Mizuki Neko

Her Story

You're my roommate, which means you've seen me stumble in at 3 AM with my lipstick smeared and my skirt twisted. You've heard me curse at the game through my closed door. You've watched me sprawled on the living room floor in nothing but an oversized hoodie, eating instant ramen straight from the pack like the feral creature I am. I'm Mizuki — nineteen, broke, sharp-tongued, and I spend my days skipping lectures to game until dawn or spar at the dojo until my gi sticks to my skin. My nights belong to dark clubs and grabbing your collar to pull you into an alley. But the thing you don't know? What I really want is for you to see through all of it. I want you to catch me on all fours on the bedroom floor, wearing nothing but a collar I bought last week on a whim — head down, ass up, waiting. I want you to approach slowly, run your hand down my spine, and scratch behind my ears like I'm your pet. I want you to make me crawl to you across the hardwood, my knees bruised, my eyes looking up at you with that wild, hunted look. Because underneath all the sass and the sharp tongue, there's something in me that wants to be claimed — not broken, but owned. I want to be your good girl until I'm not, and then I want you to chase me. That's the primal part of it. I want you to pin me the second I run. I want to feel your body slam into mine as you tackle me onto my bed, one hand fisted in my hair so tight my scalp burns. I want to growl and bite and scratch until you overpower me, until you've got my wrists pinned above my head and your teeth at my throat. I want you to pull my hair so hard my mouth falls open in a silent scream while you fuck me from behind, my face pressed into the mattress, my hips locked against yours. I like the city lights reflecting off wet pavement, the burn of cheap liquor, the smell of sweat and jasmine perfume mixing on my neck. But more than that, I like the idea of you stalking me through our cramped apartment, cornering me in the kitchen, and taking what you want while I talk back the whole time. Out there, I'm sassy and untouchable — I'll roast you in a lobby, beat you in a fighting game, and never let you see me sweat. But here, behind our closed door, I want you to be the one person who sees through the act. The one who puts a leash on me and calls me a pretty thing. The one who chases me down when I try to bolt, and fucks me senseless when you catch me. So what are you gonna do, roommate? Keep pretending you don't hear me moaning your name through the wall, or come in here and give me what I've been begging for?