Archive of Our Own

Four words cross your mind as you polish an exhaust pipe on a boiling July day in Yokohama: This. Is. A. Bitch.

The cherry-colored bike you’re working on has to belong to some spoiled brat. They even got some guy in a suit and sunglasses to drop it off, not willing to demean themselves by stepping foot in the shop. 

You thought the manager was finally starting to trust your skills by letting you work alone on such a beaut but, really, he just wanted a smoke break. And that was hours ago.

Whatever. At least you get to admire the pristine model while you tune it up. Plus, even if it does belong to some prissy little rich girl, you’ll make it out of today with daddy’s money. Sure, you didn’t find anything wrong with the vehicle per se, but it couldn’t hurt to list a few ‘flaws’ on the invoice. 

“Sorry, daddy.”

“...What’d you just call me?”

Dropping your cloth on the floor, you spin around on your hunkers. 

That was certainly a masculine rasp for a daddy’s girl. 

Perhaps the heat’s getting to you. You squint to make sure you’re seeing straight. 

Standing at the garage entrance—almost glowing as sunbeams flare all around him—is the sharpest man you’ve seen in your life. 

Even in the sweltering heat, he’s carrying a several-piece suit so elegantly . Sure, he’s slung the jacket over his shoulder. But, he’s rolled the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt up to expose a brawny, bare forearm. Tracing the lines of his muscles with your gaze, you pause at his real leather gloves. They’re just short enough to expose an enticingly taut tendon in the middle of his wrist. 

Expensive, you decide. He looks expensive . And, despite your professional instincts, you wonder if he smells that way too. 

Just before the swimming pool of saliva falls from your mouth, this human ball of charisma starts striding right towards you. 

“Oh, uh, just talking to myself. Need something?” 

He tweaks his head to the side, sizing you up.

“How’s she holdin’ up?” he asks.

This man may look like he uses jewels like short change, but he talks like an old friend.

You toss your head around, trying to find the other woman in the room he seems to be talking about. 

“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding towards the bike. “Pretty good.”

“ Pretty good? Whatcha find?” 

Glad your little ‘extras’ didn’t make it on to the man’s bill before he arrived, you wipe your brow with your sleeve before standing up. You pat your legs, hoping the grease stains you hit aren’t all that obvious. 

“Nothing serious. You must take really good care of her.”

He stares down at you, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Jeez, that sure is somethin’ comin’ from a professional .” 

You choke on nothing at the compliment, covering your mouth with your fist and cursing yourself internally. Maybe the heat and the fumes are starting to get to you. 

Or maybe it’s his presence taking all the air out of the room. 

“S-sure. Well, she’s all yours.” 

“That so?”

He saunters over to the bike, tracing a gloved palm over the saddle lovingly. 

“She’s really something,” you say, never taking your eyes off his hands as he continues inspecting your handiwork.

“You think?” he asks, flashing you a toothy grin. “Wanna take her for a spin?”

“H-hell yeah,” you say, mouth parted, eyes sparkling. 

He smirks, bent slightly at the hip, tapping the throttle with one hand. 

“Heh. You’re alright,” he chuckles.

“Alright?” you scowl, arms crossed tight across your chest, but your feet lead you towards him against your will. 

But, as you reach his side you steady your expression. When else are you going to get a shot at… a Ducati?

“Can I drive?” you pout, batting your eyelashes up at him. 

“You don’t even know where we’re goin’,” he states, matter-of-factly, and you could swear something almost sinister flickers in his eyes.

“Show me then” you respond, tossing a leg over the back half of his prized possession.

You don’t know much about this man, you realize, speeding down the zig-zagging streets. He weaves through every vehicle and obstacle like a stunt driver, chuckling when he feels you cling to his waist tighter whenever there’s a near-miss. 

Well, there's one thing you know about him. He sure is fearless. 

You’d ask his name at least, if the wind weren’t roaring in your ears, even through the helmet he hastily shoved on you. 

After a few more minutes, he skids the bike just slightly and you stop outside one of the highrises by the glittering water of the port. The engine simmers down gently as he lets off the gas, turning the ignition off with a satisfying flick of his wrist. 

As he dismounts, he adjusts his perfectly fitted waistcoat with a subtle tug. 

The pride of a job well done hasn’t ever felt this good, you think. 

“So, where did we go?” you ask, handing him your helmet and mussing your hair to make it somewhat presentable.

“Thought you wanted me to show ya.”

There are worse ways to go out, you think. Even if this guy turns out to be a killer, at least you got to see this side of society. The entrance hall of the building alone is decadent. There’s white, subtly veined marble lining every surface. Hell, there’s even a manned front desk. Manned silently, at that. The guard barely nods when he notices the man leading you in—almost like a sign of reverence . 

As you move deeper into the building, you notice the tip-tap of your work boots sounds grossly out of place. 

“Um,” you say, quiet as a mouse. “You’re sure it’s okay I’m in here?”

“Sure.” He simply waves in response—like he owns the place. Hell, he probably does. 

At the precipice of the elevator, he meets your gaze again, still bearing that same smirk that first hypnotized you at work. 

“Chuuya,” is all he says. 

“Chuuya?”

“My name. It’s Chuuya.” 

Great, you scoff internally. He’s a mind-reader too. 

You reach the top floor far faster than you ever would in an elevator meant for normal people. But, you were quickly learning, Chuuya wasn’t average at all. For one, the guy’s watched one too many mobster flicks. 

Once his key card signals your admission with a clack , he throws open the door to show off a room so opulent it puts the foyer to shame. 

Chandeliers aren’t meant for civilians. Neither are Persian rugs. 

“What’d you do, rob a bank?” you chuckle, running your fingertip over the kitchen island. Of course, not even a speck of dust shows up. 

“Not a bank exactly,” he says, prying open a kitchen cupboard to produce two sparkling, crystal wine glasses. “You drink red?”

“Y-yeah,” you stumble. Either this guy is a great guesser, or you’re just going along with him. At this point, even you can’t tell. 

He fills your glass generously and slides it deftly across to you, not letting the liquid inside so much as wobble. You try to catch it with the same grace, but settle for it not spilling. 

“So,” you begin. “This is your place?”

Relishing in a sly gulp of wine that makes his Adam’s apple bob behind his choker, he gives you a half smile.

“Like it?”

You smile back, and press the rim of your own glass to your mouth. 

“Explains the bike,” you mumble, before taking a sip; nonchalant as you like. 

“You only interested in me for my stuff, doll?” 

“Who said I’m interested in you?” 

You did. Several times. Just not out loud. 

“I dunno,” he says, curiously, popping his drink back down on the counter. He stalks towards you, making you almost lose your grip on the stem of your glass. “Maybe it’s one-sided,” he purrs. 

As he gets closer, you start to feel like prey. And, against all odds, you like it. 

He walks two gloved fingers across the island, each fingertip matching the pace of his steps. He keeps going until he reaches your side, pressing the pad of his index against the outside of your elbow; the soft leather making shivers run up your arms. 

Stowing your wine softly on the surface behind you, you trace your eyes up from the point of contact, all the way into his sapphire eyes. 

“Maybe it’s not,” you breathe. 

And that’s all it takes. 

Slinking his hands up to cup your jaw on either side, he pulls your face towards his, stopping less than a breath away. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

He plummets his lips into yours. If they weren’t so pillowy, it might hurt. Chuuya is ferocious; ready. His grip on you never relents, urging you in closer—more—into his embrace, and his blazing kisses make you whimper. 

That, he takes advantage of, too. With the slight part of your mouth, he toys his tongue into the opening, teasing behind your teeth, seeking out every eager touch of your muscle against his. 

You stop clutching at the counter, lacing your fingers through his auburn locks for stability instead, stopping only to claw at his scalp. 

In return, his hands flicker down to your shoulders, cupping them with a confident squeeze before wrapping his arms around you. 

Your body begs for a breath, even though your mind protests. 

Gasping, you snap your head back and ask: “Don’t you want to show me the bedroom too?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, smirking a final peck onto your lips before pulling you by the wrist to the opposite end of the room. 

This teaches you at least one more thing about Chuuya: he’s strong . 

He kicks the door open, and you’re surprised it doesn’t land on the ground in a pile of splinters. He all but flings you onto the bed—oily clothes and all, silky sheets be damned. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, admiring the view. Sure, his bedroom’s fancier than anything you’ve seen yet, but he’s the real masterpiece.

All too far away—even though it’s three feet at most—he quietly tips his hat off, letting it rest on the mahogany dresser behind him. Then, he hops slightly to sit on top of it, lifting one ankle up to sit on the opposite knee so his fitted slacks strain even harder against his crotch. He starts twirling an ankle lazily—expectantly, almost.

“ Strip ,” he growls. 

You blink. Twice. 

Oh. He means it, you realize.

Your fingers stumble over the metal clasps of your dungarees, and you curse out loud. Whatever deity was generous enough to get you here, it overlooked how awkward your outfit was in this scenario. 

“Need some encouragement, baby?” he coos, leaning forward, lowering his cerulean gaze like a predator. His head rests on his palm, propped up by his elbow. “ Show me, and I’ll give you somethin’.”

Inspired, you tear the straps down, then wiggle the garment all the way off until the denim hits the polished floor. You’re left in a tight t-shirt and plain white panties; gradually growing see-through with how wet this man’s words alone were making you. 

“Close enough,” he says, before pouncing. 

In one movement, he has your back flush against the mattress and both your wrists pinned by your sides. Sunset tendrils of his hair tickle your cheek as he leans down. His breath fans over the tiny droplets of sweat littering your face, and your breath shudders. 

He grazes over your neck, taunting your electrified skin with his canines, nipping just enough to make you mewl. 

But, you want him to dig those sharp teeth in hard enough to leave ripples you’ll run your fingers over for days. 

You want him to claim you—flesh, soul and all. 

You want him . 

And you’re finished waiting. 

You snap your head to the side, catching his earlobe between your teeth and bearing down so hard you might draw blood.

He stays silent, but he feels it. Slow as treacle, he twists his head to look you in the eye, ocean-blue irises shrinking behind blown-out pupils. 

“That how it’s gonna be?” he snarls. “Hope you’re ready.”

With that, you get your wish. 

The points of his teeth dig into the sensitive skin where your ear snuggles into your neck. He nips you again and again, lower and lower, scattering blue and purple marks that’ll last for days. 

You lift your hips to meet his, running your sticky crotch against the tent in his pants, desperate for any kind of friction. And he knows. Oh, he knows . 

But he’s also the one calling the shots. 

He breaks away from your neck, letting go of his grip on your wrists. Instead, he cages you between his arms. His palms press down hard into the mattress on either side of your head so your body sinks ever so slightly. And, he just hovers above you, waiting for you to behave, to earn what he has to offer—eyes boring into your skull. You curse the soft, russet tendrils of his bangs for keeping even a sliver of his baby blues out of your sight. 

“ Please ,” you whine, the needy sound coming from somewhere deep inside. You try to scoot up slightly to catch his lips with yours, but he pulls his head down before you can reach. 

You pout at him, but he’s out of sight, mouthing tiny kisses along your neck that make you melt into him all over again. He starts tracing the adorable button of his nose between your clothed breasts. You arch your back, desperate to bury his face further into your chest—needing to get somehow closer. 

But, you’re all too aware of the many layers you’ll have to get through before you can touch him. 

“Chuuya,” you gasp. 

“Mmm?” he hums.

“L-let me. Let me feel you.”

He holds perfectly still for a few seconds, before he relents completely, propping himself up on his knees. 

You frantically try to chase after him, but he puts one long finger to your lips before you can protest, putting the slightest pressure on it, hinting that you should just lie down and watch . 

He starts twirling three fingers into the strands of his bolo tie, yanking at it to free himself. 

Then, he starts flicking his waistcoat buttons off—one-by-one—with maddeningly slow clacks. 

When just his shirt and slacks remain, he smirks again, and summons you closer so he can whisper something to you.

“Strip me next, babe. I was just givin’ you a head start.” 

You sit in a second flat, obeying his command like a dog—rushing to paw at his torso. 

You chance a glance up at him to make sure you’re doing this right.

And, he has no right. 

Absolutely no right to look this good—chomping on his glossy bottom lip with his eyes half shut, plotting how he was going to swallow you whole. 

You curl your shaking fingertips ever so slightly to drag them down, tickling the rippling edges of his abs. You hum at the feeling of the taut muscles, and you can feel them straining and trembling as Chuuya huffs in ragged breaths.

If you were a little more lucid, you’d think he wanted this even more than you. 

Mirroring his earlier motions, you lazily curl your thumb into each silky buttonhole before popping the clasp out of place. As each one opens, you feel your pulse skip a beat. 

With one final snap, his brawny chest is finally exposed to you, and you can’t help but let your eyes wander lower and lower until you spot a few wispy red hairs winding down from his navel. 

Then, you’re both done for. 

He cocks his head, letting his eyes snap shut as you place a first, featherlight kiss just at the very top of his happy trail. You follow the path down, pecking your soft lips over every inch, before letting your hands in on the fun. They travel even lower, one palming the front of his slacks where a telling damp patch makes you grin against his sizzling skin. 

You feel a rumble in his chest before he voices it—a primal sound that says keep going .

You grip his belt loops and pull, but he’s so solid— so poised— that only you move. You end up a hair’s breadth from his mouth-watering bulge, screaming to be let loose. Once you clink the buckle at the front open, Chuuya lets out a shaky breath. 

He cups his powerful hands over yours as you shimmy the elastic of his boxers down the delicious dips of his pelvis. 

When his cock finally springs free, it bops up against his abs, and he lets out a sigh that has you starstruck. That single noise makes your heart swell with pride and your pupils dilate with lust. So, you reckon, you better live up to his expectations. 

Two thrumming veins swim up the sides of his flushing shaft, reaching all the way up to where one luscious glob of precum glints on his plump, scarlet tip. 

You let your tongue loll out and guide you to his length. You stare up at him through the thin shadows your eyelashes are casting. Little rosy patches are blossoming under his skin in anticipation, and you let your palm run over them in praise, almost distracting him. 

Seizing the moment, you let the very top tongue flick through the divot of his angry, mushroomed tip. The salty goodness of his pre is enough to shut down all your senses, but you can just barely make out a quiet “ yesss ” as you let your tongue start to twist and curve around him. 

You can’t quite get all of him in at first, so you fist his cock with one hand while you keep toying with the tip, letting it sit on your slobbering tongue as it drips and wobbles between your ample lips. 

You tickle his tight balls with your free hand, before flattening your tongue so he can slide into your eager mouth with ease. You have to hold back a gag when he finally sinks all the way in. He wraps one hand around your throat, stroking the outline of himself through your taut skin with his thumb and index finger. He throws his head back with a groan at the stimulation from all sides. 

As a reward, Chuuya combs through your sweaty scalp with deft fingers. He grips a handful of your hair, hard, forcing you to look at him—at what you’re doing to him. He’s almost lost , mouth hanging open; spit threatening to spill over from the corners. 

And you’re no better. You’re slobbering and squelching as he starts to rut faster into the nasty, molten cavern of your mouth. 

His tip swells to fill your throat, cutting off any chance at oxygen getting in, making your vision fuzz at the edges as spit bubbles pop along his shaft. 

As you thought—this was more than a great way to go out. A dribble of slick trickles down your inner thigh as your eyes roll back.

He pulls your tresses into a makeshift ponytail to slam his hips forward, his heavy cock colliding with the back of your throat over and over again. 

“Hnnn - fuck !” he barks.

Rivers of spit overflow from your swollen lips just before he wrestles you off his length with a lewd pop. Tears—maybe of joy, maybe of something even sweeter—stream down your cheeks. 

“On your back. Now ,” he commands. 

Still a little dazed, you don’t get the chance to obey. In an instant, Chuuya throws his full weight on you, his firm torso crushing into yours and slamming the air out of your lungs. You feel his hip bones bruising yours as he starts hastily grinding his soaking, rock hard erection against your folds. 

He takes a sharp breath before he lets his hands wander up your shirt, little by agonizing little, and your chest heaves in anticipation. 

Once his hands find your breasts—heavens help him—he finally figures out you’d foregone a bra this morning. 

“ Brat ,” he snarls, arching an eyebrow at you before tearing the top off you with one hand. 

He kneads both your puffy tits in his palms before latching onto one rosy, perky nipple. Those pointy teeth of his nibble it just enough to make tears prick your eyes. You yelp as he circles the other with nimble fingers, the cool leather of his glove making his motions so smooth against your clammy bud. 

“ Mouthy too, huh? Lucky me,” he snickers—voice slightly muffled—as he starts smooching his way down the valley of your chest, your tummy, before stopping completely, right at the waistline of your panties.

“Y’know, you never did get the job done,” he grumbles. 

“H-huh?” Your eyes fly open. 

Hell, they nearly fall out of your skull when you realize what he’s up to. 

He pulls back from your body, just enough to make room to fit his arm between you both. Then, one-by-one, he takes each fingertip of his right glove between his front teeth. And pulls. 

Once he gets to the pinky, he snarls, tearing the leather off completely, like he’s literally about to throw down the gauntlet. He tosses it to the side before closing the distance again. 

In the time it takes you to blink, his steady fingers have made their way to your inner thigh, dancing along as they had on the kitchen counter. He teases them across the outline of your panties until, with the lightest pressure, he thumbs a single swipe over your clit. 

The action makes you throw your arms over your eyes, unable to believe how every nerve on your body goes on alert at once at so little. 

“ Poor baby ,” he simpers, twisting his wrist to gently press his palm on your crotch, fingers strumming just at your lower lips. “You’re soaked. Need some help?“

You nod so hard you feel your brain shake in your skull, but he doesn’t seem to get the message.

“Tell me. Out. Loud .”

“F-fuck, Chuuya, yes please !”

“Mmm. See? You can follow instructions.”

A shiver runs up your spine when you feel a syrupy thread of your wetness clinging to the crotch of your panties as he pulls them off, letting both your legs rest on his shoulder for better access.

He plants a lingering kiss on your ankle—before he pries them apart again. He rests one clammy palm against your inner thigh before his lips meet yours again, relishing in the lingering taste of himself. 

You have to bite down on his tongue as he plunges one finger—knuckle-deep—into your heat. The slosh of your arousal is music to his ears, and he strums your gummy walls over and over, faster and faster, to replay the melody. 

Filling you up even more, his ring finger joins in, tracing your sweet spot with an assassin’s precision. Your walls cling to him, almost trapping him with how tight you're getting as he toys with your most sensitive spots over and over. When he starts swirling his thumb over the pearl of your clit as well, you struggle to remember your own name. 

With every rough curl of his fingers, he presses against that delicious spongy spot in your walls that’s throbbing for him; swelling to meet the intense pleasure.

He trawls his talented fingers right, right there. And you’re right at the precipice. You trap his hand between your thighs, mouth open in pleasure as you swallow up every frantic flick of his wrist.

Before you can even warn him, one particularly sweet sweep over your g spot sends pleasure through you like a lightning strike, arching over and over again until your whole body’s trembling in Chuuya’s hold.

He hisses at the feeling of your slick trickling over his fingers dibbling until it spills over and pools in the palm of his hand.

Panting, you think you’re thanking him as you come down, but you can’t really think at all. 

He gently pries his pruny fingertips from you before you can even see straight. 

When you come to, you feel a testing tap on your lips. 

“Open up for me, baby.” 

You obey. Of course you do.

As you drape your tongue over, under and between his fingers, tasting your cum engulfing every cell of his skin, you feel his other hand travel south again. He pushes your ruined panties to the side. Then, he tugs a couple times at his weeping cock before lining it up with your pulsing entrance. 

He presses his chubby, drippy tip just close enough to nestle where your lower lips kiss. The quiver of your cunt makes Chuuya’s temper flare. The intensity of his eyes make you gulp as he leans his face just low to trace his nose over yours. Then, he whispers a simple question:

“You ready for me?”

“ So ready,” you blurt. And you should be embarrassed. But, that takes brain cells. 

In one motion, he pries your juicy walls apart, impaling you on his warm, tremoring cock. As he presses his generous inches in, one-by-one, he reaches so deep that you swear you feel him in your warbling heart . 

You’re both open mouthed as his tip presses a first, watery smooch on your cervix. He’s so close you can taste the traces of wine on his breath. And, it’s the least intoxicating thing in the room. 

He presses his sweaty forehead into yours to steady himself, shivering in restraint as he lets you adjust to his size. 

You thread your fingers through his hair to reassure him—and to steady yourself for what’s to come. 

“You can… move,” you sigh, nodding against his furrowed brow. 

He clasps his lips with yours in thanks before pulling halfway out. He’s trying to be delicate, grunting and huffing to hold himself back. But, every ridge of his pulsing cock scrapes and molds your snug insides, and it’s already enough to have you whimpering. 

“You okay?” he asks, almost frantic, pushing your hair out of your face to check you’re not hurt. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, “just feels so… good.”

With a final peck to your forehead, he bullies his thumping cock even deeper into you with a slow, almost experimental thrust. The patient pace he’s setting lets you feel every jitter and throb of his dick against each ridge of your hungry pussy.

He starts to pick up the tempo, and lewd smacking sounds fill the room—flesh on flesh, in time with your breathless gasps as Chuuya keeps knocking the air right out of your lungs.

You lock your ankles behind his back, legs clutching his slutty waist as he pummels into you faster and faster.

“So. Fucking. Tight - Crap .” 

With a particularly sharp thrust, he starts fucking harder up into your wobbling walls, knocking into some blissful little button that has you biting into his shoulder. He drills into it over and over, eager to hear you moan for him even more. 

“Feels good here , right?”

You try to nod, but all you can do is cling and pull on the longest tendril of hair to keep your grip on reality. The pressure on his scalp makes Chuuya growl deeper than ever, sinking his teeth back into the splotchy skin on your neck. 

Both his hands grab the backs of your knees before he pushes so you’re fully at his mercy— folded almost fully in half. As your knees bop against your chest Chuuya clobbers his bawling cock into you so it slickly drags along your cervix again and again and again. 

At this angle, his pelvis skims over your bulging clit, and the extra attention is enough to make tears sting your eyes. Your walls close in around his cock, slurping and drooling every delectable inch of his member. When they talk about curves in all the right places, this man is truly the archetype.

His weeping cockhead is smearing pre in insatiable spurts against every atom where you’re most sensitive. 

“C-close, Chuuya,” you babble, amazed you could form two whole words. And, they seem to have egged him on. 

You clutch at him desperately, wrapping your arms around his neck and surrendering completely to his brutal thrusts. He grabs you by the sides, hauling you back and forth along his cock to match the perfect pace he’s ramming into you. 

“Shit,” he barks, feeling you constrict around him, desperately close to release. 

You try to answer him but the words only get halfway up your throat. 

“You comin’?” he laughs. “Good girl, come on daddy’s cock.” 

Blindsided by his filthy words, you gush around him, soaking everything thread in the sheets below. You feel pleasure rain down on you like a shower of bullets, piercing every part of your body all at once. 

Your ears are ringing, almost drowning out his needy whimpers as he frantically pummels into you, hunting down his own release. You feel the telling, fatal throb of his dick before he unloads in you, flooding your gooey insides with endless spurts of his seed.

“So, next time, can I drive?”

He chuckles, wrapping a warm arm around the dip of your waist and pulling you close. 

“Maybe you’re more than alright, doll.”