of-a-darkness-untold

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

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You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe. 

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest. 

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy. 

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself. 

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today. 

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with. 

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred. 

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps? 

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well. 

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly. 

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche. 

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo. 

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

0.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close. 

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept. 

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold. 

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips. 

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep. 

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away. 

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning. 

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you- 

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible. 

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within. 

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in. 

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon. 

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

“Why do you like me so much?“ with Chrollo pls thank you! And have a nice day

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, manipulation, abduction, isolation

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @cynniical @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59

First Sentence Prompt

He paused. It wasn't a pause visible via a sudden stop of motions nor via words. It was just... a shift that you could feel. It was the way his eyes stopped gliding across the words on the page and his attention shifted from the book he was holding to you. But he didn't move. Not at first. Then it started slowly. His eyes moved slowly, his gaze turning to glance at you. Then he straightened his back and closed the book with a silent 'thud', now turning his head over to you. The discomfort came to you immediately. Chrollo's gaze was always too much. Too quiet. Too intense. Too piercing and always too fascinated. He looked at you like you were not a human but something much more precious but that didn't flatter you. It frightened you.

"Like you?"

It sounded fake. The shallow amusement in his voice didn't sound genuine. Well, it did actually. It was just that now you knew better than to believe any emotions that he expressed. You'd fallen for that already once and it had been the very reason why you were stuck with him now in the first place.

"I don't like you. That word... It doesn't do justice to what I am feeling for you."

He stood up. You didn't dare to move. You just sat there, watching him as he sat down next to you. He hadn't blinked so far. It creeped you out. So you blinked a few times, nervously. He mimicked you, blinking once. Slowly that was.

"So you love me?" you questioned him nervously, trying very subtly to lean away. He was too close. Chrollo noticed because of course he did. He didn't say anything but he started to lean closer the moment you leaned away. Every small distance you attempted to create, he quickly eradicated again. Until you stopped leaning away, realising that he wouldn't stop unless you did.

“Love…” he repeated, musing that word out loud to himself. As if he had to taste it on his tongue. As if it was foreign. And perhaps it really was. Perhaps love really was something that was foreign to him. “Love seems to be so loosely used by people nowadays. It doesn’t hold much value anymore. It’s not forever. That’s not what I am feeling for you.”

Your skin started to crawl. His gaze got right beneath it. Every time you blinked, he copied as if otherwise he wouldn’t do it unless he had you to remind him to act a bit more like a normal human.

“What is it then that you feel for me?”

“I don’t know.”

A cold and smooth hand reached out for your own, lifting it up gently. You let him. Not because you necessarily wanted to but because you knew that he’d get his way eventually. And right now you were too tired for mind games. He pressed it right against his chest, right over his heart. You were surprised to discover that it was far more erratic than his composed appearance let on.

“My heart races every time you are around. You’re always on my mind. I desire everything about you. Your gaze. Your scent. Your heart. Your mind. I want you all of it for myself. What would you call that?”

That’s when you swallowed.

“That sounds dangerously much like an obsession.”

Chrollo didn’t look disturbed. He didn’t look concerned. No, he gave something that closely remembered a smile but still wasn’t quite one. Maybe because he couldn’t give a sincere one. It was a deeply human expression. He could only mimic. Right now he didn’t have to mimic.

“Then let’s call it that.”

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Any Chrollo crumbs to share with the class❤️❤️❤️

warning for yandere themes and well. chrollo.

The ocean remains awe-inspiring, no matter how many times you see it.

It's no wonder authors have waxed poetic about it since time immemorial. Viewing the vast expanse of blue is profoundly humbling.

I sustain the world, it boasts. And I will be the one who ends it.

As if confirming your suspicions, a particularly brutal wave crashes against the hull. You stumble to the side and grip the railing to regain your balance. Shaking your head, you glance in Chrollo's direction, hoping he'll notice your displeasure.

Instead, he turns to the next page of his book. Perhaps you're imagining things, but you swear the flip sounded unusually pronounced, as if to say, I know you want something, but look, I'm reading L'Étranger, so I won't come to you; you must come to me.

It seems he's nearing the end of the book.

"Is he yelling at the chaplain yet?" you ask.

"No," Chrollo replies without looking up. "The prosecutor is laying out his argument."

Absentmindedly, you hum, pivoting on your heel so that your back is to the ocean. The long fabric of your dress billows in the breeze. A cluster of seagulls passes by, their calls almost imperceptible over the crashing of waves. What should've left a serene, mellowing impression on your soul instead arouses agitation.

"You came back late."

"I did," he agrees.

"In a different outfit," you add. Finally, his eyes meet yours. He must sense your decision to abandon pretense; it's one of the few ways he'll take you somewhat seriously. Or so you'd like to think. "Is this your roundabout way of punishing me?"

His pleasant smile starkly contrasts the scowl carved into your face.

"And what am I punishing you for?"

You roll your eyes. "My comment about how artificial you are. Really, I still can't believe that's what got to you... or maybe I can. You know you're proving my point, right?"

"I do."

"Then why...?" you trail off.

At his own, leisurely pace, he sets his book down, uncrosses his legs, leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees. By that far-off quality in his eyes, you can tell he's in deep thought. The silence has you fiddling with your hands out of necessity.

"Base curiosity," is the answer he eventually arrives at. "You're afraid of me. You're aware that what I do is, by your standards, so awful, that, for your well-being, I conceal most of it. So, I was curious. If I stopped maintaining the illusion, what would that do to you?"

The terrible thundering of your heart gives away the answer both of you already know.

Chrollo's smile takes on a mischievous, boyish quality, as if what he's hinting at is light teasing and nothing more. He pats the empty spot by his left side. Stiffly, like a cadaver temporarily brought back to life, you walk over, acquiescing to his silent demand. You consider the minimal space between you for what it is — an allowance, granted and revocable at his discretion.

"If I can't improve your image of me, I can always make it worse," he says, interlacing your fingers with care. You wonder how long it took for him to wash the blood from his hands last night. "Hypothetically, that is. Should you prefer something kinder, something gentler... all you have to do is ask sweetly."

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Can you draw morw Toby x y/n pls ? Of you have time ofc

Honestly, love drawing Toby reacting to Y/N.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Masky, Hoodie, and Toby staring you down in the mansion bar, wondering how such a sweet little thing like you wandered into a world where everything is bitter.

Masky, who taps Hoodie's shoulder, pointing at you sipping a half-assed milkshake that tastes like powder, with his voice heavy with intention. “See that pretty thing over there?”

Hoodie, who slowly turns his head around, cheap beer in his hand, mask dragged halfway up his face, lips slowly curling into a grin. “Rogers,” he elbows Toby. “Look.”

Toby, who swivels his head mid-smoke, shoulder jerking before his eyes focused on you.

You, wearing that little white dress with the little peonies on them. You, kicking your feet back and forth, the tip of your heels occasionally bumping the table. You, with your lip gloss covered lips sucking so eagerly on the straw of your drink.

Toby, who hisses “S-shit,” and almost drops his cig on the floor.

Minutes passed. They were still staring at you, the three of them.

You don't notice. Or maybe— you don't mind.

Your eyes stuck on the rim of your drink, watching as the bubbles pop and disappear as the white milk slowly sunk at the bottom of the glass, finally finished.

And when the last of the liquid pooled down into a thin puddle, you pushed the glass away.

Such tiny fingers.

Then, Masky, as sly as he can be, brings a closed fist up to his face, and clears his throat.

The sound could almost make you flinch, the silence you thought you bode in disturbed.

Your head shot up, eyes big and wide— so pretty. They land on the table in the far back corner, their table. Fingers fiddling with each other, your face scrunches up to what they could make out of what it seems like both worry and curiosity.

Hoodie grins wider, raising a hand while waving his fingers at you, head tilting.

Masky curls his pointer at you, beckoning for you to come over like a dog.

Toby merely just blinks at you– but the shuffling of his hips and his hands over his crotch— tells you things you didn't volunteer to know.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

i need more yandere shigaraki idc what you do with it just please give me more

tw: not proofread, yandere, stalking, noncon, somnophilia

Online boyfriend!Tomura who you began dating a year ago after befriending him through a video game.

You go about venting and yapping about the petty things he couldn’t care less about on voice calls. But he listens, jerking off to your voice as he mutes himself, spilling all over the screen when you realised he’s been quiet for some time now; repeatedly calling his name until he apologises with staggering breaths.

“S-Sorry, I got distracted.” “Mmm, you’re always neglecting me!” you whine, not knowing his palms are sticky just because you. Isn’t this a sign of his love? Gosh, he had to bite his tongue to not tell you that.

He never gives you pictures of himself no matter how much you beg, but it’s a different case for you. He demands to have you send him photos when you’re out with your friends as proof—zooming in on the screen to make sure there’s no guys around. And if he catches one, he blows up your phone with “who the fuck is that?”, “you think you can cheat on me and get away with it?” and his tone turns venomous, fangs bared and ready to maul. Then, the guilt trips follows shortly after. Tomura is clever enough to turn the tables on you and make you apologise with your adorable voice messages spewing some shit like

“I’ll be careful next time! M’sorry, Tomura. I love you.”

God, you’re so fucking dumb and gullible. You don’t even realise your boyfriend is a wanted villain, and he’s been watching you in real life without your knowledge. You don’t realise the guy with his hoody up in the alley near your house is him, nor the person who follows the same route as you at night after you leave a cafe. How easy must it be for you to be snatched off by some weirdo. But you’re in good hands because your Tomura is always watching over you.

You ask him when’s the time you can finally meet, almost like you’re craving to see him and he always delays the date. He’s busy, it’s work, or it’s inconvenient. And you? Still the adorable dumb bimbo who whines and says

“alright, guess we’ll have to wait a lil longer.”

You tell him the things you want to do with him when you meet. You say you want to hold his hands—not knowing he’d be the last thing you feel before you crumble into nothingness, you want to wear his hoodie, the same ones he fucks his fist in thinking about his sweet little girlfriend, and you want to give him lots of kisses.

In turn, he imagines how soft you’d feel against him, how much cuter you could be if you’re in his clothes and the moans spilling from your lips he’d swallow as he fucks your cute little cunny.

Oh, Shigaraki Tomura is a villain through and through. Deceiving you into thinking he’s just some normal dude, and that you’re in a normal long distance-like relationship. He imagines the colour draining from your face when you somehow finds out his identity—he’s no mediocre fuck, nor a nice guy. He’s Shigaraki, fucking, Tomura.

Of course, villains never get their happy endings, do they? You had to call him one night, hesitant and all—and tell him you’re breaking up.

Hah—fuck. You? The only person he’d let into his heart, the only person who he wants to protect in this fucked-up world, the one who promised to always love him and stay by his side? His sweet sweet girl is actually abandoning him?

No. Fucking. Way.

You don’t even let him speak before you hang up, and block him on all platforms. You turn your accounts private so he can’t stalk you on his alts. You’re really testing him, huh? But it’s okay. He understands that couples fight—and this is just another silly argument blown out of control. You want him to chase you, and apologise while you play hard to get, don’t you? He’ll play your game.

At first, he slips back into your life with letters in your mailbox.

I’m sorry, baby. Tell me what I did wrong so I can properly apologise to you. I love you. You know that. You got me begging, you better unblock me, you stupid bitch.

He watches your reaction through the webcam of your laptop, long hacked in—your eyes were wide, throat bobbing like you’re suppressing the urge to puke. Maybe he was too aggressive at the end of his note. He’ll try again.

I’m sorry again, for the tone in my last note. I’m not used to this. I haven’t been okay ever since you left started giving me the cold shoulder. I miss you so much. I miss your voice. I love you.

It went unopened. Tossed into the trash before you could even read the contents. You must’ve wanted him to be more direct. Ahh, his needy girl.

So there he was, knees sinking into your mattress as you sleep like the world is safe and so were you. It barely took him a few minutes to enter your apartment, someone else could take advantage of that, you know? You’re so fucking dumb—it’s okay though, because your Tomura is always there to take care of you.

That’s right. Your Tomura, slipping your shorts and panty off, hovering over your sleeping form with his pants taut at the crotch, rubbing your clit with a course thumb.

It’s not the first time he’s seen you in the flesh, but he’s never seeing you this close, your pretty features illuminated by the moonlight peering through your window—soft, petal lips slightly parted with those adorable gasps spilling through. He’s so lucky to have a beautiful girlfriend like you—as if he’d let go. The gods would have to pry his fingers off of your body to part the two of you. He’d take you right then and there, he’d let you know you belong to him and something as fickle as a lover’s quarrel would not soil the love you share.

You said you wanted to give him loads of kisses when you get to meet him, right? So he licks his lips and paste them along your jaw, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair and feeling his boner hardening at the whiff. His finger slowly dips into your core, thumb still teasing your now-hardened clit.

His free hand comes to pull your top, and he can’t help but sucks in a sharp inhale when your tits lay so prettily in front of his eyes—his mouth watering, craving to roll your nipples with his itching tongue. Gingerly, he lets his four fingers grope your breast, your flesh spilling between his digits. His head lowers to taste your nub, his tongue savouring the sweet layer of sweat coating your soft flesh. You moan as your hips buckle, grinding against his hard on when his fingers curl at your special spot.

Fuck, fuck, fuckk—you’re driving him crazy even in your sleep.

Your moans grow louder, needier, more desperate when he continues to rub your g-spot, your walls tightening around his digits as if your body was refusing to let him go. He swears he could come with just listening to you and groaning with your sweet nipple in his hot mouth.

You’re close, he can feel it. You’re gonna cum from his fingers, in your sleep. Fucking hell.

You shriek when you come, your senses finally returning to yourself. “W-Who are you?!” seriously? You’re asking a question like this with his fingers glistening with your juices and your tits in his face? Obviously, he’s none other than

“Your Tomura.”

Your face falls when you hear his name, “T-Tomura?” You look like you’ve seen a ghost, tears welling up in your eyes. “Y-You’re Tomura?! Why are you doing this? S-Stop!” You’re already begging, barely registering the sight and the feeling you woke up to.

“Shhh. Calm down, baby. It’s okay, you miss me?” his lips curl into a grin, cheeks feverishly burning. You’re finally looking at him. You finally see him. He’s here, in front of you—your Tomura, your boyfriend, your love.

“No—stop! Get away from me, I’ll hate you if you don’t!” you try to push him off of you, limbs desperate to free yourself but your thrashing came into piffling futility when he pins your wrists against the mattress, your face twisting when he neared you. You could feel his hot, stuffy breath against your neck, your skin scrawling with goosebumps when his cracked lips graze your flesh.

“I lied about my quirk, Y/N. I can turn you into dust with the touch of my 5 fingers. It’s up to you to believe me or not, but I wouldn’t want to move much if I were you,” you stiffen upon his words, tears rolling down your cheeks as you huffed for air—panic rising in your chest like a rousing volcano.

“Let me go, please. I’m begging you. Don’t kill me,” your voice cracks in trepidation, airy like your words were tripping off your mouth.

“No, no. I won’t kill you,” your eyes train at his movements as he freed a hand to tug his sweats down, your chest pumping with dread, your head shaking ‘no’ when your sight flick to his bloodshot eyes. You felt like you were begging a demon for mercy. This is no Tomura. This is a monster.

Your thighs slam shut, but the pads of his four fingers trace the side of your leg, reminding you of what he was capable of. So you let him push you open, still begging him through your tear-filled eyes.

“I love you, Y/N. Even if you fucking hate me, I’ll never let you go,” you could feel his meaty cock kissing your pussy lips, his slippery tip spreading them apart, rubbing against your clit.

“W-Wait! Tomura!” you tried again, but you were too late. The air in your chest rose only to be stuck in your throat when he slams himself in until he reaches his hilt. Your walls spasm around his size, a sob ripped through your throat at the burn.

“Fuck—I’m inside Y/N’s tight little pussy. Ahh—I can just cum like this, you know?” he’s completely ignoring you, forehead pressing against yours as he peers down to look at the way he disappears between your thighs; basking in the bliss of entering the very pussy he’s been dreaming of for the past year. “Your insides are so warm, it feels good,” he whines as he presses against your tummy, your muscle shift and you swear you can feel this shaft pressing taut against your walls.

“Tomura, i-it too big!” you try to lift yourself away, only to let out another lewd moan as his cockhead rubs against your sensitive g-spot when his hips roll.

“You’re so soft. So warm. So fucking perfect,” you could tell your words are not even registering in his mind as he continues to groan about how much he needed you, calloused fingers sinking into your hips as he began thrusting—sloppily pulling out then stretching your throbbing walls over and over again, teasing the deep special spot you didn’t even realise you had.

You don’t even realise you’re starting to get needier, your hands gripping onto his shirt and you’re panting like a dog in heat. The room turns stuffy quick and you somehow find his lips moulding into yours—the way he kisses as sloppy as the way he fucks, but it only draws you in more; until you’re chasing his cracked lips and sucking until he groans.

“Mmm—fuck,” you swear when your mouths part, a string of saliva connecting your swollen, plump lips to his now-glistening ones. God, do you look beautiful like that. Eyes hazy from the drunken kiss, your voice calling his name with the airy moan of a tone—Tomura, Tomura…

He stirs, aching cock slamming hard into your velvety warm cunt, shocking you by the sudden thrust deep inside. It feels different now, the way he’s vehemently dragging his cock all the way in and out like an animal. Your toes curl, mouth plumped to an ‘o’ as your nails dug into his skin through his shirt. He’s so deep, so rough…

“I can feel—nngh, my cock kissing your cervix. Isn’t it romantic?” he’s musing as he fucks, moaning in bliss, at the way you’re gripping his meat. He can’t even count how many times he’s envisioned this. You’re taking him in. He’s so happy. You’re a fucking dream come true.

“Tomura, m’gonna cum if y-you keep moving like that!” his pace only fasten to your words, his hips slamming into yours until the sound of skin slapping lewdly ring in your ears. His groan was guttural, and your moans were drooling from your lips. Your walls only clench tighter, his cock hardening, sensitive tip kissing your spongey g-spot with every desperate thrusts until the two of you hit your climax at the same time.

Your mix cum spurts out of your pulsing pussy in a second, your tummy burning with crackles of pleasure as your eyes roll to the back of your head. Tomura’s shaking, keeping his hips still to continue stuffing your cunt with his load. “You feel that—haa—Y/N? You feel my love spilling into your womb? Ahh—I love you, I love you so much,” he’s chuckling from the high, kissing and marking your neck while you lay dazed with cum dripping out of you.

“You’re mine. Don’t you ever try to leave me again, m’kay? Now say you love me, like you always do—”

[of-a-darkness-untold]

ANON SAYS: I am so feral for Yandere! Shigiraki who loves you so much but doesn’t know how to show it so he kidnaps you and fuck you until both of you cum 🥺🥺

A/N: repost bc tumblr took this down 😔

CONTENT WARNING: non con, dark content, yandere, kidnapping, disgusting gross creep Shigaraki

Disgusting. Dirty, dirty, dirty—it made your stomach churned with the way he breathed against the back of your neck, razors–like teeth grazing against you before sinking them into your skin, sucking the sweat off of your nape.

You didn’t even know how you ended up here, cunt dripping with mixed cum and a cock bullying itself in and out of you nonstop. Weren’t you just sleeping on your bed after work? So why did you end up in this room that reeked of sweat and sex, ravished by a stranger who couldn't stop mumbling about how much he loves you.

His hand was sticky, palm salty and calloused over your mouth as he let one of his finger stick up into the air. You let out a sob as his tongue licked a long strip on your shoulder and you thought you heard him moan with the way your voice crack into a pathetic cry before your tears slipped down your trails stained cheeks.

“D-Don’t cry. Just be good—fuck—” the male groaned beneath his breath, arm over your waist tightening more than before; hold so tight you could imagine bile crawling up your throat anytime soon.

His pace was inconsistent, sloppy one second and harsh the next as he slipped in and out of you, fat tip brushing against your sensitive cervix each time he buries the whole of his length inside of your cum–filled cunt.

You could feel the next wave of pleasure slowly building up in your tummy, and you absolutely hated the way your pussy clenched down onto him, sucking him deeper into your warmth; as if your cunt was welcoming him inside of you while your mind screamed to stop.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum, baby. C-Cummin’ again—” you shook your head to his words, fingers attempting to pry his hands off of you before you feel your own muscles tensing up, thighs shaking as the both of your cum came gushing out of your pulsing pussy.

You let out a pitched cry once again, not even sure whether it was for beg him to let you go or it was out of pleasure with the way he fucked you. Perhaps it was both; and you’re confused with whether you should be feeling this way. What should you do? And most importantly, what do you want?

“Good girl, I-I love you so much,” he panted, still deep inside of you as his hands groped all over your body, feeling your skin soft and smooth under his rough hands. You cringed as he trailed his fingers down between your thighs, rubbing over your sore core before you feel his cock hardening again. “Let me play with you a little more, okay?”

You didn’t know what to do or how should you feel, but all you want is to submit into him and let him fuck another orgasm into you.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

♡ TW: yandere, stalking, obsession, broke-ish reader, bully reader, revenge reverie

♡ FEM reader

♡ AN: thinking about nerdy loser boy, who grows up to be rich and successful after graduation, and who decides to use all his wealth to take revenge on you, his old bully, who’s still struggling with figuring her sorry little life out...

He car is cold to cool his nerves. No music, only the groan of leather each time he or his driver shifts in their seat.

He holds a glass of whiskey between his fingers—the bottle has become significantly diminished over the past days, two other bottles before it.

He takes a sip, but keeps his gaze fixed out the tinted window at the little drive-by diner.

Retro place, built before he was born. Industrial steel walls, red accents, one big glowing sign above the roof, all caps, spelling CHUCKY’S. He bought the place a few weeks ago, way over asking price—didn’t want any fuss, just wanted it done in one day, but for no reason pertaining to business.

No, this one was personal.

He sighs, swirls his glass, and takes another sip, all while maintaining his stare. He can catch a glimpse of you every time you leave the kitchens to take orders. Dressed in your uniform—an awful red and white checkered dress that you somehow make work. Princess puff sleeves, cinched at the waist with a white apron before jutting out into a mid-thigh frill-edged skirt, a tulle petticoat underneath giving it even more volume and making it look more like a tacky Halloween costume than proper clothes.

You always look so hard at work. It’s funny. Maybe if you’d just done your schoolwork instead of making him do it all for you at the threat of having your jocks rough him up, you’d be better off today and not running yourself ragged over minimum wage.

He must admit it’s pretty childish of him—stalking you like this as if that’s what he should be spending his free time on. His driver must think he’s insane, but he pays him too much for him to ask any questions, not even when he signals him to follow you once you finish your shift.

He would follow you into the subway, if not for fear of causing a commotion. Even though he’s not exactly a celebrity, it’s not so unusual for his face to be in a business magazine every now and again. A few people would certainly recognize him. And if not for that, he’d probably get mugged.

But it’s no matter. He knows where you’re going.

You live in a rundown flat across the street from a five-star hotel he’s taken to call home. The staff are always insisting he should move into the penthouse, but he has to turn them down, as he needs one of the lower-level rooms more aligned with your studio apartment.

You leave your uniform on the floor the second you’re through the door, and he immediately needs to grit his teeth. Naked except for your undergarments—a greyish bra that was once white, styled with a turquoise thong, both pilled from wear. It’s nothing anyone’s meant to see, but here he is, watching as you peel your underwear down your thighs and legs, leaving yourself bare to his prying eyes.

You swipe it up off the floor, stretching it out like a slingshot before shooting it across the room right into your laundry bin. You jump into a pair of short-shorts instead, relieving yourself of your bra next, exchanging it with a loose, cropped T-shirt—a silly cartoon cat print on the bust.

You use your toes to hook your sock, prying them off while you walk towards the tiny kitchen nook tucked away in the corner of the room. Opening the fridge, you grab the three-liter box of white wine you’ve been enjoying by yourself for the past few days, not so different from him. And then you plop down on your bed and switch on the TV, putting on some shitty reality show about overly botoxed women living in Beverly Hills.

He drags his hand over his face, sitting in his luxury suite with a pair of military grade binoculars, pulling his jaw with tired eyes. It should be enough revenge for him to see you living the way you do—broke and struggling. But for some reason, it just isn’t. Not even close.

More than revenge, he thinks, oddly enough, he still wants to prove himself to you. He wants you to see him—his worth—wants you to acknowledge it, that you were wrong to step all over him because, in the end, he’s the one in the million-dollar shoes, and you’re the one in the soiled apron taking orders.

But then again, and even stranger, he feels this weird amount of gratitude towards you. After all, if you hadn’t made him feel worthless, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to make himself priceless.

And, of course, there’s the fact that he still jerks off to you and has, on many desperate occasions, paid escorts with a passing resemblance to you to call him by those foul names you used to—among many other things he wishes you’d say.

“Aren’t yah a little too dressed up for this place?” you ask, head tilted to the side, hand on your hip with your notepad, popping your pink gum. “What—Michelin gettin’ too boring’? Or d’yah just feel like slummin’ it today?”

He doesn’t get you’re making a joke—feeling out of place sitting in the tight little booth he’d picked out for himself—plastic menu taped to the table in front of him with a bunch of stuff he hasn’t put in his mouth since college with prices he’d forgotten all about. It’s so cheap, he wonders for a moment if a zero is missing. 

But that’s not all, or at least not the reason he’s so put off…

You raise a brow over his puzzled expression, looking up at you like a lost kid at the mall.

“I’m just messin’ with yah—no need to look so wired,” you laugh, flipping up your notepad and clicking your pen. “So then, what can I get yah?”

He blinks. “Oh, uhm,” clearing his throat, he looks down at the menu again and just picks the first thing his eyes land on. “I’ll have a—a breakfast sandwich. Thank you.”

You scribble it down, asking while at it, “No’n else? Big gun like you? No waffles, hashbrowns, sausages? I make a mean French toast, just so you know.” You look at him in wait.

He gets a little lost seeing you so up close, but manages to stutter out a, “No–no, thank you, that’s okay.”

You, on the other hand, don’t seem ruffled at all—all smiles and giggles, knuckles on your hip as you tilt your head at him. “You watchin’ yer figure, or somethin’? Guess you can’t let the money do all the talkin’, huh?” 

He doesn’t know what to say, busy using every brain cell to comprehend the fact that you’re even talking to him, so familiarly as well. It all throws him for a loop.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just pullin’ your leg,” you continue at his silence. “It’s just that I’ seen your car parked outside so many times, always wonderin’ what rich fellow was brave enough to have business around here,” you explain, nodding at his black SUV out front. “I’m just happy to finally put a face to the wheels.”

He still can’t find the words to say. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his face either, but it can't be good. Feeling stiff as a board and dumb like one, too.

“I’m rambling, aren’t I? My bad,” you apologize, either thinking nothing of his strange behaviour or simply choosing to ignore it. “You want joe or juice with that?”

It takes him a second to realize it’s a question he’ll have to answer, but he manages to utter a curt, “Coffee,” before further pulling himself together enough to tack on a polite, “Please.” 

You only nod your head, clicking your pen. “A’right then, big spender. Comin’ right up.” 

And then, you turn on your heel, leaving him there with nothing but that dumb look he seems unable to wipe off his face, watching you march in tattered shoes that don’t go at all along with your diner uniform across the chess-checkered tiles before disappearing into the kitchen, without doing so much as a double-take.

And he’s hit with the unpleasant understanding, sitting like a lump in his stomach, making his throat feel tight. 

You don’t even remember him.

He contemplates leaving at that moment. He pulls out the entire wad of bills kept in his wallet, not bothering with giving them a count, thinking he’d just leave them on the table to pay for the work and his rudeness. But even so, he remains seated.

Maybe you just didn’t recognize him?

He hardly looks like his old self. Hair gelled and professionally cut just yesterday, suit tailored expertly for him, body built with the help of a personal trainer. Yeah, of course you don’t recognize him. There's nothing of his old self left for you to remember.

Or maybe he was right the first time, and you have zero memory of him whatsoever. Maybe you only remember fun times—your girlfriends and all the parties you went to, the drinking, your handsome boyfriend who was captain of the varsity team, and the other jocks you used to cheat on him with. Maybe he’s just another loser lost in the crowd, unworthy of your attention, unworthy even of the tiniest spot in your recollection.

“Here you go, mister.” You announce your return, and he looks up, surprised to see you back already. His dish done, balanced in one hand, with his coffee mug held in the other. 

You place both down before him, still steaming, the scent of butter and fresh brew attacking his nose at once.

It was basically free per his standards, but it looked good and was a lot bigger than what he would have been served at the hotel restaurant. And unlike that, this actually looks like it was made by a human being—uneven slices of butter-crisp bread cut diagonally before serving.

His mouth waters, and he’s glad he stayed.

“Did you make it yourself?” he asks for some odd reason before being able to stop himself.

But you just giggle, “Why yes, I did—with love and all. Hope you enjoy.”

And then you run along to another table, leaving him to it.

His arms lay resting on the table, hands idle as he stared at it for a moment longer as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. He’s never been one to do such a thing, despite all the extravagant meals he’d been served at prices high enough that it should make anyone lose their appetite. This sight, however, almost had him compelled to pull out his phone and do it. But he ends up leaving it be.

His stomach growls. He swallows the pool that had swelled up in his mouth, giving your words a taste. “With love, huh…”

How about that… he thinks while picking one of the triangles up. You hadn’t given him any cutlery, nor was there any on the table, so—suppose bare-handed is the way it’s meant to go.

He takes his first bite, and the bread crunches between his teeth. Followed by still-sizzling crispy bacon, soft egg, and fully melted cheese—and oh my god, it’s greasy—melting in his mouth. And he knows you were only joking around, but… he thinks he might be tasting the love, too.

“How’d you like it?” You’re back again right before he’s done, now with a few coffee and grease stains on your apron, looking all dewy-faced with your hair a little messier than it was in the morning.

He’s still swallowing the last bite, fighting the urge to lick his fingers clean in your presence as he takes you in in all your hard-working glory. 

“Michelin could learn a thing or two,” he says, more comfortable than earlier, reaching for the napkin dispenser across the table before wiping his mouth all neatly.

“You’re too kind.” You smile—the type of sweet smile you’d never flash back in school, looking a little giddy, asking, “Anything else?”

His meal sits warm in his belly, still tasty on his tongue. “Yes. When do you get off?”

You’re the one with the dumb expression now, face blank and eyes wide—but only for a moment before it turns cheeky. “Why? You’re not one of ‘em rich freaks who take all us poor gals for hookers, are yah?” you joke, snickering at him.

“And what if I am?” he questions, tone firm, the type he’ll use in business meetings. “I’ll pay you twice what you earn in a year for one night. What do you say?”

This time, you seem unable to wipe the look of surprise off your face.

Tone wiped clean of all service-inclined banter, stating plainly, though still with the accent of shock, “I get off at seven.”

He flicks his wrist, eyeing his watch to gauge the time before braiding his fingers together. Looking up at you again.

“I changed my mind,” he states then.

“I think I’ll have some French toast while I wait.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shinso ♡ JJK – Yuuta, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Yamaguchi ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[of-a-darkness-untold]

yandere chrollo x reader, chess scenario:

tw: mentions of captivity, isolation.

your captivity with the phantom troupe's leader had lasted over a year now. although chrollo did not like thinking of it that way, he was not delusional enough to think otherwise and did not mind answering your time-related questions. over a year spent with chrollo meant over a year of trying to entertain yourself when things like cell phones and laptops were stripped away.

this resulted in jigsaw puzzles (your favorite), some 2 player board games, and your least favorite, card games. chrollo was exceptionally good at them, and it had something to do with the troupe. they liked playing them. or that's what you remember, at least. to cure boredom today, a miserable, rainy day it was (not like you would have been allowed outside anyways), chrollo suggested a game of chess.

so now, here you were sat across from chrollo who seemed to be enjoying this game very much. how could he not? he was dominating the board as many of your white pieces sat discarded alongside it, captured much like you. biting your lip in frustration, you moved a pawn forward 2 spaces and placed it right next to his own, so neither of you could do anything but move forward.

"ah, I see." he mused, admiring your work. it was not all that spectacular, but to chrollo, everything you do must be dissected and studied, like a spider in a science classroom. in response, chrollo moved a bishop and knocked your piece over, and you mentally scolded yourself for not paying attention to the bishops prior position. you watched as another of your pieces was added to his side, and felt the slightest bit of anger seeing as your presence on the board was consumed by him.

"I neglected to tell you that we will be leaving this location soon." chrollo says as soon as you pick up your rook. "I know you liked it here. I do apologize." you use your rook to take out his bishop. you think he might have let you do that. "what does it matter to me? the sights change but the rules don't." you huff, sitting back and crossing your arms, analyzing his next move.

he frowned at that, gaze still on the board. "the rules would change if you behaved accordingly. however, I do find myself becoming lenient with them as of late. I quite enjoy your behavior recently." he smiles to himself after and moves a pawn one space forward. "what are you talking about?" you ask, looking down at the board.

"I think our little games are helping you warm up." at that, you glare at him but can't find the words to say anything else. you don't know how you feel about that. you hastily grab your knight and knock out a different pawn. "maybe you're imagining it." you say, grabbing his pawn and placing it beside the board.

"maybe." he admits, looking at the board as he chooses his next move carefully. you see the gears in his head turning as you watch him, and you think you see something click. "but I didn't imagine this though." he states, moving a piece and successfully placing you in checkmate.

you glance at the board, and almost feel sorry for it. its a pitiful thing, with mostly black pieces still on the board and white pieces cornered. your overactive imagination numbers the black pieces, the eight legs of the spider. and there you are, outnumbered and outsmarted, trapped by the web that binds you to him. you almost feel like crying.

"I think that was a good game. you played well." chrollo says, offering a hand. you hesitate to accept it, but admit your defeat by doing so. he shakes your hand gently.

maybe hes right. maybe you have been acting better. not too long ago you would not have even entertained this idea. "will we be here long enough to do a puzzle?"

he glances at you after closing the box, and lightly chuckles. "i'm afraid not my love, we leave tomorrow."

and just like that, you're in checkmate for the second time tonight.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

hihi, i love your work!

For your thank you prompts I‘d like to request prompt 1 (skin to skin cuddling) with a yandere Chrollo.

maybe a bit of a soft yandere core? A long time into being captured

#1. Skin to skin cuddling for my 1k special.

cw: gender neutral reader, forced relationship, non-sexual nudity, slightly suggestive, forced proximity, mentions of being punished, quite affectionate Chrollo. Word count: 2,2k.

Note: Thank you! 😊

One of the disadvantages of traveling often or spontaneously under a sudden threat is the limited space for luggage. In your situation, it has been made worse, as it means your only pair of clothes is rain-drenched and has to be currently drying while you and Chrollo remain nude.

This criminal wannabe lover of yours has made you take a bath together to exploit that disadvantage before he put you both in bed. There’s no space left between you two, and disgustingly, you have no choice but to cling to him — it’s due to the outside air freezing and chilling your bones. To make your losses worse, you don’t hate the ‘cuddling session’ in amounts you’d like to be present, whether it’s due to resignation chiseled into you or loneliness.

You’re bound chest to chest, as he keeps you on top of him with strong and vicious arms keeping you close by your waist. The hand that strokes your hair makes you flinch every few slides, naturally. Your cold skin in collision with his soaks in all of his warmth but wants to repel all ensuing intimacy.

“Are you comfortable?” what’s smoothly spoken is not a question about your emotional comfort, considering there’s always something about you that’s haunted by him. He’s merely acknowledging your physical easement. You don’t dare to lift your head away from your vision field gathered on the wall, worried you’d see content, or worse, a satisfied look on his face; so you nod.

“Good,” he murmurs. “It’s quite the weather today, isn’t it? You know what they say about circulating warmth, it works best skin to skin, so I hope you’re not holding a grudge against me.”

Of course you do. It’s an unfortunate situation of using an old blimp with a barely working heater, leaving you no choice but to cling to him for heat. If you don’t crash in that old aircraft, that will feel like a miracle. The microscopic and ugly bedroom inside the transport isn’t most welcoming either.  “Isn’t that a solution for the case of hypothermia? Cause I’m not hypothermic.”

“You’re not hypothermic because I’m preventing that state from developing,” he says bluntly. There’s no mocking you: it’s him pointing out the fact.

“Are you sure hogging the blanket all for myself wouldn’t have worked on its own? You clearly are a case-hardened man, you could manage sleeping without a blanket,” you go as far as pinch his bicep your hand is rested on to accentuate your dissatisfaction. He returns the gesture by gently pulling on your scalp and making you wince.

What comes next you might not see, but you do hear and feel it — he must be smiling at your cheekiness, because his chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. You almost pout. He finds you to be at your fullest potential, or endearing for that matter, when you try to annoy him. Defiance speaks of your fortitude and is a sign he hasn’t eradicated your personality that has drawn him in many months ago.

This is the only reason he hasn’t hurt you too badly in the past: any traumatic experience is a risk of him ruining your true essence. You’d have to do something truly egregious for him to consider punishing you severely. Besides, it’s much more fun — unpredictable and honest — when your dynamic isn’t constantly of a thief and his property. Fear instilled in you would mean limiting your behavior he enjoys to observe.

“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll manage to distract you from freezing.”

When you sigh at his equanimity, he adjusts you in his arms, as if to remind you of your position. He pulls your body even more upward, until the top of your head is a rest for his chin. Your ear is now closer to his heart that’s running sturdy; if you didn’t know it’s an indication of how easily he can commit violence, you’d have found it relaxing. Your chest against his, your legs tangled together, his arms now dragging their hands up and down your back under the covers… there is definitely too much skin connected together, yet it all brings warm relief you’ve been missing after getting caught in the pouring attack at the airport.

A short silence follows, with as much silent implication that he’s giving you time to get used to this obscene closeness. He speaks only when you’re no longer squirming around. “But your observation indeed is astute. Lack of warmth is a small issue for my trained body, making its presence a mere, secondary comfort. In fact, I’m used to sleeping in freezing temperatures. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have to ask, do you truly hate being this close to me?” he asks, steady-voiced. When you freeze up at his question and squeeze his arm — you’ve been taught admitting your vulnerabilities is selling some part of yourself to him — he soothes you with fingers gently digging into your shoulder. “Relax. It’s an innocent question.”

This time, Chrollo seems to mean his clean hands. He hasn't done anything unusual all night; you didn't notice any strange tone, and he appears comfortable by himself. Chrollo often carries a sense of tension within him, even if it isn’t visible; it’s a preparedness for any situation that may arise, knowing he will handle it eventually, regardless of the outcome. Maybe everything has been going well today. 

Or maybe, he’s hiding something beneficial for him, from you. None of which is good. You don’t like changes as they bring unanswered questions and unanticipated problems.

When you don’t satiate his curiosity, he doesn’t force you to. He continues speaking for you. “You have been under a lot of pressure lately. At some point, I thought you’d bite my head off,” he chuckles.

“… Are you saying I made you scared for once?” you mutter dryly into his chest, albeit hopeful even if doubtful. A treasure can only wish.

“Hmm, no. But it’s certainly an appealing sight when you express your anger. It’s a sign of you caring there, somewhere,” he notes teasingly. He gathers your hair to the side, eager to see whatever skin is still peeking out of the blanket.

“Not in a positive way, so that’s no compliment for you!” you huff. He chuckles again, “I’ll take any attention, as long as it’s coming from you.”

The way he says it, all nice and gentle, it stirs something within you; unwanted sensation, too ignited to be from his touch. “Shut up, Chrollo,” you say with fluster. That’s not how things are meant to be. You don’t want to like his presence.

“If that will finally put you to sleep.” He cups your nape and massages it. It feels too good to be an involuntary pleasure.

“I’m not sleeping because you’re talking to me,” you talk back with annoyance. You even dig your nails into his skin, and he doesn’t even budge.

“You didn’t tell me to shut up until just now. I couldn’t have known,” he feigns innocence, using your words against you.

“I’m telling you that now.”

“Are you sure you want me to stop talking?” he teases again.

“Yes, I’m sure!” you finally gather courage to lift your head up and look at him, trying to prove your conviction about your call for him to glue his lips shut. It is just now you are able to see his relaxed face, with slightly droopy eyes; he truly is snug tonight, suspiciously. Your change in position was a mistake if you’re forced to lock in an intense eye contact exchange; his darkness is as disturbing as ever, and an abstruse glance at your lips lowers your confidence.

His hand disconnects from your nape and moves to caress your cheek, observing how quickly your eyes begin to flutter with vulnerability upon his affectionate touch — shifting between a slight fear and subversion. Your hesitance hasn't been eliminated yet, and he can feel you tremble under his hand on your waist.

“You’ve been unusually well-behaved tonight though,” he observes, taking delight in your lips parting in immediate protest. “You didn’t really attempt to get away from me.”

“That’s…” you stumble on your words, “I’m cold. You said it. Not to mention, I’m tired.”

His face leans in to meet yours crumbling properly. “Are you sure? You could have still tried to put us in another position. Instead, I see you lie on me quite like a lazy cat in my arms,” he draped your hair behind your ear as he states the humbling of your person.

“Because this mattress is uncomfortable–” When your eyes widen further, your mind whirling to desperately look for an excuse, he lifts your hand adjacent to the elbow resting on his chest. He presses the first kiss of today into the inner part of your wrist. 

Your chest flutters and you gasp slightly. You feel flush everywhere. “Chrollo, you—”

“Yes?” he says low-toned. The next kiss lands on the top of your hand. 

“Stop teasing me,” you beg, uncaring about how pathetic you may sound.

“I’m not teasing you,” he says with a wicked glimmer in his grey eyes. “Because if I wanted to tease you, I’d do this…” he flips your hand around and kisses your palm. When you try to withdraw your hand instinctively, viscerally as it happens, the tip of his tongue licks against your skin, spreading tingles down your arm.

When you yelp from the tickle and yank your hand away, he allows you to take it back with a soft laugh. He’s quite merciful tonight; where is that good mood coming from?

“That was disgusting.” It is now when you try to finally untangle your body from his, even if you’re not warm enough yet. That one, he doesn’t permit. He lets you move to be on your side, but he stops you from moving further: he seizes you by your hips and turns around to end up on his own side, before pushing your chest against his once more. His leg ends up between yours as a precaution in case of your escape.

“Don’t run. You’ll get cold again,” he orders, although patiently. “You need to rest. You’ve been through quite a lot of stressful ordeals lately.”

“And whose fault is that?” your anger is muffled into the old pillow yet still palpable.Touching him with your own skin becomes unpleasant for another second. 

“We went through this discussion on several occasions in the past already.” He doesn’t acknowledge your complaint further. Instead, his palm travels to rest between your shoulder blades. You received a whole view of his face once more and it’s making you nervous. “Go to sleep. You’ll have your clothes to put on in the morning.”

You know it’s non-negotiable. Not only you won’t be able to skip this revolting domesticity any other way than through sleeping, you also are exhausted. However, a certain question lingers on your mind at the end of this day. “Chrollo, before I do that, can you please tell me where we are going tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” he repeats, deciding whether he should tell you that and risk your whines before sleep or wait until morning where you can’t avoid his plans from happening. “We’re landing in Meteor City.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t make a comment when your eyes bulge from shock. You’ve heard him mention it a few times in the past; you’ve been with him long enough to know he’s from there or about the existence of this place. “Why are we going there all of a sudden?” The wasteland doesn’t seem most promising. He’s donated some of his steals in the past but usually through someone.

“I don’t think it’s all of a sudden— it’s time you get to know me a bit more and I show you around,” Chrollo informs, curious of your judgment.

Hearing revelations about his past is not something you have ever agreed to. Nonetheless, if it might make you help understand the mystery this man is… “That’s why you’re so nice to me tonight. Going back to old roots makes you giddy,” you at last get your chance to tease him in return.

“I’m always nice to you,” it’s all he says in response to your taunt. “As I said, go to sleep. Or should I read you to sleep?” he threatens, well-aware he can bore you into sleep with his books.

“Fine,” you acquiesce. You can always bother him about his nostalgia tomorrow. “Goodnight, Chrollo.” You yawn and close your eyes. Your head falls to rest your face in the hook of his neck, your cold cheeks needing some warmth also.

“Goodnight, darling.” He begins to stroke your hair, having noticed it worked wonders on you a few minutes ago. He’s enjoying a rare moment where you’re not trying to scratch his eyes out. 

Only once you have fallen asleep, does he allow himself to do the same — same priority reserved for you as always.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

felt like you posted a list of your wips only a while ago but i can't find it, do you mind making another hehehe no pressure just excited for anythign you post!

Oh yeah, i put some things on ice and picked up some other things in turn so kinda ended up deleting it, but here's a newer wip list:

[of-a-darkness-untold]

WHEN PREY BECOMES PREDATOR

ON THE AIR : BUNNY IGLESIAS X AFAB!READER

CAUTION : IF YOU'RE BEING CHASED BY A PREDATOR, TRY NOT TO TRIP AND FALL ─ YOU JUST MIGHT GET EATEN.

WARNING : NON CON → PREDATOR/PREY PLAY, ORAL (F! RECEIVING) & FINGERING. YOU'RE IN THE WOODS

FINAL CALL : heavy breathing i am not sorry. not proof read 👅

╋━━ [ NOT MEANT FOR ME ]

this wasn't supposed to happen. this wasn't how things were supposed to go.

"keep running, cariño," a dark voice giggled, a devilish smirk stretching across their lips, their voice an echo reverberating in your ear as you ran through the darkened forest.

the moon cast a dim light on your surroundings, leaving you with only your wit and intuition to guide you through the darkness, branches whipping at your face and tearing at the fabric of your sleeves, digging into your arms as you pushed your way through.

mud and fallen leaves stuck to the bottom of your shoes, blood trickling down your cut cheeks, your throat dry and lungs shriveling from the cold wind invading your windpipe.

every branch stomped on sent an eerie chill down your spine, wondering if it was your doing or the man chasing you. tears pricked the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill as the rush of fear became overbaring, your heart thunderously pounding in your chest, heart loud in your ears.

you were sure you were going to pass out soon, the burning ache in your calves and thighs rendering you nearly exhausted. despite the ache in your muscles, fear is what kept you going. the immense wave of dread washing over you prevented you from stopping, knowing if you hesitated in the slightest, he'd surely catch you.

what would happen then? what would you do if he caught you?

not wanting to linger to on the thought, you urged your body to keep going, jumping over fallen logs of trees, trying to maintain your balance on the slippery, muddy ground.

there wasn't a single other person around for miles. no houses or buildings to escape to. the horror of your reality was beginning to dawn on you, realizing it would be hopeless and a fruitless effort to scream and shout for help.

there was no hope. you were prey.

how did you end up in this position again? oh right, you accepted a date from a stranger, a man you barely knew. he seemed kind and gentle, if a little off-putting, his crimson eyes carrying no light in them.

it started out innocent enough. he gifted you flowers, paid dinner and drinks at a nice pub and suggested a nice stroll along the woods, wanting to bask in the cool breeze of the autumn night. but just when you thought the date was about to end, the man said you had 2 minutes to run, turning on a timer.

you were dumbfounded. 2 minutes to run? you hadn't even a chance to ask him what he meant before he smiled at you. not the same sweet smile he showed you all night. it was sinister in nature, his lifeless eyes burning into you.

you subconsciously turned on your heel and darted into the woods, the last sound you heard was the ringing of the timer going off and the fast pattering of footsteps chasing right after you.

and now, it felt like you had been running for hours, navigating blindly through the maze of trees, praying you wouldn't run into any other predator, the one chasing you already enough to give you a heart attack. every small clearing offered you some respite, until the sudden call from the evil behind you sent you forward, forcing you to dash again.

unfortunately, your jumbled thoughts clouded your state of mind and in the darkness of the night, you weren't able to make out the tree root sticking out from the ground. stumbling, your foot caught in the root, sending you forward onto the wet forest floor. your body ached from the abrupt fall, your hands sinking into the mud as you tried to yourself up from the ground, your knees, skirt and whole torso covered in mud and leaves.

bruises were bound to litter your body and you might've even cracked a rib or two from landing on the thick tree root.

"tsk, tsk, tsk, how sad," you heard from just behind you.

your heart stopped, turning around ever so slightly to notice the man looming over you, his head tilted with a mock pout on his lips, but those dead eyes carried the lust in them you feared.

"bunnies need to be careful of where they're going. you could really hurt yourself, cariño," the man said, the corner of his lips twitching with an evil grin.

without hesitation, you lifted yourself off the ground, steadying yourself on your feet before limping away, trying to move as fast as you could but it was futile. you were too injured to move, the tears you had been trying to hold back now falling freely down your bleeding cheeks.

he inched towards you slowly, like a lion creeping up on its prey, waiting for the moment to strike. in this state, you were easy prey, perfect to snatch and devour. with your limp, you wouldn't be able to get far.

you leanes against the trees for added support, even if it was a lost effort. he reached out to grab you, his large hand wrapping around your bruised and cut arm, digging into your skin. a loud cry erupted from you, fat tears streaming down the side of your face, your eyes puffy and red as you looked back at him.

"d-don't hurt me," you pleaded weakly.

he grinned, loosening his grip before tugging you backwards, your back flushed against his broad chest, burying his nose into your neck, breathing in a long whiff of your scent.

"i won't hurt you," he purred, manhandling your body until you were pressed against the closest tree, your chest and face pressed firmly against the rough and itchy bark.

your arms were held tightly behind your back, the man's nose still buried in your neck and hair, occasionally coming close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, sending a shiver of dread down your spine.

"w-what are you gonna do to me..?" you shakily asked.

"what am i gonna do?" he mocking asked, tapping his finger to his chin with a hum.

"what do you think i'm gonna do? i've just caught my little prey."

his chest was pressed flush against your back, his hips rolling against the curve of your ass, a low groan emitting from the back of his throat.

you bit your lip to supress the moan you wanted to let out, unwilling to let yourself find pleasure when you were wracked with fear.

his hand reached out to your face, his thumb pulling your lip from your teeth.

"don't get quiet on me now, cariño. i wanna hear you. scream for me."

your teeth chattered and your body shuddered, his calloused hands snaking up your plush thighs, toying with the hem of your panties.

a cold breeze swept through the woods at the exact moment his digits hooked under the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs, nearly tearing the thin piece of fabric off your hips. you didn't know what caused you to shiver more: the cool gusts of autumn wind or your legs being spread apart by the man chasing you, watching him through your peripherals as he sunk onto his knees, the mud squelching beneath him as knelt onto the ground, his dim, red eyes catching sight of your glistening folds under your skirt.

"bunny, please... don't..."

his eyes flickered up to yours, still red and flooded with tears.

"don't what? i haven't done anything... yet," he said with a grin, ducking his head back to sneak under your skirt.

a surprised gasp slipped past your lips when you felt the strange sensation of his tongue licking a stripe up your folds, a shiver rippling down your spine as you tried to push his head away.

"w-wait, bunny!"

he wasn't waiting and he had no intention of stopping either, not when you tasted so good on his stuff, not when your sweet scent filled his nostrils, his eyes threatening to roll back into his head from just the feeling of you trembling alone.

he was rock hard, the rough fabric of his pants straining against his bulge but he didn't want to think of anything else but the saccharine taste of your juices in his mouth.

he was a madmen, licking and sucking at your lower lips like a starved prisoner. your body shook violently against the tree, the ache in your ankle restraining you from being able to kick him away. and he took notice of your distress too.

without breaking contact with your clit, he lifted your injured leg, giving you some relief even though his mouth was sucking the life out of you through your throbbing pussy.

bunny even went as far as rubbing soothing circles on your ankle, his other hand snaking its way up to your cunt, shoving two of his thick fingers inside of you.

a cry escaped your lips as he continued his assault on your lower region, his digits curling inside you to bring you the pleasure he knew you deserved for being good and letting him chase you.

you were seeing stars, tears flooding your vision as heat pooled in your abdomen, that familiar burn coiling in your stomach.

"bunny," you choked out, tears spilling down your cheeks faster, the dirty sounds of squelching filling your ears from bunny shoving his fingers in and out of you, the tip of his tongue flicking at your sensitive bud.

"bunny, please," you cried out, your voice shaky from crying. and while the pain in your ankle slowly subsided, the winding coil in your stomach only grew tighter.

"please, what, cariño? suddenly you don't know how to talk? are my fingers fucking you that good?" he mocked.

you were at a loss for words. you were torn between wanting to give in and ask him to let you cum or holding out and not letting him get what he wants. because he wants you to ask him to cum. bunny wants you to be dependent on him that you can't even cum unless you ask him first.

and in your pain-filled daze, that former sounded like pure bliss.

"i-i need.. to cum," you whimpered.

you felt him smirk against your clit. he pulled his fingers out of, leaving you feeling empty and needier than before. but just as you were about to cry to him, he replaced his digits with his tongue, slipping it in and out of your cunt fast and eager, silently giving you permission to cum on his tongue.

between the wet muscle fucking you and his tight grip on your thighs, you were in heaven, the fear and pain you felt just minutes ago dissipating and being replaced with ecstasy as you finally let you, your nectar coating his tongue and chin.

even after you came, he was still lapping at your drenched folds, drinking in every bit of you that he could before standing back up, keeping a tight hold of your injured leg. he wanted you to be afraid of him, but he didn't want to hurt you.

you were his baby now.

"do you think you can walk?" he asked, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

you rolled your ankle just a bit, a small stinging pain running up your leg but it wasn't as bad as you initially thought. he let of your leg, allowing you to put pressure on it.

"i-i think so," you stammered. it didn't hurt as much anymore but you might be walking with a limp, finally ready to be done with this and go back home to the safety of your bed where you'll never again have to see this man.

but any thought of being rid of him was stomped on when you noticed his smile, that same evil grin as before. a chill ran down your body, fear flooding you again.

"good," he said. "because you have two minutes to run."

©ALL WORKS BELONG TO CHESHITORA. PLAGARISM AND STEALING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR ORIGINAL CREATORS BUT THE STORIES ARE MY OWN WORK.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

♡ TW: noncon/dubcon, yandere, bullying, jealousy, possession

♡ FEM reader

It’s after getting caught red-handed tumbling out of seven minutes in heaven with a random guy you’ve only just met that you’re struck with the incomprehensible realization.

Seeing your bully’s face standing in the cheerful crowd of the party, all rumpled, all fierce, all murderous. You start to piece it together, but you’re too slow in understanding it. All those times he’s stuffed you inside your locker, smacked you upside the head, thrown your bag into the lake, pushed you down to the dirt, called you names, and overall made your life a living hell, what he’s really wanted to do is something much, much, much more fucked up.

Your eyes couldn't be wider, your heart couldn't beat faster, not unless it wanted to take flight and leave your body dead beneath him. His hand is half the size of your face, glued over your mouth with tightly sealed fingers. The muffled noises that leave it are lost in the chatter and thump of bass and drums coming from downstairs, where the party rages on, uncaring of the two of you having gone missing.

He’s drunk. But not drunk enough to use it as an excuse. No, he’s fully alert. A bit panicked even, realizing he’s gone too far, and yet, not able to stop himself. 

“You’re not supposed to be here…” he says under his breath—so low and soft, in a growl you barely hear. His fingers play with the lace edge of your hiked dress, a look of restraint painted clearly on his face. “You’re not supposed to wear dresses like this.”

He sighs deeply, then swallows thickly. His tented crotch brushes against you, and you squirm, but at the same time, you’re too afraid to move. Like you’re trapped in a room with the worst predator. 

Your hands twist. He had them tied up with his belt, behind your back, getting crushed beneath you, and only further spurring the panic in your chest as he takes hold of your face and leans in even closer, the tip of his nose gracing your jaw, taking in your scent with a slow sniff.

The goosebumps that erupt come out sharp, and you quiver with a whimper, feeling his lips smear your neck, his breath hot and wet against you, growling low, “You’re supposed to be at home, nose-deep in a book, thinking about the next exam… while I’m supposed to be here, dick-deep in some slut, thinking about you.”

His other hand, warm and gritty, slides up between your thighs, tenderly trespassing with a caution that tells you he knows he’s crossing a boundary.

“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” he insists, and yet, when his fingers reach your cunt, feeling its cozy heat and wanting it all to himself, all his restraint goes slack.

His body sinks against yours with a heavy outlet, buries his face in your neck, nuzzling there with what sounds an awful lot like a whimper.

“I have to fuck you,” he mutters darkly, like it’s a confession of some kind. “If I don’t, someone else here will…”His whole body shakes, unstable like a nuclear meltdown, seething with his teeth up against your ear. “And I refuse to let that happen.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, young Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, young Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Begging feitan for just a few seconds of affection after getting disgustingly raped by him for the 4th time today

Mmm, he'll offer a chaste kiss and an awkward pet on your head before going back to whatever he was doing.

I wanna get raped by him so bad, he's so gross I just know it. He's nasty and I want him to hold me down and rape me with his pathetic little cock

[of-a-darkness-untold]

The phantom troupe getting revenge on you by chasing you through the woods catching you, pinning you down and using you for hours is the dream

You're so real for this

I just know Uvo, Shalnark and Feitan are gonna fucking love the hell out of chasing you. Those three are feral fr

[of-a-darkness-untold]

Yandere Feitan - What it Means.

Feitan time cause I never do Hunter x Hunter. More Slice of Lifey for the shortstack wifey.

torture, noncon, slice of life, wax play, tickle torture, humiliation, gn reader

.Feitan has no idea about his feelings when you come into his life. He thinks it's a good idea to swat you like the annoying insect you are.

More often than not you're happy, always excited when you see him and the troupe, none the wiser to the threat they possess. Some of the members joke about how easy it would be to take advantage of you since you'd more than likely do half the work for them.

It's not until his mind starts drifting to you during quiet moments does he even consider you're worth something. Perhaps a new body to try new techniques? With the orders put in place by Chrollo, time hasn't been gracious enough to let him indulge in his artistic side.

He makes up his mind that at the end of the mission he will be taking you with him to play with. You're off limits now, and if they can help it then you also get your life spared for the time being.

The heist goes off without a hitch. It's gory, loud, and you - who had been gracious enough to show them every exit, every room, every security box as part of the tours - now stared at Feitan like he had just betrayed you, even though he never made an effort to befriend you in the first place.

You get an ultimatum, follow him quietly or he knocks you out, and for every minute you stay unconscious is another body added to the pile.

Even though you hid in the security room for most of the attack, you saw everything on camera. Not to mention the horrible death that befell the guards in the room when he came, eyes wide in fear and mouths left often as they tried to breathe through the blood in their lungs. At least one thousand people have died tonight, no one else needs to suffer.

It seems to be funny to the troupe as you shake and cry behind Feitan, following diligently through the wet corpses and broken interior of the building. The blonde man cracks a joke about him finally finding someone to warm his bed, and maybe even his attitude, reaching out to touch your shoulder when Feitan swiftly punches him in the gut. It's all the acknowledgement he gives.

For some reason, you're made to carry stuff as well, mindlessly helping these criminals because you're not sure what else you can do. They're not human.

Eventually it's just you and Feitan, forcing you to walk farther and farther away from civilisation until your feet are aching and your legs are shaking from exhaustion.

You stop in front of an abandoned farm house, windows boarded up and grass taller than yourself. When he starts walking down the flattened path to the front door, it hits you harder that this is the end, this is where you die a horrible, painful death and no one is even going to know.

You're sobbing, you can't stand anymore and collapse to your knees, snot and tears running down your chin as you beg and beg and beg him to let you go.

His eyes and eyebrows, the only expression visible over his cowl, scrunch to a pissed look. He doesn't say anything, only grabbing your wrist with a hold so tight you think the bones inside might break, yanking you and dragging you towards the house.

He doesn't turn on any lights as you're pulled through the dusty interior, eventually coming to a door that leads down to the basement. "Walk or I'll push," he finally says to you after hours of silence.

Your steps are slow but he doesn't comment on it. Once your feet finally touch the cement floor, he walks around you and deeper into the darkness. You have to squint and shield your eyes when the light in the middle of the room is turned on by a yank of the cord attached to it.

The way your head begins to sting and ache from the despair is more annoying than anything now, as beneath the light is a bloody, metal table with a dirty rag, and next to it are tools obviously used to hurt someone.

Perhaps it's the prostration of your mind finally giving in, but you joke over a wavering voice, "You'll at least wash those before you use them on me, right?"

It's silent as he just stares at you, watching the way you hold your arm for comfort, your knees clacking together, your jaw unable to stay still. Then, he merely scoffs, pushing the table away to make room. He goes the the old workbench, reaching under and pulling out an old, dusty blanket. You circle around the room as he steps towards you, hugging the wall. Eventually, he just rolls his yes and throws the blanket at you, smacking you square in the face. You quickly pull it off, just in time to watch him slide down the wall in front of the stares, arms resting on his knees, "Sleep."

Nothing else is said, and any time you try to ask questions he either ignores them or tells you to sleep. You suppose it's comforting, after flicking a good portion of the dirt and dust off the blanket, having it wrapped around your shoulders as you cradle in the adjacent corner, far away from him and still under the light.

Most of the night is you two staring at each other, though you had to wake yourself up a few times as you began to nod off. You're pretty sure you did fall into a sort of sleep multiple times throughout the ordeal.

.

Suffice to say, this wasn't how Feitan pictured this going at all. He looks at you, he looks to the tools, he looks at you, he looks to the tools. It's an ongoing battle he has for quite a while after kidnapping you.

No doubt your fear and tears fuel him, he just loves having you around whenever he's working, sharing stories and pictures over dinner. Your screams when startles you, your blood and bruises from being clumsy; it's all catering to his taste. So why won't he put you on the table yet?

Once you've moved, you're allowed to roam the house as this main base is more secure. Privacy doesn't really exist with Feitan, unless it's his own. More than once you've come out of the shower to see him sitting casually on the toilet seat or sink, you have figured out he likes making you jump. You'll think you're alone in the kitchen, singing quietly to yourself, and he's come back from a mission days earlier than he says and talks as if he's been there the whole time (he probably has).

The worst he makes you do when it comes to his 'hobbies' or 'work' is making you watch and hand him the tools. You have to take part, you're not allowed deny him or else he'll somehow make it more sadistic.

One day you had been braver than before, shouting how this is wrong and you won't be like him. Feitan had conceded after that, letting you go back upstairs. You had gotten through to him, you really did believe that. Until two days later when you were brought back down to the basement and there were now three hostages.

They sat in a circle, tied with rough rope and stripped to their underwear. Their mouths were gagged but their eyes were clear of any restriction. Momentarily they looked to you, only look back at each other with desperation and grief. He points out and introduces each person, "Grandmother, mother, daughter. Family of Hunters."

The daughter was the one from two days ago. Feitan said a few things, that she was trying to track down the troupe, had gotten information from an unknown source that he was tasked with figuring out. He pulls her gag down, words immediately spilling out, "Please! I told you everything I know, I promise you. Leave them out of this."

Feitan nods, idly holding his hand up and lengthening his nails to a sharpened point, "I know. This, is for them."

All eyes are on you now, accusatory, like it's you that's failed them.

There's no time for words of disgust or questions when Feitan has a goal in mind. He pulls down the other two gags before turning his gaze back to you, "Three people. Six eyes. Choose three eyes to gouge."

"M-Me?!" You step back, their volunteers already flooding your ears, each begging you to only take theirs. You aren't listening, speaking over them to Feitan, "But she just said you have what you want! Why do this?"

His eyebrow raises, judging you as if it's stupid to even ask. "How do you know you don't want to be like me," like the ominous, little creature he is, Feitan slowly steps around the three victims until he's by your side. Gently, a word that has never once been used to describe him, he takes your hand and runs his fingertips along the length of your palm to your own, "If you've never tried?"

It's only when you hear yourself gulp do you realise how quiet it is. Looking over to the other three, it seems you're shaking harder than they are.

A cold object is slid into your hand. You looked down in time to see him closing your fingers around it and holding it up to glint in the light. For the first time you see carefree amusement in his eyes, his voice coming out in a soft laugh, "Pineapple eye peeler."

As it stands, after that night, you stuck with being the assistant and not the surgeon.

.

"So, how's the pet?" Phinks asks, he and Fei on the top of a city skyscraper as they wait for the target helicopter to land. They're late and the two are running out of conversation topics.

Feitan huffs, unable to look at Phinks because he knows if he sees that dumb smirk he won't be able to hold back, "Cranky. Not rebellious, just... temperamental."

"Ha!" Phinks kicks up a random stone from the ground, grabbing it and throwing it as far as he can, the object disappearing into the night, "Do you fuck them?"

Ah, an interesting question. He didn't notice it at first, whenever Feitan woke up slightly aroused. He is a man, it's not uncommon. Then he kidnaps you and takes care of you and it gets more frequent and harder to wake up without thinking about you and rubbing one out. He takes any opportunity to smell you, touch you, rub against you. He can't tell if you're more uncomfortable with helping with his work or when he rubs up against you to get the right instrument.

It seems his silence speaks volumes, Phinks tilting his head in coolness, "Sometimes you just need to fuck it out. If you're not going to kill 'em, fuck 'em."

The helicopter finally pops up in the distance, 45 minutes after the time it should have appeared. Both boys get ready, excited for the event to come, a certain concupiscent desire filling Feitan's head as he thinks about what to do when he gets home.

.

Usually when Feitan brings you down to the basement, there's already someone prepped and waiting. Sometimes, he likes to make you help get them ready, depending on how much time he has and the level of distress he wants to induce in you.

Today, the table is empty, clean even. The shelf with the instruments is covered by a sheet so you can't see what is under and in store. Your unease is heightened into fear when he stands before you with a lengthy blindfold and orders, "Turn around."

Oh gods. This is it, he's finally going to end you. You've witnessed and aided his endeavours for over a year, you're aware of what he is capable of, and now he's hiding it to let your mind wander and guess what exactly he's going to torture you with.

He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his annoyance making you shake even worse, "Calm down. Won't hurt... much."

That didn't really help. All it took was one glance to the staircase for him to step heavily towards you, reminding you of no escape. There isn't much you can do aside from allow him to blindfold you and lead you onto the table.

You think you're going to piss yourself with how thorough he is. Bringing your wrists beside your head, the clanking of metal and leather heard as he secures them so you can't move your arms. As if that's not enough, he removes your clothes with ease, tearing the threads and throwing them away before binding your ankles to your thighs and locking you in place on the table. It's humiliating. Absolutely deplorable.

You're quivering in the cold, fear emanating off of you in waves and Feitan is absolutely devouring it. Yes, this is what he wanted, to have you before him in a vulnerable way that makes your tears flood through the blindfold and your whimpers echo off the walls. He takes all the time in the world to examine your body, knowing that every second is like hell to you. You're not even sure he's still there, your small whines of his name seeming to fall into an empty room.

A single finger runs along the base of your foot and you flinch so hard it makes the metal bench rattle. "How does it feel," he begins, doing again and watching intently as your abdomen seizes, your toes curl, your teeth grit and your arse tighten around nothing yet, "To be the one tied down?"

Feitan alternates his fingers, the touch more consistent now, moving around your foot and ankle so you don't get too used to it. And then there's you, laughing, but you're obviously hating it. Your voice is shrill, your body is tensed so tightly that it's beginning to ache. "Please!" You're begging, screaming, crying, laughing, "Please, stop! Stop! Stop it!!!"

He doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life. You can't thrash hard enough to get away, to give yourself some sort of pain from the leather cuffs to take your mind off of it. He doesn't relent until he's satisfied, when you're gasping for breath and your skin has change colour and your screams are beginning to take on the same note. He waits until he's sure you're breathing has levelled enough for you to him, "Ridiculous. Can't even handle that. Wouldn't last a second in the real world."

You never expected Feitan to get sexual during your time here. You couldn't even imagine someone like him having any human needs - you're sure he only eats with you to keep up appearances. He does, though, and it makes your life ten times worse.

Your first experience together is nothing short of traumatising. He doesn't even fuck you, he just plays with you. Testing out toys, feelings your flesh, degrading you over and over again.

"Hate this? Then why so wet?"

"Pathetic. Won't let you come like that."

"Scream louder, or are you enjoying this?"

"Tsk. Fine. Will make sure you don't stop coming, then."

The denial goes on for too long, but then the overstimulation just won't end either. His nails nick you, you're sweating, covered in fluids, throat is raw and your body aches and begs to be released from these confounds but he just won't do it. Not until you're unconscious and muttering nonsense.

After he wipes you down and lays you in bed, he stays and watches you sleep. That isn't uncommon, though in the past he had always been confused, or thoughtful. Now, he feels fulfilled. Like your purpose here finally makes sense.

.

There's hardly a break. When you don't have a blindfold on, he stays fully clothed. It's more about the embarrassment for you, having to stand before him naked while he barely shows an inch of his skin. Showers are the worst, you tend to have the curtain open now so you don't step out unknowingly to no clothes and no towel. Your wardrobe is cleaned out and you have to make the humiliating walk around the house to find Feitan and ask to be dressed.

He follows you around until he decides to let you find him. Don't go to bed naked, or are you inviting someone to do something to you? He hadn't realised he kidnapped such a slut.

Sometimes he will be with you when you bathe, keeping you company, making you uncomfortable. You had stripped before him when he refused to let either of you leave. Then, suddenly, you're yelping as he's pouring hot wax down your back. You've bent over and grasped the edge of the bath, looking over your shoulder with tears dripping from your eyelashes as you ask him why he would do that.

A stupid question.

He just holds the candle carelessly and blows it out, the room going completely dark. That was the night he bathed with you, sitting behind you and using his sharp nail to chip away at the wax, reveling in the redness of your skin, the little prickles of blood that mixed with sweat and bath water, and the way you jolt and yelp when it gets caught on the finer hairs.

By the time he actually fucks you, it's been months of his new torment and torture. He may not see you in the same light as one of his 'friends', or revere you like he does Chrollo. But, in the only twisted way Feitan knows how, he thinks he does love you.

As you lay beneath him on the bed, one you now share, cheeks wet and lips parted in little gasps of breath, he feels a need to push his mouth to yours. Bruises in the shapes of his hands have already formed on your hips, stomach, and now over your collarbone while he holds your torso down with one hand and cups the back of your head in another. The kiss isn't anything fancy, just hard and dominating as he figures it out, his hips slapping into yours.

You're completely exhausted, just how he likes it, voice beyond repair and body succumbed to only him and gravity. He yearns to hurt you, to make you cry, and to make you need him.

This must be it. This must be what it means to have a darling.

[of-a-darkness-untold]

A Barter [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Title: A Barter [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Synopsis: Feitan wants one thing. You want something else. 

Word count: 2200ish

Notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, noncon

God, you’d kill for some books. Not even some. Just one. A single book to pass the time, to retreat into, and above all, to keep you from being so fucking bored.

You’d asked Feitan for some about two weeks ago. Laid out your case as carefully as anything, even written down a list of genres you like, or specific books if he wouldn’t mind, but you ended by affirming that you’d be happy to read anything that he felt like picking up.

He didn’t bother answering. He only stared at you until you left, feeling ashamed, stupid–and more bored than ever. 

It’s amazing, really, how your brain eventually stops firing off all cylinders, stops being stuck in flight-or-fight-mode, after a while. Even a kidnapping can become ordinary. All it takes is a year or so–you don’t exactly have a calendar to keep track–of being kept in a few rotating dingy hideouts by a torturer with a penchant for basements to make you able to think of things other than is-he-going-to-kill-me-or-not.

Things like: what will Feitan do, if you ask him for a book again?  Scoff? Make you beg? Or, perhaps the most likely, simply ignore you once again? He does his fair share of that, for all that he refuses to let you go.

Well.

There’s nothing to do but find out. Even that is a relief from boredom, trying something new: repeatedly asking your captor for some remnant of normality.

So, with a squirming stomach and an awful blend of worry-relief slick in your gut, you push off your mattress on the floor, hop up–

And run right smack into Feitan, who has chosen this exact moment to make his own surprise appearance into the room that has become your own. It startles you both and it’s only his own honed reflexes, you think, that keep him from copying your own startled trip as you almost stumble backwards right onto the dingy hardwood floor.

You catch yourself, without dignity; and it is without dignity that you manage the only verbal response you can, a shaky, uncertain: 

“Um.”

Feitan stares at you. And then he huffs, which might be as close to an “um” as you might ever get from him. 

But what little standoff there is between you folds easily. You back down first. Of course you do. Quite literally, you walk backwards, until you feel the firmness of your mattress behind your legs, and you sit down.

It’s best to sit, when Feitan wants something. You never know what it might be, after all.

“Did you…” You pull your knees up, prepared to be told to head into the basement at worst, or to make him something to eat, at best. “Did you need something?”

It’s his lack of response that clues you into something being strange first. Then it’s the fact that, as you dart your gaze towards his face, you can see a faint something about him–on his cheeks, maybe? They look a little flushed.

Maybe he’s sick. The thought of tending to a sick Feitan is not something you’d considered before. You’re not keen on considering it now, but what choice do you have?

“Are you sick?” 

“What?”

The word is bitten out but it lacks the usual harshness in his tone. Instead he sounds–taken aback, maybe. Embarrassed, even, and that’s a bit more stomach-churning than annoyance. What would he have to feel embarrassed about? 

“Sorry,” you reply, automatically, wanting to avoid being sent down to the basement again. “I just thought… because of your cheeks?”

His fingers do not fly to his cheeks. Instead, he slowly, deliberately, raises his hand to his cheek and brushes his knuckles over his skin. 

It makes him hum–thoughtful. Quiet. 

Completely unnerving. 

And when he turns around and shuts your bedroom door, your thoughts begin to feel rootless. It’s a strange gesture. What would he shut the door for, anyway? No one else would see you. Even if he had someone chained up in the basement, they weren’t likely to get away.

The thoughts get swallowed down when he stands in front of you, arms crossed.

“I need something.” He pauses. “From you.”

You can’t bear to meet his gaze, so you stare down at your feet, picking at the frayed lace on your socks. “From… me?”

“From me?” He repeats, a mocking lilt just detectable in his tone. 

Heat rises in your chest, and you stamp it down just as quickly. The days where you used to argue–and plead–and argue some more are gone. Mostly, anyway. 

“What,” you swallow, “could you need from me?”

He hesitates. You think for a moment that he’ll simply leave, forgetting the matter entirely. Then he pulls at his cowl, revealing his face–mouth set in a frown–before he begins to pull at his coat. He shrugs it off like a robe and it drops to the floor without ceremony. Underneath, he’s wearing a slim tank top and trousers. Both are suspiciously stained, despite the dark fabric.

Still, he just stares at you, until you can’t take the silence any longer.

“Um,” you say, an echo from earlier. 

This time, when he huffs, it’s less of an “um” and more of an implicit marker of your own stupidity. 

“You wanting books?”

Oh. 

That’s what this is about? The books. The books you wanted–needed, really, to get you through this newfound life. If you can call it that.

So you nod, slowly. Already not liking where it’s going, even though you’ve yet to find the destination.

Feitan’s lips quirk into something like a frown before he speaks. An uncertain little thing. 

“Take off your clothes, then.”

Ah.

It’s–a trade.

A book for–well. That. 

It’s not that you didn’t think it was coming, eventually. Perhaps you’ve always known that he’s going to have sex with you, one way or another. The only decision you have is in the little details. Will he pin your wrists down and take you screaming? Or will you submit and wind up on the bed of whatever free will you still possess?

You know which one ends with more pain, more tears. You know which one ends with tears, yes–but something you want, too. A book. Or two. Something to tide you over. 

So–so you swallow and look up at him as firmly as you can and nod. It’s going to happen, so it might as well happen on your terms. Or what you can pretend are your terms, at least.

“Fine.”

He almost seems surprised, but he bites it back quickly as you hastily begin to shrug your clothing off. A flimsy tank top and thin leggings that were beginning to rip at the seams, but you didn’t feel like asking for a sewing kit or a new pair. 

He stares down at your naked form and it’s only when you awkwardly pat the spot next to you on the mattress that he moves, almost jerking his body as he jerkily crawls down onto the bare mattress. It creaks underneath him, and you instinctively shift backwards, leaning your back against the pillow.

Let it just be over with then. Let him do what he wants–and you get your books, and that awful tension that’s been hovering since he took you can unravel. 

Only he doesn’t simply crawl over you and begin fucking hard, satiating whatever lust that’s been built up inside him. Instead, he scoots himself until he’s laying above you, yes, but leaning down and… what? Looking at you. Expecting something. He leans down, his face closer, and it hits you.

He wants to kiss.

He doesn’t want just sex then, you think. He wants… more? He wants–wants… you? Yes–maybe? He wants you, in some way that he doesn’t have you yet. Even though he has you, literally, where he wants you; makes you do whatever he wants, controls what you eat and what you wear and when you sleep. When you shower, when you speak, often enough.

And now he wants whatever kissing him will give. It’s a shitty world, when you can’t keep anything for yourself. You could refuse. Could press your lips tight and turn away, make it harder on him. 

Harder on yourself, too. 

You swallow, and he follows the motion in your throat as he finally leans in closer, his chapped lips brushing against your own. Equally chapped, to be fair; lip balm wasn’t exactly a top priority for either of you.

“Open your mouth,” he says, and it’s almost softly. Almost like it’s not a command and is instead a request. 

Well. If you’re going to do it, you might as well get something more. 

“I want–I want a trilogy,” you murmur. 

He stares at you, uncomprehending–until he gets it. You’re bartering. He snorts against your skin, but doesn’t disagree as he captures your parted mouth, shoving his tongue inside with little fanfare. 

If he got what he wanted from the kiss, you don’t know, because by the time he’s practically breathing down your throat, you feel his hands part your naked thighs. And when he pulls away and positions himself to see what he’s revealed, his expression turns into something you’ve only seen him sport in the basement during particularly fulfilling torture sessions.

Satisfaction.

It’s almost flattering–fuck, something has to be, your naked back against the mattress as Feitan finally pulls his trousers down and positions himself at your entrance without any fanfare. Or preparation. Not that you were expecting it. Maybe, to him, the kiss should have been enough.

The ceiling has a stain on it–that’s what you’re thinking, as he thrusts inside you. It hurts, there’s a startling sort of burning and pressure, and you don’t have any time to be eased into things as he lets out a long sigh and begins to fuck you.

Your body shifts against the mattress with each thrust, and you think–is this going to be it?--before you feel a startling, uneven jolt of pleasure between your legs. When you glance down, you can see Feitan’s hand between your legs; it’s his thumb, you think, rubbing your clit almost haphazardly.

It’s enough to dull the sting, at least. Enough to make you gasp in something other than discomfort. 

Maybe that gasp is why he leans down again, why his free hand grabs one of your wrists and pins it above your head. It’s to keep you still, you realize a moment later, as he begins to bite and lap against your neck. You’ll have hickeys, after.

It adds another layer of pleasure, something warmer, something that sends tingles down your stomach despite the discomfort of the situation. 

“Feitan–”

“Hush,” he says, and you do, and you’re almost grateful for his words. It’s easier not to say his name, to bite down your gasps and sounds. Especially when saying his name merely made him rut harder against you, faster. It’s almost too much, the friction between your body and the mattress, your heart rate speeding up, the feeling of his thrust between your legs. It’s almost dizzying, making it harder to keep your thoughts straight. 

Harder and faster, all because you said his name. Because it made him hornier–or because he wants to leave? The question lingers, caught between thrusts and the feeling of his mouth against his skin.

His thumb rubs harsher against your clit until you’re suddenly spasming, cumming as he’s still fucking you. He takes his hands away too quickly and it’s not an entirely satisfying orgasm but you’re in no position (literally) to complain about it. Instead you try to ride some lingering warmth between your legs as he reaches his own peak, abandoning your bruising shoulder and bruising your lips, instead, a kiss that’s part teeth and tongue.

He thrusts forward and goes still and makes an almost keening sound into your mouth as he finishes, and you feel the warmth spreading inside you. It’s not pleasant, but the feeling when he pulls out and some of it dribbles out is far less so.

Next time, you think, you’ll tell him to keep touching you when you come. So it feels better. Hell, next time, you’ll barter for something more than a book, too. 

You expect him to stay against you, maybe even kiss you again, in the afterglow. Instead, he simply stands up without fanfare and begins to redress himself. Pulls his pants back up–you hope to whatever god there is that he washes his clothes soon–and begins to pull on his top and coat.

“What genre?”

You don’t register the question at first. You’re too fucked out, too guilty, lost, confused, hazy, to understand the question. 

Maybe he sees all that, because before he throws his cowl back up, you see his smirk.

“For your books.”

Oh. Right.

“Fantasy,” you answer, without needing to think. 

Above you, that ceiling is still stained, and now your mattress has new stains. It was the first time Feitan fucked you, but it won’t be the last, and what sort of Pandora’s box did you open today, anyway? 

So yes, a fantasy trilogy is what you ask for, naked and bruising on your bed. 

You’ll need something you can escape into every chance you get.