demterra

[demterra]

Shout-out to all the stories that didn't make it out of the shower with us in time to be actually written down.

[demterra]

i occasionally think about this fic from time to time and no I will NOT elaborate. I just need it preserved so I don't have to fantasize about having it forever and I can just actually have it forever instead.

★SWEET★

Yandere! Dabi x Fem! Darling

Secret Santa 2023 Event!

Word Count: 4k+

Welcome to the Secret Santa Event, hosted by @ectologia (thanks for throwing this together ♡)

My Secret Santa is… @wilderuby ♥️ I hope you enjoy your Christmas present even if it’s not really Christmas themed~

cw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Fem! Reader • Yandere Themes • Stalking/BNE • Dubcon • Dabi • PIV • Fingering • Praise/Degradation • Kidnapping • Psychological • Dacryphilia

It keeps happening.

No matter how many times you’ve visited the local police station, or how often you knock on the door to your neighbor’s home, you keep finding them.

Innocently resting beside your head when you wake up, whether you sleep in your room, the living room, or even your bathroom, is a single red rose.

Never intact either, the delicate scarlet petals singed in one way or another, to the point now it seems to have become an art form. The dark veins running along inside the thin petals blackened until the rose takes on nearly a new color of ashen burgundy.

You went to the heroes, the police, your friends and family, and yet nothing has come about stopping it.

“It is odd but maybe it’s nothing?” Your friends had said, claiming it was seemingly harmless.

How could it truly be though? You locked your doors, all of them, from the front door to your bedroom door to putting padlocks on the windows. You’d awake to everything intact how you left it, not a single thing out of place… except the addition of a single burnt rose.

It was breaking you down mentally and emotionally at this point. Seemingly being haunted by a ghost, faceless and voiceless, no physical form to blame and scream at. You do scream though, after a year of it occurring despite all efforts—even moving to a new home in a different city. No matter what, when you wake up, there’s a rose. Whether you sleep in a hotel, your friend’s home, your parents, even on the damn subway.

There’s always a fucking rose. Every. single. morning.

It’s to the point where you stopped sleeping, staying up to see with your own eyes if you’re truly insane. You blink and it’s just there, even when you search, and search, and search. A rose, a little crispy, rests in front of you without fail.

It was possibly a new method of torture, but soon enough your nervous system no longer perceived it as a threat. You’d awake to the rose, roll over, and start your day. You stopped mentioning it to family and friends, and eventually it became as normal as breathing. You’d place the roses in a vase, comical at this point, and change them out weekly. A few you even preserved, out of sick humor more than actual appreciation. You’d be certain to mention you wanted no roses at your funeral, at least not red ones, and especially not scorched ones.

You became complacent, as you set your keys down upon entrance to your home, to see an entire bouquet of flowers resting on your kitchen counter. Singed red roses, and one singular black rose in the middle… this time there’s a card. A small folded note about the size of your palm, attached to a silken ribbon wrapped around the thin neck of the vase. Condensation slowly slid down the side of the intricate glass, and for some strange reason, your heart felt dread seeping into its core. Your blood felt icy and your farthest appendages chilled as you shakily lifted the delicate paper up. Several seconds ticked by as perspiration dotted your brow before you eventually sighed and unfolded the note.

Ready to come home, doll?

It was motionless in your home. Deathly silent and still but nonetheless your body shook as tears welled up in your eyes while the foreboding words registered with you. You were home, weren’t you? You knew that much. You also knew you’ve never been called the nickname doll a day in your life, at least by no person you knew.

Was it a joke? Your instincts screamed it wasn’t. You did a pathetic job of staying calm, dropping your keys noisily on the floor as you trembled and dropped to pick them up. You’d leave, stay somewhere else tonight and figure it out in the morning—

“Going somewhere?” You hadn’t head even a footstep. You could see in front of you now a pair a beat up leather boots. Dark jeans lazily bunched up around them with a few nicks and tears in the denim fabric. Your eyes continued up until you were staring at a man.

Bright blue eyes, framed by thick dark lashes, stared down at you. His skin was like patchwork, staples actually pierced through healthy looking flesh while connecting what looked like chard leather to it. His skin you realize after a moment. Some healthy, some burnt, while he stood casually over your crouched form with his hands shoved into the dark trench coat he wore over some ratty band t-shirt. You didn’t watch the news often, hardly ever since your stress was high enough dealing with your own issues, but you knew who this was.

What villain this was.

“Dabi…” you barely even breathed his name, almost inaudible despite your close proximity, but it seemed he heard just fine as a slow forming Cheshire grin spread his lips wide open, revealing his white teeth and sharp canines.

“What’s that doll? Y’look like you’ve seen a ghost, speak up, can’t hear ya down there.”

You were right to feel dread. This was likely the worst scenario possible, one you truly hadn’t even thought of. A notorious villain leaving roses for you? Who’d believe such a ridiculous thing? Even you were struggling to believe it.

“Th-the roses…?”

“Hn? Thought I said speak up.” The waning of his smile shouldn’t have your blood pressure spiking as it did, but you scrambled to speak louder as those violent blue irises blazed.

“Did you—uh, a-are the roses from you?” You slid back, nervous as he stepped forward, eye lids growing heavy as he settled for a smirk on his lips.

“Bingo.” He confirms, not a hint of shame or embarrassment in his laxidazical tone.

You heart hammered against your ribcage, eyes briefly leaving him to look at the bouquet on the counter, mind running faster than a hamster in a wheel. He seems fine just staring at you, expression unreadable besides shallow amusement. He’s giving you time to think, and something in your gut is telling you to tread with caution.

What does it mean to leave roses for over a year for you, every single day? No matter how difficult it was made to do?

Someone in love or someone with a grudge. He doesn’t look the part for either, but the bouquet and strange note having you leaning towards some kind of affection for you. However disturbingly he shows it.

Swallowing thickly, nails scraping on the tile floor, you give a wobbly smile.

“T-they’re very pretty… thank you.”

His eyes briefly widen, head tilting as he observes you with a keener interest than before.

“Yeah? Y’like ‘em, doll?” Doll, that nickname again, you wonder if that’s how he refers to you in his mind. You never likened your appearance to a doll.

You nod with a short jerk, smile still plastered even as your bottom lip wobbles minutely.

“I-I do,” it’s more nerve wracking to be staring up at him from the floor, so you make a show of moving incredibly slow, standing on fawn like legs as you reorient yourself with your own feet again. “You gave me a bouquet this time…” even standing you’re forced to tilt your head back to look at him.

“I did.” He confirms, and the sweat sliding down your spine begins to cool as you shiver. You keep wetting your dry lips, struggling to truly grasp how you’re supposed to get the hell out of this situation.

He seems to visibly enjoy your panic and nervous ticks, watching you pick at your nail bed while he makes you stew in confusion and unanswered questions.

What do you do when the country’s top villain stands in your kitchen? You don’t have a quirk that can compete with him and you sure as hell regret squandering the times your friend encouraged learning some self defense.

He’s not in a hurry it seemed either, leaning a hip against your counter while he continues to observe your every movement. His presence made the space around you appear smaller, like he was sucking the energy from the room.

“Are you…” you look down at your feet, “…going to kill me?”

He snickers, catching your gaze again as it flicks up briefly.

“Nope.” He pops the p with a smile.

You don’t feel relieved.

“Are you going to hurt me?” A better question in all honesty.

“Maybe, probably.” He admits casually, shrugging as if it can’t be helped.

Then the best question for the evening, one still festering in your mind, “Why me?”

The air shifts, the scent of smoke like a campfire, wafting over to you.

“Asked myself that question a lot,” he stands up straight, removing his hands from his pockets. He ignores your flinch, coming closer even as you backed up into the counter. “Asked what the fuck is so special ‘bout you,” he jabs a finger into your chest, eyes flaring as he immediately flattens his palm and lays it over your heart. “To make me like this.”

He smells like campfire and something with chemical undertones, his breath held traces of menthol and tobacoo.

“Y’know what conclusion I came to sweetheart?” The way he said sweetheart was laced with venom.

He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“W-what?” You don’t really have an option but to ask. He looks manic, languid expression sharpening into something dark and terrifying as he smiles.

“That it doesn’t fuckin’ matter. That I can do whatever the fuck I want, when I want, how I want. Not you, the heroes, or the shitty cops can do a damn thing to stop me.” He leans back, face melting again into something akin to pure satisfaction.

“Why you? It’s your own fault, doll, should’ve tried harder not to catch my attention, don’t’cha think?” It’s like he’s mocking you, eager to get a rise from you as anger and humiliation burned in your soul.

You shook in rage. Fists clenched at your sides as you urged the tears in your eyes away. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry like this.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” He laughs as you bite out the insult, a deep belly laugh, nearly doubling over as if you’d told the funniest joke possible.

“Wrong move,” he fakes at wiping a tear, eyes crinkling at the corners before your scalp is suddenly on fire, a gasp yanked from your lips as you're hauled up and back to the floor. “Said I’d probably hurt ‘ya, didn’t think you’d sass me so early. That’s okay, I’m good at breaking people, fix that mouth real quick.” He murmurs, as if he’s not using your hair like a lead and making the tears you’d fought back so hard earlier fall.

“Hurts!” You grunt, now putting up a decent struggle as you fight back.

He ends that quick with a flick of his palm, blue flames lighting up your darkened kitchen and striking horror into your soul as he waves it around in your face.

“Think I won’t do it ‘cuz I won’t kill ‘ya?” He asks, his eyes matching the flames he produces, filled with a sick sort of glee.

“I’ll make your face look like mine if you keep acting up.” That shuts you down quickly, going limp even as he releases your hair to grip your arm, dragging you through your home with confidence to where everything is, going straight to your bedroom.

“W-wait—! Dabi please, I-I’m sorry,” he stops in your doorway, looking down at you with over-exaggerated sympathy.

“Poor thing,” he coos, no less gentle as he drags you to the bed and pushes you down. It’s a gentle landing, but your panic gives you energy as you try to quickly crawl away. He grips your ankle, his palm heating so quick you hardly realize you’d been burned until you screech, teeth clenched tight as you struggle to even breathe. It hurts so much.

Your will to fight ends as he climbs above you, shrugging off the trench coat and yanking his t-shirt over his head while grinning at you.

“Too early for cryin’ doll, that one won’t even scar.” He looks disappointed by that fact. “Now, I can be nice ‘n sweet if you’ll be good for me…or I can push your fucking face in the mattress and take you like a filthy whore. Pick or I’ll pick for you.” His shift in tone as he tells you to choose how he’s going to rape you instills a strange sort of hopelessness inside you.

He doesn’t care when the water works start up again, rolling his eyes as he watches you weep and tremble like he’s done anything worth crying over yet to you.

“Well babydoll? I’m so fuckin’ hard right now you won’t like the choice I make for you.”

“Sweet…” you’re all curled up like a kitten doused in water beneath him.

He’s unbuckling the belt around his hips, tugging the denim down and his boxers along with it as he grunts.

“C’mere” he all but growls, yanking you up again and pulling at your clothing, quick and efficient in stripping you despite your actions mimicking the nickname he’s given you. Acting like a doll in his embrace as he tosses each article of clothing you wore off to the floor until you were down to your bra and panties. He’s yanking at your bra first, eyes greedily drinking you in as he leaves your top bare finally.

You sniffle pathetically, any attempt at hiding yourself useless as he uses his knees to knock yours open, fitting himself in between as he messily licks two fingers and shoves aside your panties to rub at your folds.

“Hgn!” Your eyes open wide as he crassly works two fingers into your dry cunt, his saliva barely enough to grant him access to the tight confines. “D-Dabi—,” your nails are digging into his arms, tearing at a seam of staples and causing a few small trails of blood to stream, but he’s too focused on you to truly mind.

“Y’asked for sweet doll, means you need to relax and let me in,” he explains, like he’s not stretching you open and jabbing his thick digits inside you despite your weak protests and groans of pain.

Your body gives way to the intrusion after a few minutes, adrenaline fading and leaving you almost exhausted as your cunt lubricates itself to ease his passage.

“There ‘ya go,” he murmurs almost hoarsely, letting you go when he sees you’re being obedient enough and using that freed hand to grip his leaking cock.

Your eyes track his movement, watching him grasp the thick appendage hanging heavy between his legs.

You note before even his size the piercings, not just one or two but a multitude lined his cock like a weapon more than a sexual organ.

Dabi notes the hitch in your breath and where your eyes lay, proudly running his thumb over the ladder of piercings up the spine of his shaft to the tip where two small stainless steel balls rested.

“Scared?” He teases, relaxing himself as he jerks his cock and relieves a little of the ache which had been building in his balls. Curling his fingers up, you gasp in surprise at the pleasant feeling which accompanies the action.

“Nah, you ain’t scared, doll. Not a coward, y’would’ve run a long time ago but you stayed ‘cuz you like this. You like knowing someone is out there willing to do anything to have you,”

“I don’t—,” he cuts you off with a sharp thrust up, pressing into the rough textured spot along your gooey walls.

“Shh, y’should know I don’t like liars, especially not ones who get exposed by their cunt dripping all over the bed.” His smile is filthy, lecherous gaze running along your sweaty exposed skin as he just keeps hitting that spot inside which makes your toes curl.

“P-please stop, Dabi I can’t—,”

“Still lying?” He asks, more amused than angry as you try your best to twist away from the pleasure now wracking your body.

“How’s this doll? You drop the Dabi bullshit n’say Touya when you’re about to cum, okay? Y’listening?” He stops working himself over, freeing his hand again to tap your cheek and catch your clouded watery gaze.

“Try it out.” He orders softly, sweetly, like he’s trying to be gentle but the way his fingers fuck you is anything but sweet or kind. The loud lewd squelching exactly as he said earlier, a confession to how much your body at least enjoyed his careless attention.

You huff, mouth opening to choke on a moan as he adds another finger, fingers wrapping around his wrist where they attempt to halt the sudden oversensitivity inside you.

If anything he jams his fingers inside you harder.

“T-Touya!” You hope he’ll stop. Hope he ends this strange psychological torture as your stomach coils up tight.

He doesn’t, Dabi merely groans in delight and chuckles over you, leaning down to slot his lips over yours in a kiss as messy as he’s making you down below.

His soft top lip is contrasted by the rough feeling of his bottom, but his kiss is hot and you can taste the menthol now. His scent is strong, and you catch a hint of his natural odor beneath the smoke and tobacco. Your cries are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you open to complain. You shiver as you feel the drag of a piercing on his tongue, the light touch somehow more erotic. He parts sloppily, saliva connecting your lips for a moment before you flinch as he spits in your mouth.

“Open your fucking mouth.” The tone he uses and language are harsh, and you tearily do as instructed. “Stick out your tongue.” He murmurs a bit more nicely this time, humming in approval as you obey with shaky hesitation.

You won’t hesitate soon enough, if he has anything to do about it. He’ll make his words gospel in your cute brain and have you eager to listen to his every command.

Dabi lets his spit hit your tongue slowly, watching you pant like a dog with your tongue out as he brings you closer and closer to your release. The way your walls clamp around his fingers and constrict makes his cock weep to sink inside you already. “Touya—!”

You cum when he finally allows you to swallow, gushing and throwing your head back while he fucks you through it, laughing as you tense up and beg for mercy and try to escape the pleasure he’s delivering relentlessly.

“Good fuckin’ girl, say my name baby, let me hear it.” Dabi nearly loses it himself watching you shatter, eyes wide and wild as he keeps going. “Touya pl-please…hn!” You keen almost like you’re in pain, fingers digging into his shoulders now while your legs kick out.

“Y’asked for sweet, doll, means you get to cum as much as you want tonight.”

That wasn’t what you’d thought it meant, even as you choke and cum again, this time more softly as he slows his furious pace to something manageable now.

Dabi smiles at the fucked out expression you now wear, pliant in his hold as he maneuvers your body, hoisting your legs up and pressing them to your chest as you whimper in protest.

“You can stay nice ‘n pretty like this doll, doing so good f’me.” He’s not very assuring as he murmurs to you while positioning the weapon he’s armored on his cock at your dripping entrance, tapping his tip a few times on your puffy clit as you moan and twitch, view perfect to watch how he slicks himself up. “T-Touya…” he moans as he catches on your entrance only to slip up, eyes looking at your face as he licks his lips and tries again, enjoying the soft warm feeling of rubbing on your cunt.

“Yeah doll? Need somethin’?” He grins, his cock finally breaching that tight ring of muscle that lets him sink into your hot welcoming depths. “Fuck, been dreaming ‘bout this cunt for so long. Y’know how many times I’ve had to just cum on your sleeping face instead of fucking you? All the times I could’ve just woken you up and had you?” He moans, laughing at the horrified and almost strangled look you gave him, his chest vibrating with a laugh as you mewl like a cat in heat when the first row of piercings sinks into you. “Like ‘em baby? Fuckin’ looks like you do, they feel good in your little pussy?” He moans again when you accidentally bare down on him, the tightness increasing painfully as you whine when his piercings dig in too much.

“Easy doll, let me in,” he murmurs, dark hair falling into his face as he braces above you with one arm, lithe muscles taunt as he works his hips a little at a time into you, enthralled with how you fit around him enough not to slam himself inside all at once.

When the top balls of his piercings kiss up against your cervix, you’re ruined, face a mess as you struggle to adjust to the stretch and sensations.

“S’too much, Touya—” you can only cling to him, eyes drawn to where he’s sunk his entire fat cock into your depths, the way your body contorted giving you the best view.

Your words have the opposite effect though, his groan guttural as he drags himself out, drunk on the feeling of your pussy and lost to it.

“Keep sayin’ my fuckin’ name, lemme hear ‘ya scream babydoll,” you go to protest again, when he slams each inch back into you, the ribs along his cock now working in tandem with his thrusts, effectively shutting you up as you squeal and dig your nails into his shoulders for purchase.

Dabi fucks you hard and deep, speed unnecessarily to keep the air from your lungs as each thrust feels like it’s hitting up in your stomach, the pain and pleasure blending until you aren’t sure if it truly hurts or not.

He sets a steady rhythm, watching your body shake each time he lets his hips fall like a hammer, seeing his cock swallowed each time by your greedy cunt until he’s delirious at the sight.

“Pretty fucking slut, look how your pussy takes me.” He’s spewing filth at you, but when it should offend, it instead makes you burn hotter, his name falling from your swollen pouty lips like a chant.

“This cunt want me to breed it? Fill your pussy full until you can’t take anymore?” You shake your head in denial, unable to truly form words anymore as he picks up his pace, fucking you hard enough to make your headboard slam into the wall. Each thrust accompanied by a symphony of wet slapping, his balls tapping your ass each time his groin kisses your own. “Bet it does, huh doll? This greedy little cunt keeps begging for more.” He loves the dichotomy between your sloppy pussy and the way you shake your head. “No? Y’sure doll? Think it does. Don’t like lyin’ baby, remember? You want me to punish you?” You shake your head again, a bit frustrated when he slows, letting you feel all of him inside you like this, his weight keeping you pinned.

“Shakin’ your head ain’t an answer doll, I’ll be nice ‘n give you another chance, but I expect a fucking a verbal answer this time.” He’s like a light switch. Either on or off but much more terrifying when he flips it on, eyes and voice menacing as you cough and answer in a husky voice. You don’t want to test him on the punishment, truly you don’t, as your ankle still fully throbs in the back of your mind as a reminder of what he’s capable of and who he is.

“I-I like h-how you do it now…” he cocks a brow, sinking deep and then pressing even further so you whine and try to push back further into the bed.

“Y’like how I’m fuckin’ you now? That it, doll?” You go to nod before remembering his warning, swallowing thickly and voicing a soft agreement.

“Hmm… then y’oughta say it, right? Tell me how good I’m fuckin’ this pussy.” He growls, bright blue eyes lighting up as you moan, his pace increasing again as you blabber out whatever nonsense you can to satisfy him. Whatever would make him be sweet, because you have a feeling you don’t want him any other way.

“S-so good! Mhn, f-feels so good Touya, pl-please, ah,” he’s being too rough, your eyes watering and tears spilling as he drills into you, but even still you feel yourself close to coming again as those piercings rub perfectly inside you.

Dabi lifts up, letting your legs fall to either side of him as he grips both your hips tight and fucks you more aggressively. Jackhammering into your gummy walls like he’s eager to imprint the shape of his cock inside you, mouth open and brows furrowed while he groans feeling you tense up again, this time around his dick.

“T-Touya—! M’coming, oh fuck—!” You look painfully suprised when you realize how much it all becomes as you cum, the peircings becoming more prominent as you spasm and clamp down on him, eyes rolling back as your vision slightly blurs.

“Yeah y’are doll, fuck, that feel good? Looks like it did.” He chuckles, chest swelling with a deep satisfaction as he fucks you harder despite your weak whines, overstimulated cunt begging for a break despite how he bullies himself inside you.

“Tell me where you want it,” he’s close, panting and overheating even as he nears his end.

“N-not inside…” he laughs at the soft reply, thrusts only getting deeper as he resorts to simply humping into you for friction after you tighten up so much it hurts to go harder.

“Can’t pull out though doll, look how tight you’re gripping my cock.” You aren’t paying attention, mindlessly moaning as he finally gasps and cums, cock twitching deep inside you and filling you up despite your earlier request.

He nearly collapses on you, chest rising and falling quickly as he regains his breath and relaxes on your soft chest for a moment to recouperate.

When he’s caught his breath, he leans up, slowly pulling out and watching his heavy load immediately spill from your hole.

“Tsk,” he uses two fingers to scoop up what dribbled out, stuffing it back into you as you sleepily huff and press a hand against his chest.

You’re helpless to stop him, too exhausted to fight more and figuring it better to let him have his way than risk his wrath right now.

Once he’s satisfied he’d stuffed you back up well enough, Dabi is quick to leave the bed and begin redressing, speaking casually with you despite your lack of answering.

You watch the villain act as if nothing had occurred, face the same smug arrogant grin when you’d first spotted him.

It’s when he returns his attention to you that fear begins to trickle back into your blood stream.

He seems to notice too, smile growing with your apprehension.

“Now doll,” he crosses back to where you’ve sat up and covered yourself with a blanket, weary gaze locked with his.

“Ready to come home?”

Then it’s dark, your vision going out with your consciousness as Dabi catches you in his arms, dragging your limp figure from the bed and into his arms quickly.

He’s kind enough to wrap you in a sheet as he takes your house keys and phone, shoving them in his pocket as he leaves your place with you in his embrace.

He whistles on his way home, a bit eager to see your expression when you wake.

He figures you’ll learn to like your new home once you realize you’re never leaving it.

He even decorated for the season, the tree a little burnt but he’s sure you’ll appreciate the sentiment.

Dividers/@cafekistune

[demterra]

The answer is always hallucination.

"Oh shit, I thought I wrote my characters having a conversation about fruit. Better remember to write that down tonight!"

(I write at night because I'm an adult who can't be assed to get up early to write before work. Morning people are frightening.)

[demterra]

I maintain that Leander is a little shit who's going to get us both killed, but I'm annoyed you've managed to make me intrigued with him regardless. Bravo.

[demterra]

I AM SCREECHING AMAZON PRIME/PARAMOUNT+ KEEPS FLASHING THIS SPLIT SECOND CLIP OF A PEPPERONI PIZZA FROM LITTLE CAESAR'S IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS SCENE 😆😭🤣💀

[demterra]

this did things to me

Do you have any Chrollo crumbs for those of us who are down bad for this loser of a man? Truly a curse to be attracted to him 😔

"Would you kill someone for me, if I asked?"

You're sitting cross-legged atop freshly washed linens, which smell faintly of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Before you unceremoniously flung yourself onto the bed, with all the grace of a newborn fawn, it appeared picturesque, like the cleaning staff had ironed out every wrinkle.

In Chrollo's brief absence, you've made the king-sized bed your own. The pillows have been adjusted to your liking. You used the extras to build your ill-fated bulwark down the bed's center, in what would separate you from the enemy for an estimated two or three minutes.

"Where's this coming from?"

While asking this, he gets to work dismantling your barricade, not even dignifying the architectural wonder with a comment.

"A place of curiosity."

"Hm," he hums. "It'd depend on the target."

You scuttle toward the furthest reaches of the bed as he makes himself comfortable, mourning your barricade's demise.

"... Does that mean there are people stronger than you out there?" You ask. He regards you with a blank expression. "I'm trying to gauge my options."

Chrollo closes his eyes and smiles softly. "How morbid."

"Yeah, it's almost like I'm stuck with a person who is a terrible influence," you eye the hand that creeps your way like it's a viper. It lunges out at you, finding your wrist and gently tugging you closer to the serpent. Freeing yourself from the maws of a starving beast would be easier.

"Would that make you feel better?" Hearing his voice so close to your ear makes your skin crawl. You can feel his warm breath, smell the remnants of the cologne he applied in the morning and the complimentary mint left on the suite's countertop. "You're not worried some other scoundrel, far worse than I, might snatch you up?"

You swallow thickly. "I think someone's projecting their own fears."

"Maybe."

He rubs his thumb along your inner wrist's pulse.

"Even your contempt is alluring," he murmurs. There's a breathiness to his voice that makes you shiver. "It's like you were made to punish me."

You scoff at the proposition. "Please. What would that make you, then?"

Chrollo laces his fingers with yours and gives your hand a playful squeeze.

"A budding masochist."

[demterra]

So, I've been reading this Astarian fic and its really well written imo. You can tell the author cares a lot about DnD and has a passion for writing. The only problem is...it feels like they don't 'want' to write a Darkfic. They keep putting up warnings for chapters and I'm like - thats cool, whatever it is, I saw the tags, I'm sure its fine. Turns out the warning is 'unconsensual blood drinking'. Like oh noooo not unconsensual blood drinking in a vampire fic!

Idk I feel like an ass but their constant moralising (and having MC basically pause the fic to take a good amount of paragraphs just lecturing Astarian on all the bad things he's done) is oddly affecting my enjoyment of the fic. Even though it's well written, it feels like the writer is holding your hand and tutting at the bad man, you know? Like they don't trust you not to understand the situation. Have you ever had a similar experience with reading darkfic before?

Oh, I've absolutely seen it. You're not an ass at all.

That 'taking time out to shake your fist at the bad things happening' thing is pretty common, and it comes from authors who don't know that their work should be a condemnation in and of itself. Personally, I write kink, and that's my bag. But if you're writing a piece where the entire point is 'this is wrong,' you need to learn to convey that through the writing, not by telling it. 

If that is the point, you need to show it.

There are authors that try to reinforce their own morals by speaking through their character's voice, but they stop the flow of the story to do so, and it's highly ineffective, to say the least. People aren't reading your story for your preaching-- they are reading for your story. The Lord of the Rings isn't written by Gandalf saying "Sauron fucking sucks and this is why," and tells you to take his word for it. Tolkien shows you Sauron's impact upon the land, and how it affects everyone and everything, and how the Fellowship works to fix it.

Your work is a tapestry, and you weave your point between the threads. You don't have a giant thread that reads "THIS IS WRONG BTW" in the middle. The entire fabric is woven around it. That is the point of the story. You weave it in with the plot. Through structure and dialogue and action.

Ultimately, it's people that aren't quite comfortable or adept with writing quite yet, or aren't sure what they want to write-- or there is always the moralist that feels like writing and preaching, and those are never fun to read. There's also people that are extra cautious and make sure to tag everything to not make anyone uncomfortable, but you cannot win that game.

Know what you're writing. If you're writing kink, have no shame about it. If your story has dark content, then yes, tag it, but don't be so shy as to ruin it for folks that read it. Always tag properly, but don't hand-hold.

No one wants a lecture when they're reading for enjoyment, you know?

I've seen a lot of the people that can't help themselves, and I almost understand in today's weird 'if you write it, you condone it' way of thinking. But I genuinely feel like that stifles creativity. Darkfic is hard, and it brings you a lot of scrutiny, but you kind of either have to write it or don't. You cannot half-ass it. It's insulting to do so-- both to the writing itself, and people who may relate.

Don't insult your readers by handholding and preaching. Just tag properly and let nature take its course. There will always be people who are angsty about it, but you need to trust yourself and your demographic. You don't need to preach-- just write. Tag properly always, and just write.

[demterra]

why is everything so controversial on this app now? bitch back in the days we used to post the wildest stuff and people vibed with it and those who didn't minded their own business. now you see like a gazillion call out posts by 19 year olds about another grown adult with free will who said they like dark content. let me tell you if you make discourse posts about people who consume dark media comtent, you're a child. "oh but I am legally an adult" an adult wouldn't lack media literacy. "oh but i am just stating my opinion" no one asked. especially in the x reader tag. a grown adult would block, filter and move on.

[demterra]

these are too amazing not to share

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

[demterra]

Daily Writing Challenge

Write 5 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)

Imagine a place where you would like to be and write about what you would do there. (x)

What are your OCs pet peeves? (x)

Write a 10 sentence long short story about the object next to you. (x)

Write a summary for a book you would love to read. (x)

Write down 10 words that describe your MC. (x)

Write a micro story about an unusual love. (x)

Explain your MCs motivation in 3 sentences. (x)

Write a poem about an empty house. (x)

Write a 5 sentence long short story from three different perspectives. (x)

What nicknames does your MC have and who gave them to them? (x)

Write a new piece of lore for your WIP. (x)

Write a micro story about someone saying "thank you". (x)

Write about one your OC's tattoos or someone getting one done. (x)

What do you admire about your MC? (x)

Write the dialogue for a scene that's been on your mind. (x)

Write a road trip scene. (x)

Write about your MCs favourite outfit. (x)

Write about something that you can see from your window. (x)

Write about a normal day in your MC's life. (x)

Write 100 words today. It doesn't matter about what. (x)

Write a funny scene. (x)

Write down everything on your mind for five minutes. (x)

Write about your OC's first meeting. (x)

Write a scene in a grocery store. (x)

Write a micro story about an artist and their muse. (x)

Write an end scene, without the beginning. (x)

Write 10 sentences for your WIP right now. (x)

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[demterra]

i wouldn't be me if I didn't ascribe asinine and arbitrary rules to myself.

Thankfully I allow myself to write on my phone when the computer is too much of a pain to use, even though I do my best writing there.

[demterra]

YANDERE! FEITAN PORTER X DARLING!

TOUCH

⚠️ This is a work of fiction with content I do not condone in reality. This is not meant to encourage or represent any type or sort of conduct. This is merely just fantasy ⚠️

MDNI•18+

Trigger warnings!

This work contains: Yandere content/intentions•NSFW•Kidnapping•Holding against will (darling)•Cursing•Mentions of abuse/torture•Stockholm Syndrome•General depravity•Obsessive tendencies•Sexual acts (consensual but darling is psychologically not sound of mind to be consenting, so somewhat dubcon)•Oral•fem darling•Somnophilia

You have been properly warned and notified of what this work contains. If anything above offends or triggers you, please do not continue reading. Don’t make me waste my time writing all this out only for someone to read and get offended when all the warning literally tell them what is in this. You reading this confirms you are 18+ years of age, meaning a consenting adult agreeing to proceed and consume this content, do not come after me or report me because you aren’t capable of managing yourself.

I appreciate support and love from anyone viewing and enjoying my content. Thank you♥️ I freakin’ love this 1999 anime artwork of Feitan!

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡. .｡.:*

Time suddenly seemed to become irrelevant.

The days passed in a mundane blur, and at some point, everything seemed worthless.

He mentioned in passing that it was November now, though you’d stopped asking the date a few months after your imprisonment. You stopped talking nearly all together these last few months. You couldn’t be entirely sure the last you’d spoken more than a word or two in response to his questions. His own speech minimal, though occasionally you’d catch a glimpse of his chattier side. Even that still couldn’t be considered talkative, more of a normal amount of speech when in a conversation. You haven’t seen that in a while either, maybe it disappeared when you’d stopped your own blubbering and whining. You didn’t ask questions at all anymore. It was pointless and had little meaning.

He sat in his usual spot.

Perched in the corner of the room, eyes sharply trained on your form as always.

His eyes used to unnerve you, riddle you with anxiety and fear of what he was planning. What he might do. What he will do.

It mattered hardly at all at this point.

You’d senselessly begged once, for it all to stop and for him to just kill you already. That’s what he must’ve had planned in the end, for what else did he want with you? An object to admire?

It seemed mad in it’s own way, that thought. Your questions of something or anything personal went unanswered and occasionally punished with weeks of isolation. It was better not to pry.

Asking for mercy and a faster death only brought a wrath you didn’t know lay inside him down upon you.

It was the first time he became physical with you, touched you more than was the bare minimum of necessity. He was surprisingly warm. Except his touch at that time was anything but the usual gentleness you now realized he used with you. His unforgiving grip on your face as he dragged you to your knees, the absolute agony of having your jaw fractured. The pain was unbearable, and even now left phantom pains radiating down your body. He’d dragged you out the front door, for the first time in what seemed to be forever.

Outside was duller than your mind remembered.

You’d been thrown into a vehicle and taken somewhere new.

You’d never wished to take back words more than you did that day. He’d dragged you to some sort of… torture facility. Chained you in a corner and left you there for hours on end. Nervous and frightened, you waited and waited. When he did return, it wasn’t alone. Someone you’d never met was dragged in, strapped down to a table.

Feitan had never really demonstrated anything so frightening before. He’d been somewhat volatile and brash, but the sadistic side never revealed itself like it did that day.

A day turned into several, and for nearly a week you were made to watch his sessions as he called them. Where he’d laugh like a maniac as he turned living humans into creatures you pitied more than yourself. He’d wipe their blood on you, smile as you trembled and begged for it to stop.

When he finally heeded your pleas, he asked a question that left you numb.

“Still want to die?”

You didn’t want to die anymore, at least not by his hand. He knew no mercy. He had no grievance tearing someone apart and from the inside out. The events that followed spanned longer than you bothered to keep track of anymore. He brought you back to your “home” where you were kept locked away. You had a bed, blankets and pillows, clothes and food, clean water and hygiene products. You’d never appreciated a bed like you did that first night back before. The softness and warmth you felt made tears roll down your cheeks and you had thanked him for returning you. It was the first genuine gratitude you’d ever shown to him.

You glanced up from the TV running a show you barely processed to catch his gaze. Those grey orbs holding emotion you couldn’t name or had never seen. He was always so still, and his porcelain features gave him the feel of a doll. For a moment, you merely held his gaze, feeling oddly calm and panicked all at once. Why you felt panicked didn’t make sense, nor why you’d feel calm in the presence of what seemed to be the Grim Reaper himself. The only movement he made to acknowledge your attention was a slight quirk to his brow. His usually ignored but always open book in his hand closing. His face mostly covered left you little to go off to how he felt. You’d gotten somewhat good at interpreting even the tiniest hint of emotion from him, but currently with your own frazzled feelings, figuring out his wasn’t working.

Your legs were pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them as you settled into a protected fleshy ball. The blanket on your shoulders helping ground you slightly.

Only a little.

“What?” His voice was raspy, his own lack of use evident.

It didn’t sound annoyed, though you could just be misinterpreting this entire interaction.

It felt odd to speak, your mouth slightly cottony and dry, but the urge in your chest felt strangely compelled to say his name.

“Fei” You’d judged his voice, but your own was just as bad.

His eyes widened slightly, though aside from somewhat visible surprise, you were in the dark on how he’d feel about a nickname. You’d given your captor a nickname long ago, though never voiced it aloud. Feitan… Fei felt less threatening.

Feitan is darkness and fear. Feitan tore your life away from you, terrorized you, imprisoned and controlled nearly every little aspect of your life down to your very diet. Feitan is the infamous torturer of the Phantom Troupe.

Fei… well, in your own mind, Fei had become a fictional sort of character. Fei was gentle, Fei listened when you spoke or rambled, and in your dreams Fei would touch you. You hadn’t felt much of any contact in so long, and the last time had left a physically and psychologically painful memory behind. In your dreams, Fei would hold you, touch and caress, Fei was quiet but powerful. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but nothing happening to you or around you was healthy. The mental sickness and insanity most certainly was tickling around your mind.

You’d tested boundaries early with Feitan.

Screaming, kicking, fighting, escape attempts, refusal to eat or comply… were all met with isolation and revoking of privileges. Asking for death was met with nightmares and aching pain that still bothered you when it was too cold.

You’d tried manipulation and coercion, neither you excelled in though. Feitan may be quiet, and occasionally his grammar is less than exemplary, but he is no fool. All attempts ended in… nothing. He did absolutely nothing. He was like a stone wall, impenetrable. Even now, you knew nothing of his intentions. Your only guess at this point, as out of place and ridiculous as it may sound, is companionship. He likely saw you as a pet of sorts, like one might “rescue” a cat off the street. The treatment you receive is rather similar too. In his eyes, maybe you were just like a cat to him. A weak kitty he plucked off the cold streets and gave a warm home. It used to be a thought which invoked fury, but now…

You wished he’d commit to all acts of a pet owner. This included giving affection. You craved it. Missed it. Needed it. Something. A weird and warbled voice in your mind said you’d even accept the negative attention if it meant he’d put his hands on you again. It’s a suicidal thought, but even as his gaze narrowed, you couldn’t stop your body.

He’s silent as always, as you uncurl from your position you’d taken as your usual way to cope. Holding yourself helped, but it’s be better if someone else did it. He didn’t make any indication your nickname offended him.

Shaking, you stood on weak legs and began a pursuit of something you’d never thought you’d even entertain. He was across the room, and while he was by no means a big man, his presence could be suffocating when up close. Gracelessly and with little tact in your actions, you approached until you could smell him. He always smelled like mint and something metallic. For once, the thought of the underlying scent being blood didn’t bother you. He smelled nice, and while his entire body language was closed off and reserved, he still hadn’t even twitched.

He just kept observing you.

Even as you sank down to your knees in front of where he sat.

Those sharp eyes followed you the entire way. When the realization of what you wanted to do came, you weren’t bombarded with the expected humiliation or shame. There wasn’t guilt or disgust like you used to feel when these feelings would arise.

Maybe it signaled you were too far gone to save anymore.

“Fei” his name left your lips again, and for the first time, his rapt attention felt good. It felt good to have him so focused on you. You watched as his head tilted slightly, his face hidden but you could somewhat fantasize about a soft smile playing on his lips behind the fabric of his collar. His favorite jacket always a staple in his clothing collection.

“What?” The way he asked proved he wasn’t revolted at your proximity. He didn’t seem to be asking what you were doing, but rather why you called his name.

“Touch me?” Though you’d phrased it like a question, it bordered precariously on being a demand. You probably looked ridiculous, kneeling at his feet and staring up at him like a sick puppy looking for even the smallest amount of attention. You should be avoiding him, trying to get away, doing anything but this. The only thing you felt though was fear of rejection. That he’d cackle like he does on the phone occasionally, with someone named Shalnark or Phinks, or like he did when he removed the hands of an artist and found humor in the irony. He didn’t answer immediately like he normally would with a direct question. This couldn’t possibly be considered a personal question that he enjoys avoiding, it has only to do with you.

“Please…” you sounded pathetic, even to yourself. The way your bottom lip pouted out and wobbled, the way your eyes watered a little as if you’d cry at any moment, the way you trembled. You didn’t want to grab onto his pant leg, still mindful that a kick from him could easily be your undoing. You’d have to wait till given permission. A pet is what he wants, right?

You could finally be hitting that special point of breaking.

This could be another delusion you’d conjured up and you’re moments away from a lot of pain or isolation again. It’s impossible to tell. No power rested in your hands, and that small realization had tears rolling down your cheeks as you looked at the man who’d reduced you to this mess.

Begging him for measly scraps of what should be your right. Humans needed the physical contact for their health, and while he was clearly the devil, you needed it. Needed him. Needed anything.

“Fei please… I’ll be good, whatever you want, please… I need- hck!” Your sobs were cut short as your body moved faster than your mind could process. You’d nearly bitten into your tongue as you choked for breath, unable to fully comprehend exactly what happened.

The leggings and sweater you wore weren’t warm at all to you. Even blankets seemed to have a chill that seeped through them. Right now though, warmth was creeping through your clothes as mint and copper flooded your senses. He’d pulled you into his lap. The realization was shocking, but the next thought was thrown away when thin strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“Oh” words died on your lips as a sensation you couldn’t name overcame you. You’d never realized how stiff you were until your body began to relax. Fully relax. “Oh…” it came out breathy and nearly excited, as you foolishly wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in the crook of it.

This was insanity.

He was all muscle unsurprisingly, but it didn’t deter you from trying to mold yourself to him. Your much softer figure held in his arms so gently it made a new wave of tears threaten to spill for all new reasons. You straddled him, front flush against his own, as you struggled to accept that you were being held right now.

“This?” His voice so close to your ear had a strange tingling sensation move from your neck down your spine. The shiver didn’t go unnoticed, as his hold tightened and pressed you further against him. It wasn’t necessarily the most pleasant way to be held, but it was many times better than nothing. You nodded against him, mumbling out a soft good as you basked in a moment of joy you hadn’t experienced in what seemed like forever. It felt good to be held.

It felt even better when his hand moved and brushed through your hair. His touch light and careful, and you could imagine how he was noting every little detail of your reactions. The shivers and little sighs you released as he continued to just pet, touch, and hold you.

For once, you dreaded him stopping.

Even as your eyes grew heavy and body went limp in his arms, you dreaded when this would end. If you could just figure a way to keep him like this, you could envision your life being bearable.

“Fei” you didn’t make any effort to move.

“Hmm” his chest vibrated a little with his hum.

“Can I sleep with you?” It didn’t take a genius to realize your question caused him to tense. His muscles tightening up and panic seeping into your system as you worry this took it too far. You both slept separately unless absolutely necessary, something you used to be grateful for and now hated. It was always freezing when you slept, no matter how warm it actually was.

You might’ve ruined his grace, overstepped if anything, but you needed to stay close to him physically. It wasn’t a want anymore but a necessity.

“Yes” his word both shocked and elated you, and with a few more gentle pats in his arms, you were asleep.

Your cunt throbbed and ached, your lower belly pulled tight inside like a string about to snap. You tried closing your legs, whining as the hot wet sensation continued despite the light struggle you began to put up. It felt good, whatever dream you were having, even as the scent of mint and soap surrounded you.

Small whimpers and gasps became heavy panting as you felt raw heavy pleasure blossom in your core. Something prodded your entrance, wiggling bit by bit till you were penetrated and stretched on something long and hard. It moved and rubbed inside you. The warm pressure on your clit only pulling you further.

It was heaven, even as a slight burn inside had you back to whining and arching your back as your cunt stretched to allow something else inside. Fingers?

The thought was gone as the pleasure radiated throughout your whole body.

It wouldn’t be the first wet dream you’d had, but it was the most realistic. The hot breath on your sensitive clit and twitching insides felt real, and the pleasure was so crisp. Your hands curled into the sheets, struggling between sleep and the impending orgasm threatening to take you.

Your eyes popped open as you came, body twisting as a sharp moan punctuated the air.

You were awake and finally realizing this wasn’t a delusion or dream. Someone was lapping at your cunt, your thighs held open and pinned by two pale hands. The sensitivity and slight bewilderment of the situation had you struggling to form a coherent thought.

“Fei-Feitan…?” If there was one thing you knew with perfect certainty, it was that he’d never leave you alone long enough for someone to find you and do this. It couldn’t be anyone else. Though the fact he was doing this was even more incomprehensible. He seemed so disgusted by touch, so detached from human emotions, it really never occurred to you that he’d have normal human urges. He was still lapping at your cunt, even as your eyes locked with his own, even darker in the barely lit room you realized was his own. You were in his bed, with his head buried between your legs, and his eyes locked on you.

“Fei!” A weaker orgasm than the first was torn from you as you came again, sensitivity skyrocketing when he still continued to lick and suck on your clit. The room was spinning slightly, and your naked body began to cool a little as you sweat. He’d stripped you. He must’ve, but things weren’t really connecting in your mind as white hot pleasure was turning mildly painful.

“Too much!” You gasped and you had to force your hands to stay tangled in the sheet to not touch him. Your eyes watered and you made a pitiful sight with your darkening cheeks and open panting mouth. As your back arched to avoid his mouth, a sharp slap to your outer thigh had you yelping in pain.

His eyes narrowed, and it wasn’t hard to see he became annoyed with your squirming.

“Shut up.” His tone was low, no room for arguing or protest as you bit your lip to do as you were told. Trembling under him as he raised up to stare down at you between your spread legs. He looked gorgeous, something you hated to admit. His dark hair mildly tussled and pale skin a little flushed, his signature jacket gone. This wasn’t the first you’d seen his naked chest, but it was certainly a rare occasion. His pants were still on but unbuttoned. His lips were the most sinful aspect, still glossy from your release. It was agonizing to be silent.

You should cry and beg for him to stop.

Instead you found your legs spreading just a bit wider as you looked up at him like he was your personal deity.

Debauched.

His slow and condescending smirk only made your breathing harder, chest tightening with anticipation and lust. He snorted, hand moving to spread your cunt open as he spit on it. You were panting now, barely following his order to stay quiet. It was difficult when you wanted to beg, for more, for him, to be touched.

“This what you wanted? Whore.” His crude words didn’t make this any less arousing, especially as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock free. He was larger than you’d have ever expected, though it hardly mattered as he lined himself up and began pushing into your unused hole. Despite the wetness and prep, it was slightly painful as he filled you. The heaviness inside coupled with the burn was delicious as your hips moved to take more of him, deeper. You couldn’t help the moan, the way your body shook and hands finally moved to touch him.

He was fast in securing both your wrists in one hand to pin above your head, his hips finally kissing the back of your thighs. You felt him twitch inside you, and it drove you wild.

“Please Fei, oh-!” His hand came down on your thigh again, before he pulled his hips back and slammed into you. Your head goes back as you arch into him and moan louder, as he begins a brutal pace that has your chest moving in rhythm with his thrusts. His tip kissing your cervix has you unwinding into a submissive mess of whining and pleas. You didn’t even know what you were begging for.

You either annoyed or aroused him further when he sneered and used his free hand to grip your jaw, thankfully not roughly as it ached nonetheless, forcing you to open wide before spitting into your mouth. He laughed when you clenched down harder, feeling the coil in your stomach tightening again as the pleasure increased.

“Pretty slut likes being my bitch.” He hardly seemed out of breath despite how hard you were panting. You felt a bit unfair at how unfazed he seemed, but similarly proud at how he gazed down at you. Like you made him pleased. His gaze wasn’t sharp, even bordering on warm despite how roughly he was fucking into you. All you could do was moan his name and beg.

Like a good little pet.

You could feel your orgasm coming again, and you’d meant to tell him, but his lips against yours shocked you silly. You didn’t even bother closing your mouth, Feitan easily slipping his tongue inside and kissing you so sensually it had you coming on his cock. You could only whine into his mouth as his speed picked up and you became overwhelmed.

He pulled away as a string of saliva connected you two for a moment before breaking. He licked his lips before focusing on where the two of you were joined. Watching his cock disappear in your sopping wet little cunt. It was filthy and erotic.

“Pathetic” his words were cruel but he looked beyond pleased as he looked at your fucked out expression. Unable to even form words as he continued to bully your poor pussy. It was laughable to him, how sweet you are now, how obedient and submissive you’ve finally become. All that fight and control gone, and in its place you lay now.

He’d never tell you out loud how perfect you are. How absolutely precious he finds your attempts to run away from all the pleasure he’s giving you.

His training has been worth while, making you everything he wants and more. Though he’d hated the power you held over him, having you now, moaning as he drills your cunt and begging for more, takes away the shame. You were his weren’t you? Then anything he wanted to do was fine, it wasn’t shameful to fuck his toy. Especially when she whined and arched her back up to take him in even deeper, when she cried and came again around him.

Feitan saw you as much more than a measly pet. Those were replaceable. No, you were just his, whatever he wants you to be, but still his. That’s why when he wraps his hand around your pretty neck and squeezes, he’s beyond thrilled at how you relax. You throw caution to the wind and give him everything. He’s not cutting off oxygen, but enough blood flow and air to keep you light headed and disoriented.

“Who do you belong to?” He knows you can hardly tell up from down right now. He knows how good he’s fucking you. Reducing you to this beautiful mess of feeling only. He’s still him though, and it brings him only pleasure to add in another few painful smacks to your bruising thighs. “Answer slut” he asks again, being thrown for a power trip as you choke out, “You!” to him.

His balls tightening signal he’s close, and the thought alone is enough to amuse him.

“Going to cum inside.” His words don’t register immediately to you, he can tell, but it seems all reality isn’t gone from you when your eyes widen.

“I-I- pregnant! I’ll get-“ he cuts you off with a chuckle, hand squeezing your throat enough to shut you up as he savors the sounds of wet squelching echoing in tune with his thrusts.

“My personal cock sleeve doesn’t get to talk.” The struggle you put up is worthless, but entertaining as he really does cum inside you, a soft grunt his only indication of release and overwhelming pleasure. Emptying himself inside and filling you with him. Marking you, painting you inside, signally you belong to him in every way now.

You lay exhausted and sore in his bed, cold as the various liquids dry on your skin and Feitan leaves.

Where he goes it doesn’t matter. You let yourself lay for a little longer before deciding it’s best not to anger him by staying in his space. You move to sit up, wincing as your intimate areas ache, but pushing forward nonetheless to get cleaned up and change his sheets and any mess left behind.

You hate the hollow ache in your chest the most. You look at your thighs to see his cum leaking out of you, and a sliver of dread echoes in your mind that you truly could become pregnant. The possibilities too much for you to handle right now, as you shakily slide off the bed to stand on wobbly legs. He could be back any moment, and it’s best you get to work early. You work on removing the sheets, just as the bedroom door opens to reveal a fresh Feitan, his signature jacket in place as he holds a glass of water.

“What are you doing?” His question is asked in a slightly lower tone that usual, and you quickly freeze in place.

“I-I’m cleaning up…?” You don’t mean to sound hesitant, but this situation is new and will require months of careful inquisition to avoid punishment under his hand. You knew better than to continue any task without his go ahead though.

You stand in silence as he observes you with a scrutinizing gaze.

“Come here” his order is curt, and while it terrifies you, you are quick to stumble over to him despite still being naked and filthy. You hate how badly you must look, barely able to walk while he is up and about his usual day as if nothing even happened. To him maybe nothing did happen, this being just the same as making a sandwich, and you wished the thought didn’t hurt. Maybe this would just be a new pain to live with, and the sooner you accepted that, the better your pathetic existence would be.

You stand just before him, fingers twisting around each other as you stay with your head bowed to stare at his feet while you concentrated on staying upright despite how difficult it felt for your hips and legs to support you.

“Not hard enough?” His words confused you, as you peaked up beneath your lashes to look at him curiously.

“I-I don’t understand…”

“Didn’t fuck you hard enough?” You froze in shock and slight fear, because what did that mean? He fucked you too hard in your personal opinion, and your poor slit agreed.

“Y-you did though…?” You were unsure of what was happening, his gaze not giving anything away.

“Get back on the bed. I didn’t say I was done with you.” Your eyes widened, taking a moment too long to register what he said before his foot took a step closer to you and you scrambled back onto the sheet-less bed in a panic. He paused, observing you again, before tilting his head.

“Next time I’m done with you, don’t move” he’s undoing his pants again, and moving towards you.

“I’ll fuck you good this time.” His words menacing and mean, and you’re left with little wiggle room as he closes in.

It’s his job after all to clean you up and piece you back together, and if you can fix yourself when he’s done, he clearly didn’t a good job the first round.

[demterra]

you're allowed to say "sex" on the internet. See? I just did it. Sex. Sex sex sex. You don't have to say s*x or smex or Adult Fun Times or s3x or "spice" any other variation of self-censorship on tumblr dot com you can just spell out the word SEX i am going to scream until the heat death of the universe

[demterra]

“I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.”

— Neil Gaiman, The Sandman

[demterra]

I'm exhausted and spent so this is just what I needed to see.

I miss having energy.

Hi. Things are bleak, I know that. I know that we paid for Trump's last term with blood and it is likely the price will be blood again.

But listen to me. LISTEN.

You do not have to force yourself to witness horrors as an act of activism. It is not a form of activism. You can put your phone down, you can block that horrific video. We cannot win if you cannot fight and you will not be able to fight if you are hopeless.

Do not let them guilt you into this. People who are exhausted are easier to walk over. Take care of yourself, find community where you find joy.

[demterra]

there is something wrong with the Silent Hill community and I am so happy we can be wrong together.

[demterra]

Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: Patience is a thread. Eventually, it snaps. You should have minded this with someone like Chrollo Lucilfer.

word count: 3000+

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, rough noncon sex, sexual assault, degradation

You love books. You always have. As a child, you would curl up under your covers, flashlight in your mouth or propped up carefully with dirty laundry, reading page after page until you heard the creak of your mother’s footsteps in the hallway and had to flop down like a fish, pretending to be asleep. As a teen, you devoured books on the bus, in between classes, sometimes during classes much to your teacher’s irritation. 

Your love of reading led where it sometimes does as an adult--to the library. You were just an assistant--shelver, pamphlet folder, read-books-to-the-kids-every-Tuesday-morning--but it was enough for you to be in the building.It wasn’t a particularly lucrative job, and you had heard from friends and family time and time again that you really ought to go back to school and aim for something higher. Time and time again, you shook your head, smiling, and said you were happy to be there.

Now, you wish you had listened to them. You wish you had put in your 2 weeks notice and went back to school or hell, just quit and taken a job somewhere else. Anywhere else. Preferably in a backroom. A warehouse. Somewhere that wasn’t visible to the public and therefore visible to people like him.

Somewhere that didn’t have you sitting quietly behind a desk, processing books, double checking inventory, darting here and there to help patrons or put something back on the shelves. 

Because that is exactly how Chrollo Lucilfer found you.

You met him once… twice… three… four… five times at the library. At least, five times that you know of; thinking back, you wonder if he watched you secretly. He must have, to know so much about you. You push that thought away.

He left an impression, but how couldn’t he? He was handsome and rather intimidating, with a casually professional outfit and an intriguing bandage wrapped around his forehead. His voice was soft and polite, inquiring, curious. 

He came back a few times. Struck up a conversation. Helped you reach a tall shelf, a low shelf. Offered to carry a stack of books that you had to put away without the cart because it had gone missing. 

At first you appreciated another kind patron--but there was something about him that you didn’t like. Something which seemed to seep out of him as time went on.

Oh, you couldn't have pinpointed it if you’d been paid in solid gold. It was something innate. Something primal. Something deep in your gut that told you to stay away from him, like a rabbit catching a whiff of a predator in the woods.

So you started avoiding him as much as possible, running into the stock room whenever you saw him come in, pleading with a coworker that you weren’t feeling well and needed to swap out. You thought if you ignored him, he would leave you alone, move on. 

Chrollo, on the other hand--if his own words told to you later are to be believed--fell absolutely, maddeningly for you.

So he waited to see if you could come around (you didn’t) and he took matters into his own hands.

That is to say, he kidnapped you. 

You had asked him why, just the once. He shrugged and mentioned that he couldn’t stay in this town forever, and he had to take you before he left. If he didn’t have to go, perhaps he might have tried to court you, but ah, it simply couldn’t be helped.

“Couldn’t be helped.” That’s what he said. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you from your life, your friends, your family. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you. Took you away from everything you’ve known and has decided to keep you with him. Like a pet--no, not that. Like a treasure. Something to be admired and touched at his whim.

And that is where you are now… 

Well. More or less.

Just because he’s kidnapped you doesn’t mean you have to give in to him. At least not outside of the fact that you can’t get away from him, and you know that there’s no point in trying to run or fight or desperately beg hotel concierges or passers-by for help. Because no one can help you. 

What you can do is fight, in little ways. Ways that dig under his skin and keep you from completely drowning in horror and misery. 

The best way to dig under the skin of the seemingly almighty Chrollo Lucilfer is to ignore his attempts to woo you. And oh, they are temptations, there is no doubting that. He has offered so much at your feet that you sometimes wonder why he simply doesn’t find someone who might be open to his advances and do the same. You’ve told him as much, and he’s murmured sweet nothings (emphasis on nothings, in your opinion) about how you’re the only one who’s ever really caught his eye and his heart. 

He’s offered you a veritable library of books, including treasures that you’re sure (even if he won't admit it) were stolen from some priceless collection. He’s taken you to bookstores and told you to have your pick, anything you want--it’s yours. He’ll even read it with you. 

He suggests getting your favorite meals--sticky and spicy rice dishes, homey pasta from the local restaurant, pastries with sweet cream. Whatever you want, whenever you want. He’s collected all of your favorite films (the fact that he knows which were your favorites makes you feel sick every time you think about it) and watched them with you, but there’s no enjoyment in the scenes. Just as there is no enjoyment in the jewelry he clasps around your wrist, your neck; the rings he slides on your fingers. 

You reject the intention behind them all, verbally or physically. Except the food, but only because you need the energy to keep up your struggles for another day. 

You refuse to accept this as normal. Any of this. 

That’s why he still ties you up when he has to leave, whether it’s a short leash that keeps you on the bed or a long chain around your ankle, keeping you away from the front door of wherever you’ve been stashed.

Sometimes you’re tied up when he’s here, too, if you’ve been too ornery. You refuse to let him touch you or kiss you, though God in heaven knows he’s tried. You’ve bitten him in the past, and got gagged for the trouble, but it was worth it. It’s not like you wanted to talk to him anyway. 

He can kidnap you, but he can’t make you love him. He can’t make you let him love you, either, whatever version of “love” he believes is in his heart.

But.

But.

But.

Patience is a thread. Eventually, when pulled too tight, it snaps.

You might have paid more attention to this fact, if you knew what was coming.

--

You shouldn’t be surprised when you exit the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in clean sweatpants and a lounge shirt, that the apartment has been transformed. It’s not the first time Chrollo has attempted a romantic evening.

But you weren’t expecting it and tonight, he’s pulled out everything in the book. Lights. Music. Food. Mood.

On the table of the hotel room are some of your favorite dishes, all neatly arranged on top of a crisp white tablecloth. There are glasses of wine, probably expensive. In the background soft music plays, something nice, relaxing, elegant. There are candles on the dining table, on the coffee table, above the fireplace. Flickering and dancing, giving the room a dreamy effect. 

And there is Chrollo, of course, standing as casually as he can (which is not very much at all) in front of the table. Staring at you with unspoken expectations in his eyes. 

“I thought,” he says, slowly, after a while, “that you could pick our movie tonight as well. Anything you please.” 

You don’t answer. You look at the table and then at him, but you don’t answer.

He sighs, and you see--just for a moment--one of the hands at his side clench and release. He walks toward you, and you’ve half a mind to turn around and lock yourself in the bathroom, but he’s quicker than your thoughts. 

One hand goes to your chin and you set your jaw together as tight as you can, lips pursed, ready to spit venom if he should try anything. 

“Darling,” he whispers. “I wish you’d let me treat you.” He pauses. “I wish you’d let me kiss you.” 

You can feel his breath on your cheek. It smells like mint. He probably popped one while you were in the shower. Asshole. 

He leans in, and it’s not the first time he’s tried to kiss you but it’s the most audacious in recent memory, and you yank your jaw away and take a step back.

You breathe in through your nose, wishing hot fumes could come out to represent how you feel inside. But they don’t. 

So you settle for words.

“Fuck. You.” You spit them out, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. “Fuck you and your ‘date’ and if you think I’m ever, ever going to let you… let you…” Kiss me, touch me, have anything from me except poison and hatred? You can’t finish.

The words aren’t enough. You need something more, something that lets you kinetically toss all of this anger and helplessness out into the world. 

Ah. The table. 

You don’t think before you do it. You just do it. Your hands grip the pressed white table cloth and you yank, hard, sending all the carefully set glasses and dishes flying to the floor. The candles, fragile things, sputter out in the process.

For a few moments, it is mostly silent, punctuated only by a soft dripping that you assume must be spilled wine and your own rapid breathing.

And then you look back at Chrollo and feel your stomach drop out from underneath you.

He’s staring, not at the mess you’ve made, but you. And he doesn’t look angry at all, which isn’t quite right--because you know he’s angry. You know it because the air feels heavy, rancid, like you’re being pressed down by mere emotion. 

“I’ve been kind,” he says finally, voice soft and calm. You want to scream--kind?!--but the feeling in the air keeps you from speaking. You don’t want it inside your mouth, this air. 

“I’ve been kind,” he repeats, “but enough is enough.” 

If you were a rabbit, you would have run. But you’re not, and so you’re standing perfectly still when he takes slow steps toward you and grabs your wrist.

Now, you do try to pull away--but for once, you can’t wrench yourself from his grip. You always had been able to before. But this is different--he’s different. It’s like he’s a stone statue, and no matter how you pull, it makes no difference.

Only he’s not as still as a statue. His hand returns to its earlier position, but instead of gripping your chin, he continues upward, tracing lines across your jaw, up your cheek.

“So lovely,” he says. “A pity that you haven’t let me admire you.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, venomous air be damned. You pull as hard as you can, your socked feet sliding on the floor. You wrench and yank and squirm. Stupidly, it turns out, because it doesn’t work.

He smiles at you. It’s not a nice smile at all.

“That is the plan, dearest.”

Your stomach lurches ahead of you, like a sudden stop on a roller coaster.

“What?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins to walk, pulling you behind him.  Your feet skid and slide, but it doesn’t matter. It’s like you're made of nothing, a doll, a toy, that he’s pulling along without resistance.

“Chrollo--what?” You ask again. 

He’s silent as he drags you into the bedroom, and it’s then, your toe bumping against the threshold on the floor, that you realize where this is going. 

“Wait, wait--” The words tumble out of you like water, but there’s no stopping the pull against your arm, or the gravitational force when he gives you a push onto the bed.

The softness of the mattress has you sinking into it, but you manage to scramble backwards before turning yourself over.

“Wait--” 

He stands over the bed. He looks at you for a few long, awful moments.

“No more waiting,” he says. Simply. Coldly. Goosebumps run up your arms and you want to run but you feel stuck, frozen, like something is holding you to the bed. You can’t tell if it’s something real or your fear keeping you there.

And then he’s crawling on the bed, his body over yours.

“I’ve been patient.”

His hand reaches out and grabs your wrists, which feel limp and useless; he pins them above your head.

“I’ve been kind.”

His other hand goes to your chest, but not to touch you. He grips the fabric of your shirt and pulls. It rips like paper. The air must be cool because goosebumps immediately dot the flesh of your bared chest, sending a shiver through your body that almost covers up the sense of dread within you.

There’s a sense of finality to those goosebumps. Because he’s not going to stop at taking off your shirt, is he? 

“No, I don’t want--you--you--you can’t.”

There’s something that changes in his expression, then. You don’t know what it is, and there’s not enough time to really focus on it. Not with adrenaline pumping through you, making you start to squirm, making your breath start to come fast.

He leans down, close to your ear, that damned smell of mint wafting into your nostrils again.

“I’m a thief, love. I can take whatever I want.” 

He lets go of your wrists, and both of his hands grip the waistband of your sweatpants. And that’s exactly when panic truly sets in. Your leg kicks--you hit him, you think--and your body flails, hands flying. Every muscle in your body is tight and tense and screaming to get away.

“No, no, no, no!” 

At your panic-induced fury, he merely hums, and it’s the most awful sound you’ve ever heard. 

You feel the shift in the air before you see the book. You hate the book. He’s never used the book on you, no, that is true. But you’ve seen it used on others. A warning towards you, but you didn’t heed it well enough.

He murmurs something and your hands fly up towards the headboard. You try to move them but you can’t. It’s like they're held together by some invisible rope. It doesn’t stop you from kicking your legs, twisting and turning, spit flying as your breath comes in ragged gasps.

At this, Chrollo merely uses his free hands to pin down your thighs.

And he waits.

He waits until your body is exhausted, too exhausted to kick or flail or fight him. Not that it did you any good, with your hands bound. And with his own strength in the mix. 

When your body ceases to do more than squirm pitifully against the bed, and your breath has gone from spitting and ragged to merely heaving, he smiles down at you.

“There, now. That’s better.”

You don’t want this.

“Please don’t,” you say, voice cracking.

But it doesn’t matter what you want.

Your sweatpants are pulled down first. He doesn’t pull them all the way off, and somehow, this makes your stomach squirm. Then he pulls down your underwear, bunching it along with your sweatpants down by your ankles.

You squeeze your eyes tightly and will yourself to be anywhere but here.

You hear his breath hitch at the sight of your bared body, at all the things you’ve kept hidden from him until now.

“Beautiful,” he says, a crooning reverence in his tone. “Simply lovely.”

Something desperate and stupid pushes you to open your eyes, to look at him, gaze shining with oncoming tears.

“D-Don’t,” you force out. “Let’s do--let’s do something else, okay? You can kiss me, or… or…” Your mind scrambles for some substitution.

Chrollo smiles down at you with indulgence, then presses a finger to your trembling lips.

“Hush now. You had a chance--many chances, in fact--but they’re gone now. We’ll do this a different way.”

And then he finally unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down, along with his boxers. You immediately look up, afraid and unwilling to see what’s underneath. 

He leaves his own shirt on, and the sight of that makes you angry, somewhere, deep down. Goosebumps on your chest give way to righteous flushing, hot, angry. 

There’s a moment where the two of you merely look at one another. You, with your eyes watery and wide, naked, bared. And Chrollo, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, filling up his own hollow spaces with what was prone in front of him.

And then his mouth is on yours, wet, warm, insistent. 

For the briefest of moments, it occurs to you that while you can’t move your wrists, you can still move your mouth. You can still bite. 

He pulls back only to speak against your lips, sensing your throats.

“Don’t bite,” he murmurs, in between pressing his lips to yours. “I can be so much worse than this.” 

And just like that, the thought of biting recedes, stuck behind the cold fear of what else Chrollo could do. Would do, if you pushed him to it. 

But that just leaves you and him, on this bed. 

He murmurs something in approval and begins to kiss you again. HIs tongue finds its way into your mouth and you want to retch. It’s wet and warm and awful. There’s pressure on your chest--his hands, resting at first, then kneading your breasts. 

Your entire body wants to recede into the mattress. To simply dissolve into it, down to the floor, and possibly beyond.

You don’t want him touching you, but he is.

He pulls away from your mouth, and you can’t look him in the eye, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I can’t wait any longer, my dear.” 

You know what he’s talking about but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying when his hands drift away from your chest, trailing down your stomach, until they finally reach between your legs.

It’s a light touch, at first. Something you could blink away. But he has no patience to take it slow, and in a moment his fingers are inside you. You’re dry. It hurts. But he says nothing when your breath catches in your throat and you let out a pained wheeze. 

Your inner walls squeeze him, not to keep him in but in an attempt to push his digits out. It’s an instinctive gesture, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother you about it. 

He pulls his fingers out and there’s relief for a moment,  until you feel  his thumb rubbing your clit. There’s too much pressure, an electric sort of tingle. You can’t tell if he’s experimenting or trying to get you wet or something else entirely.

You stare up at the ceiling. The ceiling has tiles. You could count them. You could count them and pretend you’re not here, and that this isn’t happening. 

Yet it’s too hard to do that, when you can feel him. Feel his thumb rubbing your clit and his pressure on the body and hear his breathing.

“Look at me, darling,” he says, light, crooning. Like he wasn’t keeping you tied to the bed and touching you unwillingly. Maybe while you’re trying to count tiles, he’s imagining that this went a different way. Maybe.

When you meet his gaze, he keeps it there. 

“This will hurt, I imagine.” 

He stares at you as he thrusts inside you and he’s right. It does hurt. You’re a little wet, maybe, but not really prepared. It feels like your breath gets knocked out of you, like something is stuck in your lungs, all the while a rough stinging against your inner walls brings tears immediately to your eyes. There’s an awful soreness where the two of you meet.

Tiles, tiles, tiles--who can count tiles while this is going on? 

Chrollo, still wearing his damn shirt, begins to thrust inside you. Your breath comes back just in time for it to hitch at the roughness of his thrusts, at how unusually wild and uncontrolled he seems. 

It’s painful. It’s humiliating. You don’t know how long it’s going on. Tears trickle down your cheeks, but they feel cold. A startling contrast to the painful heat between your legs, the uncomfortable dryness even as he thrusts inside you. 

“Oh, you’re cruel,” he says suddenly, voice tinged with just a touch of breathiness. 

His words make something inside you begin to crack. A fissure line ready to spread. 

“I’m cruel?” Pain chokes your voice.

He presses against you, leaning down so that he can kiss your jawline, peppering kisses on  your tear-tracked skin. 

“Yes.” His breath is hot against your cheek. “For denying me the pleasure of this feeling for so long.” 

Some part of you, some dull dragging part, wants you to ask what feeling he means. All you feel is pain and humiliation and this awful helplessness that feels like your guts are being scooped out while you’re still alive. 

“How awful of you,” he continues, uncaring of whatever thoughts might be racing around in your head. He presses a kiss to your lips. “But I’ll forgive you, in time. Starting with this.”

You shake your head against it all, and he only chuckles, pressing a sickeningly chaste kiss to your cheek.

And then he begins to thrust harder, and there’s added torment to it. More pain, more stinging, an awful feeling of stretch. Another feeling, too, something hitting you--again and again, timed with his thrusts. You realize, with a humiliation that makes you actually cry, that his balls are slapping against you. 

There’s an awful lewdness to it, and it’s something you’ll never forget. 

Now and then, you feel a thumb brush against your clit, and you jolt from it. But there’s no pleasure, no warmth, no seeking out his lips and arms to meld together in an embrace. The sweat you feel against your back makes you feel dirty. 

But all you can do is clench your fingers, wrists bound by some invisible cord, and wish for it to be over soon. It would be a mercy.

You don’t know how long it takes. Time drags and hurts. But eventually you feel him speeding up, catch a crack in his expression that tells you with certainty that he’s going to reach his peak. He leans down again, gripping your chin, and kisses you deeper than he has before.

He groans into your mouth as you feel him still, as you feel wetness inside you. It’s warm and thick and you want to vomit it up, even though it’s not in your mouth. You wish you could spit out the sound of his moan. You imagine brushing your teeth a thousand times and never ridding yourself of it.

In time, Chrollo pulls away from you, and removes himself from between your legs. Liquid seeps out of you, slow and warm. 

You will think, later, of birth control. Of asking for a pill. Your stomach will clench and you will throw up with worry that you could be pregnant. He will give you a pill and that worry, at least, will disappear. But that is later. 

Now, however, all is silent. Or almost silent. Your ragged breathing and somewhere on the wall, a soft ticking of a clock. Dim sounds from outside, but maybe that is only rushing in your ears. 

Your thoughts are not so silent. They are buzzing, going from thought to thought. He hurt you. It hurts. He made you kiss him. He fucked you. 

He’s taken everything from you now. Everything you tried to keep, stubborn, stupid thing that you are. Is it any wonder that more tears come, when this thought slams into your brain? 

And is it any wonder that Chrollo gazes down at you with something like reverence when you do? He drinks in  your expression, and when he leans in, you think for a moment--and only a moment--that he’s guilty. Or sorry. Or something almost like those two human emotions that everyone should possess. 

But what he whispers is nothing so human. 

“This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t denied me for so long, well…”

He nuzzles your neck. His touch feels like sandpaper, but you can’t bat him away. How long will he keep your wrists bound like this? Another minute? Another hour? All night? 

He sighs against your skin. 

“Next time will be better, won’t it? No need to repeat this?”

You would like to go into the bathroom and flush everything out of you with scalding hot water. You would like to drink pure alcohol to rid your mouth of his taste. You would like to down pain pills, to address the pain between your legs.

But you’re tied to the bed and can’t do any of those things.

So you nod, absently. Your eyes go from his face--though his never leave yours, watching what you do, taking it all in--towards the ceiling. 

Oh, the tiles. 

One of the tiles on the ceiling is cracked. 

Someone should really fix it.