the door. It’s probably Toji, who’s way too late. He told you a somewhat reasonable time, not– Your eyes fall on the digital clock that you have. You squint your eyes and read it. Three in the morning.

You open the door to find Toji, a sheepish smile on his face. He steps into the apartment to pick up a sleeping Megumi. His eyes fall on the counter, where he finds a plate of cold food, a plate that was meant for him. He picks up Megumi from the floor and goes back to the door. He bites down on his lip before muttering, “Didn’t think it’d take so long.”

“You’re fine.” You try to smile at him, your eyes closing on their own. You yawn again and point at the counter, “There’s some food there for you, you can heat it up and eat it if you’re hungry.”

“Okay, thank you.” Toji responds, he takes the plate of food. He walks out of the apartment, and you shut the door. You lay down on your bed, and your phone brightens up. You can’t help but pick it up to see what it is. It’s just a stupid notification for a game but then you notice you have multiple messages from an unknown number.

You’re about to turn off your phone to go back to sleep, assuming it’s just a stupid scam but your curiosity gets the best of you. You unlock your phone and click on the message. The images wake your half-asleep-self back up. You’re wide awake.

“That lying son of a bitch.” You say, looking at the pictures. You really can’t believe it, the man that swore he wasn’t dating is right there.

He’s all dressed up, his arm intertwined with another woman’s– The same woman that you accused him of dating. Momoko. They’re smiling at each other. You swipe to see the next picture and he’s pecking her lips. You feel your stomach churn and you drop your phone. 

You want to run to the apartment next to you and pound on the door, letting him hear a piece of your mind. You manage to take a deep breath before laying back down on the bed and shutting your eyes. It’s not worth it. 

You’re not wondering who sent you the images, you just know that you’re so fucking pissed off at Toji. You’re fucking jealous.

You hear a knock on your door again, and you know it’s him. You’re thinking of just ignoring him and trying to fall asleep. You’ve set your mind to it, but he knocks again. You’re raging, you doubt that you’ll fall asleep so it’s best to handle the situation now; so you get up from the bed and open up the door to find Toji much more comfortable.

“Hey… The food was good, I meant to–” He begins, and your blood boils as you hear him speak. You can’t handle just standing there emotionless.

“I know that you were on a date with Momoko!” You burst, and his eyebrows furrow. He looks confused, and you’re starting to wonder if that was actually him in the pictures. Maybe your heavy eyes saw wrong, and it wasn’t him. You almost believe it when he responds,

“What are you talking about?” You step into the room to get the birthday bag with his gift. You hand it to him before sighing. 

“That’s your birthday gift.” You tell him, and he looks inside to find a shirt. It has nothing to do with your current conversation, but you don’t want to hold on to it. After taking a peek at the shirt, he goes back to your original conversation.

“What do you mean about Momoko?” He asks.

“I don’t know who but they sent me pictures and–” You begin, and he bites down on his lip. Maybe he should apologize for lying to you, but that’s the last thing he’s going to do.

“That’s not your business.” He says, and you raise your brows. You’re taken back by his response, and you feel tears well up in your eyes. You have no idea why he– He’s so fucking confusing.

“I thought we had something going on, Toji. You kissed me yesterday… Not even just that. I spent my entire day taking care of your son free of charge, baking a cake for you, cooking dinner, I went out of my way to buy you that gift. The least I deserve is an explanation and not a lie.” You tell him, fighting back your tears. Toji bites down on his tongue, not sure how to respond. He’d give all his money away to be able to know what to say right at this moment, but he doesn’t. You chuckle, trying not to cry. “Would you look at the time? I should go to bed.”

“Wait– I swear Momoko is no one.” He stops you when you begin to walk away. It’s three in the morning, the main thing in your mind should be sleep, especially since your eyes are closing on their own. You shouldn’t push for an answer, you should let him go back to his apartment to sleep and continue a cordial relationship with him. Yet you still say,

“Right… That’s why you were kissing her.”

“Show me these pictures.” Toji orders, and you purse your lips together. You stare at him for a moment, unsure if you want to actually show him. You still walk to get your phone, and you pull up the pictures. When you hand him the phone, he takes a deep breath. It’s him. There’s no way he can deny it.

“I don’t care if you’re seeing her, just don’t… Try to get with me or lie to me about what you’re doing.” You respond, and it’s taking everything in you to not burst into tears. Toji sighs, and he’s trying his best to figure out what to say. “I’m tired, Toji. I don’t know why I believed you.”

“We’re not dating.” Toji says, even though he saw it clearer than day how he kissed another woman.

“Do you just kiss random women?” You ask him, and his lack of response makes you shut the door but his hand stops it. You’re not ready for the words that leave his mouth next.

“I’m an escort.”

Read all the available ones I love em, especially Suguru’s

˗ˏˋ Summertime ⛱ Madness ˎˊ˗

Dear Diary...summer is finally here, and you're ready to spend it all with your best buds — Itadori, Megumi, and Nobara! Because the season is meant to be eventful, no? Though, how eventful? You already have plans with your friends to make every day count...Yet, so much has happened this summer that you NEED to write it all down! Especially since five men, in particular, have put you through a complete whirlwind of a summer...

Collector's Note: Hi, hello!! This is my first time doing something like this, but to commemorate getting 1k followers (tysm!!), I felt this would be a fun way to celebrate!! These entries will be posted throughout the summer (with dates provided), so keep your eyes open for when a diary entry opens! They can be read as standalone fics, but some (2-3) may be linked with one another. And no, they are not gonna be in first-person, only for this post as a sort of introduction to the pieces, lol. And FYI: these adorable sea-themed dividers are made by the wonderful remi (@cafekitsune), whose dividers I use non-stop!! Thank you sm for the dividers as always, remi, love what you do sm!!

Diary Status: ongoing!!

Word of caution: fem!reader - modern AU - age differences (the reader is at least in their 20s; the guys' ages will be specified in their respective fics for convenience's sake) - explicit content/nsfw so minors DNI - mentions of alcohol/drug use - unprotected sex (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - taboo (consensual sex b/w professor/undergrad; a friend's relative) - size differences - one night stands - be sure to read the content warnings (cw) to fully grasp what each fic will contain before reading!

Intrigued readers: wanna be tagged when an entry is posted? Lmk in the replies plz!

✎﹏﹏﹏ 📖 Y/n's Diary Entries 📖 ﹏﹏﹏✎

Dear Nanami Kento... ༄ My Professor's Final Spring Praise

Entry Narrative: Before my summer break officially started, I had to finish my last in-person exam with Professor Nanami. It was so tough, but I made it through! I was the last to leave, so I thanked the professor and shared some final words before heading to my dorm to finish packing up. However, how do a few gratitude and praise exchanges end up with me on his desk and him between my legs? Contents: professor! Nanami x fem! reader - explicit content so minors DNI - taboo (consensual sex b/w a professor & undergrad) - age difference (the reader is at least in their 20s; Nanami approaching early 30s) - fingering (fem! receiving) - cunnilingus - semi-missionary position (reader lies on their back on a table while Nanami stands) - public sex/sex in a university classroom - unprotected sex (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - pining if you squint - praise - pet names (baby, darling, love, sweet pea) - clitoral play (licking and sucking) - kissing/makeout sessions. Completion: July 3rd (Nanami + my bday :DD so I better see y'all wish me and my hubby a hbd or this shit isn't getting released >:T)

Dear Satoru Gojo... ༄ Sweet Blind Summer Fling

Entry Narrative: Due to a bet made by Nobara, I made an online dating account to set myself up with a blind date. Although a bit witty and annoyingly childish, Gojo's remarkably handsome and sweet...So, how the hell did I end up sleeping with him on the first date!? Contents: switch! Gojo x fem! reader - explicit content so minors DNI - blind date/online match-up - age difference (the reader is at least in their 20s; Gojo is around early 30s) - texting back and forth - sex at a hotel - one night stands - consensual sex under the influence - protected sex (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - cowgirl + lotus positions - pet names (angel, baby, dollface, pretty, princess, sweet thing) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - mentions of drug/alcohol use (reader and Gojo don't get blackout drunk, but y'all get tipsy) - a bunch of silliness bc it's a Gojo fic (duh). Completion: July 24th

Dear Suguru Geto... ༄ Swim in Waves, Chill in Caves

Entry Narrative: I went to the beach with my friends!! Only for me to...run into Gojo again!!? And to make things crazier, I met his attractive best friend who heard "so much" about me??!! Thanks to Gojo's nonstop blabber-mouth, Geto was interested in me in ways I would rather not be known for! Contents: Geto x fem! reader - explicit content, so minors DNI - age difference (the reader is at least in their 20s; Geto is around early 30s) - oral (m! + f! receiving) - heavy depictions of a blowjob - semi-handjob - sex at an open area; cave by the beach - 69+ doggy style/backshots + missionary position - unprotected sex but Geto doesn't shoot inside (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - fucking while the sun sets, lmaooo - pet names (baby, cutie, sweetheart, sweetie, princess) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - Gojo is here so expect some silliness. Completion: August 4th

Dear Choso Kamo... ༄ In[put]s & Out[put]s

Entry Narrative: My friends and I are getting ready to go out, but I'm feeling a little nervous about my outfit since it looks a little risqué... So, I took a pic of it and sent it to Itadori to hear his thoughts. Come to find out...I instead sent it to his half older brother, who was coming to pick me up......and he liked the outfit so much that he gave me his personal opinion?? Contents: still deciphering... Completion: TBA

Dear Toji Fushiguro... ༄ Secrets, Sweat, and Summer Fever

Entry Narrative: The gang and I hung out at Megumi's place for the last week of summer. But when I'm left at the house alone with Megumi's hot father, how am I supposed to act normal after "accidentally" eavesdropping on him jerking off to me!? Also, why and how the fuck does he know about my personal endeavors!? Contents: still deciphering... Completion: TBA

© hoshigray 2023 ~𓆉~ Diary entries above are collected by, written by, and belong to me, so please do not steal, edit, or post my works. Or I'll find all the people in your family who don't know how to swim and throw 'em in the ocean (and yes, that includes you). :/

H-he so mean but like the masochistic  whore in me still wants him🥺

the intruder (m)

pairing fushiguro toji + fem!reader

synopsis

a home invasion befalls your lonely penthouse just days after your husband goes on work retreat, and it turns out he’s indebted to a lot of dangerous people.

but for a certain intruder, money isn’t the only thing on his mind.  

content warnings explicit content, infidelity, threats of blood and violence, dubious consent, unprotected sex, size kink, use of handcuffs, brat-taming, pet-names, oral (m receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, nonconsensual recording, riding, cervix-bumping, praise + degradation, squirting, hair-pulling, breeding kink (sort of), choking, toji is masked the entire time but loves to put on a show,

word count 7,500+

read on ao3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Several built-in security cams, a motion-detected entrance, and a generously paid night-team.

In all honesty, this must’ve been a set-up.

Perhaps, a tasteless prank. How six masked intruders managed to break into your penthouse just a few days after your now-estranged husband left for a retreat is beyond you. All of these security inspections to ensure that your penthouse was impenetrable, and yet, above twenty-seven floors, befell a home invasion.

The penthouse was dim-lit, muted by the cityscape and exposed on slender, double-paned windows. In a private residential building, designed for the vieux-riche and white-collared, there was no room for the ordinary. 

One of the masked intruders noisily whistles, swivelling his large frame as he gawks at the interior. “Impressive.”

“You can stare later,” another says, dropping his duffle bag onto your modular sofa, “hurry up and take what you can.”

Reeling from your sudden wake, forcibly handcuffed to a radiator pipe. It had only been a few hours before you were abruptly forced from your bed, held at gunpoint to keep quiet, and lured into the living room to watch your home be ransacked to skint. Carelessly—along with their heavy bags, filled to the brim—they pace around with a gun you’re convinced couldn’t be loaded.

If it weren’t for your composure, you’d be dead already.

“All this space,” a disillusioned voice scorns from another room, unseen. “For what? Three people?”

“Two, asshole.” You mutter under your breath.

“You got a smart mouth, lady,” the brawny man—jade eyes discerned from the dark-grey ski mask covering the rest of his face, kneels down in front of you. (You definitely whispered it, and he definitely wasn’t close enough to hear that). “Do I need to shut you up as well?”

It's demeaning. With a tight lip, wavered to the tremor of having your life under threat, you turn away to avoid his stern gaze. Turned to your chef, teary-eyed and pale-stricken, muffled by a roughly knotted tie found in your husband’s drawers. Made an example of, gagged like her so that you were forced to keep quiet on your accord. It didn’t stop her, worsening the situation with every stifled wail, earning an empty threat from every passing intruder.

For the sake of not having another gun pressed against your temple, you simply watch. Observe.

Sheathed in puffer jackets and black ski-masks, they had been hard to distinguish from one another.

Except one.

One of them had the audacity of disregarding a jacket, wearing a simple black, tight-fitted t-shirt that defined every ridge and curve of his upper frame. He didn’t even bother wearing gloves. The way he simply tampered with the emergency line and security cams made you think he’d been here before, familiar. And if that were the case, then you were in trouble.

Guilty, very guilty of noticing how his bulky arms would tense with every movement. Flexed under every packed bag or veined by alabaster protrusions; a pitiful thing to notice while he carried your belongings. His voice sunk twenty-feet down your spine as if you were made of bottomless chasms—another reason why you’d be able to differentiate him from the rest.

It didn’t matter. He carried a poise that told you this wasn’t his first time; overly confident and tactful.

And this reckoning was coming.

Your husband was a conglomerate who attempted to juggle risky affairs with his company matters, leaving at odd hours and returning with rum-iced breath and a sunken gaze. A driving force behind the rift in your marriage, consumed with an undying urge to flood his bank accounts with more money, gluttonous. This was something you should’ve seen coming, but he had abandoned you at a shadily specific time; a work retreat he’d call it, important matters to be handled in Hokkaido with an urgency that left you no choice but to let him leave.

You nearly doze off, worn-out from the constant manhandling before one of the intruders’ pace towards you. He kneels down, pats your cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey,” he exhales, vexed. “Where’s the rest of the money?”

​​You jadedly sigh, overrun with the same questions that all boil down to one inadequate answer: “I don’t know.” He exhales even louder, clasping the gun tighter. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know.”

You do, kind of. It’s a teeny lie because while trust did go both ways in a four-year marriage, there had been little disclosure around his work between the two of you. As newly-weds, he swore to confide in you but since moving into this penthouse, he had completely left you in the dark; distance grew, and the double-glazed windows grew longer and there was a void to this place that had an odd semblance to your love life.

You knew that he had a hidden room, a vault, somewhere in his library, but that’s how far it went. Company files (and filthy secrets), heaps of cash, prized possessions, family heirlooms and a few weapons to spare—all for him to touch, and for you to bear the consequences of.

But when you think you’ve convinced the brutish man, he suddenly presses a gun to your chef’s head, who wails through the gag shoved into her mouth like a leaking pipe. “I’ll give you another chance to tell me something I want to hear, and if you don’t, I’ll blow her brains out.”

Untold confessions burn into bile. “I don’t know.”

He heaves through the mask. “I’ll count to three then,” he grits his teeth, presses it forcefully to her temple as she continues to shriek. “One,” he begins while your resolve slowly breaks down, “two,” the trigger squeaks under his thumb, “t—”

“—it’s in the library, I think. But I don’t know where—”

“Behind the bookshelf, huh?”

A familiar voice says from the distance, earning a burst of mirth from the group of masked men as a loud creak resounds the penthouse; your eyes flutter closed in a strange feeling of relief and discontent, slumping against the radiator when they leave to join him in the library. As a ruffle ensues over there, you’re forsaken to observe your chef’s unkempt state, whom you nearly killed because of your misplaced loyalty.

The guilt chews at your own resolve, unable to find the words to console her or aid your own discomfort. Before you can even think to do so, he walks in—saunters with a smugness that forces you to bite back a curse, and a brimmed duffle bag. He drops it before walking towards you, crouching down once again to meet your surly gaze, teary and loathing. He spends a fleeting moment observing your twisted expression, clearly reeling from the very real threat of gunpoint. And he’s relishing it.

He's eerily quiet, calm. Somehow, it’s worse than the other man’s fiery temperament.

“You got what you wanted, you can take it and leave.” You utter with a weak lilt.

“I don’t think I have,” he retorts casually, his head cocked to the side. The glimmer in his eye changes like a heavy tide on a full moon, eventually settling on an impish gaze that bursts with inspiration. “Now, why is the lovely wife here when she should be with her husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“How do ya expect to live with an attitude like that?” he asks, clearly unaffected by your hostility. If it were anyone else, they’d put a bullet in your head already.

“Next time? With a gun.” 

He chortles through the mask, and you can even hear a wicked smirk brush against the fabric. “What makes you think there’s a next time?” he chides, picks up a piece of fluff from your cheek, and you nearly flinch. “Maybe I’d be doing your husband a favour then. What do you think, lady?”

He turns to your chef, still cowering in her spot, momentarily pauses her snivelling to register his question. The masked man tuts, roughly yanking the gag from her mouth, doused in spit and snot. She takes the release as a false invitation to blubber pleas, it goes on and on and on, which he lets happen until he’s had his fill—he’s a psycho. 

“Hey,” he respires, “shut up.”

She promptly closes her mouth.

“She a good wife?” he asks, nudging his head towards you like he’s indulging in weekly gossip, pinning the poor lady’s frame down with his gaze. Your chef can only deduct from what she sees, and she has seen… a lot; enough to gauge that there was nothing respectable about the truth.

“Good wife—no, not really. They—uh, they fight a lot.” She mutters.

“Ouch,” he scratches the skin behind his ear, turning to you. “No wonder he left such a pretty thing behind.”

You’re rendered wordless, a heat cloyed in your gut.

“How about this,” he says, fiddling with your handcuffs. When his fingers brush against your skin, it sends a evanescing shudder through your body—it’s cold. “How about you help me send your husband a little message?”

“But—” you sputter, beat. “—but don’t you have what you need?”

“Nah,” he says, unshackling you from the pipes and firmly grabbing your upper arm to haul you up. He’s far stronger, manhandles you through the hallways as though you’re lightweight—you must be—for arms that bulky, he’d be able to lift a car. “Not quite satisfied yet, princess.”

“Where are you taking me?” you exclaim as obscurity swallows you whole, separated from the commotion in the living room.

But you’re stumbling into your bedroom; torso lurched onto the chair he rolls from your desk, the windows draped in velvet curtains, but there’s subdued moonglow seeping through and it pales his exposed skin. He handcuffs you once more, behind the backrest of your chair this time, demanding a camera from one of the other intruders.

The brawny man pulls you to centre stage, in front of him, and mutters with a caustic swing. “Don’t be scared.”

It’s not reassuring at the slightest—it’s not meant to be. You thrash against the handcuffs, watching in confusion as one of his hot-headed subordinates return with a thick-lensed camera and tripod. He makes note of the ring-light at your desk and pulls it over to him as well. Your efforts are to no avail, slumped in a satin blue nightgown that creases just above your knees.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you sigh, admitting defeat. “At least make it quick.”

It is difficult to read him when he’s hiding behind a mask, but his calmness resides in his mannerisms. He gives no allusion that he wants to kill you, but that’s worse—his temperament is completely unreadable, and there’s nothing you can do but try to draw an actual answer from him. “Kill you? What kind of message would that send?”

Maybe you’re digging your own grave instead. “That—that you leave no witnesses?”

He chortles at your response, stretching his limbs once he’s done adjusting the camera. His burly arms extend above his head and his shirt fleetingly lifts to reveal his terribly toned abdomen, freckled with swirling hairs around his belly button and a thick mound of it just peeking above the hem of his boxers. You no longer try to make sense of what that sated pull in your gut means, (whatever it is, it’s bad-mannered).

“Careful now, you’ll make it sound like a good idea.”

“Then what? What do you want with me?” you push, frustrated.

He evades your question once again, clearly not up for any transparency and instead, he turns on the camera; a red flicker that beeps just below the large lenses, then he abruptly switches on the ring-light, adjusted to the brightest level and you quickly turn away, flinching.

“State your name.” He simply orders.

“What?” you ask, barely able to see him past the glaring light.

“State your name, and don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hesitantly, you drone each syllable of your name. Your eyes drift idly to the carpet, to whatever can hold your attention, anything is better than the beam of light sharply meeting your retina.

“Look at me,” he focuses your attention onto him, where he stands a little closer, slightly shadowing the shaft of light behind him and when you meet his gaze, intimidated by his large stature, you’re taken aback. “Say it again.”

You state it clearly this time, with a sourness—a harsh bite to each word that doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but he’s somewhat satisfied, nodding in approval. “Good girl.”

The sudden term sends another awkward twinge to your gut (or, to the part of you that throbs mindlessly, without will, just want). You ignore it, watching fretfully as he picks up a few papers the other guy dropped onto your bed earlier.

“You can read a script, right?” he neatly folds the papers together. “I want you, princess, to tell your husband what’ll happen if he doesn’t bring the rest of my money by the end of this month.”

“Hm?”

He stands by the camera once again and hangs the first page beside his face. It’s written in a very large font, as though it was intended for a reader unable to see from this distance, or they were merely in a rush. Impatient, he sighs. “Speak up.”

“They—they’ll tell everyone about the operations behind his company,” you murmur, trying to digest the information written on the piece of paper. Reality thickens, and everything you suspected your husband to be involved in now holds substance to it. “What operations?”

“Recite this.” He says, displaying the second page.

“Oh my g—”

“Hey, recite it.”

You recite it—word for word—every single shady job that transpires beneath the company’s general operations and it leads to an obvious conclusion; he moves drugs. Whoever these guys are, they’re shady and fucked-up, but they’re borne by your husband’s misdemeanours. He had clearly crossed them, and now he had left you to suffer the consequences.

“Suppose it’s better that it comes from his own wife, right?” he says, putting the papers away. “You see,” he directly says to you, instead of the camera, “if he fails, I’ll come back to finish the job, and this video—all those documents, they go live, understood?” 

Indignation rattles your chest, and you’re not sure who you’re mad at, the perpetrators or the intended target who abandoned you. “So, what? You’re all drug dealers, then? Fuck you. You couldn’t threaten him yours—mph!”

He grabs your chin, stifling the rest of your tirade—it boils at the tip of your tongue, and he touches it, sliding a thumb across your bottom lip. “That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, squinting down at your resentful gaze, jaw clenched, and chest heaved, “—don’t think a gag is going to fix that attitude.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me?”

“I could,” he mulls with a shrug, pressing down on the tongue that craves a good finish, between the teeth that itches to bite it. There’s an eyelash just above your cheek, and he slowly picks it off. It’s a thick tension you could slice with a butcher’s knife, one apparent beneath the ongoing silence while he ponders on his next motives. “Or I could put that mouth to better use.”

Your face twists in puzzlement, unable to take in the turn of events when he’s suddenly uncuffing you, just to cuff you again once you’ve stood up.

He turns to the masked man at the door, who has been idly standing there for a while, awaiting his next instructions. “Load up the van.”

Eventually (and soundlessly) he walks away, nearly intrigued if not for the brawny man’s firm instructions, leaving the both of you alone to the stillness. When you’re dragged to the end of the bed, he sits and pulls you towards him—flailing and protests falling short when he swiftly bends you over his lap—one hand pushing your lower back down, the other lifting your nightgown up.

Your torso stretches against his thighs. “What—what are you—oh!”

A shrill smack suddenly booms, then follows a stinging sensation that settles on your ass cheeks.

You heavily exhale, mind reeling from the echoes of a slap.

And it dawns on you, a cloak of realisation: he just slapped your ass.

Sheer shock and indignation, it churns, disoriented by the brute force of his hand meeting your skin. Your squirming intensifies. “What the fuck?” you exclaim.

“Watch your mouth,” he simply warns, slapping your ass once more; this one is a more cruel, and the burn sticks around for a few more seconds before he lands another one for sport. Every slap is paired with a strained wince, but when he kneads that sore spot, that throbbing pull returns—tenfold—it’s turning you on. “From now on, you’re gonna be on your best behaviour.”

He's mocking you, resorting to childish chastises to make the humiliation of it all sink a little deeper.

He doesn’t care about your attitude.

“Huh? No—”

Another one, it’s now less of a prickle and more of a dull pain, uncomfortable. “What was that?”

“But—”

And another.

All of your protests are countered by an unkind blow, intensified with every swoop, and you try, with the utmost effort, to hold in your whimpers but it gets jolted out of you. You’re being scolded, and all you can do is take it. If that isn’t enough to make you reel in mortification—the pool of slick building up between your legs—might stop your heart completely. Ruination overwhelms your imagination, and before it gets too far, you obey, hoping he’ll stop before he notices. “Okay, fine. Fine—I’ll behave, okay? Can you let me go now?”

“See how easy that was?” he leers, coyly playing with the lace of your panties, cerulean lace to match the deep blue of your nightgown, and he admires the dedication to craft. It’s a satisfying match. The end of his strikes leave a daunting hush to fill, but as you try to dismiss the ache that cries for his attention, he pries your thighs apart, tightly locked, and slides his palm down your clothed slit. It’s damp.

You try to jump forward. “Don’t you fucking dare—!”

He vigorously smacks your ass to cut your words down, letting it get trapped in a hoarse gasp that thrums against the back of your throat. His palm sinks between your thighs, wrist trapped in between, presses the fabric into your sodden cunt. “It’s wet. What’s goin’ on here?”

“Don’t,” he presses the flat pane of his fingers to your clit, “—wait.” 

“Now why would I do that?” he sneers, lifting the fabric, pulling upwards until it sinks between your soaked slit like a thong and tugs purposefully to make sure it presses firmly against your swollen nub. A low chuckle rumbles inside of his chest when your head flops against the side of his thigh, earning throaty gasps that almost resemble frenzied hiccups when he manoeuvres the fabric to just barely scratch the surface.

He’s tugging, and tugging, until your cunt squeezes for more, and he can see the soft lustre of slick—it’s as clear as day.

He continues to display his amusement in soft chortles; torment was his pastime, and he’s enjoying this, whittling you down into nothing but a toy to be played with. Just as you think it’s enough, he smacks your ass once again, hard and fast, an abnormal speed that almost diverts your attention from the prompt pull of your underwear, until he’s dragging it down to your ankles. Your cries of shock—chagrined—ends with another callous strike to your ass.

Two, thick fingers sink down to trap your clit between its slenderness, motioned up and down to stimulate it. “Fuckin’ soaked. Who got you like this?”

Oh, he knows.

This asshole knows (or, he really is oblivious to his own allure—the latter seems impossible).

“I’ll remember your voice,” you shakily threaten—hard not to, his cadence carried a slow twang to it, a level of poise that couldn’t be found in any of the intruders. Perhaps, just aged a little more than the rest, fine wine. It’s difficult to focus on that now when his fingers are squeezing your nub, scissoring, then the flat pane of his digits rub circles around it, causing your legs to flail about in the air, crook upwards, toes curling until it tenses, “—I’ll send you straight to pri—ah!”

He's established a pattern now, cutting your curses and threats short with a harsh blow to your ass, yet overwhelming your senses with the unrelenting motions against your clit. “Don’t get mad at me, princess. With a poor attitude like that, this is just a slap on the wrist.”

“Yeah? How do you think I should—fu—should talk to someone who’s threatening me with a gun? Stealing all my—my—”

“Steal what?” he follows, languidly drawing circles to worsen that ache.

You can’t answer, slacked against his body, cursing under your breath.

“Talk like ya want to live,” he chuckles, answering your question, indulging in how your weak cries erupt whenever he reverts your attention back to him with a cruel smack. “You’re enjoyin’ this a little too much, don’t ya think?”

It’s too much.

A mend of guilt and lust cloyed in your gut builds up, until a mirage is formed before your ears, crafted by budding tears. It’s as though he knows your body; what strings to pull, when to stop, when to start again, prolong your suffering and intensify your desperation. Even as you try to bite down on your whining, soft squelches resound the room when he picks up the pace, applying pressure and rubbing your swollen nub feverishly.

Then he slows down, presses down even harder, and watches you squirm in his lap.

And repeat.

“Let me go,” you shudder, jutting your hips into his thigh. Nothing about your actions can make sense of your tearful pleas. “Let me go! Just take the money and oh g—”

He takes your objection as a sign of wanting more, slowly nudging two of his thick, sticky fingers into your cunt, welcomed with heat, slicked walls that clenches fitfully around him. He stretches his fingers to shape your walls, twists and curls them. “I don’t think you want that.”

You soak his fingers knuckle-deep, feeding his huge ego with noises you fail to keep trapped beneath your tongue. He lets you slack against his lap, works at your pussy with the utmost intensity, motioning them back and forth, returning with a flood of slick. You’re numbed, chest tightened, and your focus is only brought back when he slaps your ass, demanding your attention once more.

Murmurs under his breath, uncaring to whether you can hear, and watches his fingers sink further inside. “Fuck, that’s tight.”

You say whatever comes to mind, incoherent and senseless. “F—f—shit—asshole!”

“What a mouth you got,” he tuts, momentarily tending to your aching nub before crooking his fingers further inside; exploring, caving to the senseless contractions and bumps into every corner he can brush. “What did I say?”

“I’m s—sorry,” you whimper when he intentionally misses the mark. He hums in approval, running the one hand that isn’t defiling you along your back, slinking around your nape to hold your head up, so you can catch him in your peripheral vision—he wants to watch. You can feel his eyes burn into the side of your head, gaze drifting to every contortion on your face, then he curls his fingers just right. Right where you want it; that spot that encourages black splotches to corner your blurry eyesight, moans unfiltered and far too sickly sweet for his own palate.

“Did I move too fast, doll?” he mocks, immediately pulling away.

“No. No, don’t do that.”

“Yeah? Want me to keep rubbin’ right here?” he pretends to be unaware, or so blatant that he wants you to know that it’s just a façade to get you to be more vocal, to beg, returning to that sensitive spot. “This it? That feel good?”

You can only muster an incoherent sound, something of a hum and a cry, nodding fretfully as your cheeks begin to soak your tears.

He watches in awe as you convulse in his lap, sliding his hand further down your neck to keeps you upright. “You want it, don’t ya? Say the word, and I might consider it.”

“I can’t—”

“Ya can’t what? Come?” he taunts, as though he didn’t spend his time torturing you, now relentlessly pushing you to a violent climax. “It’s obvious y'r piece of shit husband doesn’t know how to touch you properly, so it’s up to you, princess.”

“F—fuck. Yes, okay—okay. Please.” You say the word, through gritted teeth, shuddering when he refuses to rest.

Your clenched jaw slacks when he abruptly curls his fingers again, brushing your sweet spot with precision; back arches uncomfortably with your restrictive handcuffs and his hand wrapped around your neck, it moves away to knead at your ass again, to watch the slick run down your thighs—to his lap, and your head flops. Splatters of tears fall to the fuzzy carpet, disappearing in fields of wool. “This tight cunt is drippin’ all over my fingers. You get fucked by intruders often?”

“Shut—shut up,” you whimper, eyes squinting shut as he tugs at that sated pull, the heat in your abdomen spreads. “Just like that—oh my g—”

“Naughty, naughty wife,” he emphasises the word to make you remember where you are, your reality that’ll eventually sink in when he’s done with you. But something hard prods your lower abdomen, and it grows. “Should save us some time and fuck this pussy right now.”

You clamp down on his fingers, refrain from vocally letting him know that you’ll completely break if he doesn’t.

“Oh? Ya want that?”

His fingers fasten, clapping against the plush of your ass, earning louder squelches and wanton moans. Contact connected by strings of slick, and it’s vulgar. You almost forget that there’s still a bunch of intruders in your home, and your chef—

“Oh f—I’m close—oh sir, I’m so cl—”

“Sir? Yeah?” he relishes in the way you formally address him—a sign of respect for a man who doesn’t deserve it. “This pretty pussy really wants someone like me to fuck it?”

“Hm, please. Please.” You shamefully whimper, succumbing to your urges.

But he’s unkind, doesn’t intend on serving your needs right now, and pulls away, ends with a strike louder and harder than all the ones before, distracting you from the hollowness that resides within you. “Too bad. You don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

He pulls you up using your handcuffs, suddenly hurling you onto the bed to confront the burly man holding a voracious gaze, pins you down with it, both of his arms entrapping you in his shadow.

“Like I said, put that mouth to work,” he echoes as you sink under his weight, the bed unfamiliar but so forgiving to this foreign presence, “…and maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider it.”

Intensely, you reciprocate his ravenous stare.

Your disdain for the intruder returns, it’s coupled with lust this time. “Yes, sir.”

It’s laced in ridicule, and he can tell, scoffing before he yanks you forward, causing you to fall to your knees with a quick thud. His bulge meets you at eye-level, earning a budding eagerness that settles in your gut. He’s slow, unzipping his pants in a pace that has your fingertips clawing at the handcuffs, drawing blood.

When he pulls his briefs down, your jaw slackens, back straightens—it rises, thickens, and his size is monstrous.

You must be losing your mind. “What? Ya like what you see?”

Absolute girth that leads to a rose-burn tip, and it oozes, unpigmented veins that protrude on either side, earns a soft lustre when he thumbs his cockhead, rubs it all over. It’s not enough, so he spits on his hand, swivels around his fat cock to your own dismay; his bulbous tip to the mound of hair that settles above his fisted grip, it sucks you into a hypnotic trance that you can’t get out of.

He holds it, heavy in his hand, and presses the other to your head. “Don’t have all night,” he slurs, directs it to your parted mouth, and it puckers around his leaking tip, following his stare once you’ve wrapped wholly around it. It’s a slight burn to the inner corner of your mouth, but your tongue glides over the thick shaft, carefully whelming his cock. “Just like that, good girl.”

A guttural moan barely draws from his mouth when you hollow your cheeks, half-way there, sucking and bobbing to submerge his cock in the warmth of yours. His neck strains beneath the hem of his mask, jaw clenched, and his hold tightens until your roots begin to tear.

“That mouth can’t take anymore, huh?” he scoffs, forcing you further down his cock. He’s unforgiving, barging past your gritting throat to sink as deep as he can, and he does, clogging your senses with his musk and sheer girth, he begins his merciless thrusts. “Such a slut, letting the big bad guy fuck your throat? How do ya think your husband’s gonna feel when he finds out?”

You scowl at him, wondering if this trespasser had any grit in making your life any more difficult (but you couldn’t test that). You can’t focus beyond his unrelenting thrusts, relaxing your jaw to give him a better opening, slobber slipping down your chin. It’s messy—meeting a mound of hair with every thrust—gargling under the concoction of fluids puddled in your throat. You slicked his cock just right.

But your cunt throbs at the sight of his jade eyes, dazed, squinting as his abdomen flexes, hips stuttering.

You can sense a manic grin behind his mask. His tone is thicker. “What? Do ya think I’m bluffin'?”

His control mildly cracks, desperation seeping through gritted teeth, grinding into the heat of your mouth; it’s a gradual shift to such a cruel pace, holding your head still when his tip settles in your throat, hindering your breath for a few seconds, and returns to drag it along your tongue. He doesn’t even let you hack, cough or catch a meaningful breath, and chases a marble euphoria.

He chuckles through his mask. “Poor wife’s too desperate to get fucked to realise the camera's still on?”

There it is.

The bluff that simply doesn’t exist, because a man of this poise, could never bluff—he delivers.

His grip on your hand loosens, letting you messily bob your head, still dying to satisfy him despite your grasp on the situation. His other hand spins the camera around, directing your attention to the red glimmer in the corner, (it’s still on, if you couldn’t tell). “See your wife, asshole? Ya heard everythin’, right?”

Handcuffed, mouth stuffed full, and the ache between your thighs overwhelm your hindered senses—unsure whether you should be livid that he set up like this or letting him do so in spite of your estranged husband. He huffs in disbelief when you lick a long strip along his length, sucking on his cockhead and nudging the tip of your tongue into his slit, earning a strained hiss.

Strings of snot and saliva connect your cheeks to him, it’s all so wet, coupled with your tears and his persistence.

He thrusts his hips forward, taking back control. “A tight cunt, and a mouth like this, I’d start cherishin’ her,” he breathily mutters, your gurgles are savoured, chased after, and he’s insistent on making it hurt, until it’s permanent, that feeling of his cock shaping your throat. His head lolls back, and you notice the beads of sweat gleaming on his neck. “F—fuck.”

His hips stutter, and he directs all of his attention to you, placing both of his hands on your marbleized cheeks, angling his torso upright to get a clear, self-indulgent look at your face; upturned eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and webbed eyelashes, like dewdrops. He’s slow with it, observing the way your glazed lips wrap perfectly around his cock—the way he melts into your mouth, sweltering.

It does feed your ego. Even though you’re unable to see his expressions through his mask, he makes no effort to hide it; carnal panting that bleeds through his disguise, eyes squeezing shut and head falling back with every suck. He lowers the camera. “Wanna watch me cum down your wife’s throat?”

You moan at the thought, and he could read you. It’s the rush of it all, (and now you think, surely, the rest of the penthouse couldn’t hear this). It’ll tear through him soon enough—a gale of white.

“Fuckin’ slut. She wants it.” He grunts through his mask, still talking to the camera, and it’s obvious, he clearly had something to prove. He releases you before he breaks. “Nah, I got somethin’ better.”

He gives you a moment to respite, hacking from the pulsation at the back of your throat. Pulls you up by your arms, heaves you towards the bed again, adjusting you on all fours so that your soaked cunt is in clear sight, for him and the camera. “Wait—wait, the camera—”

Interrupts your stammering with a slap to your tender ass, kneading it just to indulge in the slick that makes a mess of you, all the way down to your inner thighs. “I’ll fuck you dumb. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please.” You beg, muffled by your duvet.

“Don’t think you want it enough,” he tuts, the bed dips beneath him and he positions himself behind you. “A mouth that loose never knows how to beg. Try again. Loud and clear.”

His thick tip rubs along your slit. You’re already humiliated by the situation, and the camera beeps to make you aware, the brunt of your dilemma lied with your stubbornness. You lift your head from the duvet, and grit through your teeth. “Can you please just fuck me. Hard—fuck me hard, please. I want it so bad.”

“Better.” He nods. “Ya hear that?” he speaks to the camera—reminding you that this is for your husband; your submission and this vulgar display of betrayal. Whoever this is, behind that mask, has you, wholly and completely. He lightly smacks your ass in approval, looms over you to conceal the lewd sight of your cunt leaking for him, slapping his cockhead against your swollen clit.

You want to run, in spite of your loose tongue, an intense burn rendering you feeble when he slowly sinks in, stifled grunts seeping through his mask. It bleeds through. Instead, you clamp down, and he pulls you back with a bruising force to nudge most of his girth inside, keeps muttering under his breath: “f—so tight, so fuckin’ tight.”

He's barely bottomless, yet you already feel so full. He hooks his grip onto you, and pounces.

“Ugh—!”

Skin-to-skin contact, connected by twines of your slick, and lecherous moans reverberate the bedroom, and you probably envision it sounding much worse recorded (or, maybe he intended on it looking like a homemade porno involving some heavy “roleplaying”), sinking into the duvet as if it were a cocoon. Fucks you just as you want it. It becomes much more difficult to let the undoubted sin settle in at this point. Every argument against getting fucked by this masked intruder glares red until it doesn’t, because he’s already fucked every coherent thought out of you.

Not when it feels this good. Not when that cloyed heat is ready to spread; coating his cock in so much slick that obscene squelches flatten against your bodies. Wanton moans that’ll plague your husband for weeks, months, maybe even years if this video gets out—a wretched memento in the form of a videotape, for the deserter; it isn’t him that’s fucking you this good.

These isn’t fake—it’s real.

To your discontent, your nightgown clings to your perspiring skin, all sticky and sweltering, as if you’re made of marble, and the both of you are still clothed in some way. The desire to see him nude grows by the minute; how sheen might cover his undulating chest, how his bare bulky arms would flex as he bounces you on his cock—

“You up?” he says, interrupting your indecent train of thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re already givin’ out on me?”

“No, no—fuck, just feels so good,” you blubber, fighting through the heaviness of your eyelids. He hums in response, playing with the metal cuffs, before his movements start to hit a little harder; a small thud eliciting as he meets your ass, speeding up his thrusts. “Faster—just like that, ugh!”

“Yeah?” he chortles, slipping out to place you sideways, so this way, your eyes that teem with desperation meet the galling red, it flickers with your fluttering eyelids. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, and rams into your sopping cunt. “Let em’ know how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

“M’ so good,” drool trickles down the side of your mouth, barely comprehending his request as his cock drills into your cunt, unrelenting. It doesn’t help that he’s hitting the right spot, grinding into it, filling you to the brim and paying close attention to every pathetic whine that escapes you. “Harder—sir, please, fuck me harder.”

“Harder?” He repeats, shortly slips out once again and slaps his tip against your engorged clit. “Poor wife doesn’t get fucked the way she wants? Made her all desperate. C’mere.”

He sits up to haul you up onto his lap, into another position, but still in perfect view for the camera, with your legs pried apart by his burly thighs and your back pressed against his front. Bearing your sights to the red light that remains on; he’s aligning his cock with your cunt once more, heavy panting seeping through his mask, and it warms your neck.

You hastily sink down on his cock once more, trembling as his hands knead at your waist, wordlessly coaxing you through his girth. The restraints make it difficult for you to keep balanced, but his arms circle around your abdomen, trapping you in the heat of his embrace. You’re submerged in it, grinding hastily once he nearly bottoms out.

“Pretty fuckin’ nightgown, hm?” he observes the flimsy material, resting his chin on your shoulder as the straps slip off, “…bet it’s expensive,” he goes on, traces the hem with his finger, and it feels familiar, “...might have to take this with me too.”

Your head droops back onto his shoulder, hoping that he’ll just rip off that mask and blemish your skin with salivated marks, but alas, he focuses on your nightgown. Dazed, your soft grinding sparks another return of that heat, scorching, but you’re completely unprepared for when he pulls your nightgown down from the neckline, a strident rip following his forceful tug.

His hands instantly draw to your breasts, tugging and pinching at your aching nipples while you jump on his thick cock, feet flattered against the bed. Your bounces are sporadic, followed by eager grinding; it’s staggered, and sloppy, unable to balance yourself with your hands constrained like this. Your blurry gaze avoids the camera as you chase your orgasm, recoiling when you unintentionally slip further down, feeling a sudden intrusion, a burning kiss to the rim of your cervix. 

He groans loudly when you do so, firmly grips your hips to force you down his entire shaft, and it’s mind-numbing.

“Oh—fuck! Too deep.” You whine, sensing his carnal desire sink in, and it does. He lifts your legs up by your knees, slowly thrusting his hips upwards as your wetness sloshes around his cock.

“You can take it. You want it harder, right?” he breathlessly utters (just like you asked). He pays no mind to your apprehension—a mend of pain and pleasure spreading like wildfire, and he’s sadistic, completely bottoms out and picks up a merciless pace.

His balls slap against your sodden cheeks, being held in a near full-nelson, hands snaked beneath your knees to hook around your neck, and breasts bouncing with every thrust. It doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s ear-splitting; the only sounds that boom through your residence are your undisputed pornographic moans, his laboured panting and the noisy clapping of his skin meeting yours. But you’re too fucked out to care, feeling your climax rise and rise until it sits in your gut in one hysterical coil, just eager to burst.

An undoubted fact; it's terrible that a trespasser is fucking you this good, and it should anger you, but it only intensifies your desire—it’s unconventional, and downright bad, and you succumb to his thick cock. He removes his hands from your head, fingers suddenly reach out for your clit, as though he can read you, rubbing relentlessly as you tremble around him. “I'm cumming—!”

“Yeah?” He breathily whispers against your ear, “…cum all over my cock. Make sure you scream loud and clear for me, hm?”

“Ugh—! Sir!”

Gushing all over his cock, splashes of slick spurting off his rapid fingertips and his pounding, you convulse against his brute force. Your teary eyes peer down at the mess, sheer horror contorting your face, but he continues to fuck it out of you—picks up the pace, in awe of you squirting all over him. “F—, you’re makin’ such a mess. Don’t fuckin’ stop—keep cummin’ for me.”

It pours all over him, onto your thighs, his thighs, your stomach and your carpet. He doesn’t stop thrusting, pressing his fingers onto your oversensitive clit with even more force. Clear slick, light and thin, irregularly spurts out of you, and your thighs close around his remorseless motions, far too sensitive to go on. You only manage to trap his arm between your thighs, encouraging the hasty taps he places on your swollen nub.

He pulls his arm from you, momentarily digging through his pants that rest just above his knees.

“Bet ya dying for someone to fill you right up,” he hoarsely growls, following a sudden click. He uncuffs you, and your arms loosen, muscles still tense when the handcuffs get thrown across the bed. There’s a gnawing hope that he might use this chance to embrace you, but instead, his thrusts speed up again, the warmth of his chest waning as he lies down, hammering into your cunt with the utmost desire. It’s animalistic. “Take it.”

Your hands immediately reach for his thighs, gripping tightly as your cunt milks him dry. “Slow down.”

“You wanted this, doll,” he spits, pulling you down against his chest so that your head slumps over his shoulder once again. He bends his knees upwards, lifting his hips to glide his cock between your walls, meeting a delicious crush. His arms wrap around your waist and neck, and he carelessly squeezes. “Should’ve known you were a slut, fit into you perfectly. Fuck.”

“Let—let me see you,” you beg, succumbing to his merciless thrusts. “Please.”

“Uh, uh, not tonight, baby,” he coolly responds, hips stuttering. His balls slap against your ass, chasing the most insanely, lewd sounds of your cum coating his cock. He’s so close, frenzied, stuttering . “F—fuck, gonna fill this sweet cunt up. Make it all mine.”

You fondle your breasts. “Make it all yours.”

Holding your legs up, he pushes his cock further in, spurting his cum inside of you in one prolonged moment. His balls tighten and a rush of heat sprays your insides and it’s never been this filling. You clench around him, feeling your arousal swell into another rush of heat but he slows down, making sure it stays inside, eases your need to go again.

His cock slowly slips out, and clear white oozes out of your cunt shortly after, with staggered, lazy breathing circling this thick stillness. You fail to remove yourself from his embrace, all alarms in your mind (strangely resembling your security alarms that woke you up at this odd hour) blaring loudly as reality settles in.

Did an intruder seriously just give you the best fuck of your life?

On camera?

He carefully places you next to him, clearly not as exhausted as you are as he gets off the bed, adjusting his clothes and walks up to the camera. He briefly turns back to you; satisfied to find you drained and smeared with cum and sweat before he turns off the camera, following a chesty chuckle that’ll probably plague your filthy dreams. Riddled with guilt and fatigue, your lidded eyes submit to its heaviness.

“Your fingerprints…—they’re all over the place.” You tiredly mutter. You don’t why you’re even concerned, and before you try to find him, he’s already hovering over you.

For some reason, you crave more.

“He won’t do anything,” he chuckles, grabbing your chin, swiping a thumb across your glossy lips. “Because he knows exactly what’ll happen if he does, and you know what,” he leans further to whisper at your ear, and the next few words make your heart lurch to your throat once again. his fingers trail downwards, slowly rubbing your sensitive nub, coating itself in your slick once again. You flinch. “If he does end up seein’ this part of the video, he’ll know exactly who just fucked his wife.”

Silence overtakes you, trying to register the meaning of his words as he slowly saunters out of your room.

“Nice place by the way.”

author's note this is a reupload [and rewritten and made longer because my writing is always changing]. hope u enjoyed! i still love masked toji <3

Cunning Nagito is best Nagito in my opinion. I don’t mind him being whiny but I prefer him to be devious like this

₊˚ᜊ₍ᐢ. ̞.ᐢ₎ᜊ˚₊ Devil’s Playmate ✦.˚ ; • . ★⋆’. °࿐࿔

✧Rating: Smut (exhibitionism + tons of dirty talk + face sitting + Fem/Afab!Reader)

✧Characters: Nagito

✧Word Count: 4.3k

✧Summary: It all starts with you accepting an innocent cup of hibiscus tea from your lovely but troublesome servant Nagito, the same kind of tea you’re given every morning. As you continue about your day with him at your side, you begin to feel a bit off. This weird feeling has driven itself under the expanse of your delicate skin, leaving it heated and flustered. But a lady like you had no time to entertain silly urges like lust. Little did you know the faithful servant you always keep by your side is growing more and more concerned for you. Don’t be surprised if he decides to take matters into his own hands to relieve that desire burning oh so painfully between your thighs. As you fall into his carefully laid out trap, you realize just who’s the servant after all.

It all began on a quite unremarkable morning. You rest comfortably upon your plush velvet armchair while reading a book dressed in a faded red cover. You flip through a few of the aged manila pages before snapping the book shut, unamused at the little waiting game you’ve been forced to participate in.

“He’s late,” you remark out loud.

It was ten minutes past the eleventh hour, and he was yet to arrive with your cup of hibiscus tea, with exactly two cubes of sugar. He’s always been quite punctual. “How strange,” You make a note to speak with him about this sudden shift in behavior the moment you next see him. And as if on cue, a very hurried flurry of fuzzy white hair hurls its way into your parlor, gasping heavily.

“My mistress, my deepest apologies for my tardiness-“

“Speaking before being spoken to? Who might be because you’re clearly not my precious lapdog,” you inspect your groomed nails and flick your wrist, as if flinging a dagger right next to his head to put him in his place. He shivers at the silent threat and gets onto his knees.

“I suppose I’ve had worse servants,” she sighs and gently picks up the tempered glass teacup he set down on your side table, “But you still have quite a bit to learn.”

He offers a short nod and keeps his head low. Maybe he’s finally got his head in straight.

“Now speak, explain your attendance,” you motion for him to sit up. He does so and smiles gently at you, as if pleased just to be spoken to.

“A million apologies would not be enough to make up for my lateness, my mistress, I know. I am more than ashamed of myself. The reasoning is I unfortunately misplaced one of the key ingredients for your morning tea and spent a good deal of time retracing my steps,” he recounts.

You spare him a curt glance as you take the first sip of your tea. The flavor is just as fragrant and rich as ever with a tinge of something sweet. Did he add something to your tea without consulting you first?

“And what might this ever so important secret ingredient be?” You raise a curious eyebrow, making him sweat nervously.

“T-there’s no need to worry; it was just a mere drop of honey, my mistress. I noticed your slight distaste for the new blend of tea I’ve been brewing for you so I decided to add some sweetest. The only problem was after unpacking the new bottles yesterday, I happened to misplace them. How unfortunate…” he sighed in regret.

“I think I understand now. I’ll let it slide this time but remember to be more punctual,” you add as you continue helping yourself to your tea and your book. You would have resorted to a harsher punishment if he was anyone else but you understand these little slip ups are all caused by his curse of a luck cycle. No use punishing something out of his control. You wave him off with your foot, too consumed in your own affairs. After kneeling one more time, gently grasping your clothed foot to kiss the top, he rises and exits the room. A small amused grin is hidden behind the crimson cover of your book.

Once your morning tea has run dry, it’s time for the next objective in your long schedule: A brisk walk through the gardens to inspect the landscaper’s work, followed closely by an important meeting with an esteemed author looking to sell their rare collection of discontinued books. Then the annual check in with the servants of the house to make sure everything is in order. After that is a well deserved ride around town on horseback. Lastly, to finish off your day you have a few letters to pen before dusk. Quite a busy day you have ahead of you, but you won’t be doing this alone. As you depart your study, Nagito, your servant from before, appears at your side.

“How are you feeling after your tea break, my mistress?” He inquired with a gentle smile.

“Delightful, as usual,” you nod, not sparing him a glance.

“That’s wonderful to hear, my lady. If there’s anything you’d like to ask of me, please, I’m yours to command,” he urges.

“Nothing I can think of. Won’t you join me on my daily walk out in the gardens?” You offer.

His eyes sparkle with enthusiasm, “O-Of course, I’d be honored! How lucky am I… to go from a tardy mess to a- oh, forgive my mindless rambles, my mistress,” he chuckles apologetically and shuts his mouth tight. You two make your way out the back of the mansion and enter the lush gardens. Workers can be seen throughout the sprawling green fields preening the hedges, watering flowers, and plucking weeds. Truly a sight behind. You reside yourself strolling through the winding paths of ivy and petals, each one more radiant than the last. As your fingertips trace over the delicate buds, you feel a subtle heat spanning over your cheeks. The sensation is strange but not enough to raise any concern.

“My lady, you’re looking a bit red. May I offer this parasol as shade?” Nagito opens the parasol and holds it above your head, blocking you from the harsh rays of the sun.

“Thank you kindly,” you softly smile at him before continuing your walk. As you examine the flora, the heat of before persists. It starts to make you feel slightly dizzy, but a lady must continue her task no matter the circumstance. Your wandering eyes lock onto your servant. He’s dressed in a loose fitting, rufflely white shirt with tight black slacks, a few silver rings adorn his fingers. They are actually his prized possessions he was gifted by you on his birthday, resulting in a hurricane of thank you’s and tears. He looked rather dashing, even if the outfit was rather simple. D-did you just…? You purse your lips and snap your attention away and back to the matter at hand. A lady of your high class shouldn’t be checking out her servant in such a unbefitting way. What has gotten into you?

“My lady, are you alright? You look a touch bothered by something. Can I be of assistance?” Nagito asks compassionately with an innocent tone.

“It’s nothing, I just feel a bit off today,” you brush off the question and make your way inside with your servant following closely behind.

“A bit off? Could you elaborate a little more, my lady?” He pushes, cocking his head to the side in a curious manner. Your dart around the hallway, noticing a few maids dusting the tables and fixing the curtains. A more secluded space would be best.

As if reading your thought process word for word, he carefully leads you to one of the spare rooms reserved for guests. You gasp as he hooks a finger under your chin to examine your rosy cheeks, the proximity making this unknown heat under your skin flare up.

“Oh my… my lady, you don’t seem well. Did you have a fever? But you haven't shown any other symptoms… oh, I’ve got it! It’s most likely a sunburn from over exposure to the sun? Forgive me for not fetching a parasol sooner, my mistress. Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you by alleviating any ailments you might be having. Please, rest on the bed while I gather some medicine for you, my mistress,” he bows before making a quick exit. You humor him by taking a seat at the edge of the neatly tucked bed. The gall he has to give you orders… As you wait patiently for his return, the heat from before spreads under your skin, focusing its assault on the plush region between your thighs. In no way is this some silly sunburn; It felt as though your lower area had been ignited with the fires of lust by Eros himself. Whoever was playing this cruel joke on you clearly doesn’t know who they're messing with.

“I’ve returned, my mistress! I’m sorry to make you wait for so long, I have bad news. The author is already here waiting for you in the meeting room on floor three,” he races to your side and returns to his knees as an apology. How greatly unfortunate… Maybe your servant’s poor luck was contagious.

“Fine then. Let us go; we can’t leave him waiting,” you rise swiftly to your feet and make your way to the stairs. No matter how badly her body craves attention, a true lady must always put aside her own needs to attend to her duties.

“M-my lady, you don’t look well, maybe we should-“ he tries to reach for your hand only for it to be swatted away.

“Someone clearly has problems holding their tongue. Maybe I should rip it out so it won’t give you any problems speaking out of turn again. Would you like that?” You warn with a scathing glower.

“N-no, my lady! I would like to keep my tongue i-if that’s an option,” he chuckles nervously, shuffling behind you.

“Then know your place,” you brush him off and enter the room in front of you where the author is waiting patiently. You take a seat in front of him and cross your legs and Nagito kneels down next to you by your feet. As you and the author are discussing the book series you plan on buying from them, your legs shift around uncomfortably from the aching feeling under your dress. You notice his eyes peeking down at your shifting legs every so often before immediately glancing to the floor. He was always so very caring but now was really not the time for his inappropriate stares. Even the slightest attention to your lower area made the process of hiding it more difficult than it needed to be. When the author turned around to unpack the books in his briefcase, your servant placed a gentle hand on your thigh, looking up at you with sweet puppy dog eyes like he’s pleading for something. If it’s what you think it to be he’d be in for a thorough punishment later.

“Please tell me what’s wrong, mistress…” he whispered to you, his hand stroking down the thigh. You flicked away his wandering hand and focused back on the array of books strewn out on the table. You picked up the first book of the series and began flipping through it. The text was neatly printed, its pages pearly white and free of aging. It was in excellent condition, considering it’s a much older series. As you neared the middle, a strange tickling sensation kept up your thigh from under your fluffy dress. You bite your lip and ignore it, not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of someone you’re trying to make a deal with.

“I think I know what’s wrong, my lady… your body is all wound up….” His airy voice drifts out from under the tablecloth, “Don’t worry… a good servant always attends to the needs of his lady~”

Just as you’re about to yank him out from under the table, his delicate fingertips trace the area next to your lacy panties.

“Uh… if everything is alright, miss? You look a bit bewildered,” the author asks.

You clear your throat, “Forgive my rudeness, but there’s an important matter I must attend to this very second. It won’t take long, please wait for my return,” you give a short curtsy to the author and step away from the table, yanking your naughty servant out from under the table and pulling him roughly out of the room. You can only imagine the horror on that poor author's face. After a speedy jaunt to your bedroom, she pushes him onto the bed and curses his name.

“The damned whore, how dare you try something like that not only in front of such a famous author but also without permission. I should have you exiled from the mansion, if not the whole nation for that! What do you have to say for yourself?” You snarl, towering over him with a violent aura.

“My lady, please forgive my inappropriate actions, all I wish to do is to serve you,” he soothes, laying on his back and pulling you closer to him by the hips, “try as you might to hide your needs but you should know you can’t keep a secret from me~”

You try to step back from his menacing words, “what do you mean by that?”

“Would you please allow me the privilege to show you?~” he coos to you after pulling you back and onto his thighs. You groan as your clothes sex accidentally swipes over his sturdy thigh, covering your embarrassed blush with the back of your hand.

“Oh? My lady, if you’re trying to seem like you’re an abstaining, pure soul, forgive me for this, but you’re not doing that great of a job,” he smirks up at you. This devil of a man under you is clearly getting a rise from tempting your body's cravings.

“I told you, it’s nothing, now release me so I can go back t-hnngg~” an uncontrollable moan escapes your lips as he drags your hips up his body, grinding your sex over his stomach and up to his chest. The relief of touch on the throbbing location felt like pure bliss but you knew he was just messing with you. You wouldn’t dare give him the honor of another pleasured groan so you force yourself to look away.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t have any urges a servant like me could take care of? Not a single ache, bruise, or itch?~ If I’m allowed to gloat just a bit, I’m veerryy good at relieving urges~” He purred softly, pressing your plush thighs against either side of his head, your twitching sex hovering over his panting mouth. His eyes were glazed over with desire like he’s in a trance, his mouth streaming with drool, face covered in a deep blush. He looked like even more of a mess than you did.

“N-no, not in the slightest,” you stammer out.

“Are you sure?~ well, then… I don’t think you’d mind if I… just give this spot down here a check, just in case~” he bites his lip as he pulls your panties to the side, strings of drooling desire clinging to the thin fabric. He audibly moans at the sight, licking his lips.

“Oh my…. My mistress, it seems like I’ve found the source of the problem… your poor sex is crying out for some attention. Did something happen to make you so unbelievably turned on? Does it hurt… my lady?~” he murmurs to you, tracing a finger over your swollen bud. Even though the touch was faint and barely there, it still had your cunt clenching around nothing, an unsightly and almost inhuman amount of slick pooling onto his chin.

“Y-you… if my mind wasn’t so… cloudy, I’d knock some sense into you. B… but… yes, I guess… it does hurt a bit,” you hesitatingly admit, being met with a delighted moan.

“Just as I thought. There’s no need to fret, my mistress. Your servant is here to make all your problems go away…~ All this pussy needs is some good service and you’ll feel better in no time,” he chuckles with a friendly smile, a pure contrast to the sinful looks he was giving your cunt only a few seconds ago.

“You dare speak in such a vulgar way to me?!” You snarl down at him.

“Come on… I know your womanhood is craving something…” he teases, swiping his index finger along your labia.

“M-my ‘womanhood’ has no such cravings. Seize this nonsense of I-I’ll.. ah…” you let out another groan as he rubs over your puckering entrance. You honestly didn’t know if you wanted to yank him by the hair so smash his lewd mouth against your pussy or fling him straight into the dungeon and leave his incubus nature to rot there alone.

“Oh but mistress, you can deny it all you want, but your body only speaks the truth. I can tell how badly it wants my fingers stretching it out… or better yet, why not just let it sit right here on my face. You don’t even have to worry if I can breathe or not~ I won’t complain,” he grins and inches your body closer. It’s taking all your strength to hold your body up and away from the temptation nudged right between your trembling thighs.

“Just a little bit further~ the longer you try to hold yourself back, the longer you’ll be leaving the author waiting. You wouldn’t want him to come looking for you just to see you riding your poor servant's mouth like some sort of prostitute~” he teases, stroking your inner thighs some more. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Against every thought in your mind, you lower yourself fully onto his awaiting tongue.

“Tha-Ahh!~ that’s it~ there you go, mistress~ now just use my mouth in any way you want. Use me as the slutty toy I am, my horny mistress~” his voice cracks from the pure levels of pleasure racing through his body right now, digging his nails into your thighs as your body slowly begins to rock against his mouth. And damn, was he good with his mouth. You’ve never felt anything quite as pleasurable as the feeling of his tongue lapping up the slick pouring from your entrance, teasing the rim before shoving its length inside. His nose perfectly rubs against your sensitive clit, making your whole entire body shake. Your back aches as a needy moan rips from your throat, humping against his tongue like this is your first time experiencing real pleasure. You felt like nothing more than a common whore dressed in the diamonds and gowns of a privileged lady. Nagito had that effect on you.

“Why… aghhh.. how… Hahh Ahh… how am I… this turned on?” You stammer out between broken moans and grunts.

“Just a little trick I have up my sleeve~ or… more like it your tea~ heheh, but there’s need to dwell on it, just focus on using me for your pleasure~ The true role… of a servant~” he babbles to himself as the tip of his tongue nudges your g spot.

A loud moan erupts from your throat, “Hahh- Aghh!! Oh.. oh my… d.. damn you…”

“Oh?~ did my dirty touch hit a sensitive spot? What would happen if I did it again, I wonder?” He smirks up at you before thrusting his wet muscle against the sponges spot inside your walls that had you grasping his hair for dear life.

“Agh… you… damned mutt…” You continue linking together a string of curses and degrading words as you feel a worrisome sensation straining against your cunt. The more his tongue pounds into your sex, the stronger this sensation gets.

“Come on, mistress… just a little bit longer… the release you’ve been longing for for so long is almost ready to burst~” he giggles in delightful anticipation.

“I hate you so much…” she groans, knowing this whole entire problem is definitely his doing. The servant before you, the one slurping up your pussy like it’s his last fucking meal, has always such a tease. Images of all the explicit situations he’s gotten you into before flood your mind as you prepare for your final release. You hated how he tempts you into such lustful acts with knowing damn well his lower position of power in regards to you but every time he found his way in between your legs, it always made you remember the kind of servant he is. He’s not a butler, secretary, assistant, or any only formal word in the book. He was a toy, your toy to use for your pleasure, as he calls it. But it always feels like it’s the other way around. As his hot tongue fucks in and out of your tight pussy, you both can tell how close to the edge you are.

“Please my mistress, please grace my tongue with the delicious taste of your cum~” he begs in garbled words, babbling nonsense like he’s lost his mind; like he’s high off the taste of your sweet nectar.

“Aghhhh.. Hahhh.. ha- ah! O-okay… fine. But just… j-just one. Only once, got it?” You shoot him a glare.

“Yes my lady, only one~ only one, that’s all~ hehe… hahah… ahhahaaa~” his sinister cackles leave you questioning if he really means it. The quivering on your pussy gets stronger and stronger as it threatens to release sprays of steamy cum into the needy expanse of his mouth. His eyes roll back into a beautiful sight of depravity as your cum spills onto his mouth, painting his lips, nose, and entire face in a layer of thick liquid. The sight is downright appalling, enough to make anyone grimace.

You quickly recover from the euphoric blast of an orgasm he just gave you and tries to lift off his tongue, “I think I've had enough of thi- huh?”

Nagito’s face, more specifically his eyes, swirl like two dark pools of inescapable lust, dragging you in. He forces your body firmly on his tongue and continues to eat you out, “My apologies, but I think I’ve missed a spot… just one more orgasm should clear it right up~”

“Oh no, don’t you even thi- Aghh, t-think about it, you better stop or… or… nghhh hah~” your voice trembles with rage as you try to pry your shaking body off his slutty mouth.

“Please my mistress, just one more~ I can’t be a good servant unless I thoroughly relieve every desire your body clings onto. This won’t take long, I promise~” the mischievous expression on his face clearly states otherwise but the dreadfully good drag of his tongue along your cunt, giving your clit a couple playful sucks as if you're throwing any other needs out the window. The only thoughts you’re thinking right now is riding his face until he eventually lets you go.

“There you go… just like that~ use me… use me for your pleasure~ that's all I want, all I could ever want. I exist only to bring you a countless amount of orgasms~ my only use is being your sex toy~ so please, use me however you see fit! Just as long as you keep smothering me with that beautiful, beautiful pussy~” he coos almost like he’s talking to your sex itself. His tongue leaves you lost in the sea of desire, making you feel so good you wouldn’t be surprised if every servant in the mansion could hear your cries of bliss.

“What a naughty mistress… I bet everyone can hear you, clear as day. You like that though, don’t you? I think you do… you like the idea of the people who wait on your every need hearing you cry out another servant’s name… the prim and proper lady they serve turned into a whore all because of my pathetic excuse of a tongue. Maybe… maybe they’re getting horny… you like that thought?” His words and pure filth but you just can’t stop letting them consume you.

“Uhuh.. yes… oh… ohhh god yess~” you tilt her head back and release a moan.

“You like the thought of all your servants unable to control themselves while listening to you moan above me? I wonder what they could be doing… maybe they’re all touching themselves… they know they shouldn’t but they just can’t help it. They're just too horny to control themselves~ Just like you, mistress,” he snickers devilishly. All this arousal, all this teasing was really starting to get to you. Drool and tears made your makeup melt off your face, staining your angelic satin dress. If you weren’t so fucked out you’d totally punish him for a lifetime for everything he’s done: Dirtying your dress, interrupting your meeting with an important person, touching you multiple times without permission, disobeying commands… but you won’t again think of his tongue. His skilled, hot tongue rubbing against every spot in your pussy that had you on the verge of cumming was practically your weakness. He knew this fact all too well.

“Does my mistress have a secret kinky side?~ Could you be just as sinful as me?~ then come on, my lady… let us be consumed in desires together… don’t stop cumming till I suffocate against your pussy… and even then, just keep using my body. Aghh yess… to be used by you… it’s my only desire… I’ll please you… I’ll please you for days if you’d like… so please…. Give me an order~ P-please, oh please my mistress, order me!~” he cries out in desperation, his hips jumping in the air for any slight bit of friction his tight slacks can’t offer him.

“An order… I… aghhh… I order you t-to keep going… and don’t stop t-till… you fulfill your role as… my sex slave,” you finally manage out, greeted with an immediate guttural moan.

“Y-yesss oh gods yess I will, I- Ahh, I will, I will I will! For you I’ll be the best sex slave e-ever~ I’ll please you, I please you, I swear! I’ll make you cum… I’ll make you lose your mind… just watch me… watch me work my magic on your gorgeously horny body…~” he babbles between slurps and moans as his tongue shoves itself deeper into your gooey pussy. In that moment you finally realized the truth. You’re not the true mistress who uses your little slutty toy for your own pleasure, you’re the slutty toy he uses for his own pleasure. But there’s nothing that can be done to change it besides applying more and more weight to his hungry mouth. He chuckled maddenly to himself…

All according to plan~

Reblog + Comment + Like if you enjoyed and like to see more Danganronpa or Nagito specific content!~

(Sorry for that break, I needed a moment’s peace to realize why I’m writing in the first place. I’m back in action so don’t worry! Aaaaaand I’ll immediately go back to hibernation from binge writing this in only a few hours. Stay turned for my next post, love you guys!!~)

(Tags!~ 🏷️)

@nambii @carticarti