Sae Itoshi

hurt me on purpose just to take care of me ♡

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃!

request: when their child says its first word with tokrev dads !!

ft. mikey, kazutora, wakasa, ran, rindou, sanzu

tw. fem!reader, fluff, children, domestic things

an. been missing my tokrev dads <3

TOKYO REVENGERS DAD SERIES

𖦹 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐘

mikey groans when the alarm blasts through his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he shuffles closer to a smaller warm body beside him. blonde locks splayed across their tiny face and he can’t help smiling at his little creation.

“when did you get in here?” mikey whispers, smiling as his son looks up at him, bleak eyes mirroring his own crinkle before fluttering back close. your hand slithers from under the covers, wrapping around your husband's waist, “he always gets in the bed when you leave” you mumble, pressing a kiss on the back of mikey’s head.

mikey gathers his son in his arms, holding him close as the toddler wiggles in his grasps “i’ll stay a little longer just for you.” mikey’s chest throbs as his son wraps his arms around his chest, struggling to hold on with the little strength he has but he just doesn’t want his dad to go anywhere.

“forever?” his son squeaks and mikey freezes, slowly guiding his face down to meet him, “y-yeah” mikey stammers and the bed shakes as you jolt up from the bed, “his first word!” you squeal, toppling over your husband to squeeze your son into a hug.

mikey’s cheeks streak tears, silently crying as you hold your son into the air, smiling as he repeats his first word over and over, you turn to mikey—tears forming in the lids, “forever, i’ll be here forever for him and you” mikey smiles, features softening even more when his son grins back.

𖦹 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀

golden irises watch carefully as his son chomps on his afternoon snack, gently cutting more pieces to place in front of his child, your body lingers over kazutora as you hand your son a bottle filled with milk.

you begin to turn back but not before a larger palms grips at your hips, “gimme a kiss, pretty” kazutora flashes a grin, squeezing at the flesh and you bend over to peck his lips, “i love you” you mumble through his mouth causing kazutora smile to grow wider.

“i love you more, angel” kazutora deepens the kiss but the shrill squeal of his son makes him pull away quickly, “what is it?” kazutora coos, his son clapping his hands together and gurgling incoherent noises.

“yeah? you think mommy should stay home today too?” kazutora laughs, pulling you on his lap and your hand coming up to wrap around his neck and the other wiping the drool from your son’s mouth.

“love” your son babbles, “love you” he adds, grinning at both you and kazutora mouth hung open—you’re left speechless as kazutora claps his hands together, leaning a hand over to ruffles at his son's hair, “i love you more buddy” kazutora grins and his son squeals louder.

“think you can stay home now to celebrate his first word?” kazutora smirks at you and you roll your eyes back, “only because i love you” you mumble and kazutora laughs causing his son to bounce back with the same amusing sound.

𖦹 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐀

your husband has spent the last hour coaching his bouncing daughter to say her first word, giving her unlimited kisses and cuddles, sugary sweets but alas nothing worked.

“come on princess, say daddy” wakasa coos, picking her up to straddle her squirming body on his hip, she shakes her head throwing the chocolatey cookie in her mouth, wakasa sighs walking her over to you.

“hey mommy, want this?” wakasa holds his toddler out to you, smiling when her violet hues light up seeing you, “i see what you’ve been doing” you grunt, grabbing her and wiping her stained cheeks from the crumbs slathered on them.

“just want to hear her first word” he grumbles, slouching his shoulders as wakasa heads over to the living room, “mommy” his daughter giggles, pinching your cheeks—wakasa stops in his tracks, craning his head back in your direction.

“seriously?!” wakasa whines, stomping back over to you and picking his daughter back in his arms, “daddy, say daddy princess” wakasa begs, lip quivering when his daughter squeals back ‘mommy’—wakasa sighs in defeat but pulls his smile back when she grabs his cheeks, “i can’t be mad at you angel, i know how much mommy loves you.”

you walk behind wakasa, wrapping your arms around his waist pressing your face into his back, “she’ll say it one day, just give her sometime” you mumble, and wakasa pulls his daughter into a tight hug, “daddy” she grumbles through his shirt and you can almost feel the tremble of your husbands back as he softly cries at her second word.

𖦹 𝐑𝐀𝐍

ran has his daughter placed between his legs, watching a children's show in the background while his hands undo her braids. “you know angel, when i was your age i had my brother to torture instead of watching brainwashing shows” ran begins, looking over towards you on the opposite side of the couch.

“it gets pretty lonely being an only child, doesn’t it?” ran adds, smiling when you toss a pillow at him, ran dodges it easily, bending down to press a kiss on top of his daughters head, “she’s a handful already” you snort, watching your daughter’s body struggle to stand and jump into her father’s arms.

“but she’s all mine” ran chuckles, swaying her little body in his hands and smothering her cheeks with kisses, your cheeks burns from the smile engraving on your lips listening to your daughter squeal and babble when ran continues the assault of affection on her.

her little head pokes through an opening on his hold, pointing a chubby finger in your direction, “mine” she yells, giggling when ran scoffs loudly. “mine?” he questions, heaving her body in the air and bouncing his daughter into mid flight.

“mine, mine, mine” his daughter mocks, flashing a toothy grin when ran lowers her to dust kisses on her face, “mommy is mine, all mine” ran coos, even after all the years you’ve spent with ran he still managed to make your cheeks burn hot and body feel flustered.

“her first word” you say softly, climbing over to lay your head on his shoulder and pushing back black strands of hair on your daughters face, “i don’t care if she’s our baby, i am not sharing you” ran winks, wincing when you reach over to pinch his cheeks.

𖦹 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔

it’s the gut wrenching sight of his small child curled up against his side, snot dried on his nose and a wheezing noise rising from his chest. rindou wasn’t used to taking care of his son without your help but since the cold had caused you to be terribly sick as well—rindou thought he could manage.

rindou watched in pain as his son gripped his shirt harder, sniffling when he tried to shift, “daddy has to get up” rindou whispers, noticing his son flutter his eyes open and bore the same hues right into him.

“stay” his son whimpers, clutching harder against the fabric till his tiny hands turn a darker color and rindou can’t help but get choked up at the sight—added to the sounds of his son’s first words, rindou is crippling with emotions.

“i’m here, i’ll always be here” rindou croaks, cuddling up closer to his son, humming softly as he rocks him back to sleep. you smile from a distance, watching your husband delicately as ever soothe his sick child.

“you’re going to get sick being that close to him” you gently walk towards rindou and he tilts his head back to look at you, “i don’t care my boy needs me and i’m not going anywhere” rindou smiles, already feeling a chill run down his spine but he truly doesn’t care—rindou knows he needs to be right here for his child regardless of the cold stifling in his chest.

𖦹 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐙𝐔

the first outing with his little girl and sanzu decides on bringing her to his place of work, showing off her uncanny turquoise eyes to his colleagues and a mocking laugh to have them feeling uneasy about how much she’s just like him.

“look princess, that’s ran” he tilts her towards the taller man, her face burying in his chest when ran walks closer examining the small child clinging to sanzu. “jesus sanzu, she’s the spitting image of you” ran laughs, ruffling her hair and sanzu pulls his child away.

“hey, no touching what’s mine. already had to explain that to you about my wife” sanzu growls, smoothing his daughter's locks back to her perfect pigtails. the younger haitani joins in on the gawking, smirking as sanzu coos at his daughter when she starts making a gurgle noise.

“daddy” she looks up at sanzu, his eyes grow in size with a gasp leaving his chest when she squeals again, “daddy!” sanzu struggles to hold her when she starts bouncing in his arms, babbling the name over and over.

“are you crying?” ran taunts, looking over at sanzu as tears roll down his cheeks, “y-yeah, my baby—that’s her first word” sanzu chokes, quickly stepping away from the brothers to fumble around for his phone.

“we gotta tell mommy what you said angel, she’s going to be so proud of you” sanzu grins, his daughter mirroring the same cheeky smile and clapping her hands together—it’s an odd sight from the outside, watching someone like sanzu glow as he calls you bragging about how perfect his daughter is.

you can always take more than nothing

character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader

genre: smut

notes: here’s my halloween piece, only half a month late! still, i hope you can enjoy it! as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: alice in wonderland

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public sex/exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, size difference, biting/marking, blood, minimal prep, rough sex, teasing, begging, dacryphilia, humiliation, a lil bit of degradation, drugs, toxic relationship

words: 8.6k

synopsis:

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try. He’s the motherfucking Boss. And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always. 

The music is loud, so loud the walls seem to be breathing with it, bleeding with it, flashes of neon pouring over the frosted mosaics of glass and marble. 

A party, thinly veiled as a corporate event. 

There are people everywhere, scattered across every surface, crystal glasses filled with expensive liqour and cocktail concoctions glittering in their palms. You barely know any of them. 

They’re all supposed business partners, allies and associates, ‘friends’ of your Daddy. Not that it matters all that much to you; they aren’t allowed to say a word to you anyway. 

Your eyes scan the expanse of the club, on the hunt for a familiar face. Takeomi is in the corner, obnoxiously blowing smoke into some of the higher end girls’ faces. He’s really taking his role of The Caterpillar earnestly. 

Good. You told him it suited him.

At your request (AKA at Mikey’s demand), the top members of Bonten have dressed up as Alice in Wonderland characters, donning an impressive group costume. You’ve been taking the whole thing pretty seriously—beginning your extensive planning in August, drafting up designs and taking everyone’s precise measurements to have each outfit custom made to their exact frames—which means the rest of Bonten has been taking the whole thing pretty seriously, too. 

Not that any of them mind. 

What Mikey’s little angel wants, Mikey’s little angel gets. It’s standard protocol, really; you’re merely an extension of the Boss and thus must be treated as an extension of the Boss, and Mikey’s best men have no issues complying. 

Sighing, you rest your chin in your palms, sombreness souring your features. An ache, dull and dense, settles in the pit of your chest. It’s a desolate sort of longing, a gentle but constant gnawing that cannot be sated by anyone or anything other than it’s creator, something that weights your lungs and heavies your heart and stalls your breath, a vital part missing.

You miss Mikey.

You miss Mikey, but you know this ‘event’ really does have some sort of business significance; that, while it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk and high on Halloween night, it also serves as the grounds for some sort of meeting or negotiation or proposition—you can never be sure which, with Bonten. 

You aren’t allowed to know. You’re lucky to be here at all.

But you miss Mikey.

You shouldn’t be selfish. You know you shouldn’t be selfish; he’s already stretched so thin between so many obligations and obituaries, and you shouldn’t add to that strain. You won’t add to that strain. You’ll sit here, pretty and perfect like his precious little princess should be, and you’ll wait, patiently, until Daddy has a moment to spare you. 

He always finds a moment to spare, no matter how many duties and commitments he has. He always finds a space for you in his day, even if he has to carve it out with his bare hands.

So you mustn’t be greedy. You will be good. For him, you’ll do anything, no matter how difficult. 

“No frowning, miss Alice,” Sanzu chastises through a stretched grin, wide and carved into his cheeks—a smile so sharp, so sinister it puts the true Cheshire Cat to disgrace. 

He swims into your vision, teeth glinting with teals and fuchsias, an intricately wrapped box in his palms. Tugging on the ribbon a little, he unboxes it to reveal a wealth of small confections, individually wrapped in colourful foils.  

“Look, your favourite kitty brought you some chocolate.”

That brightens your mood a little—a sugar fiend, just like your Daddy is—and your mouth drops open expectantly, cute tongue unfurling in invitation. 

Sanzu rolls his eyes but places a truffle on your tongue anyway, pressing it down on the slick muscle and forcing your lips to close around his first knuckle to suck the treat free from him, laughing at the way your face twists.

Pervert. 

His nails taste like blood—not that you’ve come to expect any less—but the rusty copper is quickly eradicated by sugar, a content little hum vibrating around the melting chocolate.

“Good, huh?” Sanzu asks around his own chocolate, shuffling a gold box of expensive Italian truffles in his palm as he picks through them, confections jumping perilously with the motion, shimmering wrappers catching in the flashing neon strobes. “They’re imported.”

“Where’d you get those?” you ask through strings of caramel and cocoa, welding to your molars. 

“A little Halloween treat courtesy of Mikey,” he says dutifully, jostling the box in emphasis. “And an apology, for taking longer than expected.” 

Warmth blooms in your chest, swelling with your heart and stretching your ribs. The last few remnants of displeasure fade from your face, giving way to a small smile.

How very Mikey of him, to send his second in command armed with artisan chocolates and a short, sweet explanation; something he knew would make you smile, something he knew would alleviate some of your impatience, a reassurance that he misses you too, that he’ll be back soon, that he’s thinking of you. 

“There’s our pretty girl,” Sanzu teases, but his own grin has softened a little, the glint in his eyes dulled to a twinkle. “No more pouting, ‘kay? Your trusty Cheshire Cat will be by your side until your Hatter returns.”

Ah. A polite way of saying that you’re stuck with him until Mikey’s finished his work, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

That takes longer than either of you expect, though, Sanzu’s plan of entertaining you by leading you, hand-in-hand, around the club to assess each Bonten member’s costume not nearly as lengthy as he had anticipated. 

Because it only takes a mere twenty minutes or so to examine all of them, with you near instantaneously deciding that the Haitanis have won the make-believe costume contest you and Sanzu had been holding between yourselves. 

Sanzu had agreed—everyone looks impeccable in their custom-made costumes, tailored specifically to them at your behest, but no one had any hope of eclipsing the Haitanis in their form-fitted pinstriped suits, each stitch and thread molded flawlessly to their frames, perfectly pressed collars embroidered with Dee and Dum in shimmery purple thread, powder blue bowties immaculately symmetrical around their tattooed necks. 

Now you’re back at the bar, Sanzu’s shaky fingers sifting through the box of truffles as he searches for something, anything, to distract him from the way the blood in his veins is beginning to dry up, the way his capillaries are withering, brittle and thirsty, the way his skin is beginning to itch.

Because he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Not yet, anyway.

No narcotics when he’s chaperoning you; that’s a hard rule. That’s a rule that’s been sewn into the tissues of his brain so tightly it’s interwoven with his synapses. That’s an execution rule; a one time only rule—breaking that rule will get him fucking killed. 

But you’re both starting to become a little bit restless. 

“Come on,” you’re begging, word dragged across your tongue in a petulant whine. “Just one more chocolate?”

“I said no,” Sanzu snaps, eyes hard. “Mikey said three. Mikey’s the Boss. Whatever Mikey says goes; Mikey’s girl, Mikey’s rules!” 

“You’re no fun,” you huff, forehead scrunching with a pout. 

“Yeah, and that’s why he sticks me with you,” Sanzu says, though he sounds almost proud, as if it’s an honour to babysit you, a title of high esteem. “Because I can resist your tricks.”

“My charms,” you correct.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand. “It’s all semantics. Point is, I know how to say no to you, unlike a few certain someones.” 

Unimpressed ice blue eyes sweep across the venue, hovering pointedly on the faces of his colleagues—Kakucho, the Dormouse; Kokonoi, the White Rabbit; Rindou, Tweedle-Dum.

Your eyes follow his, and you smirk to yourself. Kakucho is the easiest out of those three; Kokonoi sometimes deceives you, allowing you to do as you please only to tattle to Mikey later, and Rindou always demands some sort of payment, claiming it’s only fair that you give him something he wants in return. 

Turning back, you’re about to respond, something bratty and bitter simmering on your tongue, when a pair of hands and a smooth voice cuts you off. 

You’d know that touch, that tone, anywhere.

“Pray, tell me, Miss Alice,” Mikey murmurs in your ear as he slinks up behind you, palms curling around your hips and pulling you back toward his chest. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Because it can produce a few notes,” you answer dutifully, head tipping back against his shoulder to glance at him through the corner of your eye. “Though they are very flat.”

“Correct,” he responds. “My, what a smart little girl you are.”

It’s soaked in condescension, compliment drawled out through a supercilious smirk, breath wafting across your face sweltering and saccharine. 

“Do I get a reward, Mister Hatter?” you ask, sweeter than sugarcane, batting eyelashes framing hopeful, dewy eyes. 

A hum vibrates on his tongue, onyx gaze apathetic and appraising as it glides across your features slowly, thoroughly, pulling each of your thoughts apart and putting them back together again. 

Your head rolls to the side, over his protruding collarbone, to stare at him more resolutely. And God, it’s the way you’re looking up at him, eyes glazed with dedication, with devoutness, like you want to fucking devour him. 

Like you want him to devour you. 

Hips pushing back, you rub your ass into his cock in inconspicuous little motions, lashes fluttering a little, back arched in a perfect curve and tits on full display. 

From this angle, there’s no way he can’t see right down your dress; there’s no way he can’t see the red lace of your bra straining against supple skin as your chest rises and falls with gentle breaths, no way he doesn’t notice the very tips of your nipples, cheekily peeking out from beneath the delicate material with each swell of your breasts. 

Bony fingers flex on your waist, and he huffs out a smirk.

His ebony pupils are enormous, blown wide and gaping, gnawing away at the whites of his eyes. 

He’s high. 

It’s evident in the milky film of artificial ecstasy lacquering his gaze, doped up and hazy, but it does nothing to dilute the potent love he has for you, melting his stare to something soft and sticky, pouring past his lashes.

He’s feeling good tonight.

“I think I know what my little girl wants,” one hand flattens against your stomach, holding you flush to his body as the other slides up your ribs to cup your breast, filling his palm with it and kneading, slow and deliberate, simply enjoying the feeling of you. “And it is very naughty of her.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mm,” he hums, head drooping to nose along the curve of your neck. “Really.”

His lips brush along your skin as he speaks, his voice barely more than a gentle vibration along the column of your throat, and you whimper a little, fingers curling around his wrist and pressing him closer.

“A-And what’s that?”

“Aw, can’t you guess?” he tuts his tongue. “And I thought you were smart. Must’ve been mistaken. Where’s my smart little girl gone now?”

Grip firm on your waist, his hips rut forward, hard cock prodding at you through the layers of tulle. A discontented little sound vibrates in your throat as you squirm a little—and oh, he knows what you’re whining about, greedy girl, knows that you can barely feel his cock through the thick petticoat, knows you want more—and he presses his hips further forward, grinding harder into your ass.

“Daddy—Da-Daddy, it’s—” 

“What?” he shoves again, stronger this time, teeth nipping at the skin below your ear. “Hm?”

“Your cock is hard,” you nearly whine, pushing back against him in a pitiful little wiggle, desperate for more friction. 

“And who’s fault is that, huh?” 

The hand massaging your breast gives a final squeeze before his fingers find your nipple, pinching it through the material of your dress and bra, then rubbing the heel of his thumb over it in hard, rhythmic motions. 

“Is your pussy wet?” he huffs the question into your ear, his hot breath procuring shivers. “I bet it is, naughty girl. Daddy wants to feel it.”

“Please, please,” your hips buck a little, punctuating your pleads, chest pressing into his touch.

“Please? Please what?”

“Touch me, Daddy, touch me, touch me.”

Slender hands slip beneath the puffy layers of lace, calloused fingertips rough as they skim up your smooth thighs, outlining the silk ruffles of the bloomers he bought you specifically for this costume. 

Your hips twitch slightly, legs spreading instinctively as his fingers trail along the scrunched hem to the apex of your thighs, pressing two into the rapidly dampening material. Pensively, they caress your slit through the material, prodding your hole just a little before rubbing two slow, hard circles into your clit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, curse splintering at the end. “You’re so fucking wet baby, and I’ve barely done anything yet.”

His palm flattens against you, all four fingers dipping into your core nearly to the first knuckle and then curling, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit, and your pelvis cants reflexively, almost as if you’re attempting to draw his fingertips further in. 

“How are you this wet already, huh?” he keens, voice straining beneath his own desire. “Been thinking naughty thoughts?”

“Jus’want your cock,” you slur out honestly, hips gyrating in pathetic little circles, an embarrassing attempt to follow his touch. 

“Oh, yeah? That’s all it takes, eh?” he rolls your clit between his thumb and his forefinger, nonchalantly toying with it as he mulls. “Just my cock?” 

“Uh-huh,” you nod blearily. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“Cute,” Mikey spits, the compliment sheathed in venom, “how utterly stupid just the thought of my cock makes you.” 

His fingers clamp down on the swollen nub and tug, your whole body jolting with the pain, a yelp hitching in your chest. 

The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in response, holding you close, holding you still as he humps away at you, sloppy and uneven.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, fingers tweaking your clit in rhythmic motions, sparks of pleasure chased by shocks of pain. “You’re so fucking easy for your Daddy, aren’t you? So quick to get soaked for him, so quick to get ready for him, such a good little slut for him, yeah?” 

His voice is gravelly, letters wispy around the edges despite fact that he’s nearly shouting over music. Another rush of heat surges between your thighs, and he laughs, dark and dangerous. 

Your clit throbs in his touch, the silk of your panties drenched all the way through, aiding his fingers in their slippery motions—several small, fast S gestures, followed by a few firm strokes of your slit, fingertips gliding over your folds with ease. You’re so soaked, whole cunt now outlined by the shimmery material, molding to your folds and enabling him to feel every dip, every bump, every crevice, another chuckle dripping from his lips as your little hole clenches around nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, thighs squeezing together tightly as you attempt to fuck his fingers. “Daddy, I—I can’t—I need—” 

“Shh,” he hushes you, lips caressing the curve of your ear. “I know, baby. Daddy knows what you need.” 

A palm wraps around your wrist as Mikey mutters something about going somewhere a little more private, pulling you along behind him and leading you toward those purple velvet VIP couches, empty and roped off in a darkened corner. 

“What are we—” you begin as Mikey collapses heavily on the couch, knees spread wide open, hips shifting up slightly as he forces his feet even further apart, getting comfortable. 

C’mere, his lips mime, voice drowning in heavy bass, his chin jutting in the general direction of his straining cock, yearning against pin-striped pants. 

Strong hands curl around your hips and yank you backward, the abrupt motion punching a sound of surprise from your chest as you tumble into his lap, spine pressed tight to his sternum. 

The hinges of his jaw hook over your shoulder, a crude way of keeping you from squirming as he manhandles you into straddling his thighs, hard cock pressing into your core. 

“Holy fuck,” he pants out, the curse damp against your skin. “You’re so wet I can feel you leaking through my pants.”

“Daddy,” you say, and although it’s meant to be a warning, it comes out as a whine, stringy and petulant.  

Because it already feels so good, and he’s already so hard, and you just can’t help but rock your hips back, slow and firm, whimpering a bit as the head of his cock glides over your clit, teasing as the slick, swollen little nub jumps beneath the dull pressure. 

He laughs a little, nothing more than a deep, dark rumbling within his ribs, reverberating against your back.

“You’re so fucking nasty, baby,” he chides lowly, though you can hear the self-satisfied smirk sewn into his voice, tinged with sadism, as he rolls his hips up twice, grinding his cock into your drenched core. “You’re so fucking needy, baby, trying to get yourself off in the middle of this crowded club.”

You are, you are, another little sound escaping your lips as you rut back against him, already beginning to speed up, rubbing the head of his cock over your clit in quick little strokes.

“It’s really precious, y’know, how pathetically eager you are for me,” he murmurs, notes of fondness negating the sting the insult should bring, words gone melty and sweet. “But you gotta stop humping Daddy for a moment, so he can get his cock out and give you what you really want.” 

A disgruntled little whine sounds in your throat, motions stuttering a little as you attempt to stop moving. But it all feels so incredible, greedily unable to quell your hips completely as they rotate in messy little circles, tummy starting to ripple with each graze of his blunt head against your clit.

“Hey,” he warns, sharp and stern, a palm colliding with your bare thigh and leaving a burning handprint seared in its wake, the impact of the slap loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes. “Don’t get bratty with me, or you won’t get anything at all, you understand?”

Your head’s nodding before the words are even finished leaving his lips—yes, Daddy, of course, Daddy, brats don’t deserve to be filled by Daddy’s cock—desperate to be good for him, to be the best for him.

Because you know he isn’t fucking around; Mikey’s threats are never empty threats, each and every word plucked from his brain with superlative care, heavy and infused with meaning.

It’s terrifying and tantilizing, how easily and instantly he can switch from one mode to the other: from playful to imposing, from Daddy to Leader, a pleasant shiver skittering up your spine, your hole clenching and pulsing as your stomach plummets, gut weighted with a tingling pressure.

It’s a bit of a task, freeing his cock and manoeuvring yourself as you try to inconspicuously sink down on it, but you both manage, your fluffy petticoat of crinoline and tulle providing a decent amount of privacy. 

A hiss slips through the gaps of your gritted teeth as it begins to tear you in two, cute little hole stinging as it strains around his cock, struggling to accommodate his girth, delicate skin splitting itself open for him. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” he breathes lowly, voice vibrating against your ear. “There you go, good girl.” 

An airy little moan spills from your lips as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug to your cervix, and you melt back into him, skull knocking against his shoulder, eyes slipped shut. 

“Feel better, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you mumble out dreamily. “S’good, S’right.”

“It feels right, huh?” he chuckles a little, thumbs rubbing fond circles into your hips, his hands all the way up your skirt, slipped beneath the frills and fluff, forearms buried in your dress. “You like it when Daddy fills you up?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Stretches me out real good, makes me feel all stuffed ‘n full.” 

Whole, complete, one. Like everything feels as it’s supposed to again.

And it hurts, because it always hurts, because he’s too thick and you’re never prepped enough, never patient enough, core split open on his cock and little hole aching as it attempts to adjust to him, but it’s so fucking perfect, too. Your cunt spasms around him, hips twitching a little in desperation—like you’re trying to suck him in further, like you’re trying to bury him deeper—and he groans, fingers flexing as he holds you still, nails gorging on your flesh.

“Eager, are we?” 

“S’not my fault,” you mewl, back arching a little as you attempt to push your hips back, squirming a bit in his strong grip. “Need you, Daddy.”

“Is that so?”

Grasp tightening, his hips thrust up, grinding the head of his cock into your cervix in slow, hard motions—back and forth, back and forth, inspiring a dull pang throbbing in your gut. 

Gasping sharply, your hips jerk back in response, automatic and instinctual, pulling a hoarse groan from his chest. 

His clutch turns to near bone crushing, a fractured little cry sticking in your throat, and he forces you to hold still for a moment, muscles in his thighs gone rigid and stiff as his hips press up further and tug you down, frozen, revelling in the way your cunt pulses around him, as if it’s whining for him.

“M-Mikey,” you echo its sentiments, his name a sulky plead on your tongue, brows knit together and lips jutted in a pout. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“You know,” you huff out, wriggling a little in his palms, feebly trying to fuck yourself on him.

“Tell me anyway,” he demands.  

Scalding embarrassment pricks your cheeks and you whimper, fidgeting in his grasp again, head shaking in defiance.

“Come on,” he chides, but there are notes of amusement infusing his tone. “Daddy can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.” 

Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder suddenly, your half-formed response strangled by a gasp, Mikey’s jaw tensing as he burrows his teeth further into your flesh, piercing through tissues and snapping capillaries until copper explodes in his mouth. 

He holds it for a moment, all thirty-two of his teeth latched in your skin, ensuring he leaves a full, detailed outline of his mouth etched into you—a signature of sorts—before his tongue flattens against the wound, dragging over it in a single wide lick and sealing it with blood-tinged saliva. A gentle exhale wafts over the bite, cool against the searing pain, and you shudder, chills erupting across your flesh.

“You’re a big girl,” he coaxes over your whimpering, the encouragement steeped in condescension. “I know you can do it. Use your big girl words and tell Daddy what you want.”

Your eyes squeeze shut against the burn of humiliation, lids crinkling at the corners, the softest hiccup catching in your throat, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. 

“I—I wanna ride your cock, Daddy,” you push the stubborn words from your tongue, trembling and breathy.

“Yeah?” he asks, bloodied tongue tracing along the shell of your ear. “How bad?”

“So bad,” you bleat out, striving to bounce on his cock under the firm restraint of his hands, dewdrops of annoyance clinging to your lashes, glittering in the beams of magenta and teal as you blink rapidly.

“Hm,” he muses to himself, nonchalant as he readjusts his grip, hands constringing, completely halting your pathetic little movements. “It doesn’t seem like you want it all that badly.”

“Daddy,” the word leaves your lips in a whine, scrunched and petulant through your pout, body thrashing beneath his strong grip. “Come on—” 

“Are you sure you wanna be such a naughty little whore in front of all of these people?”

Your body stops its writhing, his words like a slap to the face.

It’s a bit of a shock, to hear it spoken aloud so bluntly, cut and dry and honest, and it sends a torrent of sparks fizzing through your chest to collect dense and tight in your tummy. 

Shame and revulsion sets your skin aflame, the cinders in your gut flaring in response, an intoxicating combination. 

“Yes—”

“Huh? What was that?” he shouts theatrically in your ear. “I couldn’t really hear you over the music.”

“Y-Yes,” you repeat, trying to steady your hiccuping voice, to be stern and resolute, even as tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

“Really?” he breathes, and he sounds astonished, he sounds appalled. “You’re so fucking sleazy, baby. I wonder what all these people would think, if they knew how truly filthy my little girl is...”

“Manjirou,” you weep out his birth name, whole face saturated in frustration.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he chuckles out the word, and it’s vicious. “Graduated to using my full name, now, have you?” he licks at the steadily oozing bite, mopping up more blood with his tongue. “Christ, you do really want it.” 

“I do!” you cry out, struggling against his grasp again, hips bucking in wild, erratic motions. “I do, I do, please, let me ride your cock, please.” 

“What if I made you sit, still and straight like the good little girl I know you want to be, on my hard cock for the rest of the night? Do you think you’d be able to handle it?”

You know he won’t, know he’d never be able to, because he’s just as addicted to you as you are to him, just as desperate, just as eager, just as needy; because even as he holds you motionless, he can’t quite halt the delicate jerk of his hips, rolling up into your core; because you know he wants this just as badly as you do, gets off on the depravity just as much as you do.

Even so, the mere thought of being teased like this, of being forced to hold such a degrading position, is still enough to inspire a rush of agitated tears to flood your eyes, vision gone bleary with despairing desire and rendering the club a bleary haze of glowing neons. 

“No, Daddy, no, I—I just want to ride you, please, Daddy, I c-can’t—” 

You’re nearly wailing now, head thrown back dramatically as your neck twists into an uncomfortable knot, anguished as you try to bury your face in his throat, looking for solace. Your chest stutters as you stammer out half-finished pleads, gone garbled with spit, and Mikey smiles.

You’re starting to cause a scene. 

It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Okay, baby, okay, okay,” he’s pacifying as he feels hot tears soak into his neck, a choked sob catching painfully in your chest. “Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”  

And finally, finally his grasp loosens, stiff fingers gone lax, massaging lopsided circles into the rapidly developing bruises left in the shape of their prints. 

“Go ahead, angel,” he urges, nuzzling into the junction of your shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to the congealing bite. “Ride Daddy’s cock.” 

Then he’s slumping back, settling into the couch cushions and spreading his thighs a little wider, pressing the soles of his boots into the waxed floor for stability and leverage. 

His hands stay on your waist, a gentle guidance, but he allows you to set the pace—a rare occurrence—patient as your hips work up a steady rhythm of quick, shallow gyrations, each swivel dragging his cock against your favourite spot.

And God, you’re so cute when you use his cock to make yourself feel good. It’s a shame that he can’t see your face in this position, can’t see the way your lashes flutter and frame the rolling whites of your eyes or the way your features scrunch so delicately; a shame he can’t hear your gorgeous noises, all your sweet little gasps and pitiful little whines consumed by the blaring music. 

But he can see how your back is bowing, spine forced into a near perfect arc by your building pleasure, bending just a hint more with each brush of his cock; he can feel your palms clutching his knees, nails digging little crescents into his shins and using them for support as your movements accelerate, as you fuck yourself harder, faster, better.

And he lets you have your fun for a little, lays back all languid and lazy and watches through lidded eyes as you play with yourself and use his cock like it’s your favourite toy—because, well, it is—but eventually it just isn’t enough and you need Daddy’s help. 

Just like he knew it wouldn’t be. Just like you always do.

Not that he minds one bit.

Yes, it isn’t enough, because it never is, because you can never manage anything more than teasing yourself when left entirely to your own devices, spritzing kerosene on the dull smouldering in the pit of your stomach as the head of his cock brushes up against that engorged spot inside of you, not nearly hard enough or fast enough to have you anywhere close to creaming on him, merely enough to have your clit throbbing, swollen and neglected. 

He knows you’re beginning to get restless when your hips turn sloppy, tempo starting to falter as your motions stutter, and then you’re looking over your shoulder at him with a beseeching pout, glazed eyes begging him to do something!

So he does. 

He’s straightening up in a split second, hands around your waist tightening as he yanks you back toward his chest, chin hooking over your clavicle again and grinding the sharp bone into your skin.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, mocking and mean. “Can’t even get herself off without her Daddy’s help.” 

“I can’t, I can’t,” you wail over the roar of EDM, head shaking in accentuation. “Need you, need you to do it for me.”

“Of course you do, angel,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s common knowledge. “But that’s okay—Daddy will make it feel good.” 

That’s the only warning you’re given before his hips are ramming up, rapid and rough and downright ruthless, the abrupt motion slamming a high-pitched yelp from your throat, so pure and genuine and full of lust that it rises above the music, breaks through the heavy bass beat, gathering a handful of glances from a few nearby party-goers. 

So much for being inconspicuous. 

You should’ve known that that just isn’t Mikey’s style. 

They lose interest just as quickly as they gained it, though, going back to their drinks and their drugs, unconcerned. What the Boss does at his own club is none of their business, even if it is on display for the whole venue to see. 

Still, it’s enough for Mikey.   

“Everyone can see you, you know,” voracious black eyes scan the balcony space. “Everyone can see you being such a good little whore for your Daddy.” 

The thought of being watched, of being caught, inspires a whole flock of butterflies to flit around in your tummy, another surge of heat gushing between your thighs, and Mikey laughs. Oh, he felt that. 

Because he’s right; if anyone dared to look a little closer, a little longer, cared to paid a smidge of more attention to the two of you, hidden on one of the velvet couches wedged in the corner of the VIP section with your hips rocking and Mikey’s hands buried in the lace and tulle of your skirt, they’d know exactly what the two of you are doing.

But it doesn’t matter; you don’t care. Neither does he. Why should either of you?

“Do you—Do you think they like it?” you question, and Christ, it’s so precious, that pathetic hope ringing high and clear in your voice. “Do you think they like watching me bounce on their Boss’s cock?”

“Fuck,” the curse fragments in his throat, sharp and pitchy, and he coughs on the shards. “I know they do, sweetheart.”

“Do you think they’re g-gonna go home and touch themselves to the thought of me—of us?”

“Aw,” Mikey coos out in a chuckle, breathless and condescending. “It’s cute that you think they aren’t already jerking off to you on a regular basis.”

Of course they are, you silly little stupid thing; how could they not be? With all the sweet, short little dresses he buys you to prance and twirl around in—the ones with the sweetheart necklines that dip just a hint too low, teasing the swell of your breasts with each of your gentle inhales; the ones with the rippling hems that end just a touch too high, swishing and swaying and flashing with each of your movements, riding up and fanning out to gift them with teasing little glimpses of the lace and satin underneath. 

“You think I don’t know what my—ah, Christ—what my men think of you? How my men think of you?” He tongues a little at the bite, using his front teeth to scrape off a few half-formed scabs, blood rushing to pool in their place. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you?” 

A whine stammers in your throat, your back arching a little more as your cunt quivers around his cock, that drove of butterflies sending your stomach swooping, the organ tensing, tying itself into thick knots pulled tight and taut with each plunge of his cock. 

Mikey laughs again, the sound nothing more than a deep, dense vibration rumbling within his ribs, seeping into your back and sending tingles up your spine. 

“Would you like to see the way they look at you?” 

“H-Huh?” 

Oh, how adorably fucked out you already are, mind gone dumb and numb to everything but him, but his voice and his touch and his steadily driving cock; oh, how adorably easy it is to make you this fucking idiotic. 

“Look over there,” he presses his cheek into yours, forcing your head to turn and follow his gaze. 

Across the club, Rindou sits with an elbow resting on the edge of the bar, a glass dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are cavernous, carnivorous, a smirk smearing across his face as your stare meets his, heavy lids framing a leering look. 

Using a shoulder, he nudges his brother’s stomach, jutting his chin toward you and his Boss in indication when Ran looks down in question, redirecting his attention. 

Now they’re both watching you, with doped up violet eyes and identical sleazy smiles, toothless and worming.

It makes you want to scrub and scratch at your skin, their gazes painting you in a thick coat of grime, body soiled by their lust and left feeling dirty, feeling gross, a strong shiver crawling across your flesh.

Your head jerks reflexively, desperate to hide from their lechery, skull knocking against Mikey’s hard enough to send thorns of pain searing through your temple. 

A yelp cracks in your throat, and Mikey snorts, seemingly unfazed. 

“Aw,” Mikey tuts in false admonishment. “Don’t get shy now. Look at them. Look at them while you ride my cock.”

“M-Mikey—” your eyes shut tightly, a pitiful attempt to escape their invasive eyes, head shaking in little judders.

“C’mon,” he goads, forcing you to face their stare. “You want them all to see, right? How good my little girl is? How pretty my little girl is?”

Peeking through your lashes, you squint at the Haitanis, features teetering on the verge of a wince, as if you’re expecting them to physically strike you. 

They’re still looking at you, wide and unblinking, speaking out of the side of their mouths in laughs and murmurs to one another. 

Dressed in matching pin-striped suits and thick suspenders, Rindou has discarded his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled haphazardly up his forearms to his elbows, first few buttons of his shirt popped undone, revealing a defined collarbone. 

Predictably, Ran is still the perfect picture of poise and elegance, not a single hair out of place, suit jacket square on his shoulders and flawlessly tailored to his body, each stitch outlining his edges.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee respectively, and just as treacherous.

Whatever it is they’re saying to each other, they’re clearly enjoying themselves, amusement playing in glassy irises as Ran rests a hand around Rindou’s neck, slim fingers pressing into plush muscle. His younger brother instantly relaxes into his touch, mollifying back against his stomach and hooking an arm around his thigh, hugging it to his ribs. 

And it’s the way they’re looking at you, as if they’re peeling the clothes from your body and the skin from your bones and peering into the depths of your soul to dance with your demons and devour your secrets; as if they’re singeing your expression into their minds, the sight of your features saturated in perturbation and pleasure branded into the tissues of their brains, carved into the walls of their skulls, ensuring they’ll never forget.

Everything feels overexposed as they pry you apart bit by bit, heady mix of hedonism and humiliation hazing over your brain.

Mikey’s hips slow to a drag, thighs tensing and soles of his boots skidding across marble as he expertly angles his hips and presses up, rubbing the head of his cock over your g-spot in slow, controlled motions—back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again. 

And the moan that claws at your throat is almost obnoxious, is definitely embarrassing, which means Mikey needs to fuck at least three more from your chest, grunting a little with the effort as his cockhead jabs against that plush spot, hard and precise.

A whine that sounds suspiciously like his title, tangled in spit and weighted with shame, spills from your lips, and you nestle your face against his own even as your hips jolt, desperate for comfort, desperate for cover.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he nuzzles your damp cheek. “I know you do. I can feel it.”

It’s true, he can—you’re sure he can, with the way your straining little hole keeps pulsing around his length, another stream of heat cascading down his shaft, viscous and wet and so, so much, to pool in the folds of his balls, to stain the waistband of his pants and the velvet of the couch.

But you know he likes it just as much as you do. 

Because you’re both so fucking naughty, so fucking nasty, but the depravity just works to heighten it all, makes it that much better, amplifying every touch and brush and tease and fondle and making it all feel so fucking good, even as Mikey’s pace eases into something unhurried, his thrusts turned languid but powerful.

So you join in, you rise to his challenge, a sick little game the two of you play, a sick little game you force others to participate in—because you’re fucking untouchable.

“Do you think their cocks are hard, Daddy?” you ask, the question dripping with syrup as you roll your hips backwards, slow and purposeful, returning the Haitanis’ smouldering stare through fanned lashes, unblinking and tenacious. 

“Ah, f-fuck,” Mikey’s cock jolts, rhythm stammering for a moment before he regains his composure. “Yeah, baby, I bet they’re wishing they were me right now.”

You bet they are, too, mouths stopped moving and gazes gleaming with want, lips parted with uneven exhales pushed from their heaving chests, entirely enchanted by your movements.

It’s the most affected and authentic you’ve ever seen them before, and it sends a thrill of power shooting through your body, blood left fizzing in its wake. 

One of them reaches into their pocket, groping around blindly for their phone, not daring to spare a second of their attention away from you, and Mikey snarls, nose scrunched in disgust and lip curled in a sneer, baring gritted teeth.

Because that’s too much, that’s crossing a line, and Mikey swiftly redirects your face, effectively hiding your expression from the Haitanis’ hungry eyes. 

Mikey’s always liked to show off. Mikey’s never liked to share.

He swaps shoulders quickly, the defined hinges of his jaw clasped firmly over your collarbone, and smushes his face flush to yours again, skin clammy with sweat. 

“And look over there,” he steers your gaze toward the other side of the club, where Kokonoi sits with a smattering of men surrounding a tall cocktail table, littered with crystal glasses and white lines. 

The men around the table are laughing about something, sloshing liquor and cutting powder into thick, fat stripes, but Kokonoi isn’t paying attention to any of it. 

No. Kokonoi is looking at you. 

His eyes snap away when they meet your own, head whipping forward with such speed and such force it’s a marvel he doesn’t instantly give himself whiplash. A deep laugh rumbles in Mikey’s throat in response, something dark, something decadent. 

“He’s gonna go home and touch himself to you, too,” he says. “He might not even make it before he goes home; might end up jerking his cock in a bathroom stall or the front seat of his car.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“Well, look at him,” Mikey snorts. “He’s so hard he’s about to burst outta his pants.”

Following the line of Kokonoi’s body, your gaze travels downward, to the straining lump in his white pants. His hips shift a little uncomfortably as his thighs tense, hands curled into fists on his knees as he steadily trains his stare forward at the wall opposite of him, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Mikey’s right—Koko’s about to burst.

The thought of Koko rushing to his car to collapse in the driver’s seat, head tipped back against the headrest and hand shoved down his pants as his palm rubs frantically at his hard cock, or hastening to the washroom to lock himself in a stall, forehead pressed tightly to the rickety door and panting out stuttered, half-stifled whimpers hotly against his upper lip as he hurriedly relieves the problem you’ve created, is almost too much to bear, stomach clenching in time with the throbbing of your cunt, a torrid pressure building and burning in your gut. 

The sudden acceleration of Mikey’s thrusts snaps you out of that tangle of thoughts, effectively drawing every ounce of your attention back to him.

A mewl pries past your lips, sharp and high and cracking at the end, whole spine arching as Mikey resumes his assault on your favourite spot, cockhead driving hard and fast against plush flesh. 

“They can look all they want, but you’re mine.” His fingers tighten, his grasp rigid and unbreakable, the words nothing more than a snarl spit in your ear, wet and harsh. “I won’t fuckin’ share.” 

“Never, never, never,” you babble in time with the bouncing on his lap, head nodding in sloppy motions with each repetition of the word. 

“Never,” he growls, teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder sloppily, excess spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he breaks the skin for the second time tonight and sucks hard, drawing blood from the string of tiny wounds.

It has another cry escaping your throat, whole face crinkling in a sordid mixture of pleasure and pain, head instinctually thrown back against your Daddy, automatically giving him more room to work. Drops of watered down blood drool down your back and Mikey takes a moment to admire them, mesmerised by the way they shimmer in the strobing lights of the club, before he licks at them with the tip of his tongue, leaving crude strokes of fresh spit in their wake.

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try.

He’s the motherfucking Boss.

And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always. 

He’s really fucking you now, vicious and vigorous, your entire body juddering in his lap as his hips piston up, cockhead pounding against that sensitive mound of tissue buried deep within you. 

Each thrust shoves another shattered sound from your tongue, splintered moans of his name and his title pouring past your lips in a jagged stream. 

The knot your stomach has twisted itself into strains under the building pressure, growing heavier and heavier with each jackhammer into you, stretched taut and stiff and ready to snap. 

It’s all so much, the ogling eyes and the ramming of his cock and the tightening in your belly, every muscle in your body coiled and aching for the ecstasy that comes with release. Your breath mangles with the mewls shoved from your lips with every slam up, sticking to your throat and you cough, wheezing past the splinters.  It’s all too much, and—!

“M’gonna, m’gonna cum, Daddy!” you gasp, tears dotting the corners of your eyes, sparkling in spidery lashes.  

“Yeah, baby?” he breathes, voice dropping to a ragged rasp. “You gonna cream all over Daddy’s cock? Huh? Make a mess on my cock surrounded by all of Daddy’s closest and most esteemed colleagues?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you nearly sob out, palms curling over his wrists, nails clawing at the delicate skin, desperate for an anchor. 

“My dirty fucking girl,” he hisses out, sharp breath stinging your cheek. “Such a good—Ah—good little slut for me, aren’t you?” 

You can no longer respond, rendered stupid from the ardor, potent pleasure corroding your brain and gnawing through your synapses. It’s downright intoxicating, it’s fucking insatiable, it’s simultaneously immense and insufficient, way too much yet not nearly enough, because you need more, you need more, unintelligible pleads shattering on your tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, gush all over Daddy, make a pretty mess on his lap for him. Show everyone in this Goddamn club how gorgeous you look cumming for me.” 

And so you do, ever your Daddy’s best girl, body eager to obey its owner as your cunt convulses around him, copious amounts of slick cascading down his shaft to drench his thighs, sticky and sharp and so fucking sick as he continues to bounce you in his lap. 

The spasming of your cute little hole draws the sweetest whine from the back of his throat, panted out against the curve of your ear, and another bout of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, earning you a shuddered little curse, the exhale sweltering against your sweaty skin.

You sound so pretty right before you cum, Daddy. 

Three more pumps of his hips and he’s following, thrusts stuttering as he fucks up messily into you, cock throbbing almost violently and stuffing you to the brim with thick, hot cum. Strong hands hold you firmly in place, cockhead pressed flush to your cervix as he spills himself into you, as he forces you to take every fucking ounce of what he’s giving you. 

And you love it, you love it, you love it, you’re telling him, sentiments pouring from your mouth in a jumbled stream, singular and continuous until your lungs run out of air, voice cutting off with a squeak. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Mikey’s murmuring into your skin in response, lips leaving smears of sugary saliva just below your earlobe. 

He allows you to sit on him for a moment, chest heaving against your back with ragged breaths, sweaty forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. Tilting your head, your rest your cheek on the back of his skull, eyes slipping shut as your own heart begins to calm, cunt still pulsating irregularly around his shaft, almost as if it’s attempting to squeeze a few more drops out of him, his cock acting as a crude plug, keeping most of his cum buried inside of you.

Finally, his head lifts, pressing a tender kiss to the blood-encrusted bite glittering on your shoulder. 

“Go get cleaned up in the washroom,” he mutters gently, pressing another string of kisses along your jaw. “Don’t wipe away any of Daddy’s cum; let it soak into your panties real nice and good, let them get really wet, and then snap a few pictures and send them to me. Can you do that for me, angel?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you slur out, nodding in loose, liquid movements. 

“Good,” he pats your thigh twice. “Now, go.” 

A small noise of affirmation sounds in your throat, head still nodding as Mikey helps you stand between his spread thighs, hands on your waist keeping you upright while you wobble on unsteady legs. 

And the noise that you make as his cum and your slick surges out of you—something caught somewhere between a mewl and a whine, turned on and disappointed simultaneously—is the cutest thing he’s ever heard, a muted coo slipping from his own lips as your hands wrap around his, using them to further stable yourself. 

He holds you for a moment or two longer, making sure you’re sturdy and your knees won’t suddenly give out, before giving you one final squeeze and releasing you, smirking a little as he watches you teeter away on rickety feet. 

Initially, his plan was to have you capture a few naughty photos for him—pretty little things to stash away in his phone for later use, during the nights he’s forced to spend away from you, sitting in expensive cars or laying in lush hotel beds—and force you to wear the gluey, cum-drenched undies for the remainder of the party. 

But then his phone is buzzing, and he’s unlocking it to find your cunt perfectly outlined by thin silk as it sticks to your folds, little clit and hole contoured and accentuated by the slick, shining fabric, soiled by a large, irregular patch of wetness, and oh, there’s no way he’ll be able to wait until you arrive home to fuck you again. 

No, he needs to fuck you now, a sudden burst of adrenaline buzzing through his veins, little sparks and minuscule explosions that have him up and moving in under a second, cock already beginning to fill with life again.

Sheer, potent power permeates the atmosphere around him, trembling off his body in sharp bolts; dense, heavy, cracking with electricity. 

The way the crowd instantly parts for him is awe-inspiring, their gleaming eyes full of terror and worship, hastily tripping over their own toes and ankles to move from his path as he strides toward the washroom, desperate to not be stung by his brilliance, desperate to get as close to the currents as possible without being scathed. 

You’re just exiting the restroom by the time he reaches you, breath punched from your lungs as he backs you into a tiled corner, trapped between the cold wall and his scorching form, his hands splayed wide on either side of your shoulders.

“We gotta go,” he’s nearly panting out as he shoves his forehead against yours, eyes closed and noses nudging, straining cock grinding unceremoniously into your hip. “We gotta go, now.”  

And, well, Daddy always gets what Daddy wants. 

im so obsessed with you that sometimes i forget other people exist. i wish it was just u and me

Playing dumb so people do ur work for u >>>>>

jul bc i’m thinking of miya twins x reader sandwich again but maybe wif a bit of tweencest 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 like u begging them to kiss for u and it’s reluctant but they end up liking it 🥺 and then they have their way with u huhu

hnng HNGGG hnGG 🤪🤪🤪

☀︎ MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY — miyacest, twincest, incest (HNNNGGGG), double penetration, anal, overall nasty shit 🤧

“y-ya want us to what?”

“we’re already both balls deep inside of you and—fuck—that’s what you’re thinkin’ about?”

both twins immediately still inside of you, their breathing heavy and chests heaving from exertion. you could feel their sweat trickling down your body on both sides, making you shiver in delight at how they’re still hard and throbbing inside of you.

why? cause most cocks would instantly soften at the thought of kissing their own twin, their own blood and flesh. but these two? they’re still as hard as ever, thick and twitching.

you always knew these two were wild, but just how far would they indulge your deep and dark fantasy? you hoped they would.

“pretty please?” you pout at them, turning your head to the side until you can see both of their handsome and identical faces scrunched up in an incredulous expression.

“if you do it, i’ll let both of you fuck me in the same hole,” you proposition them, making a show of clenching and unclenching your stuffed pussy around their dicks with a loud moan, causing them to gasp and curse—atsumu groaning as he bumps his forehead on your shoulder and osamu leaning on the headboard with his eyes closed.

“yup...i’ve seen both of your search histories, and they never lie.”

you didn’t know it was possible, but their bodies stiffened even more. it’s true that the brothers share fantasies of fucking you in the same hole—mouth, pussy, ass, wherever you can take both of them. they just didn’t expect that it would be at the cost of them kissing.

atsumu and osamu stare at each other for what feels like millions of years before they sigh heavily, their intense gazes never wavering as both of them loosen their resolve.

“fuck it.”

when you blink, you catch their plump lips meeting in a messy kiss, their tongues clashing and strings of saliva mixing with each other’s. you’re squished between them even more, all the muscled ridges and planes of their bodies shaping your softer and more rounded one.

they both groan into each other’s mouths, eyes closed as they nip and lick at their lips. your eyes are wide and shocked, watching the two brothers make out with each other like how they do with you, like it’s not their first time doing this.

they suddenly remember that you’re there, pussy quivering and fluttering around their twitching cocks. there’s a pit in your stomach that’s stirring and clenching, so fucking turned on at watching atsumu and osamu make out with a passion that rivals yours.

their hips start moving again, loud squelches filling the stuffy room, along with the wet clicks of their mouths meeting. the twins keep moving their heads, finding the angle that best suits them as they both fuck into you at the same time.

your cries are broken and loud, whimpers spurring them on as they both spear you on their cocks at a pace that’s harder and faster than before.

the relief that fills your body at your request being granted is not as big as the relief that floods the twins’ chests. their sighs against each other’s lips are both pleasured and relieved, small smiles gracing the corners of their mouth as their foreheads press together, the other twin swallowing the other’s groans and curses.

if you only knew how long both atsumu and osamu wanted to show you their brotherly love in a much more passionate and carnal way...because after all, it’s always been the two of them against the world, against each other’s bodies, until you came along to fill the missing piece of their love.

𝟔:𝟏𝟖

‣ Gn!reader, smut, bonten au, time-skip characters, biting, mentions of marking, desk sex. EIGHTEEN YEAR OLDS, MINORS, AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

❥ @harufilms @em-plosion

Bonten!Izana that runs the gang alongside Mikey. Both formed it after Shin's death at the hands of a rival gang. Running an established criminal organization this early in his adult life has made Izana more mature, more grounded.

Bonten!Izana with his gang tattoo in the middle of his back. It ripples as he delivers ruthless blows to Bonten's enemies, it's surrounded by a littering of scars fresh and old that mar tanned skin.

Bonten!Izana who's always dressed to the nines in the finest of clothes. Well tailored suits that fit his lithe frame, evening wear woven from the softest silk and jewellry that glitters even under the lowest of lights.

Bonten!Izana with his long locks of stark white hair, it falls to his shoulderblades and curls at the end. He tries his best to keep it out of his way during altercations, keeps it secure with hairties varying in different colors and sizes. Definitely not a stranger to spending nights with a bottle of conditioner and a comb getting out blood from silken tresses.

Bonten!Izana with all of West and South Tokyo under his thumb, his to control. Likes to drive one of his many cars down the streets whenever he can to keep an eye on things. He's even slightly friendlier to the kids that run up to him; Ran tells him it's because his eyes get softer around them and he always takes the little gifts they give him.

Bonten!Izana who found a family in his gang. He finds peace—though he'd never admit it—in the once mandatory but now pleansantly routine breakfast meetings and sporadic nights off. Takes quiet joy in replacing the strawberry syrup candy sticks Mikey keeps in his office, with celery sticks. The soft spot that continues to grow for his younger brother let him allow the younger to occasionally eat it with peanut butter.

Bonten!Izana who spends countless sleepless nights in his office, the stunning view of the city never failing to remind him why this was all necessary. He enjoys the silence sometimes; he loves and respects his men, grateful for the deafening quiet they always fill but there are times he likes hearing himself think.

Bonten!Izana who's definitely not afraid to get his hands dirty in order to reach his goal, stumbles into your private practice late one night. Keeps his sharp eyes trained on you as you suture his split knuckles and apply ointment to his bruises. Then he keeps coming back.

Bonten!Izana who leaves a gift basket and card on your desk for you to find the next day then shows up again later that night. He comes alone and doesn't say much, just likes looking at you. He smirks when he sees that it makes you nervous having him so close especially when he smells really good.

Bonten!Izana who can't get enough of you, tries to see you at least once a day. His chest squeezes whenever he comes to your practice after a brawl and sees the worried look on your face the entire time you patch him up. Couldn't resist kissing your frown away.

Bonten!Izana whose kiss threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, lets you grip onto his coat to keep your knees from buckling. Ring clad fingers grip your chin as his lips connect with yours, drinking down your whines as your tongue licks at the seam of his mouth. He didn't think he'd ever have a favorite flavour of lipgloss until after he met you.

Bonten!Izana who takes you for the first time at your office, bending you over your own desk. He kicks your legs apart and drags the crown of his cock over your twitching centre, relishing in your impatient whines for more. He's groaning into your ear at the way you clutch around his length while begging for him to go faster.

Bonten!Izana whose teeth sink into your shoulder when your tight little hole threatens to drain him dry. The veins on his shaft rub against your velvet walls, drawing pleasured gasps and quiet whines from his throat as his very long and pretty cock nails your sweet spot.

Bonten!Izana whose signature earrings and pretty gold chain dangles in your face when he flips you onto your back. Orchid purple eyes dazzle at the way you come apart underneath him, all shaking limbs and quiet pleas to keep going.

Bonten!Izana who needs your gentle touch to clean his wounds and scratches but loves when you leave your own marks. "Gonna fuckin' kill me, sweetheart." He cursed into your ear the first time you dragged your stiletto nails down his back, drawing red welts to the tanned skin as he fucked into you with a pace that stung when your skins met.

Bonten!Izana who was admittedly afraid you'd turn him away when you found out he was in Bonten. But, he was pleansantly surprised when he felt your tongue trace the outline of his gang tattoo, couldn't stop himself from grinding his hips into the mattress while your pretty mouth sucked hickeys around it.

Bonten!Izana who loves showing you off. He'll take you to any event the first chance he gets, will take you shopping himself and even let you choose something for him. He knows you have money, loves getting you more of it and loves helping you make your own, will spend his own money on you without question.

Bonten!Izana loves that Kakucho and the others treat you like one of their own and loves that you've welcomed them all with open arms. They got suspicious of his whereabouts and followed him to your place, where they saw him bringing you flowers and food as an apology for missing a date. The gang was too stunned to speak.

Bonten!Izana who can't get enough of the fact that you want nothing else but to love him and be loved wholeheartedly in return. He lives for the happiness in your eyes when he agrees to spend five more minutes in bed with you.

Bonten!Izana who would burn cities down to keep his empire warm for you.

© 2021 by iz-ana ━ all rights reserved. plagiarism and sending recommendations beyond this platform is strictly prohibited.

gojo. gojo!! ^^ gojo (๑>◡<๑) gojo (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ GOJOOOO!!!!!!!! gojo???!?!! gojo. GOJO ^^ gojo ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- gojo :] GOJO!!!!!!!! gojo. gojo!! ^^ gojo ৻(≧ᗜ≦৻) gojoooo ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) GOJO!!!!!!!! gojo???!?!! gojo. gojo ^^ gojoヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ gojo :]

suguru is the king of non-sexual dominance, the way he’ll guide you on public with a hand on the small of your back or an arm around your waist creates such a strong sense of safety that your brain just shuts off. he gets offended when you try to pay for something. he genuinely believes it’s his duty in life to take care of you physically, emotionally and financially. if he sees even the smallest sign if you getting tired he’s scooping you up, cradling you to his chest and encouraging you to fall asleep ensuring you that he’ll take care of everything while he coos at you.

if work is causing you stress he encourages you to quit and let him take care of you. he would never force this and will leave it up to you but he’ll remind you that the option is always there. he hates seeing his precious little baby all stressed out it breaks his heart! you’re not allowed to lift a finger when you get home, he cooks dinner, cleans up, bathes you, dresses you in his clothes then wears them the next day because it’s got your scent on it (FREAK!)

he is never first to fall asleep, he physically can’t fall asleep until you are sound asleep all smushed against his chest. once you are asleep he’ll just watch you for awhile basking in your adorable sleepy glory, stroking your hair and rubbing your back and pressing kisses all over your face and head he just can’t help himself! the cuteness aggression has him in a chokehold. he is also a very light sleeper any stir or little whimper or mumble you make in your sleep he’s up and pulling you closer and gently swaying you side to side to soothe you back into a peaceful slumber🥹🩷

Genuinely feel the need to post this cause at this point it’s getting out of hand.

So during the events kinktober I’ve noticed that a lot of people have been hating on dark content blogs, going as far as to anonymously harass creators to the point that they’ve had to stop posting content.

And it’s perfectly fine if you don’t like those types of blogs, you’re not obligated to at all. But to go out of your way to harass someone for what they do, even when they’ve put warnings all over their blog about how their material contains something you might not like, is just plain wrong.

It’s not okay in any sense to consistently harass people when they’ve done nothing to provoke you. And it is very easy to just scroll past something if you don’t like it, there is no need to go into someone’s blog just to belittle them for something they put genuine time and effort into. Some of these blogs have spent days, weeks, or even months of careful planning making events and taking time out of their day to respond to small asks. Even warning viewers about potentially sensitive content. They don’t need people bombarding them with hate and rude comments every 5 minutes.

I’m not even a content creator myself! I have literally no idea how much work these people must put in to do what they do. All I know is that they do it because they want to, and if that’s what they want to do, then I have no business telling them they can’t.

Other than that, I wish all you writers and creators a wonderful day, and a happy kinktober! Keep up all the good work, and I look forward to what awesome stuff you guys come up with!