#_feitan

[holydayaria]

Risktaker

Feitan x Reader

Synopsis: Feitan takes your relationship further.

Warnings: yandere feitan, afab reader, heavy dubcon, very unsexy smut

3.6k words... this was supposed to be done by kinktober, not proofread i just wanted to get this out of my drafts... i should probably proofread my stuff though lmao

The basement is, as always, poorly lit. The dim light bulb hanging from the middle of the room provides enough light to see, but not enough to make the room look flattering. Then again, any additional light would show off the scratches on the floor and the dried blood splatter that Feitan hadn’t bothered to clean up. He thinks it sets the tone of his basement quite nicely. Two flies, now dead, have somehow been caught in the light bulb. Sometimes when you see them in the corner of your eyes, you swear that they’re still alive.

The mattress you were given, at the very least, is free from blood stains or other bodily fluids. It’s just comfortable enough that your neck isn’t aching whenever you wake up. You’ve gotten used to this by now, not that it was comfortable for you. After what had to have been a minimum of three, possibly four months, the constant of waking up in a dingy at-home torture dungeon did wear you down. You don’t tremble or even bother trying to reason with Feitan, or so much as ask questions when he stands before you. Sometimes you think he’s gotten less scary in the time you’ve been forced to get to know him, and other times you think that he can read your mind. 

It’s as if the moment you think that maybe things aren’t so bad, or that maybe the cumbersome relationship between you two (if it could even be called that) is improving, Feitan comes down the stairs to his basement with a deranged plan for the day. He never lets you get comfortable, always keeping you on your toes. Sometimes he’d hand you the scalpel and have you cut into whoever was unlucky enough to be tied down in the lone chair in the basement; other times you’re left to do the cleanup of his torture session. Today though, he comes with a demand that seems almost uncharacteristic, unbecoming of him.

“Your clothes. Take it off.”

Feitan says, staring you down. You look back up at him, dumbfounded. Well, you should have expected this to happen. Waking up in a strange man’s basement, on a dingy mattress with your ankle chained to the wall, this must have been inevitable. If anything, you should be surprised it took him so long to do this. There’s a long pause and Feitan’s affect remains flat. He has no intention of asking again, he’s just waiting for you to do what he says. You both stare at each other in silence, you wondering if he’s serious and him wondering what’s taking you so long.

You reluctantly strip, removing the loose-fitting shirt and the shorts he gave you, left only in your underwear– because the thought of offering you a bra never crossed his mind. The clothes are discarded on the mattress, you’d rather not put them on the dirty floor. You attempt to keep some dignity, covering your exposed chest with your arm. In the back of your mind, you wonder if this means he’s going to kill you soon. Once he’s gotten what he wants, he won’t have a reason to keep you around. 

“Your arm, down.”

So much for that.

You lower your arm to your side, your bare chest left on display. Each and every of your muscles are tense, and your body is as stiff as a board. The coldness of the basement is felt tenfold without your clothes, and you shiver both from the temperature and the nervousness, embarrassment, fear. It becomes harder to maintain eye contact, and you quickly give up when his gaze stops meeting yours. His eyes go from your face to your chest, then further down, then upwards to settle on your torso. It’s as if he isn’t sure where to look first. Still, his stare is ever piercing and he almost looks bored. Uninterested, even. You don’t miss the way his breathing picks up a little. 

Feitan does not act nor does he speak. He makes no indication at all of what he’s feeling, though if he didn’t have his cowl, the faintest of grins would be visible. He doesn’t make any move to remove his clothes or initiate anything, so you’re led to believe that all he wanted to do was ogle you. Perhaps this is a new form of torture he’s come up with, leaving you humiliated and cold. 

He continues his leering, Feitan inhales sharply with a visible rise and fall of his chest. Beneath his cowl, his jaw clenches and unclenches. His fingers itch to touch you, to feel your warm flesh flush against the palm of his hand. Something holds him back, you can see his brows furrow and a strange look crossing his features. After a long few moments, Feitan, as per usual, leaves without a word. You’re left to guess when he’s coming back and if you should put your clothes back on. The door leading to the basement is shut behind him, and the light that came from above is also gone.

-

Feitan leans against the bathroom wall, his forehead resting against the wall while he pumps his cock in his fist. He couldn’t be bothered to get any lotion, he’s relying on the spit in his hand to ease the friction. He lets out a few ragged breaths, his cowl lowered now. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and he keeps the mental image of you at the forefront of his mind. You looked soft, he should have touched you. Your skin seemed so easy to break, so easy to draw blood from. Damn you, damn you, and all you’ve done to him. He wants to rip you to shreds.

He stifles a gasp and bites down hard on his lower lip, squeezing his cock and trying to imagine it was your hand instead of his own. That instead of his own palm, it’d be your mouth he’d be releasing his load into. You'd be looking up at him— no, you’d be blindfolded. You’d be obedient, just taking it like you were supposed to. You’d be happy, eager, you’d want this. You’d want him. 

The man’s mind begins to wander. Were you a virgin? He could teach you, if you were, (not that Feitan had much knowledge in that area). He could mold you into whatever he wanted. Or were you experienced? Did you have more experience than him? It would certainly take some of the pressure off of him, but it also makes him feel sick to think about another man, balls deep inside of you. It’s enough to almost kill his mood.

Almost.

A low whimper comes from the back of his throat, and the foreign, warm feeling coiled up in his lower abdomen begins to unravel. Feitan cums in his hand, thick and white. It’s a lot, he hasn’t jacked off in a while. A wave of disgust washes over him when he looks at his cum, staining his hand and dripping from his fingers. He, with little grace, zips up his pants with his clean hand before washing away the shame on his other in the sink.

-

The following days, your contact with Feitan was sparse. More so than usual. You hadn’t caught a single glimpse of him, the only reason you knew he hadn’t forgotten about you is because you’d wake up with a small bottle of water and the minimum requirement of food for the day. You’d heard him coming down once, the basement door creaking open and light flooding into the room, even with your eyes closed you could tell. You pretended to be asleep for his sake (and yours).

He comes round to the mattress, lightly kicking it with his boot. “Get up.” You don’t bother keeping up the fake sleep. You notice that today, he isn’t wearing his cowl or the cloak that covered most of his body. Instead, it’s just a plain black long-sleeve. You sit up on the mattress, still wearing the same clothes from a few days ago. You wait for him to tell you to get up, to follow him for a bath. Instead, Feitan once again instructs you to take your clothes off. So, with much hesitation, you do.

Rather than only staring at your chest, Feitan’s eyes drift down to your underwear. “That too.” It makes your heart sink, but a foolishly hopeful thought comes to your mind. Maybe he was just going to stare at you some more? This wouldn’t be the end of it, but there was still a chance he wouldn’t actually touch you, right? It’s not exactly like you have an option here, he was most likely going to tear off your undergarments himself if you didn’t comply. So, you do what he says, in a painfully slow manner to delay the embarrassment. Your legs are tightly held together, knees to your chest. 

Feitan sits on the mattress with you, killing any notion that ‘looking’ was all he wanted to do. You’re awfully compliant, not that you’ve ever acted out in a major way. It furthers his confidence that you, on some level, must want this too. He’s sat in front of you, and with slight effort, pries your legs apart without a word. You swallow thickly, palms sweaty and your entire body wanting to shut him out. You can’t do this, you won’t. Feitan makes eye contact with you as he pushes your legs apart just enough for him to see his prize. “Calm down. It won’t hurt.” He’s trying to be reassuring, you think. You can’t say it doesn’t help, he hasn’t pulled out some awful tool to mutilate you with. Not yet, anyways. 

He says nothing more, his eyes going over everything he sees. He brings a cold finger of his to your folds, feeling around in a clinical manner. His fingers traipse your most sensitive area, feeling as much as he can with an almost juvenile curiosity. You squirm when his sharpened nail presses against your skin, letting out a small noise. The corners of Feitan’s lips twitch to a grin, and you don’t know if it’s because he likes causing you discomfort or if he thinks he’s doing a good job. His other hand rests firmly on your knee, steadying your leg so you don’t try to shut him out. 

His touch isn’t as sensual as it is exploratory, his fingers touching each fold and sharply contrasting the coldness of his hand to the warmth of your core. You’re far too put off and panicky to tell him anything, to try to guide his hand to the right place. Maybe you should just let him figure it out, assuming he ever will. There’s a lingering fear that he’ll suddenly plunge his fingers in, or he’ll cut you with his long nails, accidentally or otherwise. 

Your face, your ears, and the back of your neck burn hot with shame. The only person who's seen your vagina outside of you and your chosen sexual partners has been your gynecologist, and Feitan is feeling a lot more like the latter than the former. You clench your teeth together, not wanting to let out a single peep if you can help it. His cold fingers run over your clitoris, only briefly. He starts to feel and rub at what he thinks is your clit. You don’t have it in you to say anything. 

Sooner than you expected, Feitan stops. You take in a sharp breath when Feitan puts two fingers inside you. His gaze quickly flicks up from between your legs and to your face. “Does it hurt?” He asks, not moving his fingers. You don’t know what to tell him, if you say yes, he might make it hurt more. If you say no, he still might make it hurt more. You try to suck it up, struggling to meet his gaze out of embarrassment. “No.” You murmur meekly.

“Liar.” Feitan huffs, now avoiding your gaze. He moves his fingers in and out of you slowly, giving you time to adjust to the feeling. His ears strain to hear any noise you make. Any breath in or out, any whimpering or mewling, a moan, even. You do your best to keep quiet, jaw clenched. Feitan wants to ask you if you’ve done this before, if you’re a virgin or not. You’d bleed if you were, that’s how that works, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust himself to be able to hide his reaction, regardless of what your answer is.

He comes to a stop, pulling his fingers out. They’re warm and slightly wet, which is good enough for him. You think it’s over, he’s never gone this far. Surely he’ll leave now, give you a few days to comprehend what’s going on, and then he’ll come back to do it again. Instead, Feitan begins to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. You finally find your voice, wide eyes staring at his narrowed ones. “Feitan.” You choke out, as if just speaking up will make him stop. He looks at you, seeing the fear in your eyes. Usually, he’d relish it. Right now, though, he doesn’t like it. 

“Lie down, or I make it hurt.”

That’s all you need. You lie flat on the mattress, legs still parted while trying to come to terms with what’s happening. He’s going to rape you, for God knows how long. You try to convince yourself that this will be fine. He’s done worse, right? No, no he hasn’t. He’s dumped cold water on your head during baths when you moved too much while he washed you. He’s forced you to watch and join in on some torture sessions, but your participation hardly lasted more than five minutes, or however long it took for him to get annoyed with your crying and sniveling. He’s leered at you and stared in ways that could be described as lecherous before. But he’s never touched you in a perverse way until now, and the idea of Feitan forcing himself on you seemed abstract to you. Not that you never thought it would happen, but over the months, it just didn’t seem likely. Feitan speaks up again, this is the most talkative he’s been… ever.

“Don’t be scared. I’ll be nice.”

That sentence alone makes your stomach lurch. You can see his dick from this angle, and the thin, wiry black pubes that come with it. With minimal warning, Feitan inserts himself into you after aligning his hips with yours. You let out a gasp from the intrusion, hands clenched into a fist as you’re forced to take him. Feitan isn’t particularly big or girthy, but it isn’t welcome regardless. He brings himself from his haunches and is now on top of you, albeit a bit awkwardly. Your noses are just inches away from each other, and if Feitan wasn’t still so hesitant to be intimate with you he might have leaned his forehead against yours. 

Feitan lets out a brief, incredibly stifled whimper when he’s gone as far as he can go, You’re so warm, too warm, too tight. You almost wonder if you were just hearing things, if that noise really came from him. His nails dig into your upper arms as he steadies himself, unintentionally drawing blood from how tight his hold on you is. You wince, gasping from how hard he’s holding onto you and his sudden intrusion. You’re barely wet enough to take him, but not without discomfort. 

“Feitan-“ You can’t keep your mouth shut any longer. It’s uncomfortable, it hurts. “Be quiet.” He says, unwilling to hear your complaints, should they ruin his fantasy. You take in a shaky breath, stifling a noise of discontent at how much friction there is. Feitan pipes up again, trying to sound less irritable for your sake. This won’t be enjoyable for either of you if you’re this tense. “Relax.” He says, in a somewhat nicer tone. It hardly helps, but you want to believe that he’s not actively trying to hurt you.

For a fleeting moment, you’re both left to catch your breaths, trying to adjust to the changes. Feitan's eyes, which for a second had softened unwillingly, hardened as his gaze met yours, scanning your face for something you couldn’t quite place your finger on. He can see it on your face that you’re a lot more than just apprehensive. You’re afraid, a look that he’s overly familiar with. You try not to make a face, to not let your disgust and terror show. You don’t know what to say, and Feitan seems to be content with staying silent. Slowly, he begins to thrust in and out, trying to find a good rhythm. He’s incredibly slow at first, not wanting to overwhelm himself and lose control. Meanwhile, you try to think of something else. Anything else. 

You think about your old job. You weren’t fond of it at the time, now you’d do anything to go back. Anything for human interaction with someone that wasn’t an antisocial sadist. You’d give up all you had to go back to your old apartment; your apartment that never had hot water, only lukewarm. At least you could have taken a shower whenever you damn pleased, and ate any meal you wanted whenever you felt like it. Now, you were a house pet confined to this man’s basement at best, and a future victim to his assortment of tools at worst. Feitan continues rocking his hips back and forth at a steady pace, occasional low whines that he can’t quite keep hidden resonating in the back of his throat. You pretend not to hear anything.

You realize at some point that you’re not going to cum from this. It had been in the back of your mind, now at the forefront. Likewise, you knew from the beginning this wasn’t going to be an enjoyable experience. Still, expressing that to your incredibly violent kidnapper probably isn’t a good idea. To his credit, you were worried that sex with him would be extremely rough or involve you getting teeth or fingernails pulled. Just glancing over his shoulder, you can see an assortment of hardware tools and medical instruments hanging on a pegboard on the opposing wall. He used those on many people, and threatened to use them on you. You can see a roach scuttle up the wall and onto the pegboard. The unsexy atmosphere is making this entire ordeal worse. At least Feitan’s enjoying himself.

You bite down on your lower lip, reluctant to let any noise of pain escape. You grit and try to bear it, looking off to the side. You would have thought Feitan would reprimand you in some way, but he seems comfortable with not making eye contact right now. You try to relax, but suddenly he’s picking up the pace. Feitan starts to go faster, faster than you’re comfortable with. Your breath catches in your throat, and Feitan takes the noises you make as encouragement. Surely he’s doing the right thing. 

It hurts, and he only seems to be speeding up. You can hear him over you, panting. You can see your old apartment if you visualize hard enough, you can taste the day-old spaghetti on your tongue. The pained moans leaving you are mistaken for ones of enjoyment. He doesn’t say anything, but you get the feeling that he’s close. You pray to whatever God is out there that he won’t want to go for a second round.

He suddenly leans down and bites down on your shoulder, clinging to you with a harsher grip. You shriek, His toes curl, and he shudders slightly, not bothering to pull out when he cums inside of you. You can feel it, warm and filling, seeping into the parts of you that Feitan couldn’t. Feitan flops on top of you, his head dips to rest on the crook of your neck, and he swallows thickly as he comes down from his high. Feitan doesn’t look at you, keeping his head low. He bites the inside of his cheek, knowing he’ll need to get you a contraceptive of some sort. The last thing he wants is to get you knocked up because he couldn’t pull out fast enough. The entire act couldn’t have been more than seven minutes, nine if you’re being generous. It felt like it could have been three hours. 

After a long few minutes, Feitan moves and pulls himself out of you. He still is laying on top of you, head resting just below yours. He looks down, narrowing his eyes. So you were a virgin, he thinks. There are a few flecks of blood, on him and you. He takes it as a sign of you tearing from the penetration, not from him relentlessly thrusting in and out without proper lubrication. There’s a quiet moment that you two share, and you can feel Feitan staring at you. You keep your gaze on the ceiling, overlooking his shoulder, feeling numb and out of your body. Feitan’s breathing is audible, and he doesn’t move away from you; though he doesn’t move closer either. The roach has crawled onto the ceiling now. You focus on that instead of Feitan’s weight on top of you.

You’re both sweaty and tired, skin clinging to skin. You can’t see the bite mark on your shoulder, but it stings, and you think you’re bleeding. Feitan knows he needs to get up soon and tend to the wound he made on your shoulder. He’d give you a bath while he was at it, maybe he could join you. For now, though, he just wants to close his eyes for a few minutes.

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Feitan Portor General Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, murder, mentions of torture, mentions of Feitan carving his initial into you, mentions of masturbation, stalking, jealousy, threats, Feitan tortures a man in front of you, I stand by the (semi) soft creepy yandere Feitan agenda and I will not be swayed otherwise, this got super long I'm so sorry, I'm also delirious as I'm writing it so hopefully it makes coherent sense/is consistent, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

DARLING PROFILE:

Empathetic

In general, Feitan finds his attention drawn by a darling who is almost the complete opposite of himself.

He wants someone sweet and caring, all soft and squishy and warm. He’s never found this particularly attractive before meeting his darling, but there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re always trying to help those around them, fruitlessly asking them to vent about their feelings, to use them as a supportive shoulder. 

It makes him scoff, rolling his eyes and wondering at how impossibly naive his darling can be, but even he can’t deny how nice it is to have someone by his side, a human presence that’s steady and calm and understanding. It makes him feel good, a warm sensation bottling up in his chest and threatening to explode out, and although he’ll never really come clean with how he feels for you (at least, he never will verbally), a darling who can kind of read his rather emotionless face would be a very, very big attraction for him. 

He just wants a darling who can understand him, even if his rational brain loathes the idea. An empathetic darling is sure to draw his attention, if only because he’ll be mildly revolted and intrigued by how they can be so selfless and so foolish. 

Submissive 

Feitan doesn’t want a feisty darling. 

He doesn’t enjoy having to tame his lovers, and although he’s never really had a lover, he gravitates towards someone who is more naturally submissive and willing to follow direction. 

He already feels powerless enough in the situation, frustrated that he doesn’t really have any say in how he feels. It scares him, quite honestly, if only because he doesn’t like how easily and quickly he’s jumping to conclusions where his darling is concerned, more than willing to jump through any hoop necessary in order to get what he wants, in order to make sure his darling is safe and isolated from every other man on Earth. 

He likes knowing that his darling will do what he tells them to; it builds a layer of trust that makes Feitan go feral, and for every ounce of trust his darling gives him, he’ll try to return it as full heartedly as he can. He likes that he’s fully in control of his darling, and particularly if they were to be submissive in more… intimate aspects of the relationship, he’d be absolutely smitten.

He just wants his darling to revere him and believe his word as the word of God, and the moment that happens? 

He’s only falling deeper into obsession, his desperation for them growing with every beat of his heart, getting harder and harder to swallow until he gives up, jumping head first into every swirling, dark, lecherous desire he harbors. 

Soft

Of course, Feitan’s darling doesn’t have to have a softer body, but he can’t deny that there’s something enticing about a darling who is physically quite soft. Whether that’s rounder features, a plumper figure, or even a soft, demure voice, it all entrances Feitan. 

His darling is something of a dream to him, because he’s never really believed that someone that stereotypically weak could ever really survive in this world. He likes how his darling feels, the touches he sneaks late at night when they’re sleeping sending sparks up his spine and serving as fuel for when he’s unbearably horny, his hand around his cock not nearly enough. 

He’s prone to fantasizing about his darling, slipping into daydreams of his they’d feel in his lap, how they’d look with their ass up and face pressed into the mattress, how they’d feel so good wrapped around him. He just thinks it’s oddly endearing, and a darling who fits these characteristics would help initially draw his eye - he just thinks they’re pretty, a polar opposite to him, even going so far as to playing into some of his more protective traits. 

Of course, he’d rather die than admit any of it, but he’s interally a bit soft for his darling - they’re just alluring in an almost primal way he can’t describe, but he can’t fight it. He can’t fight anything when it comes to his darling, as it turns out, and soon Feitan will decide that he doesn’t care. 

After all, once his darling steps into his life and stays there, nothing at all matters - how can it, when he’s decided that they’re his, his woman to keep and admire and touch and fuck? 

(It will take him a very, very long time to get comfortable with either of the last two options, but the desire and sentiment is still there, if the frequent raging erections he gets as a result of his darling is any indicator.)

Talkative 

This trait is one of the things Feitan loves and hates most about his darling. 

He enjoys listening to them talk; he himself isn’t particularly fond of conversation, nor is he particularly talkative towards his darling in general. And so, a partner who is capable of filling the silence between them sometimes is something that makes Feitan grateful, if only because hearing the sound of their voice makes his breath hitch. 

And when they talk to him, all their attention aimed solely at him? 

Well, how can Feitan not be flattered, not feel a bit prideful that they’re spending their time directing all their focus and thoughts around whatever small question he prompted them with? He just likes listening to his darling go on and on, even if the topic doesn’t interest him much. However, the downside of this trait is that it creates a rather ugly combination with his tendency to grow jealous. 

If his darling is talkative with everyone, it’s sure to extend towards the men they meet, who just stare at them like they’re a slab of meat waiting to be devoured, all of them eager to get their hands on them and destroy what Feitan has claimed as his own. It’s infuriating, if only because it means that they’re interacting with others, putting themselves into a position where they could develop feelings for another man or be put into harm’s way or overhead something they shouldn’t have or any number of things. 

It becomes a massive liability, and one that Feitan is so, so very aware of. It irritates him, and as much as he loves when his darling is chatting with him, he’s not so approving when they're with others.

And so, it’s really in his darling’s best interest to reign in the conversations with anyone else - unless they want to see their blood splattered all over the walls, hear their cries, feel Feitan’s red soaked fingers grasp onto their arms and force them to see the results of their chattiness. It’s in their best interest, and they’ll learn that soon enough. Hopefully. 

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Distant 

There’s a part of Feitan that genuinely hates you for making him feel the way he does. The constant pounding of his heart when you’re merely mentioned, the throb in his chest when he’s gone too long without seeing you, the nervous twitch of his fingers when he thinks about what you’re doing, what other man you’re thinking about… 

He hates how paranoid you’ve made him, how so much of his time and energy goes into you. It’s your fault that he’s always distracted, that he’s not able to fully focus on his work anymore because he’s only able to think of you you you. It’s frustrating, and honestly it initially wards Feitan off from getting any closer to you - he doesn’t like the way he feels around you (that’s not true, but he needs it to be), so he’ll stay away and ignore you. Maybe that’ll get you to stop smiling at him so kindly, to quit asking him how his day was, to stop looking so pretty while you hum and make yourself dinner. 

As time passes, slowly this hatred diminishes (or at least dulls), instead replaced with a desperate, pathetic need to be around you; he just can’t keep himself away from you, no matter how hard he tries. It’s demoralizing, embarrassing beyond belief that someone like you could get his emotions so twisted, but it’s reality. 

He tries to fight it at first, believing himself to be above such stupid human emotion – he doesn’t need you, he’s a criminal and has never needed love or anything of the sort. And yet, each and every time he tells himself to not trail behind you as you walk to the grocery store, his resolve holds out for roughly five minutes. By then, there’s unwelcome thoughts drifting through his mind about what you’re doing, whether you’re talking to anyone, if you’ve managed to trip like you always do and scrape your knee. 

(There’s even a small, very small part of him that wonders whether you’re buying foods that are nutritious for you, or whether you’re doing your usual junk food spree. A thought pops up in the back of his head: him beside you in the store, scoffing as you place chips into the cart. He’d replace them with fruit, mumbling something about you being so stupid, only to see you smile at him and thank him, telling him how grateful you are to have him watching over you. His cheeks feel hot at that, and he buries his face deeper into his jacket, grumbling under his breath.) 

He’ll try to stop himself from circling back to you, but each and every time he finds some excuse of why he should be watching you, of how you aren’t really capable of taking care of yourself without his watchful gaze. It’s patronizing, more than anything, but eventually he’ll stop trying to fight it, submitting entirely and allowing himself the concealed pleasure of watching your horribly mundane life. 

He’ll need to be around you, constantly, but he’s still not willing to let his emotional guard down. No, you’ve done enough damage just simply existing - you absolutely cannot know how deeply he feels for you, how wrapped around your pinky finger you have him. Not only would it eliminate any semblance of leverage he holds against you (in order to stay above you, that is), it also showcases just how far the extent of his feelings for you run. 

And frankly, the thought terrifies Feitan – he’s never felt so strongly for anyone before, not even in the context of hatred or pleasure at their suffering. He’s in over his head, wading through waters he's always scoffed at and dismissed, and suddenly he’s finding himself nearly drowning, head always buried just under the surface. 

So he steels himself, grabbing onto any shred of control and power he can against you – he grabs on and clutches on, strong fingers frantically staying attached so that he doesn’t get blown away and truly drown. And even in the beginning of your captivity, Feitan won’t change the way he’s so detached. He’s purposefully putting distance between the two of you so that he can remain in control of the situation, in control of you, and – most importantly, and most concerningly – in control of himself. 

Because frankly, Feitan doesn’t trust himself around you. He doesn’t trust the way his body just does things, how any rational thought leaves his brain the moment your eyes meet, how fingers are already lifting up a bit to reach out touch you, to brush away stray pieces of your hair when you’re within a few feet of him. 

The biggest way he maintains this control is by not giving you a whole lot of attention, aside from one stark, grave exception: his dark eyes are constantly watching you. He’s always just sort of staring, his expression blank as he observes you, motionless and still. It’s unnerving, terrifying you initially and only slightly calming down as time passes, but Feitan doesn’t care much. 

He doesn’t necessarily want to interact with you, but just watching you allows him to be in your space, to be beside you, to smell you and listen to your breathing. You’re kept in one large room most of the time, and he’ll often sit in the chair in the corner and just stare. He’s not talking much, not trying to touch you or hurt you, but you almost wish he would sometimes. 

He just doesn’t understand what about you it is that attracts him so deeply, that’s morphed him into this lovesick fool, and while he initially tries to understand, eventually Feitan gives up, because does it really matter? 

Does it really matter how he became obsessed with you when you’re locked up in his spare bedroom, duct tape covering your mouth and an expressionless, frozen Feitan watching you with his heart practically bursting out of his chest? Does it really matter if he pinpoints exactly when he developed his love for you when you’re looking at him with those pretty tears in your eyes, whispering out a thanks as he sets the tray of food down in front of you? 

It really doesn’t, now that his feelings for you are formed and solidified, now that they can’t be changed or reversed. So while he’ll never be the most accessible and sympathetic to your feelings, rest assured that Feitan really does love you in some fucked up way - he’s just unorthodox, incapable of properly expressing himself to you. 

But actions speak louder than words, right? He’s always thought so.

Obsessive 

Because Feitan is relatively quiet and secretive when it comes to his feelings towards you, it’s difficult for you to really pick up on this aspect of him. You’re unlikely to ever truly understand just how much he feels for you, the sheer depth of emotions you cause him. 

He won’t ever tell you what’s going on behind that expressionless facade of his. He doesn’t tell you how oddly adorable you are when you’re sleeping in the early mornings, curled up in the corner of your room with your eyes shut and lips slightly parted, looking so soft and sweet and weak.

 He’ll never make you aware of how his breath hitches ever so slightly when you make eye contact with him, even if it’s shaky and you look away too quickly, his spine tingling because fuck, your attention feels good. 

You’ll never know why his foot is tapping lightly when you’re eating in front of him, the way those annoying nerves eat away at his stomach while he subconsciously wonders if you think he looks attractive today. (He’d trimmed his hair a bit, feeling it was too long and interfering with his work - do you like it? Did you notice? He’d hesitated a bit with the scissors earlier, brows slightly furrowing, dark eyes glancing at your sleeping form.) 

He’s very cryptic, and this tendency to keep you out of the loop of his personal thoughts and feelings can cast a shadow on his more obsessive tendencies. That is, before he’s stolen you away from the world, Feitan did an extensive amount of research into you. He does nothing on a whim - he’s a calculating man, and once he’d finally come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you weren’t going to disappear, he was scouring every resource possible to garner your information. 

He’s got access to all kinds of personal knowledge about you - your search history, for example. It’s a bit unexpected, if Feitan’s being honest - you’re much darker than he’d expected, the things you read about making him quirk a brow, his interest in you only deepening because hmm, seems the little sheep may be a bit of a wolf inside. 

He’s getting Shalnark to hack into the camera of your phone and computer, the stream of footage easy to access as he cleans his tools, blood washing away as you smile and laugh at some comedy you’re watching. 

It’s stupid and at first he pretends to find your laugh annoying. But then he sees the way your cheeks get all full and round as you smile, your eyes crinkling up, even the way you wheeze slightly when it’s really funny. 

(Briefly, he wonders whether you’d find his dry sense of humor entertaining.)

He’s got photographs of you from his time spent trailing you, and though they’re a bit blurry and not as focused as he’d like, they’re still something nice to pin to his wall, keeping his favorites beside his bed. He’s never had trouble sleeping, but something about looking at you as he drifts into slumber makes him rest more soundly, wake up more refreshed. 

Once you’ve been trapped with him for long enough, however, Feitan’s front of careful indifference to you will slowly begin cracking. You’ll never see fully through him, but you’ll catch the way the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly when you snuggle into the blanket he gives you one day, noticing how you’ve been shivering incessantly at night. 

(He won’t tell you the blanket was freshly stolen, that he’d made sure to take one with the softest, thickest material he could find, and even in your favorite color. It’s just a coincidence, so don’t read into it.) 

You’ll realize he’s slowly inched closer to you the longer you watch the television program Feitan turned on earlier, your spot on the couch feeling smaller and smaller as Feitan’s hip eventually brushes yours, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening. 

(You’ll never know how badly he wants to reach out and touch you, to freely run his hand up and down your thigh, so trace your collarbones, to feel just how soft your body is.)

It all makes him feel weak, pathetic, disgusting, but Feitan can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about you, and he can’t pull himself away. His pride won’t allow him to fully succumb to the thoughts and desires about you that are constantly swirling through his mind, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, that they aren’t bothering him constantly. He’s secretive, and maybe it’s for the best that you don’t know how many nights he’s spent with his fingers wrapped around his cock, his pale cheeks rosy as he imagines the way you’d like tied up with hickeys he made spanning the insides of your thighs. 

Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know how often he’s (begrudgingly) held the extra pillow on his bed close to his chest, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tightens his arms around it.

(No, he wasn’t imagining it was you – he’s a touch starved man, and everyone has urges, right? It’s just coincidence that the pillow casing is one he stole from you, that he never washes it because it smells like you, that he nearly loses his mind when he almost gets a drop of blood from a victim on it.) 

It makes it much easier to scare you into what he wants when you don’t know - you’re much more complainant this way, malleable, willing, and Feitan likes it that way. Sure, having you fall in love would be ideal, getting your obedience through a genuine desire to please him, but at least this way he can keep a piece of his pride intact. 

This way, you’ll never realize the power you have over him - how he’d be willing to wipe out entire towns for you if you so much as mention it. You’ll never understand just how he needs to have you - to have you for what, you don’t know, but you can sense the odd sort of desperation coming off of him. 

You can feel it in the way his fingers grip you just a bit too tight, the way his eyes linger on you just a tad too long, the way the smallest, most embarrassing little whimper falls from his lips when your hand touches his. 

He’s good at hiding it, but everyone makes mistakes - just don’t pry too hard, because Feitan still needs to be the one in control, and you’ll quickly find yourself learning much, much more about the short man than you’ve ever wanted to know. Namely, that the only thing worse than him staring at you is him ignoring you.

Protective  

Although, it will take you a very long time to see this side of him. Initially, Feitan’s feelings towards you are that of mild interest, mild disgust, and mild indifference. 

Mild interest because he had, of course, noticed that you were pretty, what with your soft lips and doe eyes, your figure and the lilt of your voice. Indifference, because Fietan was sure there were a thousand other people just like you on Earth. And disgust, because you were so visibly weak and unable to fend for yourself, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

 And yet, the more time he spends around you (maybe a long job has him centered in the same city for a few weeks, and you work at the little store he gets his meals from, or some other service job that brings you in contact regularly), the more complex these feelings become. His interest becomes peaked because you’re not just pretty, but also entertaining to talk to, handling his dry jabs well and even daring to throw back some jokes of your own. (He never laughed, of course, but a wry smile sat underneath his jacket.) 

He’s still a bit indifferent, but not when you’re helping other customers or smiling down at your phone. (Were you texting someone? Your fingers were moving, implying typing – what were they saying that was making you giggle like that? What could he say that would make you giggle? Why does he care?) 

But the starkest, quickest change of heart that Fietan experiences in how he feels about your strength and abilities. Of course, you are weak. Even if you can use nen, even if you know the basics of self defense – Feitan is sure that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, cleanly, easily. (He’s sure because he’s thought of doing it before – never seriously, just a fleeting thought, something that only briefly passed through his mind when he was still resistant to his attraction towards you – it was promptly expelled after that familiar sinking, uncomfortable feeling started up in his gut, but still.) 

You’re embarrassingly weak, really, and as much as he tries to make himself ignore it or to simply stop caring about it, he can’t get it out of his head. He can’t seem to stop imagining you getting hurt, doing something stupid or careless and tarnishing that pretty skin of yours. 

He can’t seem to stop imagining the way you’d take a corner too fast and slip on your own feet, tumbling to the ground and ending up with a sprained ankle or a scrape across your knee. 

He’ll be sharpening a blade, blood stains caked onto the metal, and suddenly a flash of what your blood would look like staining the material makes him freeze for a moment, black eyes just a tad bit wider, the muscles in his arms and legs taut because there’s something sickening about the thought, something malicious and just carnally wrong. 

He can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against someone like his coworkers, whose strength is difficult to handle even for an experienced nen user. How would someone like you fare against someone like Uvogin? Someone like Shizuku? Hell, even someone like Kortopi? 

(Upon first meeting Hisoka, a very sudden and very intrusive image of the clown slicing a card clean through your throat flashed through his mind, and he’d nearly reached forward and ripped out the taller man’s heart at the thought, a purely instinctual response that left him more shell-shocked than he’d care to admit.) 

He knows you wouldn’t stand a chance, and while he doesn’t want it to bother him, it does. It does, as much as he tries to forget the mental images or assure himself that you deserve getting injured for being so weak and helpless. But he can’t just sit still and let it pass by, if it were to ever happen - and so, Feitan’s protective tendencies begin manifesting. 

They’re small, for the most part; making sure to keep his torture tools as far away from you as possible, just so that there’s no chance of you accidentally tripping or running into one or being stupid and getting any ideas. 

He’s making sure that you’re under his watch as often as possible, becoming your second shadow and stalking you every free moment he can spare, just in case someone unsavory crosses your path. 

He’s making sure that all your locks are working every night, compulsively checking them even though he knows they’re still good. 

He keeps his protective tendencies under wraps, making sure that they’re subtle and just ambiguous enough that you won’t pick up on his intentions. Because while there’s something appealing about you knowing that he wants you to be safe, he would rather you not find out just how extensively he watches you, just how much he cares about your wellbeing, deciding that it’s yet another potential opportunity for you to manipulate him. 

And of course, he’s embarrassed - he briefly considers requesting help watching you from a Troupe member or two, only for when he’s aware for long periods of times on individual jobs, but eventually he chickens out, too scared to have to explain why he wants Pakunoda to keep an eye on you.

 He’s not embarrassed of you, per se, but rather the extent to which you affect him. And even once he’s stolen you away (an action which has roots in his paranoia for your safety), those protective tendencies are still firmly in place. He’s not a good cook, but he still tries to provide you with somewhat healthy foods, even if they’re undercooked and limp, bland and just overall unappealing. 

He’s by no means an interior designer, but he’s getting you a somewhat soft, thick blanket, making sure the one pillow you have isn’t covered in stains or lumpy. It’s all subtle, nearly unnoticeable things that you’d have to be very perceptive to catch onto - but to Feitan it’s all important, because while he may still resent you for turning him into a lovesick fool, he’ll be damned if he lets you starve or be uncomfortable.

It’s stupid and he knows it, grumbling to himself the entire time he’s doing something to prevent hurting you, but it’ll always get done - and if you were to ever notice it, to thank him? Feitan would deny your allegations, telling you to shut up and eat your food, all the while the tips of his ears turn pink and his heart flutters because you noticed. 

You noticed the way he takes extra precautions for you, the way he thinks of you and your wellbeing, even having the gall to thank him for it… 

Don’t bring it up again or he’ll grow angry, but the pride sitting in his chest at your words is enough for him. It’s enough for him to know you see him, that you’re paying attention to him, that you appreciate all he does for you - it’s enough for now, at least. 

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Feitan is, unfortunately, a bit prone to jealousy – as someone who is aware that he isn’t the best option out there for you, the acknowledgement that there is a multitude of other men that deserve you more and could likely land you never fails to get past him. 

He’s so, so aware of the fact that you likely don’t like him, that stalking you and planning to kidnap you likely doesn’t earn him any favors. He knows he’s fairly quiet, and while it’s mostly a fear of mildly embarrassing himself that bars him from actually interacting with you, it only pushes Feitan to worry that you only see him as a strange, unfamiliar man. 

It’s likely that you think of him as nothing more than an acquaintance, a man who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you. And so, the minute that another person tries to flirt with you, to look at you and think of you and speak with you, the insecurities over how you perceive him are blooming in his chest, growing and blossoming into full blown panic, because what if you fall for another man? 

Of course, Feitan has absolutely no problem eliminating the threat, even enjoying taking the life of such a worthless man, but he can’t help the way fear grips his heart, cold and stabbing and brutal, because while he may be icy and difficult to approach, a stone face that leaves little emotion o be seen, Feitan wants you so fucking badly, to the point that it genuinely hurts. 

And while he isn’t all that soft towards the beginning of his obsession (and really, even once you’ve been ‘living’ with him for a while as well), he does honestly want for you to return the feelings, to love him and care for him, to want to be with him and enjoy your new life by his side. Ideally, he wants you to fall for him, to see him and smile, to have your soft skin pressed against his rougher, more callused skin, your hands cupped in a firm embrace, a soft hug, a kiss against the lips and short, whispered words of trust and acceptance. 

Of course, it’s makes him feel so damn pathetic each time he gets caught in a daydream where you’re smiling and laughing with him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and telling him he’s handsome, but try as he may, he just can’t allow another man to steal the opportunity to make you theirs. 

He wants to be the only one in your life, the only man you see and think of and talk to, and quite honestly Feitan will succeed – his profession is death after all, and he’s a master at stalking his prey, locating their weaknesses, seamlessly killing and annihilating his target before they even have a chance to fight back. 

And so, once his jealousy is triggered, the poor man’s fate has already been decided. Feitan’s never been particularly merciful, and where you’re concerned, this trait only grows - it feels good to kill whoever dared to speak with you, like some sort of cathartic release of all the emotions he’s been bottling up, all the anger and desperation and self-loathing and yearning trapped in his chest. 

It feels good, euphoric in a way he can’t describe, and so he’s quick to jump on any man posing a potential threat to your status as single and ripe for Feitan to claim. He’s a trained killer, after all, and who is he to waste away a perfectly good target? 

When the man in the black dress shirt approaches you in the grocery store, Feitan’s eyes narrow. The shorter man had been trailing you all day, watching you go about your weekly errands, and the tri-annual trip to the grocery store had been your last stop. You’d managed to evade any male attention today, a fact that had Feitan simultaneously sighing in relief and growling in anger. 

And yet, here you are, dressed in a rather provocative set of leggings that have Feitan’s eyes absolutely glued to your supple ass, matched with a slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. You’re cute, he begrudgingly admits, and it seems the stranger agrees. 

Feitan’s standing in the next aisle over, staring through the holes in the shelving to see the way you tap your chin and scan the aisles of bread, searching for the perfect loaf. You don’t seem to have noticed the man slowly walking up to you, his eyes visibly scanning up and down your body. Feitan scowls, black brows drawing tightly together as he debates what to do. 

On the one hand, there’s not much he can do - you’re in a public grocery store, and he doesn’t particularly want you to notice his presence. And yet, he can’t just let this man approach you, speak to you, look at you, now can he? He grits his teeth, steeling himself to just watch for now, and jump in if the time is right, if he feels the man goes too far. The man clears his throat, making you jump and look over at him, the suave smile he sends you making your own smile falter a bit. 

Which bread’s best? He’s asking you, and you answer quickly, naming your favorite brand and which style you like best - Feitan’s scowl only deepens when he realizes you’re telling him the truth. 

The man nods along, before his smirk turns smarmy, one eyebrow cocked up as he asks which rolls are best then? I’m thinking they’re yours. 

You blanch at that, disgust written across your face as you awkwardly laugh and inch away, but Feitan sees none of that - how can he, when he’s already moving, already grabbing the man by the neck and sprinting down the aisle and around the corner, all too fast for you to see with the naked eye? 

You’re confused, unsure of how the man just suddenly disappeared, but his comment left you shellshocked and lost at what to do, so you quickly grab a random loaf and anxiously push your cart away, trying to put distance between you and wherever the man had ended up. 

Meanwhile, Feitan’s got the man held against the back wall of the grocery store, fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, menacing look in his eye. 

Bastard, he grits out, tightening his grip and feeling the way the man panics and scratches at his fingers, trying to rip them away. 

Disgusting, she is mine, didn’t your mother teach don’t touch what’s not yours? Feitan’s shocked he hasn’t just slaughtered the man yet, but there’s something in his heart telling him to prolong this out, to let the man suffer, to make this as slow and torturous as possible. He wants the man to bleed, to scream and sob and beg for his mercy, for being stupid enough to even try to seduce you. 

Feitan’s angry enough that his breathing is uneven, his muscles occasionally flexing without his permission, the rage simmering in his veins nearly potent. He can’t stop replaying the sight of your disgusted and uncomfortable look, the fact that this scum caused you to feel such an emotion making his skin feel hot, his fingers eager to steal the man’s life. 

He smiles as the man wheezes, the lack of oxygen making his face slowly take on a purple hue. What’s wrong? Can’t breath? 

He squeezes once, harshly, roughly, and the man splutters, spit dribbling down his chin and getting onto Feitan’s wrist. He scoffs. Filthy, disgusting. Die. 

And then the man is being stabbed with his sword, not once, not twice, but again and again and again, until holes and wounds decorate the planes of his chest, blood flowing down in rivers onto the dirty concrete floor. 

The man is dead within a matter of seconds, but it’s not enough for Feitan. He’s quick to throw the body to the ground, kicking and stomping and mutilating the body until its unrecognizable. He’s still breathing hard, his fingers shaking, and he finishes it off with a spit at what was once the man’s face, a scowl thrown his way. 

Pathetic, he says, dark eyes closing for a few moments as he looks to sense your familiar presence, already on your walk back towards your apartment. Feitan gives one last, firm kick, before taking off, the urge to have his eyes on you once more making him rush even quicker than normal. He’ll spend the rest of the evening watching you, like always, but this time he’ll pay more attention to your face. 

You’ve never looked at him the way you looked at that man, all scared and revolted. 

You’ve never tried to get away from Feitan, never ran or panicked or anything of the sort. Pride swells in his chest at the knowledge that you like the dark haired man more than that mangled corpse; you’d choose Fietan over him, he’s sure. 

And as you slip under your covers, a soft look on your face as you drift to sleep, Feitan can’t help but slide open the window, slipping into the bedroom and coming up to stand beside your unconscious form. 

Would you choose him over other men? 

If given the choice, would you want him? 

He’d always choose you, his heart always coming back to you no matter what he does or how he hates it - and one day, he’s hopeful you’ll feel the same. One day, you’ll be just as stupidly, pathetically, frantically in love as he is. 

He sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Someday, you’ll be all his. 

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It takes Feitan a long time to resort to kidnapping you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but rather that it’s never been a priority for him. He’s reclusive, and because it takes him so long to sort out his feelings for you, stealing you away was certainly not at the forefront of his mind. 

It takes him so long to even admit to himself that he cares for you, and that process alone takes anywhere from a month to three months, and only then does the stalking begin. Only then is he allowing the feelings for really grow, to fester and brew in his chest until he’s insatiable, desperate to see you and be in your presence. It takes him so long to warm up to you that he just simply doesn’t have the time or forethought to consider taking you for himself - that is, until his protective tendencies begin coming into play. Once he starts actively caring about your safety and wellbeing, little thoughts begin springing up in the back of his mind. He’s chastising you mentally for staying up late, the hands on the clock moving past hours he’s comfortable with. 

He doesn’t like when you lay in your bed scrolling through that damn phone of yours, the bright light bad for your eyes and making you delay sleeping for as long as possible. It makes him angry (if not hypocritical, seeing as he himself only gets roughly four hours of sleep per night), and before he can even stop himself he’s thinking of how he’d make you fall asleep if he was with you, prying that phone out of your hands and telling you to sleep now. 

He doesn’t like when you walk home alone at night, as if you’re practically asking to be mugged or assaulted or killed, which is why he has to follow you, begrudgingly hiding in the shadows and trailing you as you meander back to your apartment. 

You’re stupid, is what you are, and as time passes, Feitan becomes more and more shocked at how lightly you take your own life - how can one single person be so careless? How can you be willing to eat food so close to the expiration date, or look both ways at the sidewalk just once? You’re helpless, truly, and it pisses Feitan off. 

It makes him mad, if only because he’s trying so much harder than you are to keep you safe, and isn’t it unfair to him? Isn’t it awfully inconsiderate of you to make him spend so much time looking after you, doing everything for you because you’re so damn incapable? It’s a negative view and Feitan doesn’t really blame you, only convincing himself he does in order to make him feel better. It’s an excuse to help him feel like he isn’t as attached as he really is, a way to help alleviate some of the embarrassment he has regarding his feelings for you. 

It’s pathetic, he thinks, but then something happens - something bad, something Fietan had hoped never would. Somehow, an enemy of the Troupe had discovered you. Maybe he was too preoccupied by keeping his eyes on you that he missed the stranger’s presence, unknowingly leading them directly to you. 

Sweet, weak, defenseless you. 

Time is frozen for Feitan as he returns from Troupe work, slinking to your apartment and letting himself in the front door, knowing that although it’s horribly late, you’re surely freshly asleep - except, the door is already ajar, and Feitan feels his blood run cold. There’s someone here. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend or enemy to you - why the fuck is there another person in your home at such an ungodly hour? 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and for a moment Feitan feels pure, absolute panic - you’re incapable of warding someone off, especially if you’re asleep, and although he feel sense your presence, there’s a distinct aura coming from your bedroom that isn’t yours. He’s quick to rush in, dark eyes narrowing when he sees the figure over your bed, a man hunched over and about to touch you - 

His sword is slicing through the man’s neck before he can even blink, head dropping to the ground with a dull thud and blood pooling where it lands. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, brows pinched together and his grip on the sword hilt tight. 

His gaze flicks to where you’re still sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware of the man standing beside your bed and the lifeless corpse bleeding out onto your floor. He’s got no choice, really - there’s something ugly stirring in his chest, something big and bad and painful, and he’s reaching out and scooping you into his arms all too quickly. 

The man surely was after Feitan - he’d looked at him with recognition, and Feitan can only swallow and tighten his grip on you ever so tightly, hopping out your window and taking off into the night, the makeshift home he’d been residing in lately eventually coming upon the horizon. 

The whole event spurs Feitan to believe that relocation is really the best option - his enemies are aware of you now, and who’s to say more won’t come knocking? How does he know you won’t be targeted again, those with vendettas against the Troupe knowing that someone weak and such an Achilles Heel like you would be the perfect revenge? 

He doesn’t, and so although he’s grimacing and slightly worried to have you under the same roof, he sets you down on the hard mattress, giving you a few glances before closing the door, sighing to himself and hoping you wake up soon. 

Feitan, once you’ve been stolen away, is mostly just an enigma to you. 

He’s so painfully unexpressive, so difficult to interact with that you’ll be left to wonder just why he stole you away, why he even bothered to take you when he seems so utterly disinterested in you. He doesn’t talk to you - outside of a few clipped, short commands, he’ll hardly ever let you hear his voice. 

Particularly in the beginning of your captivity, he would listen to your crying and begging to be released silently, his eyes slightly narrowed before a small, curt stop filled the room. 

He’s never given you any sort of an explanation for why you woke up in his home one day, even when you ask him over and over again. He’ll only look at you, dark eyes fixed on your face, before telling you to go to sleep, you need sleep and promptly shutting and locking the bedroom door. He’s entirely unwilling to really interact with you in any meaningful way - except, it’s not because he hates you, or because he’s simply biding his time to kill you. 

You may think that, fear swimming through your veins every time you see him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth - he’s not interacting with you much because there’s a part of Feitan that’s honestly afraid to. It makes him feel stupid and pitiful, but every time he tries to ask you a question or tell you something, the words just sort of die in his throat, his tongue frozen in his mouth even as he tries to move, tries to interact and get you to just look at him, dammit. 

Honestly, he’s embarrassed to speak to you - he’s been watching you for so long, acting as your shadow and seeing you so natural and perfect and raw, and he’s grown used to having a front row seat without having to do anything. He’s not used to you being able to see him or hear him or even know he’s there at all. It’s scary to have you be aware of him, placing him in an uncomfortable position where he can no longer simply watch you or long for you from afar - no, now, as much as he hates to admit it, he cares about your opinion. 

He cares about how you view him, how you perceive him, what you think about him. He wants you to think he’s funny when he tells cutting jokes, and generous when he gives you bowls of semi-cold soup. He wants you to find him attractive, catching your eyes settling on his body or your fingers running through his ebony locks. 

He wants your opinion to be favorable, but despite how strong this desire is, the fear that you’ll find him weird outweighs it. He knows it’s stupid, but he’s terrified that you’ll think he’s strange, a freak, some sort of monster if he talks with you. He’s scared he’ll say something wrong, something to scare you or offend you, and while he may be a mass murderer and an atrocious man, there’s something about the way your eyes would get all glassy and teary, face contorting into disgust as you physically recoil from him that makes his gut wrench, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He’s too awkward and nervous to speak with you - and so, he resorts instead to the staring, to the watching, to the observing. It’s what he knows best, after all, considering that was how most of his time was spent before kidnapping you. This is better; he has control in this situation, and he won’t accidentally slip and say something that bears too much truth, that lets you in on too much of what’s going on in his head. 

There’s less room for error if he relegates himself to minimal verbal and physical interaction, and while he aches to reach out and touch you, to feel the softness of your cheeks or the texture of your hair, he’s restraining himself. Just the mere thought of your skin against his gets him shivering, but it’s quite easy to overwhelm him; he’s not used to being the recipient of your attention, and while it feels good to have you looking at him and attempting to start conversations, it can get to be too much for him very quickly. 

It’s easy enough to answer trivial questions; things like what the food is that he placed in front of you (doesn’t matter, it’s good is all he’ll answer with) or inquiries into why he wears that same massive coat all the time (warm and my favorite color). 

Those are easy enough, not breaching too close to anything personal or anything that you could use against him. But the more complex questions, or - once the Stockholm Syndrome eventually kicks in and you’re so lonely you’ll happily converse with your kidnapper - compliments? 

As soon as the words slip from your lips, a simple your eyes are pretty or a I hope you sleep well makes him stiffen up a bit, lips parting ever so slightly under that cowl of his, before he’s quickly darting out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He has to take a few moments to collect himself, his ears and cheeks feeling hot because god, you were looking right at him, and you’d even said his name. 

(He spends the rest of the night in the basement, compulsively cleaning and recleaning his torture tools over and over, trying to distract himself from replaying your compliments over and over in his head, ingraining the sound of your voice and the tingling warmth he felt into his brain. Everything is sparkling clean by the time he’s done, a few hours having passed, and yet he’s spent the whole time thinking of you, letting you plague his thoughts like you always do.) 

He just can’t handle having all of your attention on him like that, and although he gets better at it and more used to it as time goes on, he’ll still be very skittish. He’s like a feral cat; he’ll stalk and watch, staring at you with beady eyes from the corner of the room while you try and act natural, only to scamper away when you try to reach out and pet. 

You’ll be starved for human contact as his captee, but aside from the lack of any sort of touch, you’ll find that being stuck with him is actually not too bad - he feeds you a decent diet, and lets you live in the spare bedroom of his home. He’d even cleaned everything up before you arrived, a preemptive measure he underwent one night when he couldn’t sleep, both his dreams and thoughts revolving around you. 

(There’s still bits of dust and a spider or two in the corner of the ceiling, but everything smells not terribly musty, and you don’t notice any mysterious stains on the sheets, so it could be worse, right?) 

He leaves you to your own devices more often than not, just on the condition that he can be present, whether you’re reading a book or sleeping or doodling with some art supplies he stole for you a while back. He’s not too demanding, but eventually the Stockholm Syndrome will get to you - you will eventually start wishing he’d do more than just look, even when he comes home with blood speckling his jacket.

You’ll grow to wish he would sit just a bit closer to you, so that you could feel his body warmth or a brush of his skin against your own. You’ll hate yourself for endearing your captor, but you don’t have much of a choice - Feitan, while terrifying and absolutely capable of killing you in more ways than you can count, is strangely sweet in his own way, even if it takes you a while to notice it. 

He’s not buying you flowers or declaring his undying love to you, but he is leaving small, insignificant gifts on your nightstand, maybe a small pastry that you love, or even a small, pretty little jewel he managed to snatch away from the goods Chrollo said were communal among the Troupe from the latest heist. He won’t ever say anything about them, and if you bring it up to him he’ll either ignore you or deny their existence, but he likes leaving them there as a token, as some way of quelling the intense desire to please you that wells in his chest.

It’s the only route he can allow himself to take, because that way he doesn’t have to confront you, only looking at your sleeping face. You always look so peaceful and pretty this way, all the lines of stress and worry smoothing away - you look how you used to, before he stole you away, back when his infatuation first started. 

And as he gently, carefully, hesitantly sits down beside your sleeping form on the mattress, he can’t help but gulp harshly and slowly, ever so slowly, reach out and rest his palm on your leg, the sheets separating your skin. He’ll keep his hand there for a while, dark eyes appraising your form under the covers, before exhaling shakily and standing back up, making sure the jade he’d brought back for you was securely on the bedside table, right in your view when you wake up. He’s not a bad captor by any means; he just has trouble expressing himself, walls built up too highly and too thickly to ever really knock them down. 

And you’ll get close - as close as you can, at least, as time passes. Feitan will eventually warm up to you, but he’ll never be particularly loving, particularly obvious with his feelings for you - he’ll always be a lovesick fool, but he’ll be damned if he lets another soul know that. 

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Feitan doesn’t particularly like hurting you. Of course, his career rides on his ability to harm, torture, mutilate and extract information out of even the worst criminals and agents, and for the most part he enjoys it. 

There’s something about the way he can elicit screams and tears out of others that gets him giddy, the smile stretching across the part of his face covered by his jacket as wide as can be. And yet, for all the enjoyment he derives out of hurting others, seeing you harmed, bruised, crying and begging isn’t nearly as fun as Feitan had expected. 

He’s not really sure why, but for some reason seeing you looking at him with so much fear dancing in your pretty eyes makes his gut wrench, an uncomfortable feeling sitting at the base of his throat while he mutters something demanding you to stop looking at him like that. It makes him feel weak, frankly, that you have this effect on him, but he can’t help it – early on into your captivity with him, he tried to settle your disobedience by physically harming you, but he got as far as leaving a rather large carved ‘F’ right over your heart before your crying got to him. 

He couldn’t lift his hand as you sobbed below him that day, your wrists bound by leather cording stained with his previous victims’ blood. Your eyes were puffy and glassy, snot dripping from your nose and pathetic little cries and begs for him to stop tumbling past your quivering lips. 

Frankly, Feitan was embarrassed for you. But more than anything, he was pissed – his hands were trembling, the switch knife grasped between his fingers frozen, his dark eyes wide as they stared down at you, guilt flashing through them the longer you sniffled and shook, the sight of you in pain with your pretty red blood dribbling down your collarbone simply too much. 

That day, he cleaned your wound, packed up his torture gear and locked you into your designated bedroom, all without a single word, mostly because his tongue didn’t seem to be working. But the shaky gasps stumbling from his lips as he stared at his own two hands later that night were enough to make him realize he hates to see you in pain, particularly when he’s the cause.

It’s confusing, irritating, scary, even, that you have this effect on him, but try as he might, any thought of physically harming you from that point on makes his stomach twist, bile rising up his throat and nausea hitting him square in the chest. 

But trouble, of course, arises; he refuses to physically harm you in most cases, but he still will only tolerate absolute obedience from you. You can’t simply walk all over him, he won’t let you – you need to listen to his instructions, follow his rules, eat the food he gives you, smile at him all pretty and warm, and let him sneak into your room and hold you when you’re fast asleep in the middle of the night, just as he starts craving. 

Feitan needs you to be obedient and submissive to him, and so how can he mold you into the perfect, obedient partner without laying harm to you?

The solution, as it turns out, lies in making you absolutely believe that he will hurt you, despite it not being true. 

You don’t need to know that the thought of making you wince or scrunch up your face in pain makes him physically hurl; no, you’re much better off thinking that he’s simply playing nice, waiting for the right moment to strike and leave you broken and bleeding. He’ll allow you to believe that he’s constantly ready to punish you, because then you’ll have some incentive to follow his words and rules, and to do what he believes you should do. 

And why wouldn’t you believe it? 

You know what Feitan does – he makes no effort to hide the torture tools scattered across his basement, and while you’ve only been down there once (the initial carving of the F), your imagination can conjure up plenty of scenarios of what goes on in that damp, dark basement. 

The fact that he has hurt you leads to you staying mostly in line – you’re more than aware of what he’s capable of, and although it slightly pains Feitan that you think of him as a monster, it’s for the best. It’s better for everyone when you’re well behaved – when you simply follow his orders and do what he wants you to, no matter how strange it makes you feel. 

You probably aren’t particularly fond of eating in front of him, but he’ll be sitting at the other end of the table as you carefully, hesitantly, twist the strands of pasta around your fork, your gaze flickering from the slightly undercooked noodles to your captor and back again. 

You probably don’t really like sleeping while he sits in the corner of the room, that stupid jacket pulled up over his mouth, making the only part of him visible to your drowsy self those damn eyes – and his hands, of course, with just the slightest touch of dried blood under his nails. You’re probably not particularly a fan of any aspect of being his captive – and Feitan carefully controls this. 

However, on the off chance that you do act up, that liquid courage flows through your veins and you cross him, you’ll quickly grow to regret it. Feitan still won’t hurt you – not physically, at least. 

But others? 

Well, it’s not hard to get Chrollo to give him someone who needs to give up some information, to set up the basement and make sure you get a front row seat as he makes the knots tight around the man’s wrist. It hurts him, really, to see the way your face contorts into horror as you watch him break bone after bone in the man’s body, but Feitan can’t stop looking at you. He needs you to be watching – you have to see what he’s capable of, even if he doesn’t really want you to know. 

You have to know that he’s serious when he tells you that you can’t leave, that there’s nowhere in the world you can run to where he won’t find you. He rips the man’s nails off, a finger at a time, just to make sure you understand that his touch can hurt – but maybe, some part of him hopes, you’ll realize that when he touches you, his touch is only ever gentle. Or at least as gentle as he can be. 

It’s all to make sure you understand that he’s utterly, absolutely in charge – his word is law, and while he craves for you to love him, he’s willing to compromise with just your respect and undivided attention. 

It’s not ideal, but as he watches the way tears stream down your cheeks and your body heaves and shudders with your sobs, he can’t help but slice the knife into the man’s thigh deeper, send the punch to his jaw harder. 

He has to keep you in line – this complicated, doomed relationship he’s forced you into is the only thing that makes him feel that strange, fluttering feeling in his chest, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go. He’ll be damned if he lets you go – even if you think of him as a monstrous, sadistic freak. 

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; it doesn’t matter, because you’re never getting away.

OVERALL DANGER:

8/10

The danger that lies with being Feitan’s darling is much more mental than physical. By all means, he’s not the ideal captor – he’s a criminal and mass murderer, torturing people for a living and liking it. And yet, there’s something about you that tones down the more deranged, violent aspects of his personality - he’s by no means soft, but he’s rounder at the edges, less rough and bitter and cold. 

He hates himself for falling in love with you, for having allowed you to worm your way into his heart and settle there, plaguing his every thought and dream with your face, your voice and laugh and smile and god, your body - 

He blames you, initially, but as time goes on and his feelings only grow stronger, harder to suppress, he finds that it doesn’t matter. You’ve already staked your claim on his heart, and there’s simply nothing he can do to stop what’s inevitable. 

Kidnapping is imminent with him, but it really does take him a long while to actually go through with it; you’ll have a long period of freedom from his clutches where you’re living your own life, with him only controlling it from the shadows rather than blatantly, like when he’s stolen you away. He’s not particularly needy, only demanding that you stay in his line of sight, but there’s something more terrifying about the way he’s always watching you like a hawk watches its prey than simple touching would be. 

You’re thankful he hasn’t forced himself on you or even forced any kind of affection, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that you miss human touch, that you almost wish he would reach out and hold your hand, press a kiss to your lips, slip the ratty old t-shirt he’d given you over your chest.

You’ll find yourself growing stir crazy under Feitan’s rule, growing desperate but still too scared to confront him, because his intentions with you will remain ambiguous at best - he hasn’t killed you yet, so you must be important to him somehow. You’re not sure, but the longer you spend with him, the less you’ll care until eventually you’re actively dreaming of the day when he finally, finally touches you with those cold fingers and lets you out of that bedroom you’re locked up in. 

Feitan loves you, in his own sick, twisted way, and the sooner you realize that the better - maybe you never will, but Feitan will always, always be there waiting, his gaze never faltering once from your figure. 

You’re just too mesmerizing, after all - and Feitan’s never been particularly good at denying himself what’s his. 

[emiko-mannequinfromfeitan]

Welcome to the basement

Open requests

Hi, I'm Lapizzet (or Emiko). I am a designer, so I will probably share some of my works as well. Feitan simp. Passionate about art, history (mainly the whole period from the renaissance up, to make you understand) and cinema. I don't want insults, homophobia, racism, sexism, discrimination of any kind. Respect people and their ideas and tastes of any type. I am Italian, so English is not my first language, please be lenient. I will probably do a separate post in which I tell you a little about myself.

-Required rules-

I write mainly for Feitan, but if you have requests for other members of the Troupe, feel free to ask. I love fluff, don't worry if you think the request is too mushy or soft. I have no real limits (no pedophilia and incest). I'll notify you if anything makes me uncomfortable. If the gender is not specified the reader will be a woman.

Enjoy the blog: 3

🖤Things about me🖤

°MasterList°

_Feitan and Phantom Troupe_

- Relationship with feitan headcanon

- Feitan alfabeto NSFW

- Feitan e il mondo dello spettacolo/musica/arte

- Feitan and the world of entertainment/music/art

- Feitan NSFW alphabet

- Relationship with feitan headcanon Eng

- Brigata fantasma a scuola con il loro s/o

- Sick Feitan

- ~Feitan x reader You have a nightmare/ he has a nightmare~

- 🖤Feitan headcanon san Valentino🖤

- 🖤Feitan headcanon Valentine's Day🖤

- Feitan x Busty s/o

- Feitan with an s/o who wants children

- Headcanon Feitan as a child

_Scenarios_

- Rompere con Feitan

- Feitan x reader first time

_My OC_

- Emiko divinity

_Fanfiction_

- ~𝐈𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝~   (in corso / in progress)

_Feitan x Stef_

-happy birthday Stef [ita] [eng]

[holydayaria]

I love disgusting men (Nobunaga and Feitan... Anyone from the phantom troupe to be real)

I love nasty and disgusting men, in bed and just in general. Sure, they’re intentional terrorists and sure, they’re not even that cute to start with, but there’s something kind of charming about them. To me, at least.

ehhh not really.

They’ve all killed more people than they can count. Feitan has an at-home torture dungeon and a very strange sense of how relationships should work. The power imbalance is painful, almost.

Outside of the whole killing people shtick, Nobunaga’s somewhat out of touch and a difficult person to be around at times (God forbid you have to deal with him day in and day out, overbearing doesn’t even begin to describe it).

Phinks is fine, on the surface. He puts the most effort in to appear at least halfway well adjusted, but when it rains, it pours. One minute you find out he’s lying about his actual job, and by that night he’s dragging you out of your own home because he’ll be damned if he loses you.

[holydayaria]

The ultimate act of trust for Feitan if he’s able to turn his back to you while you’re out of the basement for more than five minutes, and trust that you haven’t attempted to run away or tried to pull any stunts.

[holydayaria]

if you bite feitan in any way that isn’t the most light, teeth barely grazing the skin way, he’s going to take it as an act of defiance and hit you upside the head. but if you bite his hand (gently, of course), he will still smack you (albeit much more lightly). he also will not wash that hand for the next three to four business days. he will be thinking about that gesture for the next 40 days and 40 nights.

[holydayaria]

I think Feitan (or maybe Phinks) shudders when he cums!! Like full body spasm. Do you have any ideas/thoughts about how the phantom troupe yans act when they’re cumming?

Me and my friend were literally talking about this last night akdsfjk . thank u @fraelyn for some of the thoughts on this 🤗

Feitan, as much as he hates it, does shudder when he cums, just a little. He even curls his toes a bit (involuntarily). He’s not used to the sensation and sometimes his breath hitches in his throat. Feitan thinks it’s incredibly embarrassing and it’s the cause of much inner turmoil. As long as you don’t mention anything about it or he noises he makes, you should be fine.

Phinks holds onto something, whether it’s you, the bed frame, your hair, etc. His grip becomes tighter when he’s about to cum, and if he’s accidentally bruised you when forgetting his strength. He also broke the bed’s headboard once. There’s a low, final groan before he empties his load, usually into you- or at least on you. There’s a lot of cum too.

according to my dear fraelyns headcanon, his hand would spasm a bit when he cums. i did not know hand-spasms were a thing until they informed me of such

Chrollo doesn’t react so much, he doesn’t spasm or shudder, but he does gasp a little right before. Preferably, he’d be the one making you moan and whine and move your body against his, desperate for more of him, though there is the odd time that his occasional moan sounds more like a whimper. If you bring it up to him he deflects it and twists your words into a compliment that makes you no longer want to talk to him.

Nobunaga is loud. Loud and talkative during sex. You won’t need any non-verbal cues, he outright tells you he’s going to cum, holding onto you even tighter and going even faster. This does sometimes ruin the orgasm building up in you, and he brushes you off whenever you bring it up. If you ever want to cum during sex, you need to be the one in control so he doesn’t start changing the pace/position before you can even get close.

[holydayaria]

what about ex boyfriend feitan? I feel like he would either ignore you or be a rude bitch

i wrote this w reader + feitan being in a regular schmegular relationship instead of a yan dynamic because somehow that’s funnier to me

Oh he is seething. malding, even. He won’t have it. Don’t you realize how humiliating it is that just after he let it slip he was in a relationship, you went and broke up with him? And for what, because his schedule is inconsistent and he thinks he doesn’t need to tell you when he will and won’t be around? Because he thinks it’s amusing to come home soaked in blood and grime at 3 in the morning? Because he’d rather stay down in his basement than take you out on a date?

So long as you’re not dating another person, not all hope is lost. Perhaps he can knock you back to your senses so you’ll come back to him (he doesn’t like the idea of you taking him back, he wants you to be the one that comes crawling back to him). He’s an actual menace about it, if he sees you out with anyone that he thinks could be a romantic interest (anyone that isn’t your family, really), then he’s staring at you both from across the street. Knocks at your door at ungodly hours, calls to your phone from various numbers, all of which are burner phones he has. Should you choose to answer, Feitan will hang up before you can get a word out and then come knocking at your door. You picked up, so you must want to talk, right? And see him in person?

Goes out of his way to inconvenience you to get your attention, not fully aware or caring that this is counterproductive to winning you back. He might need some help with that. 😕

[holydayaria]

AND ANOTHER THING because we have the same brain worms. sometimes I also think about feitan in a post-apocalyptic scenario, where he’s far from the troupe with no easy way to get in contact with them, and has been absolutely fucked up in a fight. like, inches from death and sure he’s about to kick it.

and then poor clueless reader finds him and begins nursing him back to health and he only accepts it at first because he literally has no other choice but to die (I mean realistically he might just tell her to fuck off and let him die but. the fantasy.), but the more time he spends with her as his sole point of human contact (and the more he realizes that hey she’s actually pretty and kind and smart and funny) he starts to get attached against his own will.

the problem comes when darling begins to pick up on the fact that something is very wrong with this man. feitan can tell that she’s starting to realize that it’s in her best interest to leave him and leave him QUICKLY, but he cannot allow her to do that, and he also can’t disguise how fucked up and inhumane he is so he just…becomes almost clingy. or as close to it as he can get, in an angry and self-denying way. he would be disgusted by his own weakness, sick at being so dependent on such a weak girl, and even more frustrated at the fact that he actually wants her to stay around, and not just because his life depends on it

I just want feitan to be a teeny tiny little bit weak and pathetic for reader and I think this is one of the only plausible scenarios for that to happen lmao ok I’m done

I think we just have the same brain because I’ve actually been thinking about this exact concept lately 👁️

darling trying not to pry about his spider tattoo or how sharp his nails are, ignoring his constant glaring and his refusal to speak: :)

feitan, internally: hngjh… stupid woman… i want you..

The more you realize you should probably leave and get away, the clingier he gets. He starts following you around your home more, staring you down and constantly trying to keep you in his sight. May even pretend he’s more hurt than he actually is during his healing so you’ll tend to him and feel like you should stay with him more if he’s really desperate.

He hates you so much for your kindness and care, and how you make him feel, how in the recesses of his mind he’s worried about scaring you off. Not that it should matter, he could always drag you back to him. Feitan has now had a taste of your willing kindness and care though, and he wants to hold onto it.

Slightly soggy pathetic feitan is now my new favorite thing. He thinks he hates you, but he really just hates how weak you make him feel and how he can’t grasp control of his own feelings.

[holydayaria]

So you know how sometimes people write Feitan and Phinks being yanderes with the same darling, what if the darling tried to pit them against each other? Like saying to Pinks "Feitan is so creepy and sadistic it makes me uncomfortable and our relationship would be better if he wasn't around" or telling Feitan "Phinks is so pushy, he doesn't give me the space to be with you, we should leave him out of this". Would they fall for it?

okay sorry side note is it Phinks’ or Phinks’s idk I’m so bad with grammar 😕💔

You’d have to be very bold to even try this, I’ll say that. The thing is with these two is that they’re playing Bad Cop and Slightly-Less-Bad Cop and alternating between the roles.

Phinks might not even get what you’re trying to do. He’ll just brush you off and reassure you that “That’s just how he is, you’ll understand him after a while”, something along those lines. Phinks is pretty perceptive when it comes to Feitan and can read him pretty well, they’ve spent their entire lives together after all. His emotional intelligence ends there and most manipulation isn’t going to work on him. Either he won’t catch on to what you’re trying to do to the point where it’s like you’re trying to gaslight a wall, or he does catch on, and it won’t end well for you.

Feitan decides to have a little fun with this. He isn’t particularly sympathetic towards you whenever Phinks is being pushy or too rough with you, with his words or his hands. You’re basically their shared chew toy, for lack of better words, you deserve this. The thought that he can push you away from Phinks and closer to him has never occurred to him, nor does it occur to Feitan after your attempt to turn him against Phinks (which he shut down very quickly). However if you try to be more “loving” (playing the part of a willing captive), then he may be more inclined to attend to any physical injuries you may have should Phinks ever forget his own strength. It’s less out of care for you and more for taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state. He may hold things over your head to keep you in line and “better” your relationship with him. There’s an unspoken agreement that as long as you’re docile and stay in line, that Feitan will let certain things slide, and ease Phinks’ bouts of paranoia when he thinks you’re being suspicious.

Ultimately, it’s a 2 against 1, neither one of them are ever going to be on your side. If they ever have a disagreement, you’re going to be left out of it entirely to the point where you don’t know what they’re disagreeing on.

[holydayaria]

Would u rather live with yandere chrollo or yandere feitan? Or phinks?

ok anon let’s weigh our options here

chrollo is an ostentatiously rich theatre kid. annoying but not the worst company. definitely a creepy stalker but at least he can pretend he isn’t. probably won’t make me partake in murder or make me witness it. arguably the best choice between these three. bonus points for soft hair.

feitan has a creepy murder basement and a resting evil face. he looks like there’s a strange odor to him as well. he hardly speaks and he cannot and will not pretend he’s not a creepy stalker. has probably used my toothbrush at some point. i have 0 interest in sharing his (violent) hobbies with him.

phinks is needlessly aggressive and may punch a hole in the wall. hes somewhat awkward when he’s trying to be normal and doesn’t know how to enjoy a comfortable silence. minus three points for lack of eyebrows. he puts on slightly too much cologne (mostly because I doubt he showers everyday).

so yeah I think I’ll go with Phinks 😊

[holydayaria]

Bath Time

Yandere Feitan x Reader

Synopsis: you smell bad 

Warnings: drowning, kidnapped reader

820 words

quick blurb while i procrastinate my bio work ergh. not proofread

On the fourth day of being trapped in this man's basement, he got unnervingly close. He crouched himself right in front of you and just stared for a while. Your back was already pressed against the wall; if you could get any further away from him you would. You met his gaze, staring back. He apparently didn’t like it when you refused eye contact. He viewed it as a sign of rejection.

Feitan did not move for a while, and it was hard to tell what he was thinking (if he was thinking at all). You blinked a few times, focusing on what little of his face you could make out in the dark basement. Suddenly he seemed to fall forward, leaning into you and placing his hands on your shoulders. He found himself in the crook of your neck, the hair on his head tickling your face. Feitan had you in an awkward sort of embrace (if it could be called that).

“You smell.”

You bit your tongue as to not send a snarky reply. Of course you smell, you haven’t had the chance to shower or clean up or really do anything since he took you. The most you got was waking up wearing clothes you were not wearing prior to being in this shit-hole. “You need a bath.” Feitan said, removing himself from you and standing fully. At that you beamed internally. Finally, you’d be able to get cleaned up and stretch your legs. Hopefully a change of clothes.

You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.

You hadn’t taken Feitan for the perverted type as he hadn’t so much as glanced at you in your time as his captive; yet the ghost of a smirk was very present when he made you undress in front of him. It wasn’t necessarily seeing your nude body that amused him (though it most certainly was a bonus) but you barely able to keep your composure. You had to stand around naked while the bathtub was filling with water; he didn’t bother to fill it up beforehand. You took the time to look at yourself in the mirror, examining the eyebags and chapped lips you adorned. Feitan watched you, you could see it in the corner of your eye. As usual, he said nothing.

Sitting with your knees to your chest in this dirty tub, having the man who took you hostage washing your hair with your shampoo, trying to get the knots out of your hair. You almost wanted to throw up. Your shampoo, your conditioner, your body-wash, the bubbly bath bomb you only got every now and then. The more you looked in the bathroom the worse it got. Deoderant, toothpaste, even the fucking toothbrush was the same color as the one you had at home. Briefly you wondered Feitan went and bought the same products you use or if he directly took them from your home. 

The water was cold, frigid even. You were practically shaking, too nervous to ask if there was any hot water. With the state of the bathroom you doubted there was any. Feitan wasn’t letting you bathe yourself, taking liberty in washing you like you were a pet. Maybe that is what you were, his pet to do whatever he wanted with. Thankfully it seems the extent of his perverse thoughts ended at just seeing you. His touch was very clinical, if not a bit rough at points. 

It seemed he was just playing with your hair now, literally petting you. He was almost gentle, lulling you into a false sense of security. Before you could process what happened you were suddenly underwater, eyes and nose burning and getting a mouthful of soapy water. His grip on your hair suddenly turned so rough you thought you’d be left with a bald spot. You were left to try to claw at his hand, praying to whatever higher power that you wouldn’t end up drowning. After what felt like absoloutely too long, he lifted your head back out of the water with a sharp pull. You cried, coughed and sputtered. Heavy breathes in and out did little to calm your nerves. Feitan loosened his grasp on you, going back to petting you.

“Did I scare you?” He asked with a grin, “Did you think you were going to die?” You didn’t know how to answer, if he even wanted you to answer. You were sobbing now, and he was brushing away your tears with his thumb. Not a comforting gesture in the slightest, it felt menacing with the way his fingernail was digging into your cheek. 

A moment later and Feitan was gone. He had left you to cry alone, which you were thankful for. Whether he locked the bathroom door behind him you didn’t know, maybe it didn’t really matter. Hopefully when (or if) he came back he wouldn’t try to drown you again.

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Feitan Portor NSFW Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: mentions of non/dub-con, stalking, masturbation, kidnapping, spit, drool, lots and lots of cum, Feitan is gross and icky and comes in your conditioner I'm so sorry, seriously this one is pretty gross I apologize now, bondage, ropes, blood, period sex, consumption of period blood, Stockholm Syndrome, a few mentions of reader having pubic hair, mentions of premature ejaculation, Feitan has intimacy issues, a touch of sadomasochism, dry humping, blindfolds, begging, edging, overstimulation, there's a lot going on, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

WC: 12K (oh my god)

HABITS:

Even amongst the Troupe, Feitan is particularly emotionally stunted. 

Of course, he knows about relationships, about the intimacy that ensues - he’s never personally fucked anyone, but he knows how it goes, what it’s like (at least, in theory), how it’s supposed to feel. He’s just never wanted to - his libido is actually quite low, and although he’s spent nights tossing and turning in bed, cock throbbing and aching for attention, he’s never felt the urge to find some random woman for a fun, stress relieving night. 

Sure, he’s jerked off more times than he can count, and he’s been to more strip clubs with Phinks and Uvogin than he’d care to admit. He’s been around it his whole life, even from a young age as a child in Meteor City - so yes, he knows about sex. 

He’s just never been able to tolerate someone long enough to consider sleeping with them, much less actively wanting to sleep with them. And yet, once you step into his life, Feitan finds himself uncomfortably aroused by the idea of letting his hands wander your body, of seeing the way your pretty face would scrunch up in pleasure, of hearing your little moans and yelps when he kisses you and sinks his teeth in just a bit too hard. 

Once his obsession with you forms and he begins moving past some of those initial mental barriers, Feitan finds himself beginning to crave you intimately, physically, sexually. And, just as the rest of his feelings for you, he hates it at first. 

He hates how just a simple thought of you has his body growing hot, the collar of his jacket uncomfortably tight as he shifts his weight, trying to ignore the way blood is steadily rushing south. 

He hates how just a simple look from you, with your eyes all innocent yet sultry, makes him gulp a bit, his fingers twitching at his side. He doesn’t like how he can’t control his body’s reaction to you, but it’s not like he can help it - it’s instinctual, primal, carnal, as if his body is recognizing that you’re the chosen one for him to fornicate with, as if you’re the only one worthy of his sexual attention.

Feitan doesn’t like this change in developments much, but quickly he finds himself at a crossroads; he can spend nearly every night staring at the black of his ceiling, laying in bed and glancing down at the massive tent in the sheets centered around his crotch, or he can give in and get working, letting his hand run along the length of his cock all with you on his mind.

 He doesn’t feel guilty about masturbating to you, per se, but there is this weird sense of embarrassment that sits heavy in his chest as he exhales shakily and spreads the bead of precum along his shaft. There is this weird feeling like he’s doing something bad, something naughty, as if you’d be disgusted if you were to ever find out.

It makes him feel strange, but he almost likes it - it’s a thrill he gets, particularly to the knowledge that you’d probably be disgusted to know he wrings himself dry (often more than once at a time) nearly every night, all with the mental image of you naked, writhing and stuffing your fingers into that warm, wet, oh so fucking tight cunt of yours. 

He’d never admit, but he’d give anything to be your fingers, to feel the sensation of being inside you, even if it was only for a few moments. (That’d probably be enough to make come the first time he fucks you, anyways.)

Once he gives in to getting off with you in mind, Feitan finds himself fucking his fist frequently, frantically, his hips thrusting into his hand faster and rougher the longer he goes on, the longer the image of you crying his name and clenching down around his cock plays behind his eyelids.

He wraps his hand around his girth and immediately starts violently pumping his fist up and down, until he’s eventually stuttering your name and coming, sending spurts of cum flying up onto his chest, the white staining his pale chest. It feels good, or at least good enough to satisfy him for the moment, up until he ends up palming himself through his pants the next night. 

It’s a never ending cycle, and frankly it leaves Feitan frustrated – it’s just not enough. The thought of you is more than enough, really, to functionally get him shooting ropes of cum out of his swollen, needy tip, but there’s this part of him buried deep inside that needs more, something to make him feel like it’s really you he’s touching and fucking. 

It’s not enough to be the one touching himself, when he knows it would feel different if it was your soft hand, your warm lips, your tight walls. He needs something more, something more intimate and personal and you in order to really get himself off, to really feel connected to you in the way he craves. 

And so, Feitan makes a discovery one evening that changes everything; he has a penchant for sneaking into your room after you’ve fallen asleep, the dismal security of your apartment something he’s simultaneously grateful and irritated with you for. He likes to just watch you sleeping, those dark eyes taking in every detail about your unconscious form, all exposed for his viewing pleasure without you even knowing it. 

He always shuffles closer the longer he watches, his feet taking just a tiny step every once in a while, just because he can smell you better when he’s closer, see more detail in your skin and features, and it’s only after he’s crept his way right up to your side that he notices it. He should be disgusted, he thinks, when he sees the bit of drool slipping past your lips, your slumber deep enough that you haven’t noticed the wet pool of it against your pillow. 

He should be grimacing and scooting away, revolted by something so gross, but instead Feitan finds his eyes getting caught on the way your lips are just slightly parted, the wetness against your chin shining ever so slightly in the pale moonlight. 

He doesn’t really know why he does it, but soon his fingers are reaching out, lightly brushing against your lip, a sharp inhale audible as he feels the warm wetness of your saliva against his fingertips. He’ll retract his hand, staring with narrowed eyes, before slowly, carefully bringing his fingers to his own mouth, slipping them past his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed because he’s tasting you. 

It’s euphoric, your spit sweet and leaving the perfect tang on his tongue, and suddenly Feitan’s reaching into his jacket pockets, frantically searching for the vial he keeps on hand, just in case he needs a bit of blood from a victim or enemy. He gulps when he finally pulls it out, wiping at it to rid it of any remaining blood, before carefully bringing the glass up to your face, positioning it right below your chin so that the next bit of drool to drip out of your mouth lands in the vial rather than on your pillow. 

It’s a slow process, filling it up, but Feitan’s committed, spending every night sitting beside your bed, watching you sleep and seeing the glass slowly fill with your drool, collected all for him. And when he finally has enough? Well, it’s easy to transition from slowly dipping his fingers in the vial and letting his tongue glide over them to letting the spit cover other areas of his body, even if the mere idea makes him scoff while a blush settles over the bridge of his nose. 

It’s not until one night, though, that he finally takes the plunge, crossing a line he can never recover from. He’d been particularly pent up, his cock absolutely swollen, aching and desperate for release, and his fist was just not enough. Even as he pounded away, biting his lip and furrowing his thin brows, the pleasure just wouldn’t come. 

His eyes wander from his ceiling down to his dresser, zeroing in on the glass vial sitting so innocently, so provocatively, practically taunting him to come closer. He’s snatching up the glass before he can really think, sitting back down and tearing the top off, his fingers moving faster than he can process. 

Soon, he’s dipping them in, swirling them a bit to make sure they’re really covered, but instead of bringing them to his lips, his hands travel south - gripping onto his cock, the wet coolness making him hiss through his teeth. He brings his wrist up, your saliva slowly smearing along his shaft, leaving it wet and twitching in the cold air of his bedroom, visibly throbbing as he runs his thumb over his slit, making sure to absolutely drench himself with your spit. 

His eyes slide shut, head rolled back slightly as he moves his hand at a steady, painfully slow pace, trying to calm his heart rate because this is so very different from before. It’s different, if only because it’s you - your saliva is letting his hand move smoother, your saliva coating his skin, you helping him to get off. It makes him feel dizzy, the familiar coil in his stomach appearing embarrassingly quickly as he speeds up his fist, images of you playing behind his eyes. 

He can’t help but imagine you on your knees before him, staring up at him with those pretty eyes, all wide and glassy and yearning, with your hands tied behind your back and your lips parted, pink tongue lolled out and waiting for him to fill that tight throat of yours. He grunts, squeezing at his tip, digging his fingers back through the vial to refresh the supply of your drool, and in his mind he’s slowly tracing your lips with the head, smearing his precum along your skin as you clench your thighs together and hum, practically begging him to facefuck you. 

Feitan hunches forward slightly as his wrist moves even faster, hand flying up and down his shaft, wet noises accompanying every jerk all caused by the excessive wetness he’s coated himself with, the feeling of your spit exactly what he’d be feeling if he was actually stuffing your little mouth, dark hairs tickling your cheeks and nose as he pushes your head all the way down, so that his tip is nestled down your throat. 

He lets out a guttural groan at that, a strained noise that makes him grimace, but he can’t help it - his orgasm is approaching, and he can’t help but listen to the wet squelching noises and imagine your gags and sharp breaths accompanying them, his toes curling. It feels so good, a building warmth in his naval that only grows bigger, stronger, more insistent, and all too soon he’s imagining the way you’d present your face to him when he pulls out and strokes himself over your face, cum spurting from his tip and landing in rivulets all along your cheeks, lips, nose, even getting into your hair.

You’d look so good, all messy and out of breath and covered in him him him, just as he is you. 

He bares his teeth as he feels himself right on the edge, his fingers clutching onto the vial so tightly he nearly shatters it, his cock bobbing and throbbing, balls clenching as he curls in on himself, small chants of your name mumbled under breath and then he’s coming, cum spraying everywhere as he gasps, hips bucking involuntarily into the air, chasing after his fist with every pump, aching to be releasing inside you, where it belongs. 

He takes a moment to come down from his high, chest heaving and eyes wide, staring down at the vial in his shaking hand, the weight of his orgasm shocking him. He’d never come so hard, like every muscle in his body was spasming, the pleasure nearly overwhelming. His eyes flick over to the clock, and he splutters, seeing the time. 

3:08, meaning only three minutes had passed since he’d snatched up the vial, feeling your spit against his skin, feeling you against the sensitive skin of his cock. 

His eyes close, his breath finally evening out, before he’s carefully setting the vial aside, recapping it and laying onto his back, trying to process why the hell he’d come so fast with something as grotesque as your spit to help him. He’s not sure, but then the images return of you on your knees for him, face still covered in his release and telling him that you want more, please Feitan, will you give me more? 

He groans as he feels his softening cock suddenly begin growing once more, his hips twitching as he reaches down to lightly grope at his balls, swallowing and deciding whether to dip his fingers into the vial yet again - he only has a limited supply, after all, and he’d be needing it again tomorrow night when he inevitably lets his mind wander to thoughts of you tied up and begging for him. 

He grumbles, a strained sort of sound, before getting to work once more, spitting into his hand and letting a small, barely there smile grace his lips, the slight flush still high on his cheeks. He’d have to get some more, he decided, because this? 

Well, fucking you was surely better, but Feitan would be a food to not capitalize on this new discovery - and when he’s painting his chest with ribbons of cum again a few minutes later, he decides that he’ll never go back to not having something of yours to aid him while he gets off. 

It’s just more intimate this way, better, like you’re really there - like you’re really naked and ready to fulfill every need, desire and fantasy of his. 

Like you want him. 

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your face

In general, Feitan thinks you’re attractive. He’s hesitant to say beautiful or pretty or really anything of the sort, if only because the way he feels for you is a bit more complicated than that. 

You’re not just pretty; you’re alluring, someone that always seems to catch his eye no matter how hard he tries to stop it. 

You’re not beautiful; objectively, there’s nothing about you that he hasn’t seen in hundreds of other women, whether it be your hair, your lips, your figure, or anything else. (Except maybe your eyes, or maybe your smile - things that are just so unapologetically you, things that Feitan thinks he could recognize with his eyes closed.) 

You’re nothing particularly special, physically speaking, and yet there’s something about you that he just can’t shake, some involuntarily thing that motivates him to always have his eyes on you, his body unconsciously facing you, his senses just so very aware of you. And because Feitan spends so much time simply watching you, he’s become extremely well antiquated with your features, with your pretty face that always seems to pull him in, like a moth to a flame. 

He’s memorized the way your lips curve, the soft skin puckering and moving with every word you say, and he often finds his gaze flicking down to watch while you talk, eyes sitting there idly as he lets his mind wander to what else you can do with those lips, what other shapes they can make. 

He’s studied every slope of your nose, the shape seeming to fit your face perfectly, and he even finds himself turning his lip when he sees models or celebrities with the same nasal structure - it doesn’t look nearly as good on them as it does you. 

And of course, your eyes - he’s spent more hours than he can count looking into them, unwilling to break the eye contact as he stares, fascinated with the color, how they shine in the light, how sunlight seems to make them glow, making you glow. 

So while there’s not any particular thing Feitan can say makes you attractive, you just are - enough so that he’s found himself seeing flashing images of your face late at night, when he’s unable to sleep and polishing his weapons, letting his mind wander and inevitably stumble into thoughts of you. He’ll relive the way you look when you smile - your grin is wide, teeth exposed, the pretty skin of your lips all stretched to accommodate your joy. 

You look good like that, and all too soon his innocent thought process of you is slipping into something sinister, something dirty and risqué, because now he’s imagining the way you’d smile up at him when he’s got you underneath him, your pretty little pleas and desperate begs for him to touch you making his skin tingle and his throat feel stuffy. 

He’s imagining the way you’d lick your lips when he tells you to get on your knees, his cock mere inches from your face as he strokes  himself, the eagerness and hunger in your eyes making him rush forward and bury himself down your throat in one go.

He’s imagining the way you’d look when he’s got you creaming on his cock, face pressed against the mattress and a mixture of tears and drool slipping down your chin, the pleasure just too much, even while your hips grind back on him, wanting more more more. 

He just likes your face, finding it oddly pleasing, and when the two of you are intimate, he finds himself eagerly searching out your facial expressions as often as possible - it’s the way he knows what you like, if you’re enjoying what he’s doing to you, if he’s doing a good job. 

So really, exaggerate the expressions, make it clear exactly what you’re feeling, and Feitan will be over the fucking moon - pounding into you with a new vigor, a sudden resolve to get you coming at least twice before he’s done with you. You’re just too attractive for him to resist, and he’s only a man, after all. 

His hands 

In general, Feitan is a fan of showing his feelings rather than articulating them, and even then only to an extent. 

There’s only so far he’s willing to expose his vulnerability, and it just becomes easier and less scary to just show you, to let his actions speak louder. And despite it taking a very, very long time for him to grow comfortable enough to actually act on this philosophy, one of the first ways that he’ll settle into touching you is with his hands. 

They’re rough, the skin calloused and scarred, pale fingers just the slightest bit off in certain spots, evidence of the multitudes of times he’s broken them. His fingers are lithe, nimble, quick and dexterous, evidence of his abilities with swords and the various tools he uses for work. And so, once he turns his hands onto you, you’ll notice all these things. 

It starts small - a fleeting feeling of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, merely a ghost of a touch that leaves you wondering if you really felt anything at all. 

He’ll reach out to flick at your forehead if you do something dumb (something endearing, but dumb), glaring at you and telling you to stop it, though his fingers are tingling where they made contact with your skin. 

He’ll lightly lay his hand on your hip, or on your thigh, keeping it there for a few moments before snatching it back to his own side, his hand flexing and the muscles tightening up because god, did you like that? Did you like it when he touched you? 

He gets in his head way too much about how you react to his touch, but the truth is that Feitan is incredibly touch starved, particularly when it comes to any sort of positive or romantic touch. 

He’s a criminal and has grown up in horrible conditions, and he’s simply never cared. But now that you’re here, someone for him to live out all those cliche, stupid romantic tropes? Well, he can’t directly ask for your affection, but you’ll notice the way his hands lay on your body for just a beat too long, just enough to make you wonder whether that touch was really as innocent as he seems to think it was (it’s not, at least not as much as he wishes - every time his skin brushes yours, this spark of electricity dances up his spine, making him gulp and tense up, because while the feeling blooming in his chest is warm and good, it’s still foreign, still something he hasn’t quite gotten used to yet).

And even once he reaches the stage where he’s grown comfortable enough with the concept of being intimate with you to actually touch you, he still relies heavily on his hands. Particularly, Feitan grows an affinity for fingering you - he loves the way your cunt just seems to suck his fingers in, as if your body is begging for more and more of him, craving his touch and the pleasure only he can give you. 

He’ll experiment a lot with you at first, curling his fingers or scissoring them, dark eyes appraising your face and checking for any changes in expression that could hint at what rhythm or area you like. 

(You’ll wonder where he learned some of the motions he tries out on you - he’ll never admit to watching porn to learn some ideas, nor that he practiced them before trying them out on you, his hand sandwiched between two pillows as he diligently curled them, perfecting the ‘come hither’ motion or letting his thumb practice rubbing tight, firm circles against the cotton. No, he’d rather die than have you learn that - you can’t know how badly he wants to please you, after all.) 

He likes to watch his fingers dipping inside you, the way they emerge all wet and glistening, a ring of white sitting right above his knuckles and filling him with pride. 

(Often, he finds himself idly staring at his fingers after you’ve fallen asleep, your body sore and exhausted after the fucking he’d put you through. He’ll spread them, staring from all angles, remembering the feeling of your wet heat around them, how your walls clamped down on him, even how your lips and tongue flicked across them when he’d shoved them into your mouth earlier. He’ll bring them to his lips, idly sucking on them, trying in vain to get every last drop of you off of them, so that he can taste you for just a moment longer, just to satisfy himself for as long as he can.) 

He’s a late bloomer and it will take him a long while to reach the point of being willing to touch you sexually (though he wants to from pretty much the get-go, much to his embarrassment), but once he does, you’d better get used to the feeling of his hands against your skin - after all, he’s insistent, and you do not want to reject his touch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just moan and sigh and tell him it feels good, because Feitan is just so much more agreeable when he’s happy - you’ll get to come that way, too.

DRIVE:

Generally speaking, Feitan’s libido has never been especially high. Sex has never been a priority for him, and even once his days as a Troupe member begin, this doesn’t change. He doesn’t see the attraction to sleeping around, to fucking random women just for a few minutes of fleeting pleasure. 

It’s just so much work to be around others, to have to communicate and hear their complaining when he doesn’t put effort into making them feel good – it’s just not fun, not something he wants to spend his time with. And so, while Feitan is certainly no saint, he doesn’t actively seek out sexual partners. And he especially doesn’t seek out touching another person, letting himself be touched, becoming vulnerable in any possible way.

So, once you step into his life, this self-inflicted celibacy doesn’t really change all that much. Of course, the idea of touching you is significantly more attractive than it would be to touch a random stranger, but Feitan is still not especially eager to fuck you once his obsession develops. 

He’s a bit of a late bloomer, taking a while to let his emotions warm up to you. In doing so, it takes a long, long time for his sexual urges towards you to appear, because Feitan prides himself on having good self control. But once he fully gives in to the fact that he wants you, in a way that’s entirely new and scary and foreign to him, the urges begin appearing. 

The idly thoughts wondering what you’re wearing, what you’re thinking about, if you’re in the mood… He’s still not as horny as some of his fellow Troupe members, but Feitan begins regularly imagining fucking you, the thoughts seemingly popping out of nowhere and completely unannounced. 

Frankly, it’s irritating; why is he imagining you without a shirt on when Phinks is telling him about the latest job Chrollo had paired them up for? (It’s a pain in the ass to hide the slowly growing tent in his trousers from the blond - he always just seems to know, and Feitan would rather die than be subjected to the never ended teasing.) 

Why is he imagining the way your lips would feel wrapped around his cock when he’s slicing off that man’s head, the cut clean and clear yet the only thing he can think of being how your cheeks would hollow as you suck? 

It’s annoying, and although he tries to fight it at first, he eventually gives up. There’s only so much he can stop himself from imagining, and as his obsession grows deeper, the perverse fantasies he holds towards you only grow more numerous, more pronounced, more longed for. He finds himself actively wanting to be intimate with you, and while he won’t act on that desire for a very long time, it’s left to quality sit, festering and brewing inside him until one day it’s all just too much, a dam bursting that forces him to finally take that last step, to let himself rest a hand on you or brush his lips against your cheek or graze his finger along your nipple. 

He doesn’t move very fast, but Feitan’s in no rush - after all, you’re stuck with him for the rest of your life, and he’ll be the only other human you’ll ever interact with. By the time he’s ready to progress your relationship forward, you’ll likely have come around, desperate enough for human contact that you’ll want him to touch you, that you’ll want to touch him back. 

Just the thought makes him gulp and flex his fingers, excitement and anxiety settling into his stomach, his cock growing half hard even as his mind winces. 

However, because he has so many issues surrounding intimacy and vulnerability, Feitan will likely never actually force you into anything. 

Because you’re likely to come around and develop Stockholm Syndrome by the time he’s ready to touch you, you’ll be more than eager to let his hand rest on your waist, or to let him stand behind you so that your ass is pressed against his crotch, the tent in his pants more than apparent. You’ll be ready, but until he’s ready, he has to find alternatives. 

Because he’s still frequently experiencing sexual urges towards you way before he’s willing to act on them, Feitan finds himself quite sexually frustrated. He has all these dirty thoughts, all these possessive, insistent feelings urging him to just take you, to stake his claim on you by stuffing you full of his cock and cum, and he has to release them somehow. 

And so, he falls back on a method that he isn’t necessarily proud of, but does find some sick, twisted sense of pride and amusement from. That is, because he’s the one supplying literally everything to you once you’re trapped under his roof, it’s not so hard to tamper with some of the ingredients of your essentials. 

Your conditioner, for instance; he buys you the brand you love (something he tells you is coincidence but most certainly isn’t), and as he opens the cap and smells it one day while you’re asleep in the next room over, he can’t help but notice how creamy it is, how thick and how white it is.

It make shim gulp, and after quickly making sure to lock the bedroom door you’re trapped behind, Feitan shakily returns to the bathroom, exhaling deeply. It’s just a coincidence that the conditioner resembles something that he produces, right? 

It’s an amusing twist of fate that your favorite conditioner (with the scent he can only describe as you) looks almost exactly like his cum, right? 

Feitan thinks so, and as his mind wanders back to the little stunt you’d pulled earlier in the day, he finds himself settling onto the closed toilet lid, reaching into his pants and pulling out his cock, already drooling precum and sensitive to the touch. 

You’d been laying on your bed, blanket barely covering your body as you slept, the skimpy pajamas you’d fallen asleep in in disarray on your figure. Your shirt had bunched up, letting one pert, supple breast slip out, your nipple on display, not even the blanket managing to cover it up. 

(He’d froze when he noticed, slowly creeping closer, licking his lips and unable to stop staring.) 

And those damn sleeping shorts, always getting moved around and never quite sitting right on your hips when you wake up, were twisted a bit, the holes for your legs angled just right so that if he looked the right way, he could see the very edge of your cunt, one lip covered with pretty pubic hairs, looking soft and warm and so fuckable. 

You were asleep, and somewhere in Feitan’s mind he knows you weren’t doing it on purpose, but it’s hard not to blame you for being so indecent, for hoping to tempt Feitan into giving in. You’re such a fucking minx, all teasing and daring to show off your assets, and how was Feitan supposed to react to this? How was he not supposed to immediately grow aroused and flustered, unable to tare his gaze from your vulnerable body?  

Eventually he’d managed to, shutting the door behind him and taking a few uneven breaths, trying desperately to not replay the image of your breast over and over in his mind. It’s no use, however, and as he splashes his face with cold water in the bathroom, that’s when his eyes land on the conditioner bottle. 

His hand moves fast as he fucks his fist, hissing under his breath over and over as he steadily gets closer, driven forward by the idea of lewd it will be to have his cum in something as personal as you conditioner. 

He can’t stop thinking about how you’d have no idea, waltzing around with his cum soaked into your pretty hair, maybe even making you smell like him - He’s groaning, the thoughts pushing him closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm hurtling forward as he imagines the way you’d lather it in your hands, humming and making sure every square inch of your hair is covered in it, covered in him. 

He imagines the way you’d bring it up to your nose and deeply inhale, sighing because it’s your favorite scent, wondering why it smells a bit more musky than you remember, but not minding. Maybe you’d even like the new scent, and just the thought of that is enough to push him over the edge, a sharp growl slipping past his lips as he aims his cock right into the bottle, cum spraying all over the conditioner, the white colors matching perfectly. 

He’s breathing hard, a seemingly never ending series of spurts coming from his swollen tip, and once he thinks he’s done, he grasping his length and lightly shaking it, lodging any loose bits of cum out, coaxing them to join the pile. Once done, he’ll gulp, letting a small smirk slip onto his lips as he closes the bottle, shutting the lid tight and shake the bottle, making sure to thoroughly mix it. 

He won’t tell you about his little ‘gift’, of course not - but you’ll know something is up when he’s standing stiff as you exit the bathroom, towel wrapped around your body and wet hair having been marinating in the special mixture he made for you, and when he’s eagerly sniffing your head every chance he gets after that, you’ll have to realize something is amiss. 

When he’s asking you if your hair feels particularly soft, you’ll have to know he’s trying to get at something, some layer underneath the surface that he’s really speaking about. 

It’s enough to satisfy him for the time being, his possessiveness over you quelling ever so slightly because even though it’s not in your cunt, where it belongs, at least he’s got his cum somewhere on you - and until he’s ready to fuck you properly, that’ll have to do. It’ll become habit, and one day you may even stumble upon him midway through the process, your conditioner bottle an inch or so from his tip as he frantically tugs and pulls. 

(He’ll freeze, unable to process that he got caught, and frankly, he’ll just try to ignore that you ever saw it, not willing to broach the topic - and you won’t be either, because what the fuck?)He just really, really desires you, and Feitan is a resourceful man - so I hope you like the smell of musk and a bit of iron, because you’ll be smelling like it for weeks.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Orgasm Control

In general, Feitan has to be in control in the bedroom. It’s not that he’s particularly onto any dominant or submissive roles between the sheets, but more because he doesn’t like the feeling of vulnerability that accompanies letting other people pleasure him. Something about being at the mercy of someone else’s touch or whims makes him nervous, an unpleasant feeling blooming in his stomach that leaves him fidgety and jumpy. 

And so, every sexual interaction with you will see him starring as the dominant role, always calling the shots, and nothing exemplifies this sentiment quite like the way he treats your orgasms. Despite not having a huge amount of sexual experience prior to his infatuation with you, he’s very obviously aware that both partners are capable of orgasming in any given sexual interaction, that it should be expected and achieved regardless of methodology. 

With other women, Feitan wouldn’t care in the least – he’s selfish by nature, and if he were to ever have sex with anyone other than you, in no way, shape or form would he pay any mind to their pleasure, only chasing after his own release. 

But with you, this sentiment is a bit different; he wants to get you off, if only because seeing the way your body responds to him, shaking and shivering and moaning and clenching, gets him harder, his breath more ragged, his palms sweatier. There’s something incredibly pleasing about seeing the way your body is sensitive to his every touch that makes him giddy, an odd mixture of power, arousal and eagerness filling him. 

He wants to make you a mess, to get you gushing and creaming and whimpering as he fingers you, as he shoves his cock inside you, even as he tongues at your clit (eating you out isn’t something that happens often, but when it does, Feitan expects you to come from it). He likes the sight of you falling apart for him, and consequently, that desperation for power and control comes hurtling back – so that he is the one in control of your orgasms. 

He wants to be the one choosing when, how, and why you’re coming, every one of your movements a result of him. 

He tends to rely heavily on edging you, enjoying the way you squirm and beg for him to keep going. He’ll have two slender, nimble fingers buried inside of you, curling and scissoring, the stretch a bit painful but in a pleasure-tinged way, making your toes curl and your bottom lip catch between your teeth. 

His thumb will rub consistent, steady circles at your clit, the little nub sore and swollen, and he’ll keep his ministrations up until you’re breathing heavier, your stomach and thighs clenching, the telltale signs that you’re nearing your high. 

(He’s very, very good at reading your body when it comes to your sexual pleasure – he’s spent so long stalking you that he’s seen you touching yourself more times than he can count, and while watching the way your cunt takes the toy is very, very difficult to tear his eyes away from, he’d made sure to study every other part of your body, too. He’s watched the way your face morphs as you get closer, your brows shooting up and your lips parting a bit, your eyes fluttering and threatening to close as the pleasurable knot in your gut grows tighter and tighter and tighter. He’s watched the way your legs shake, the muscles in your thighs visibly twitching and clenching, trying desperately to close and clench together, prompting him to imagine how they’d feel around his head, around his waist, around his cock. He’s even noticed your breathing, how you sound, the way your voice gets higher and more breathy, your moans increasing in intensity until you let out this sudden, strained gasp that gets him swallowing harshly, a thick pearl of precum dripping from his tip from the mere sound.)

He’s constantly observing you even while he's intimate with you, those dark eyes never wavering from your form, and he’ll bring you right to the edge, noticing with a tightness in his throat that your legs are starting to tremble, that your voice is climbing up, that you’re starting to get all gaspy and your abdominal muscles are clenching, and god, you’re squeezing around his fingers so damn tight – 

The confused, desperate whine you let out when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of you makes him smirk a bit, the way your watery eyes blearily blink up at him, half clouded in lust and disappointment making him reach out to pinch at your pebbled nipple. Not yet, one more time. He’ll tell you, laughing a bit as you whine and gulp, chest heaving and your fingers twitching. He’ll make you wait, maybe even reaching down and jerking himself off a bit, making a show of hissing under his breath and making sure that you can see him, hearing the wet noises as he flicks his wrist and imagines it’s your sweet little pussy wrapped around him rather than his own fingers.

He’s embarrassingly sensitive when he does this, his own touch making him buck his hips as he stares down at you, spread before him, underneath him, where you belong. He’ll make sure to give enough time that you come down from your sensitivity, before resuming his ministrations, making you gasp and bite your lip. 

He’ll keep doing this over and over and over, denying you of your orgasm some five or so times before he finally, finally decides that you’ve behaved well enough, that you deserve to feel good. (Often, what finally gets him to cave in is the fact that he too is very close, and while it’s cliché and stupid and a bit pathetic, he really likes it when you both come at the same time, your orgasms matching up so he can feel like you’re doing it together.) 

He’ll work you through it, not stopping his motions, which brings up another aspect of how Feitan likes to tease you and assert his control over you – he doesn’t like overstimulation quite as much as denial, but he’s not shy about going faster, harder, his motions seeming almost frantic as you start whining and shaking, going on about how it’s too much, Feitan it’s too much I can’t! 

He’ll just growl and shut you down, slapping (not too hard) your clit and seeing you way you jerk, telling you to shut up and take it, you’ve done it before. He likes seeing your eyes get all teary, your body spasming and shaking even harder, the overstimulation making you cry out his name with a renewed fervor. 

(He’d never admit it, but that’s one of his favorite parts – he never pegged himself to be a fan of loud moans, but there’s something about the way that you do it, when it’s his name you’re moaning, that makes him throb, his cock twitching without any stimulation. You sound so destroyed, so wrecked and utterly desperate for him that it makes his head spin, his chest filling with pride and lust and satisfaction because you do need him, and your body is just proving that.) 

He’s cruel, often pulling three or four orgasms from you every time he touches you, those dark eyes staring unblinking down at you, almost studying you as you fall apart on his cock, on his fingers, on anything he chooses. It makes him feel good to know that he’s in full control, that he can choose when you come – it shows his place above you, helping him to justify the fact that he’s pleasuring you, that he’s taking the time and effort to make you feel good when he really doesn’t need to. 

He’s just being generous – you should be grateful he even cares about your pleasure at all. 

(Say thank you to him as you orgasm and he’s gone – cum is dripping down your skin or out of your pretty hole before you can process what’s even happening, the man above you gasping and heaving, trying desperately to make sure you don’t see the slight red staining his cheeks.) 

He wants you to follow his commands, so just let him do as he pleases – you’ll come eventually, most of the time.

Bondage

Tying into his preferences for holding control in the bedroom, Feitan has a certain affinity for seeing you restrained. 

There’s something about the way your body is presented to him when you’re all tied up that gets him feeling hot, his hands twitching and yearning to reach out and touch you. He’s not picky about what he uses to bind you – the tried and true rope is never displeasing, and the variety of pretty knots and positions he can force you into this way leave him nearly drooling at all the different sexual fantasies he can carry out with you. 

He’s particularly fond of tying you up in ways that are just the slightest bit humiliating, positions that make your neck and cheeks feel hot, embarrassment eating away at you because god, everything is exposed. 

He likes when your legs are spread, a bit of rope keeping your calves firmly pressed to your thighs while your pussy is exposed to open air, the perfect amount of space between your legs for him to slip into. He likes when your breasts are free, jiggling and bouncing with every thrust, the rope digging into your sternum or ribcage as you moan and writhe. 

(He also likes when the rope crisscrosses over your chest, digging into your nipple and making you whine in pain and pleasure, and when he undoes the ropes, he loves the way your nipples are so sore and swollen, a much darker color than they normally are and practically begging to be pinched at, to be twisted and pulled on until you’re a sniffly, moaning mess.) 

He’ll often tie your wrists together behind your back, rope connecting from your waist to the back of your knees, keeping your legs bent while he forces your ass into the air, mounting you from behind and absolutely destroying you. 

Rope is his favorite, if only because there’s something so familiar, so comforting in using it – of course, he never desires to fuck any of his victims, but he knows how to manipulate the material in order to get you bent the way he wants you to be. 

And while he has no desire to do anything to you that he would to those he tortures, there’s something oddly sexy and taboo about the fact that he’s using the same kind of rope on you as he did to the man the other day. It’s dirty, sinful, if only because this is as close as he can come to mixing two of the things he loves most – you, and his job. 

You’re safe this way, not liable to be cut or maimed or anything of the sort, but you’re still utterly at his hands, vulnerable to every whim or desire he wishes to enact on you. He likes how helpless you are when you’re tied up, unable to reach out or take control of your own pleasure, entirely reliant on him to do everything for you – something as big as stretching you out on his cock, or as small as pushing away a stray piece of hair in your face as he fucks your throat. 

The power trip is insane, and while he won’t hurt you, just the knowledge that he could makes him harder than he’s ever been. He’s a fan of other alternatives to rope, too – handcuffs are fine, a bit too mainstream for him to use regularly, but in a bind it’ll do. 

(Especially if he’s grown more comfortable with you, willing to show a more vulnerable side, because handcuffs give him less control and allow you to actively participate in your pleasure, letting you grind back against him or wrap your legs around his waist or any number of other things that can signal that you want him too.) 

Silk ties are fine, and on days where he’s feeling a bit more sentimental or emotional, he’ll prefer to use these because there’s less chance of you bruising or getting any burns or rashes. (Plus, there’s something so fitting about you being shrouded in silk – you, who’s so weak and soft and dainty, matching perfectly with the fabric. It makes him snort a bit, because you always look like such an angel when you’re all tied up for him in this way – like a beautiful, naïve little angel just begging to be destroyed and tainted by his hands, a feat he’s more eager and impatient to accomplish than he’d care to admit.) 

He’s even willing to use clothing to get you restricted – maybe the shirt you’d been wearing (his shirt, one he let you borrow, the one he finds adorable on you even if he’d never tell you) will get tied around your wrists, keeping them firmly above your chest as he sinks into you and squeezes his eyes shut, biting back the moan that threatens to tumble at his lips because you’re just so damn tight. 

He’ll use your panties as a gag, though he doesn’t do this often because he really does like hearing your sounds – especially when they’re any sort of praise or his name. 

(Often, after he’s stuffed the panties you’d been wearing past your lips, he’ll steal them back afterwards, sneakily storing them somewhere for later, for late at night when he’s standing over your sleeping form and breathing shakily, staring at you and rubbing the material – wet with both your spit and your slick – all over his cock.) 

His preference is always to have you restrained in some manner, and it’ll only be once he feels as comfortable as possible with you that he won’t tie you up. To have you free means letting himself be vulnerable to your touches, and even your rejection of his touch, and just the thought is enough to get him nervous, having to wipe his slightly sweaty hands onto his jacket. 

He’s had fantasies about fucking you without any restraints separating you before, but the moment it happens, you’ll notice that he’s oddly sensitive, his breath coming out harsher and more labored at touches that would normally leave him largely unaffected. It’s just so emotional for him, so scary and frightening, and he’ll stay inside you much longer than normal after he’s come, relishing in the warmth and wetness of you while your fingers maybe brush over his shoulders, maybe even running through his hair. It’s the sort of fantasy he’ll never, ever tell you about, though – and for now, he’ll stick with tying you up so that you’re easily accessible, provoking and arousing to stare at, and in no position to argue when he manhandles you into doing exactly what he wants.

Dry humping

While he has sexual, lewd thoughts about you from pretty much the moment he truly accepts his feelings for you, Feitan takes a very long time to begin acting on those feelings. 

Even more, it takes him a long time to get comfortable enough to be naked in front of you, much less actually fuck you. And so, while this hesitancy persists, he finds himself using other routes to sate his growing desire to be intimate with you – routes that are less invasive, less opportune for embarrassing accidents (like coming too fast, or facing your rejection). 

And while it still feels awfully pathetic, Feitan finds that the simple act of grinding on you is enough to satisfy his desires, at least for the time being – there’s just something oddly enticing about it, something arousing and the pleasure just dull enough to thwart him from coming within three or four minutes of touching you. 

He doesn’t like initiating it, though, finding it a bit too pathetic, even for him, even for the way he feels for you. Instead, he holds his breath, hoping that every time you brush against him (normally by accident, your whole body freezing up the moment you realize what you’ve done) that you’ll do it again, because even just a single bit of friction between your (fully clothed) bodies is enough to get his neck feeling warm, the ghost of an erection springing to life in his pants. 

He’s just so, so touch starved, and so as time goes on, he’ll start subtly trying to get into positions where you might accidentally grind on him, sometimes without you even realizing. He’ll make you pick something up off the ground, then choose the exact moment that you’re bent over and your ass is in the air to walk behind you, letting his hips just barely graze against you.

He’ll manage to hold back the little strained noise he makes, but at some point you’ll notice that it’s happening much too often to be a coincidence, and you’ll eventually realize that the strange hardness you feel when he does this is actually him. 

He won’t ever just grab you and rut into you, but god does he want to, especially when he sees your hips swaying, or when you’re sitting down, the fat of your thighs splayed out and your hips looking wide and full and perfect to grab onto. 

He’s embarrassed by his own thoughts, but eventually you’ll probably realize what it is that he wants – you’ve felt the way he tries to subtly make it happen, and while you were at first confused and shocked (you’d had no idea Feitan wanted anything sexual with you, as he’d never made a mention of it or acted in a way that would suggest it), you eventually start getting a bit brave, too. 

You don’t love Feitan, far from it, but you’ve been trapped with him for enough months to start craving any form of human contact, and so you’ll pounce – Feitan can’t help but sharply inhale when you grind back against him one day while you’re bent over, the feeling of your ass moving against his cock making him struggle to breath. 

He’s not sure what you’re trying to do, too pessimistic to let himself believe that you’re the one grinding on him, but one day you’ll find yourself sitting next to him on the raggedy old couch, the TV playing some mindless horror movie that Feitan had thrown on, and your hand will just sort of move on its own, slowly, carefully placing itself very lightly over his thigh. He’ll tense up at the sensation, dark eyes flicking between your hand and your face, your own gaze nervously set on the TV in front of you. 

It’s silent for a moment, but when he doesn’t move your hand, you’ll get braver, turning to look at him and asking in a soft, unsure voice if you can sit in his lap. Feitan doesn’t know how to respond, simply staring at you with narrowed eyes, wondering if this is some sort of trick – but eventually he’ll nod, telling you to be careful, don’t try anything. 

You’ll position yourself so that your ass is pressed against his crotch, his thighs on either side of your hips, but you don’t lean back, even when you hear Feitan inhale slightly, having leaned forward to smell your hair. It’s a good twenty or so minutes later when you begin moving your hips slowly, nervously, listening to hear for any displeased noises or harsh commands for you to stop your movements. 

Feitan is frozen behind you, staring at your hips and trying to understand what you’re doing – he likes it, but he doesn’t like the way his body is reacting, blood slowly starting to head south at the slight friction, at the way you’re so damn close to him, at the way he can smell you and can feel the heat radiating off your body. 

It’s all too much, and suddenly he’s telling you to get off me, before quickly storming out of the room and locking himself in his bedroom. 

His cock is in his hand within minutes, memories of how you’d felt against him, even with layers of clothes separating you still fresh in his mind. You’ll be left to believe he didn’t like it, that you’d totally misinterpreted his actions, ashamed and a bit afraid for how he’d respond moving forward. 

Except, there’s no grand punishment, no mocking you for your actions – instead, the next night he turns on a new movie (still horror, gory and full of screaming and killing) and looks over at you expectantly. 

His legs are spread this time, leaving a space between them, and for a moment you’re confused, unsure of what he wants. He just raises a brow at you, unwilling to articulate what he’s wanting, hoping you’ll understand it without him needing to say it. 

You’ll shuffle closer, still staring at him, but soon he’ll just grumble, a hand reaching out and pulling you down to sit between his legs before you can even realize what’s happening. You’re stiff and unsure, unwilling to relax, and Feitan doesn’t like this. He wants you to move like you did last night, and after a few minutes of you sitting stone still, he’ll hiss into your ear do it again. 

You’ll start slow, testing the waters, and you nearly jump when you feel Feitan’s hand ghost over your waist, setting his fingers against your shirt as if wanting to fully touch you, but not quite letting himself. He’ll occasionally tell you to go faster, the movie still playing in the background, the feeling of his cock digging into your tailbone making you a confusing mix of scared and aroused. 

Eventually, he’ll let out this strange, unusual little sound, something like a grunt but much higher and strained, and you’ll feel something warm and wet pressing against you. Don’t mention anything, because Feitan doesn’t want you to say a damn word, not wanting to admit that the feeling of you grinding on him for roughly seven minutes has him coming in his pants, cum covering his cock and getting him all sticky. 

He’s embarrassed, but it will become something of a ritual between the two of you – every time he turns on a movie, it’s your place to sit in his lap (eventually you actually will sit in his lap, fully on his lap, not just pressed against him, though this takes some time) and to gyrate your hips at that certain rhythm he likes, all up until you feel him tense up beneath you, seeing his fingers clutching at the couch cushions at your sides. 

It’s a slow buildup into any sort of sexual activity between the two of you, but Feitan likes this, something about the intimacy making him extra sensitive, the feeling of you actually touching him (even peripherally, with clothes separating the two of you) making him feel lightheaded and airy. He likes it, and this will be the jumping off point for him to begin getting bolder, to begin letting himself actually fuck you, to finally do what he’s been craving for months. 

And once you become aware that he likes it, please start imitating it – give him look and ask if you can um, sit in your lap? 

He’ll almost always say yes, even if he’s in the middle of doing something, even if there’s not even a chair or couch nearby – he'll rush (not running, but very, very nearly) to the nearest surface, swallowing hard and staring at you, growing impatient when you don’t move fast enough for him. 

Often, he’ll already be half hard, and while he prefers when your back is facing him, if you were to climb into his lap so that you were straddling him? Well, Feitan finds it much harder to look you in the eye, because now it’s your cunt grinding down on him rather than just your ass, and that’s much different, isn’t it? 

Even once he’s progressed to stage of actually being willing to touch you, of being willing to let you touch him, Feitan still enjoys when you hump at him. And he particularly enjoys humping you, though he’s only willing to do this in the dead of night, when you’re fast asleep, your body ripe and vulnerable for him to touch, to explore, to use. 

He doesn’t want you to be awake and see the way he crumbles when he drags his cock along the curve of your ass, if only because he doesn’t want you to see how pink his cheeks get, how he starts mumbling under his breath, how his every muscle is flexing and straining because he wants to go faster, needs to go faster, but he can’t risk waking you up. 

It’s his dirty little secret, so you’d better start working on your stamina for grinding onto him – sure, he doesn’t last long, but he expects it often, and you can’t exactly refuse him. 

Or else.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Begging

Feitan likes knowing that you want him. He feels so inferior and weak for having developed such strong, scarily dependent feelings for you, and it makes him feel good, satisfied, justified when you beg for him, all whiny and desperate for his touch, for his body, for his cock. 

While he’s not particularly vocal between the sheets, he likes when you are - your voice is sultry when it gets all airy and gaspy, your little praises and pleas for him to go faster or please don’t stop making him double down and go harder, his desperation to please you driving him forward. 

He won’t ever explicitly ask you to beg for anything, but you’ll be able to tell that he likes it. 

You’ll see the way his eyes widen just a hair, the way his dark bangs settle over his forehead as he dips his head down, the exertion of moving his hips or wrist faster making him squeeze his eyes shut. 

You’ll feel the way his thrusts get more insistent, hips slapping against yours while his balls clap against your ass, the sound lewd and only getting faster the more you beg. 

You’ll be able to hear it in the way his breathing starts getting ragged, no amount of stamina adequate for hearing you beg for him, for him to touch you and pleasure you. 

He wants to feel needed in the context of your sexual pleasure, as if you can’t get off without his help, as if you’re incapable of bringing yourself to orgasm when he so easily manages it. It’s unrealistic and he knows it, but he’s able to immerse himself in the fantasy of you wanting him when you’re begging him, able to delude himself into believing, if only for a bit, that you’re just as frantic for his love and affection as he is yours. 

If you really want to get him going, a surefire way to have his cock springing to life and his heart lurching into his throat is to praise him a bit, then following it up with a plea for him to keep going. Tell him that it’s s’good, you feel so good Feitan, please don’t stop, just like that, fuck! 

Tell him that you belong to him, that you’re his, that your cunt is his cunt, that you want him to come inside, that you need more more more. He might tell you that you’re greedy, grunting out something about you being a greedy slut, but the twitching of his cock inside you and the way his fingers tighten their hold on you will show you that he isn’t as unaffected by your words as he’d like to pretend. 

He really just likes knowing that sex affects you just as much as it affects him, so please, please beg him - he’ll almost always do exactly what you want, almost like it’s a reward.

(After all, just getting to touch you is reward enough for him.)

Sensory deprivation

Because it takes Feitan so long to grow comfortable with letting himself be truly vulnerable with you (especially in the context of sex), he finds ways to get around this mental roadblock, so that he can experience everything he wants to without giving up any of his control. 

And one of his favorite ways to do that is to limit your senses - specifically, Feitan loves to blindfold you. He doesn’t really want you to be looking at him during sex, too nervous and awkward and embarrassed, because once he gets inside you, his control over his facial expressions, his bodily responses, his everything is severely limited. 

It takes all his will power to stop himself from coming prematurely, especially towards the beginning of his sexual relationship with you, and he’ll be damned if he lets you see the way his face crumples when he slips inside your wet heat, his dark brows drawing together and lips parting, eyes squeezing shut while he wills himself to calm down, to take deep breaths and not let himself get carried away. 

He doesn’t want you to be able to look at him, but he wants to be able to see you - he wants full viewing pleasure of your body, and while this method does block seeing your eyes get all glassy and pleasured, it’s better this way. 

This way, he gets to stare at the way your tits bounce as he fucks you, the soft fat jiggling and practically begging to be groped and squeezed at. 

This way, he can stare at your ass he pounds into it, grabbing a handful of cheek in each hand and kneading the fat, spreading them apart and taking a peek at your pert, cute little asshole, seeing the curve and arch of your back. 

He can let himself relax more this way, allowing his face to present every emotions and sensation he’s feeling, and he can let himself indulge in some of his more embarrassing urges - like reaching out to cup your hips when your bodies are facing each other, his fingers never quite brushing your skin but awfully close. 

He’ll lean in close as if to kiss you, letting his breath fan over your lips but never actually closing the distance, just indulging in the smell of you and the idea of kissing you. He’s still very reserved, but this way he can do all the things he fantasizes about when he’s alone at night, his mind wandering to you and his body growing cold and lonely. 

Plus, Feitan gains a certain amount of control this way - he gets to choose what happens to you, and because you can’t see anything, you’ll have no idea what’s coming next. 

Will it be his hands, a vibrator, his cock? 

You won’t know, and Feitan likes it that way - he wants to keep you guessing, to leave you unsure and awaiting his next move with baited breath. 

He just likes how dependent you are when he’s got the black blindfold tied around your eyes, so you’d better get used to it - he’s not good at compromising, after all. 

BIGGEST FANTASY:

While Feitan doesn’t harbor any desire to hurt you, there’s a certain allure that blood holds for him. 

Of course, he doesn’t want to actually draw blood from you (the thought of you being in pain because of him makes any boner of his die immediately), but he discovers - by accident - that there’s a solution to mixing the two. 

There’s a way to combine the two things that turn him on most - you, of course, and the slightest bit of blood - in a way that is safe for you yet still arousing, still enough to get him panting and his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight. 

That is, Feitan discovers that he absolutely loves getting intimate with you while you’re on your period. It doesn’t matter if you get horrible cramps, mood swings, or are even totally unaffected - you’re sensitive, body needy and practically begging to be mounted and fucked, and who is Feitan to deny you?

Once he grows comfortable with intimacy, you’ll never be able to pull him away from you once the blood shows up in your panties. He’s obsessive, tracking your period for you, making sure that he knows the exact days that you’ll be starting and stopping. 

He likes the way you respond to his touch so easily, your pretty pussy all messy and red and puffy, even the slightest touch making you buck your hips and gasp his name. 

It’s euphoric, and when he slips inside you it becomes incredibly difficult to not immediately orgasm - you’re just so wet, so warm and wonderfully lubricated, and the sight of blood staining his cock when he pulls back to thrust back in makes his head spin. 

You’re perfect when you’re menstruating, and you’ll notice he’ll be in a much better mood once you shyly report that it started, could you pick up some more pads for me? (He toys with the idea of actually collecting your blood, investing in one of those menstrual cups that you can remove once it’s full, just because the concept of drinking it is enough to make him fidget, the thought taboo and dirty and so very enticing.) 

You can’t really say no to him normally, but you especially can’t deny him when it’s your time of the month - you will be getting fingered, fucked, even facefucked, if only because Feitan needs you, your pretty blood and pretty body making him go crazy in a way he didn’t think possible. 

You make him go crazy in ways he didn’t think possible.

“Feitan, I - we can’t, not tonight.” You tell him, averting your gaze away from his as his hands grab at the old t-shirt and short you’re wearing. Unconsciously, your hand travels to your stomach, laying idly and making Feitan’s eyes narrow. 

“Why not?” He asks, his voice clipped and suspicious. You didn’t often tell him no, and although there’s a bit of doubt swimming in his chest, he wants to know why you’re suddenly not welcoming his touch. You’ve reached the point of leaning into his cold, harsh hands, so why’re you suddenly being so standoffish? He doesn’t like it, and his hands stay idly resting on your shirt hem. 

You’re embarrassed, he can tell, but he doesn’t drop the issue. Instead, he lets the silence sit heavily over the two of you, waiting for you to fill in the space. 

“Well, um, you see…” You start, before squeezing your eyes shut and squeaking out, “My period started yesterday and it’s too messy.”

Feitan blinks at you, unsure what to say. Your period? You were bleeding?

“Okay, and?” 

Your eyes peel open, daring to sneak a glance at your captor, who only stares at you, unimpressed. “Well, I mean, it’s going to be messy and gross and it probably smells bad and -”

“Shut up, we’re doing it.” He cuts you off, hand yanking at your shirt to bring it over your head. You grimace, already nervous for him to take off your shorts, because although you’re sure he knows what a period is, you’re sure he’s never actually been around a woman menstruating. Or at least, not sexually. 

Actually, you’re pretty sure he’s never been with a woman sexually in any capacity. 

He’s yanking at your shorts next, pulling down the material even as you voice your protests, but one scowl from him has you shutting up, embarrassment pricking up your spine as he grabs your thighs and manually spreads them, the scratchy blanket covering the bed biting into your ass. 

He’s staring, dark eyes a bit wider than normal, and you feel yourself shrinking in on yourself, the embarrassment eating you alive. Why was he staring? Why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Feitan..?” You mumble, biting your lip and letting your arms cover your bloated stomach. He doesn’t respond, but you feel his grip on your thighs tighten, to the point where you think you might see bruises tomorrow. 

His eyes slowly, painstakingly, drag up from your exposed cunt to meet your face, and to your surprise you see the slightest dusting of a blush on his cheeks, as if he too was embarrassed. But before you can say anything, he’s rushing forward, lips pressing against yours in a messy, clumsy kiss, full of teeth knocking against teeth and too much spit. You’re not sure what’s gotten into him, but just as soon as he rushed in he’s pulling back, instead moving to bring his face level with your leaking hole. 

Feitan can’t stop staring - there’s blood everywhere, and while he’d normally be thrown into a state of panic at seeing so much of your own blood staining your skin, somehow this is different. Somehow the sight of it staining your pussy, the red color all along your inner thighs and part of your asscheek making his mouth water, his cock already painfully hard. It’s so pretty - red against your skin, your lips visibly swollen, your little clit engorged and peaking out. You look good, like something he wants to taste, and before he knows what’s happening he’s diving forward, tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. 

You taste like iron and musk and something oddly sweet, and immediately he’s diving in to taste more, tongue lapping at you like some dog in heat as he keeps his fingers firmly digging into your thighs. He can barely hear your sound of shock at his actions, too overwhelmed by your taste and your scent. 

“F-feitan, stop!” You manage to force out, eyes squeezed shut as your hips shake and stutter. “It’s too much, I’m too sensitive, I can’t!”

Feitan stops at that, pulling away from your body with blood smeared all over his lips, chin and nose, staring at you with a look in those wide, dark eyes that makes you shiver. He looks like an animal like this, something primal and carnal - and when your eyes peek down to see his cock - throbbing, bright red and stiff against his stomach - you can’t help but feel as if you’re some sort of prey caught in his jaws. 

“Not too much, you will survive.” Is all he says, before he’s resuming his actions, bringing a finger up to prod inside your walls while his tongue gets to work on your clit. His fingers curl and rub, but you’re so damn tight, your walls impossibly clenched, and it makes Feitan grunt against you. You’re even wetter inside than normal, the blood practically running down his hands in copious amounts, making it remarkably easy to slide his fingers in and out. Almost too easy, it would seem. 

You’re blabbering his name, the stimulation hurtling you towards your orgasm much quicker than normal, your heightened sensitivity and emotions turning you into a moaning, whimpering mess. And Feitan loves it - those dark eyes are peering up at you from over the crest of your pelvic bone, blood tinging his cheeks and visible to you. 

When he angles his fingers to press against the spongey, sensitive spot he knows you love, you suddenly gasp, a hand flying to tangle into his hair, the other gently pinching and rolling at your nipple. 

“Feitan, oh fuck Feitan ‘m gonna, I’m gonna come-!” You’re squealing, something that makes Feitan cock a brow, the pure desperation in your body as you squirm under his touch making him feral, his hips beginning to rut against the bed before he can even think about it. You just look so sexy like this, with your nipples swollen and sensitive, your cunt all warm and wet and sweet, and he’ll watch with wide eyes as you orgasm around him, your walls clenching down so hard that they force his fingers out, his tongue and the circles he’s drawing on your clit the only thing grounding you. Your back arches fully up off the bed, tits thrust out into the air, and Feitan bites back a groan as his own pleasure hits a peak, the blanket ruined as cum oozes from his tip and seeps into the fabric. 

You’re shaking, literally fucking shaking, and Feitan finds himself trembling too, his hands not as steady against your skin. If he’d known you would taste like this, how sensitive you’d be, how easy it is to get you orgasming while on your period, he would’ve done this long ago. 

You’re out of it, blinking up at the ceiling and heaving uneven breaths, but even as sensitive as he is from his last orgasm, Feitan is quickly shuffling to his knees, grabbing the base of his cock and sinking into you, face contorting into something between a grimace and a gasp. You’re so damn warm, and he groans lowly as he sees the way his cock has pink slick all over it when he pulls back, a mix of your blood, your slick and his cum decorating his length. 

Fucking you is heaven, the way you clutch at him and writhe, nearly screaming his name as you come on his cock, and Feitan can only grit his teeth and go harder, spurred on by the way your walls are caressing his length, massaging and gripping like a fucking vice. 

It feels good, and by the time he’s emptied himself inside you, he’s already made a mental note to mark down when your next period will be - just so he can get ready, so that he can get prepared. So that he can prepare you, too, because you won’t simply be allowed rest after the first night. 

God no, not if you’re like this the whole time.

[depravitycentral]

im sorry if this is a lame ask, but i just had the idea and thought i would share it to see if it would strike any inspo! of course on this blog you’ve talked about all the things our beloved troupe members are into, but have you ever considered what their absolute turn offs are? like things that pull them out of the mood almost immediately? or kinks that would seem to fit certain members, but end up not being their thing for one reason or another

Ooh yes anon this strikes inspo !!

This is a good point - it's all fine and dandy to imagine sex with your yandere as being so bad but so good, as if they know every secret, dirty kink and fantasy you have. (That's because they do know, whether through extensive stalking, pouring through your search histories, or raw, natural sexual chemistry with you. They all think they've got that last one, but normally any positive sexual encounters between the two of you will be a consequence of the former two rather than the latter.)

But of course, everyone has turn offs, and while your yandere would be willing to do pretty much anything to please you, even the most obsessed, unhinged yanderes have a few hard, fast exceptions.

I'm assuming you meant just hxh yanderes for this, so let's proceed moving forward with that in mind! If you meant for another fandom, please let me know and I'd be happy to discuss those yanderes too <3

Let's discuss !!

(Tw for petnames, watersports, recording, anal, pegging, crying, hitting, and other smutty things)

Chrollo Lucilfer is pretty hard to frazzle in bed, and is one of those who have done extensive, eager research into both your own personal sexual preferences, and made educated guesses on kinks that seem to correlate with ones he already knows you possess. That said, Chrollo himself isn't especially risky in bed - he'll indulge you, sure, but he doesn't have a strong desire to try anything especially crazy unless you're a big fan. And while he'll let you have your fun (particularly in the beginning of your sexual relationship, just because promising you that he'll choke you or dominate you or whatever else you may like just to get you into bed with him and somewhat willing, just because he needs to pleasure you and get you warming up to him) , most of the time sex with him is quite vanilla. He's open to listening to whatever you want, with one very, very large exception: there is no amount of pleading or bargaining that will let you peg him. He doesn't inherently believe that men should always be dominant over women, but he does believe that he should always be dominant over you. And if you were to peg him, this power structure would collapse, allowing you too much control over both his pleasure and him. He doesn't mind being in a more physically submissive position (he'll never deny you when you straddle him and tell him that you're in charge for the evening, the only response you get being a twinkle in his eye, a soft smirk and a hummed we will see, my love), but the idea of you fucking him just rubs him the wrong way. He's more vulnerable with you than he is anyone else, but Chrollo has his limits. (Besides, the idea of absolutely falling apart for you is both alluring and terrifying, because the moment you discover his prostate, he'll be a gasping mess, his cheeks tinged a light pink and his grip on the sheets below him very, very tight. It would be embarrassing, and he can't allow you to see him in such a weak position - it would derail all the hard work he's done to convince you that you need him.)

Feitan Portor really detests being called Daddy. He thinks it's weird, and even if you - sweet, perfect, irritatingly attractive you - were to say it, he still wouldn't like it. There's just something about it that rubs him the wrong way - it feels too paternal, and while he doesn't remember having a family in any biological capacity, it still just makes his skin crawl. He won't get soft immediately upon hearing you say it (he's always just slightly hard when you're in his vicinity, so rarely ever is he truly flaccid around you), but he'll need to pull out and take a breather, mentally trying to erase the sound of the petname rolling off your tongue. He can deal with other petnames - he'd be okay with sir, if only because he's always kind of had a thing for roleplaying, or at least having some sort of overarching power dynamic present during sex, and being called sir would place him in a position of absolute authority, meaning he could do whatever he wants to you and you'd just obediently obey. (You already kind of do, too scared to say no to him, but it doesn't feel as authentic - he feels less comfortable, more vulnerable and exposed and raw, and he doesn't like that.) You could even call him master if you really wanted to - similarly, it feeds his desire for playing a powerful, dominant role, but he doesn't have any sort of particularly liking towards maid costumes or anything of the sort, so it wouldn't do too much for him. He's good with nearly anything else you could throw at him, but never Daddy. Frankly, he really just prefers his own, actual name - it just sounds so damn good when you gasp it, the sound going straight to both his cock and heart.

Phinks Magcub's brows always get pinched and his lips quirk down when he thinks about the idea of you bleeding during sex. It makes his hands itch, this protectiveness welling up inside him that makes him antsy and nervous and jittery, the energy all pent up and needing to be released because god, he doesn't like seeing you hurt. Even if it makes you feel good, your moans increasing because of the pain twinged pleasure, he's unwilling to indulge you - he couldn't bring himself to purposefully make you bleed, and while he does occasionally (often) leave you bruised and incredibly sore after having his way with you, that's a whole different thing from seeing that crimson color against your pretty skin. It just makes him uncomfortable - if you asked nicely enough he'd consider maybe lightly slapping you or getting rough with you (though he's already pretty rough when he gets lost in the moment - finger shaped bruises litter your body and hickeys dance along your collarbone and neck), but he'll draw the line at drawing blood. (Similarly, he doesn't really want to bleed himself either, but he'd be more willing to be in the position of pain than putting you into that position of pain. Besides, it might help him last longer, the pleasure warded off by negative stimulation - and god knows Phinks needs all the help he can get in delaying his orgasms.)

Uvogin is pretty adventurous in bed, all things considered, but even he has a few hard turn offs, one of which being degrading you. He doesn't mind calling you needy or possessive terms of endearment, but anything with even a slight negative connotation is always preceded by a 'my', so that when he's calling you a slut it always becomes my slut. Even then, he doesn't like doing this - his natural default when he's naked with you is to be praising you, because those are honestly the thoughts running through his mind when he's got his hands on you and he's feeling your soft skin against his. He genuinely only has good, lustful, reverent things to say about your body and the fact that he's getting to touch, kiss, squeeze, and fuck you, and he's not shy about telling the truth. And so, if you were to request for him to degrade you a bit in bed or be a little meaner, he'll oblige, but it'll feel just slightly forced, his words not holding their usual deep, growling timber that always sends shivers down your spine. He ends up compromising by mixing praise and degradation, but absolutely destroying you with his thrusts and well placed circles on your clit, channeling all the harsh, humiliating energy of verbal degradation instead into how he assaults your body with an overwhelming amount of pleasure. He just doesn't like the idea of lying to you, even if it turns you on in this context, because it just feels wrong to tell you that you're only a hole for me to fuck, and holes don't talk. You're not - you're so much more than that, and he doesn't want you to think otherwise. Hell no, not with all the work he's put into making you get comfortable with him and want him. One roll around on the liviing room floor (he'd gotten impatient and didn't feel like making the thirty step journey to the bedroom) isn't worth reversing months worth of warming you up to him. Not even if you leave his back scratched up or end up so stuffed full of his cum that you're literally leaking.

Nobunaga Hazama is, frankly, just thankful and elated that you're touching him. He's delusional, compeltely out of touch with reality, and fucking weird, but he's also a major sap and literally gets heart eyes everytime he sees you. And so, in the bedroom he wants everything to be as close and sensual as possible, and for every bit of pleasure and love shared between the two of you to be expressed in full. This, of course, includes any and all noises he draws out of you - that is, Nobunaga has to have you gasping and keening and moaning. He's loud himself, and he expects sex to be full of wanton cries and a cacophany of sound; one that you are expected to eagerly contribute to. And if you don't deliver? Well, Nobunaga will just try harder, licking at your faster or thrusting harder or pinching tighter - anything and everything to get you to make a damn sound, to give stop him from having to confront the reality that you aren't enjoying this nearly as much as he is. He gets turned off when you're quiet, which is a real bummer if you aren't naturally loud - you have to be, because he won't quite until you are, even if that takes hours and hours and hours.

Alternatively, Franklin Bordeau can tell when you're faking it, and he doesn't like that. At all. He doesn't want your forced moans or fabricated shaking or anything that isn't real - he wants you, your genuine reactions to his touch, and your genuine personality in bed. He doesn't want you to sound like some pornstar - with your moans constant and high and shrill and more pained than pleasured - for two main reasons, the first of which being that it's just annoying. He's never understood the allure of a woman screaming during sex, and even in the context of actual, real pleasure, it still makes him uncomfortable. It's too close to the sounds he hears when he's working a heist - he doesn't want you to sound like them, because he has no intentions of hurting you and just the mere thought of you bloodied is enough to get him soft immediately and clutching onto you like you'll disappear any moment. The second reason why he doesn't want you to be forcing anything is because although he's decently confident in his sexual abilities, he knows he isn't making you feel that good. He's sure him fingering you isn't capable of getting you gasping and whining his name constantly - sure, it feels good, and you'll probably moan and sigh, but still. When he's fucking you, he's hopeful that you'll cry out his name, but he knows you shouldn't be screaming and rythmically, shrilly moaning. He values honesty, and hearing your real, raw reactions to his touch and his presence feels a thousand times more pleasurable than anything you could ever forcibly manufacture - especially your orgasms. He can always tell when you're faking, so don't try it. Don't.

Honestly, it's pretty difficult to get Shalnark turned off. He's kinky, adventurous, and misinterprets a lot of your responses during sex - he likes to think you're just as wild as he is, and even when you clearly don't like something, he still thinks seeing you struggle is just as arousing. (Besides, most of the time he will get you to orgasm - and seeing the internal dilemma of hating what he's doing alongside the pleasure you can't hold back is absolutely delicious.) That said, there are very specific situations that Shalnark doesn't find any attraction in - specifically, he absolutely is not willing to be cucked. Having another person in the room while he fucks you hard enough to make you cry isn't a problem at all - on the contrary, he's very, very interested in that idea, because having another man watch him claim you makes both his possessiveness and nostrils flare, his palms getting sweaty and his pants feeling tight. Cucking, on the other hand, implies that there's someone else touching you - another person sullying you, getting their disgusting hands on your perfect skin that's all his his his, and that's just simply unacceptable. He didn't go through all that trouble of kidnapping you and keeping you in a secure location just to have you touched, fucked, loved by another man. It doesn't matter if it's a stranger or someone Shalnark trusts with his life - you will not be getting intimate with another soul for the rest of your life, simply because he firmly sees you as his property, and him yours. So don't even bother bringing the idea up - he'll fuck you in front of the stranger, no problem, but they're prohibited to strictly watching. (Or, maybe, they'd be good at helping get those camera angles that are really tough to capture - right up in your face, or right zoomed into where his length - flushed red and swollen - is sinking into you over and over, the home video the perfect thing to watch tonight as he cuddles you to sleep.)

Alternatively, Machi Komacine can't stomach the thought of doing anything public. It's not that she fears getting caught, but rather that it makes her uncomfortable that anyone could see the two of you. Someone could just pass by and happen to get an eyeful of you - your pretty skin and curves, your lovely body that her eyes always seem to get stuck on, watching, wanting, yearning. She's not spontaneous in any way when it comes to sex, and she just doesn't see the allure of the risk or danger involved. She's too possessive; it takes her so long to even allow herself to see you naked, and to have a stranger do that and even see your face while she's pleasuring you, while you're coming? The thought makes her nen flare up, the urge to wrap you in her arms and keep the world from even catching a glimpse of you only growing stronger. Even aside from her possessiveness, the idea of doing something where others could see you makes her nervous, too, because Machi isn't entirely confident in her abilities to actually please you in the bedroom. Sure, she understands female anatomy and has a good sense of what you like from all that stalking, but actually doing it? That's a different thing entirely - and the pressure of pleasing you coupled with the pressure of other people potentially watching her struggle makes her feel uncomfortable, a foreign, heavy sense of self doubt settling heavily in her gut. It's just not for her - sex belongs in the bedroom, or perhaps the couch or kitchen table. Not outside of your 'shared' apartment, and certainly not where someone else could get an eyeful of what's hers.

Pakunoda will still jump on the opportunity to pleasure you and be pleasured, but in general she'll be hesitant if the both of you are still fully clothed. She doesn't see the appeal of clothed sex - she wants you completely bared to her, utterly raw, your body on display for her to worship and touch and mark. She thinks keeping the clothing on is not only impractical, but diminishes the intimacy between the two of you. You'll get all sorts of sticky, hard to clean things staining the clothes, and because she can be a little snobby about materialistic delights like luxury clothing, she's not exactly keen on getting your slick all over her nice clothes. (Although, she wouldn't be entirely opposed to having your slick all over her skin, like you're leaving a mark of possession on her. Just not the clothes.) Clothes stop her from being able to fully explore your body, and, as much as she'd never admit it, when you have your clothing on it makes it much harder to use her nen on you. That is, while it makes her feel a little dirty and slimy, she will be using her ability to dig into your memories for any information on your kinks and fantasies, just because she wants to make sex as perfect and pleasurable for you as she possibly can. So shed the layers with her - it makes things so much better. Plus, the sight of you bare and squirming underneath her, looking all pretty and submissive and cute is certainly a drool worthy sight.

All things considered, Shizuku Murasaki is actually kind of picky about sex. She likes things to be her way or the highway, and as her darling you'll be forced to go along with all of her preferences and wants. And while she loves all things oral, there are a few things she's absolutely unwilling to do. Namely, while she worships you and cherishes you as much as a mass-murderer can, she will not indulge you in anything involving your asshole. It's a cleanliness thing for her; she knows you're clean (she'd just bathed with you this morning and personally hand washed you, paying very, very careful attention to your cunt), but she has a mental block against having her mouth anywhere near that part of you. She's always felt this way with every partner she's had - she just doesn't understand the allure of anal, whether that be fingering, oral, or penetration. She'd much, much rather pay attention to other areas of your body - your pussy, your thighs, your breasts, your mouth. She'll always shy away when she's got her face between your legs, but unfortunately for you, this courtesy does not extend to you too. She doesn't expect you to do anything with her ass, but she certainly won't stop you if you're getting too close, or if you get the desire. She'll just blink at you and tell you to be careful, then pull your head in by your hair and get you closer and closer and closer, enjoying the experience despite herself. Shizuku is a little hypocritical in a lot of aspects in sex, but this is one particular area where she's absolutely unfair.

Hisoka Marrow is a freak in every sense of the word. Genuinely, there is very, very little you could do that would cause him to fall out of the mood, or to rid him of the insistant, raging boner nearly everything you do gives him. He'll try anything once, and he firmly believes in keeping your sex life interesting and varied. That said, he certainly has preferences, and one thing that sits quite low on his list of preferred bedroom activities is to be worshipped. It's not that he doesn't want your attention and praise (he does, urgently), but rather that there's something about the position of being the one drowned in compliments and confessions of love that makes him a little uncomfortable. Perhaps it's because he's not used to being in such a submissive, vulnerable position, or maybe it's because he doesn't feel like he's got enough control of the situation. It doesn't really matter, because Hisoka will always send teasing remarks your way when you get the courage to be the dominant one, and that will almost always derail you enough to get you steering away from any territory that gets dangerously close to becoming too vulnerable and real for him. He loves you in his own twisted, strange way, but he's not ready to open himself up fully to you, to let you take full charge and just take care of him. He may never be ready, really, so any dreams you have of fully dominating him and reducing him to a trembling, fucked out mess will have to remain just that - dreams.

In general, Illumi Zoldyck will try most things you suggest. It's not that he's especially adventurous in the bedroom, but rather that you're the first person he's ever had any sexual contact with, and everything with you feels good, so he wants to try it all. He has very few boundries when it comes to you, and so consequently, there aren't too many things that turn him off. However, he does have two surefire things that he'll immediately and vehemently outright refuse. Firstly, he will absolutely not wear any protection. He turns his nose at the thought of condoms, and will only laugh in your face if you suggest using them for obvious reasons. He will be entering you in the most natural way possible, and he will be finishing as deeply inside of you as he can manage. Secondly, he absolutely will not allow another person to be involved in your sex life. There will be no third person in your bed, no other person for you to be pleasuring and be pleasured by. There is only you and Illumi - it's your sex life, and it makes his possessiveness flare up to dangerous proportions to imagine another person seeing you in such a vulnerable, intimate position. So really, don't even bother bringing up the idea - he won't even consider it, already shooting it down before you're finished getting the sentence out. (And after he finishes lecturing you about how another man or woman has no place in your bed, he'll promptly fuck you right then and there - no matter where you are - just to prove his point. He's all you need, after all.)

Sex with Kurapika Kurta is soft and sensual. It can be a little rougher if he's had a particularly bad day, or if he's recently had a run in with the Troupe, but for the most part he makes love rather than fucks. And because of this, he really, really doesn't like seeing you cry during sex. It makes him uncomfortable, his instincts begging him to comfort you and eliminate whatever caused your tears. He associates crying with the early days of when he'd kidnapped you, back when you were still terrified of him and much too scared to even stand to look at him, much less allow him to touch you. And particularly in the context of sex, he does not want to be reminded of all the horrible things he's done to you - things are good now, happy, and you've finally come around to the idea that he loves you, that you'll spend the rest of your life with him. And so, the moment there are tears beading at your eyes, he's immediately going soft, his palms cupping your cheeks as he stares wildly at you, asking in a rushed, still breathless voice if you're alright, if you're hurt, if you're upset and who he needs to kill to right this wrong. He overreacts, and it always, always turns into either self hatred aimed at himself for ruining your happiness, or a bloodthirsty desire to kill whoever is upsetting you. The only exception to his hatred of you crying is when it's done because you're too overstimulated, the pleasure too much for you to even process. When you're so fucked out from the pleasure he gave you, then the tears are acceptable. He still doesn't like them all that much, but it's at least a sign that he's treating you well, that he's able to make you feel good and pleasured, and it makes pride swell in his chest. So in general, try not to cry in front of him - he goes flaccid in mere seconds, his protective nature ramping up and any semblance of sexiness gone immediately.

When Leorio Paradinight has you in bed, he's almost in a state of utter awe, almost unable to really process what's going on. He's just so incredibly aroused by you, even if you're just laying beside him with your clothes fully on, and because of this he's game to try pretty much anything you want in bed. He's genuinely just so fucking excited to be with you that he'll do basically anything you want, no matter how degrading or gross or off the wall. That said, however, he doesn't really understand the appeal of pet play. He doesn't harbor any fantasies of you donning a set of bunny ears or a tail or anything of the sort, simply because he doesn't really like fantasies that change you, even if it's something as trivial as your ears. He thinks of you as perfection, and that includes every proportion of your body, every freckle, mole, hair and blemish you could have, and he doesn't want to pretend that you aren't exactly who - and what - you are. Besides, he just doesn't see the appeal; he wants you to talk and moan for him when he's touching you, not have you purr or whine or any other animal noise. He thinks it's a little weird, if he's being honest, and while he'll begrudgingly agree if you beg him to try it out (he'll do anything to see you smile, after all), his orgasm won't come as pathetically easily as normal. This extends to pet play where he's the one dressing up as a pet, too - he's more likely to enjoy it this way, but there's something humiliating about the butt plug tail and the fox ears, and it's humiliating in all the wrong ways. He's just not too big of a fan - now if you wanted to get some sort of ownership roleplay going that didn't involve pets or animals, he'd be all over that - the moment you refer to yourself as mommy or his mistress, he's practically creaming his pants, getting on his knees for you and begging for you to touch him. (And maybe even step on him, depending on how needy he's feeling that day.)

Razor, despite sometimes losing control in bed and getting a little rougher than he means to, will never willingly hit you in bed. He doesn't like the idea of slapping you. He might gently pat your ass when you're bouncing on top of him, but it's only just enough to make you yelp, only enough to make a slight smack noise of skin against skin. Hitting you - even in the context of sexual pleasure - reminds him too much of his younger days, back when he was a criminal and was much less controlled, much more dangerous. And really, that's the last thing he wants you to see him as - he wants you to take comfort in him, to want him to hold you and touch you, and he's sure that even if you want him to get rough with you and manhandle you, to smack your cheek and tell you to behave for him, you will start associating him with pain and violence. And he just can't have that - not after all the work he's gone through to prove that despite kidnapping you, he's not the monster you think he is. (Besides, there's just something more meaningful about softer, sweeter sex - he's fucked more women than he'd care to admit, but you're the first one he's gone slow with, the first one he's really taken his time with. And while it might be stupid, that makes you different in his eyes - like he's saved something special for you, like the passionate, romantic side of him that comes out when he's got you naked and stretched out on his fingers is something only you'll ever get to see.)

Another man who tries to keep things a bit vanilla in the bedroom (not for the same reasons as Razor, but rather because he just genuinely prefers more intimate and tame sex) is Knuckle, who can't stand the thought of recording your intimate times. He does objectively think the idea is a bit hot, but he's too worried that somehow the recordings will get leaked, that somehow other people will get their hands on precious recordings of him making love to you, of him making you moan and sigh and fall apart on his tongue and fingers and cock. He views the time you both spend together in the sheets as being almost sacred, like something special that's reserved only for the two of you, and having a camera rolling would just make everything feel too impersonal. It would make him nervous, too, because he'd want to rewatch the tapes with you just so he can see your face the whole time (he tends to lose himself the closer he gets to his orgasm, and always buries his face in your neck to try and make himself last longer, so he misses seeing your facial expressions when he's finishing inside you), but he'd be worried about the way he looks, about whether he looks attractive to you, dominant to you, sexy to you. However, despite his reservations about recording himself fucking you, he will photograph you in the pretty, feminine lingerie he buys for you. He'll get a new color or cut, and have you try on the set, posing for the camera while he takes a few shots, his pants visibly straining around his swollen cock because god, you look good. He'll keep the photographs in his pants pocket and never, ever share them, always looking back at them when he's away on missions and missing you. He's a bit hypocritical, but the moment a camera gets trained on him, he's turning red and clamming up.

Morel is another one who's very flexible in the bedroom, and would be difficult to completely turn off. However, one thing that Morel just simply can't get behind is watersports. He'll try it, if you really beg him to, but he just doesn't like it. It feels unsanitary to him (and god, the mess), but even beyond that it just feels a little degrading, and not in a good way. If you really, really pushed him on it, he'd give in and do as you please, reluctantly forcing himself to release onto you, but the entire time he'd be feeling guilty, discomfort eating at him because isn't it horribly disrespectful to be literally pissing on you? He loves you, and it just sits wrong with him. He'll refuse after that first time, and while he's not particularly into it, if you really, really wanted to, he'd let you reverse the roles. He's not particularly eager to have you wet yourself or piss on him, but that's better because now at least you're the one in the position of power. Plus, you're begrudgingly a little cute when you get all embarrassed about it. But still, it's most definitely not something he desires, and while he'd entertain your fantasies once in a blue moon, it certainly won't be a regular occurrence in your sex life together.

[depravitycentral]

what would be a yandere like feitan's reaction to his darling squirting the first time they finally are intimate?

Tw: squirting, virgin Feitan, no protection, implications of stalking, Feitan is insecure, Stockholm Syndrome, you're very sexually pent up and the months of being stuck with Feitan and only Feitan has really affected you, one extremely brief mention of vore, Feitan walks in on Nobunaga jerkin' it, fem reader

Listen, I know this is wistful daydreaming, but if we're being honest here, this would never happen. Feitan is a stone cold virgin; the kind that's never even willingly watched porn - or, at least, any porn not featuring a grotesque amount of vore, questionable consent, and moans so high pitched and frequent that it might actually be screaming. That, coupled with the fact that he's so awkward and nervous around you - especially in the context of sex - results in, frankly, less than mediocre sex. At least, the first time.

But it's fun to fantasize, so let's discuss!

Feitan knows what squirting is - loosely. He's heard about it before, sure, and accidentally walked in on Nobunaga doing something that really, really should've prompted him to wear headphones and lock the door. He's aware of what it is, but it's a combination of surprise, confusion, and a sudden and suffocating wave of arousal when it actually happens that leaves him with wide eyes and his lips slightly parted - the closest thing to shock you'll ever see on him.

There's surprise, because Feitan had been so hesitant the whole time he was touching you. He'd bent you over and practically shoved your face into the mattress, too busy staring at the curve of your ass and your pussy to really notice the telltale signs of his nerves. He wanted to seem confident, dominant, knowledgeable, but there's this ever so slight tremble in his fingers as he runs them up and down your sides, this hesitation in his hips when he's fucking into you, this sense of anxiety surrounding him because he really, really needs you to like this as much as he does. And the first time you come - because it takes much, much more than once to squirt - Feitan's honestly shocked.

He's heard how difficult it is to make women orgasm (mostly from Phinks and Nobunaga who, frankly, aren't particularly reliable sources of information), and the fact that he'd managed to do it with just his fingers, some eye contact, and a few careful, purposeful rubs at your clit has him feeling equal parts amazed and proud, because he did that. All those months of stalking you, watching you touch yourself and analyzing the speed and positioning of the toys you used has truly paid off. He's boastful, and it helps boost his confidence just a bit and lessen the tension in his shoulders.

Because now, he doesn't have to worry about making sure you like this. You came, so you'll want to do this again - and now, he can come without feeling pathetic because he's only just moved on from fingering to fucking, and it's been about a minute but he's already ready to burst.

But then you come again, and Feitan freezes up again.

This isn't supposed to happen. He's suspicious, now - there's no denying that your muscles spasmed around him, you cunt fluttering and sucking him in, and your cries and the way you trembled and writhed are certainly convincing. But how did you reach your high for a second time? He was just fucking you; quick, rabbit-like thrusts while he half-heartedly rubbed at your clit, and surely that's not enough, right? He starts to wonder if you're faking it - maybe you're a really good actress, and maybe he shouldn't feel so confident that he was actually able to do it and make you feel good.

He's hesitant to keep going, but he'll be damned if he doesn't finally get to come inside you, so his hips start moving again.

But then you come for a third time, and Feitan decides that you must be making fun of him. There's no fucking way he's making you feel this good - his insecurities (things that've been buried for a very long time, and things that he tries not to think about) come rushing to the surface and he crawls back to that closed off, distant persona, effectively rebuilding any sort of barriers that he's managed to break down between you for the last few months of your captivity.

He's literally pulling out, his expression turning sour (though his cheeks are bright pink from exertion, pleasure, and embarrassment), shame creeping up his spine along with anger because god, is he really so bad at this that you have to pretend to such an extreme degree?

But then you're reaching out behind you, your sweaty hand wrapping around his wrist, your voice strained and breathy as you look back at him and say no, please, give me more, please Feitan! And it's difficult, really, for him to decide what to do - on the one hand, he won't stand for having you humiliate him like this. He's a fully grown man, your captor, an internationally feared criminal, and the one indisputably in charge. But on the other hand, you're begging for him, asking him to stay inside you and keep making you feel good, and he's never seen you look at him with such yearning, such honesty, such need.

He'll scoff under his breath (though there's no malice) and settle back into you, his hips rutting noticeably faster, balls clapping against your clit over and over again, his eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure begins mounting fast, almost too fast.

He wants to hold off, to prolong this feeling - this warmth, this soft, fluttering feeling in his chest because you want him, but you just feel too good, the friction and warmth of your walls making it impossible for him to hold off any longer.

Except, right as he nears the edge, his eyes going wide then fluttering closed again, his lips catching between his teeth and his breath getting heavy and harsh and labored, he feels it.

It's wet, it's warm, and it's foreign. It's like something is spraying him, right on his balls, dripping down his thighs and leaving him sticky. Immediately he jerks back, cock slipping out of you, concern and discomfort making him stare wildly down at your shaking hips and ass, only to freeze.

There's this clear liquid gushing from you, landing on him while you tremble and shake and - he's now realizing - you're practically screaming his name. Your voice is strained and your face is pressed into the mattress, your arms having gone limp as you babble and cry out. He can't move, even as it peters out, your whimpers getting quieter while your shaking stays.

You squirted.

You just fucking squirted.

Because of him, and the pleasure he was giving you.

That's not something you can fake. He doesn't care how good of an actor you are - that was real. That was for him. He was making you feel good enough that you'd just done something he was mostly convinced was only possible in porn - all because of how good he was making you feel.

You can't see him, but suddenly you feel him - his cock is in you, hips moving so fast you can only gasp and let out something between a yelp and a gasp. He's fucking into you so fast that it's leaving you dizzy and disoriented, the aftershocks of the pleasure making your fingers and legs feel numb. You're shaking again, a constant stream of cries falling from your lips, but he doesn't relent.

How can he? You - the woman he thinks he's in love with, the woman he's spent literal months fantasizing about and thinking of every waking moment - and your body just showed him exactly how he affects you. You just showed him how badly your body craves him, how he makes you feel, how much you need him.

And as his orgasm descends upon him, his hips moving at an animalistic pace, uneven and stuttering, the sensation of warm cum flooding you only heightens the sensitivity running through your system, your brain feeling like mush and your muscles limp.

And Feitan, as the pleasure fades and the liquid coating his thighs starts to dry, can only heave, his chest rising and falling quickly. He's still staring down at you, dark eyes studying the curve of your back, your pretty ass, the way your hair is messy now from being rubbed up against the pillow your cheek is smooshed up against.

You're pretty, he thinks, in a way he hasn't really thought of before. Of course he's attracted to you - it's something he's tried to deny for months and has only recently really fully accepted - but something's different now. You're different.

You're different because you want him now. You showed him that, even - just how badly you crave him, just how much his touch affects you. It makes him giddy, this boyish, weird pride and warmth swelling in his chest, and it has Feitan rushing to the bathroom, wetting a rag (the rag is stained pink from previous hand washings, the blood mostly having been removed but the color remaining) and returning with quick footsteps, too fast to be considered normal.

He pauses for a moment and simply stares - you're still out of it, ass perched up in the air and face buried into the modest pillow, your legs still shaking, and he can see the remnants of both you and him. He can see his cum leaking from your quivering little hole, white standing out against your skin and a glisten coating the inside of your thighs from your little show. It makes him swallow, the wet rag in his hand feeling refreshingly cold against his body - his body that's growing much, much too hot.

The sight might just be enough to get him slotting himself inside you again, really working at your clit and maybe even pinching your nipple, his lips at your ear and voice husky, dark, strained as he tells you do that again, we won't stop until you do it again.

In short, although he's initially skeptical, Feitan really, really likes it. It gives him the vailidation he's craving, because it means that he was successfully able to get you feeling good, and this means you'll probably be eager to strip down and spread your legs for him again. And just that thought alone makes him jittery, his fingers tapping against his palms and his weight shifting from one leg to the other because god, it felt so good to be inside you.

It makes him feel proud and more comfortable around you, to the point where it's frankly a massive positive boost in your relationship. He's a little less nervous and jumpy around you, and he'll get more confident with touching you in general - whether that's sexual, intimate touches, or even just interlocking your fingers or idly resting his hand on your thigh.

It's a step in the right direction, surely - but be warned, once it happens, Feitan is expecting it to happen again. Every time. No exceptions.

And you - who'd really only even managed to squirt because it's been months since you've been touched in any way by another human being, and the Stockholm Syndrome has kicked in now and almost makes you like him - will have to deal with an insatiable Feitan.

Good job, you've created a monster.

[depravitycentral]

Hi!!! I have this question that's been stuck in my mind. Do you think the phantom troupe would wish to get married (I'm really curious because legally they don't have an identity)? If yes, what do you think would be the theme of the wedding or how they will propose? (I think Uvogin would; I'm not so sure about the others, especially Feitan).

Thank youu!!!

Oooh anon!! A good question!

I think generally, most of the Troupe's yanderes harbor a secret desire to actually marry you. It's sweet, it's domestic, and it ties you to them both emotionally, physically, and legally - the holy trinity, in some eyes.

Let's discuss!!

But of course, the issue of their criminal statuses and lack of an official identity can present challenges in this endeavor, warding some off from actually going through with it. A few yanderes, like Feitan, Franklin, and Machi, decide that it's more trouble than it's worth - even if they secretly wish to see you wearing the pretty ring on your finger that matches with theirs.

Alternatively, these three will each find ways to make it up - Feitan gets you a spider tattoo that matches his own, though instead of the the number in the center, it's simply an F. It's a little cheesy, but it makes him feel better - besides, a tattoo is permanent, a ring is not. This is better.

Machi will always sort of just dream about it, but you'll notice that she starts getting you clothing that's just a bit more formal, maybe something with frills or is white. It's not super obvious, and you'd have to know to look for it, but if she can't marry you, at least she can pretend.

Franklin actually bought you a ring very early into his obsession, right after he came to terms with the fact that his feelings weren't going to go away. He keeps it on his person at all times, and often he'll just idly fiddle with it, rolling it between his fingers and smiling softly at it, letting his mind run wild and pretend that you're wearing it, that you're his.

Some are still a bit more secretive about wanting to officially marry you, but will go through the hoops to get a fake identity and register the marriage. Phinks, for example, does want to marry you, even if it's a little embarrassing to admit. He won't directly bring it up, but after he gets all the legal stuff figured out, he'll present the papers to you with a pen, scratching the back of his neck and struggling to look at you while he asks in an unsure voice if you'd like to - you know, uh, tie the knot?

Pakunoda is also not super pushy about it, but she does want it to happen. She'll drop hints once she thinks you've come around enough, even going so far as to use her nen ability to get information out of you about whether you actually want to marry her, and if so what your dream wedding looks like. She doesn't mind the work if it means getting to see your face light up and give you that magical day you've both dreamed of - particularly because it'll be her bed you come home to that night.

Some didn't have particularly strong feelings about the matter until later on into their infatuation with you. It's a fleeting thought mostly, something that tickles at the back of their mind for a brief moment, but it sticks with them. Would you like to get married? Would you like to wear a pretty dress and kiss them and take their last name like they really, really want you to? The longer they think about it, the more they like it, and so they'll get all the necessarily legal fraud done - it's worth it.

Shalnark both likes the idea, and likes the way it would permanently bind you to him. Even if you tried to run away, once you're married it would be very, very easy for him to track you down. Besides, he likes domesticity and pretending that your relationship is perfectly normal and healthy and consensual - it's fun to tease you this way, but it also makes him giddy and fluttery. Marrying you is this boyish dream that he wants to live out, so when he starts cutting out all these photos of dresses and rings and eagerly shows you, don't be too surprised.

Shizuku just likes the idea. Pakunoda makes some comment about a couple she'd seen the other day shopping for wedding venues, and instantly a light bulb ignited above her head. You'd look cute in a wedding dress, especially if it had lots of frills and pretty lace. She doesn't even ask you - you get excited when she takes you out of the house for once, only for your heart to drop when you see the dress and the flowers and the ring, all of her coworkers looking at you with varying degrees of happiness and interest. At least the wedding is a little cute - lots of delicate laces and finishing touches.

Others are very, very excited to marry you. It's something that's been in the cards for a long while, and it's something that will happen. You don't really get a say; it makes them feel better, as if your relationship is genuine, authentic, and official. Plus, seeing you all dolled up in white for them makes their heart race out of their chests and their suits feeling too tight.

Uvogin, for one, wants everything in your relationship to be as normal as possible. He truly loves you, and while he recognizes that he's a bit of an alternative groom, he wants you to feel special and lovely and pretty. Plus, getting to tease you about being his little wife is an awfully appealing idea - as is the fact that now you actually belong to him, just as he's been telling you all along. (Plus, now you can't even pretend to put up a fight about him not wearing a condom - you're married, so who cares if he knocks you up now?)

Nobunaga, frankly, already was under the impression that you were married in every way except name. You're living together (forcibly, but that's besides the point), you sleep in the same bed (again, forcibly), share finances (he controls everything you get, so 'share' perhaps isn't the best word), and he touches you like a husband would (even if you wish he wouldn't). Marriage is simply the final nail in the coffin of what you should already know is your love story - so slip on the white dress and let him slip you out of it later that night - it'll be fun, he promises.

(I was inspired by the idea of Chrollo and a wedding, so have a little blurb about it!)

Chrollo thinks the idea is cute. He's got enough aliases to register a marriage in whatever country he happens to be in, quickly filing the paperwork with minimal scuff.

It's endearing, honestly - the idea of you being his loving wife, his woman, wearing a pretty ring sparkling on your finger that symbolizes both his love for you and your belonging to him.

He views the idea as both something to quell his romantic and possessive instincts towards you, all the while pleasing you by finally having something normal happen in your relationship. He may have kidnapped you, may be a mass criminal, and he may infuriate you to the point of insanity, but all women dream about getting married, right?

And while you may be volatile towards him, even you can't deny the idea of marrying him - he's seen the way you look at him, how your disgust gets less pronounced with every passing day when he touches you, how resignation is slowly settling into your frowns and the slump of your shoulders.

And so, he'll propose, it'll be a grand affair, but Chrollo has this way of making everything seen so casual and subtle, even if the candlelit dinner he pops the question over is anything but. He takes you out on dates once in a blue moon, with those dark eyes watching your every move and making sure you do nothing even remotely suspicious.

The first thing you'll notice on this night, however, is how there's no one around int he restaurant - with a wonderful view of the city skyline and the full moon making it all glow. It's empty, save for you and Chrollo. There's a white wicker candle burning between the two of you and a collection of blood red flowers sitting in an ornate glass vase, one of your favorite desserts sitting in front of you on the immaculate, perfectly pressed white tablecloth.

(He'd ordered both your meal and your dessert for you, of course, though irritatingly enough, you'd enjoyed the food and were begrudgingly going to enjoy the sweet.)

He's been unusually quiet the entire dinner, those dark eyes seeming to bore into you even harder than usual, making goosebumps rise all along your body.

(Your body that's covered in a stunning, sating emerald dress that he picked, of course. The sizing was perfect, as always, even looking hand tailored despite never going to the sizing appointments yourself.)

It's scared you a bit, truth be told, but as soon as he leans back, pressing the glass of wine to his lips with a twinkle in those soulless eyes that keep looking at your fingers, things will suddenly start to click. There's a pause as he swallows, and all too soon his voice is filling up the previously empty air, his voice almost giddy as he asks if you enjoyed the food.

You'll nervously respond with a yes, and he'll let the smallest of smiles slip onto his lips. But this smile - this smile - it feel real, genuine, unlike any other smile you've seen him give you before. There's something sharp about it, vulnerable and raw and horrible, and it makes it hard to breath as he utters the next sentence.

Will you be eternally mine, love? Would you let me be eternally yours?

It's cheesy and far too dramatic and just too much, but what choice do you have? It's not like you can really say no. And when you nod, that smile will get bigger and wider, a cold hand reaching across the table to clasp over yours while you shrink back.

And that smile stays until the wedding date- very soon after he initially asks, in an older, gothic-style church. It's clearly been abandoned, but there's no dust or grime to be seen anywhere and the large, ornate glass windows make you think the place has actually been recently scrubbed from floor to ceiling.

The pews are a dark mahogany, almost black, with curling designs and animals carved into the wood. The floor is stone and the walls are too, making everything feel gray and glowing from all the candles still present. The Troupe is all present, remarkably all dressed in formal attire - suites and dresses, and if you'd actually wanted to be there, you almost might've laughed at the sight of Phinks wearing a rose pendant at his lapel.

The dress - once again, chosen by Chrollo and perfectly fitted - a creamy ivory color. It's surprisingly simple, something you hadn't been expecting from your self-proclaimed lover - it's satin and smooth, the fabric rippling beautifully as you walk, with a high neckline and long sleeves that only bell out at the wrists.

The back, however, is much more what you associate with Chrollo's style - it's entirely open, showing off the expanse of your back all the way from your shoulders to right above your tailbone. The cold air of the church makes you shiver, as do all the stares of the Troupe members when you walk down the aisle alone.

The flowers are all red roses and Persian lilies. There's nothing green.

The ring is simple; a silver band with his name engraved along the interior, and a jade set into the band that's a deep, rich green standing out against your skin. He slips it onto your finger with hands that you think are slightly shaking, his Adam's Apple bobbing ever so slightly. He seems distracted throughout the whole ceremony, and he keeps a firm grip on your hands throughout it all, his grip tight enough to leave bruises against your knuckles.

The ceremony is officiated by a man that looks far too unphased by the presence of criminals to be a real priest, and quickly it becomes apparent that he'll entertain no sort of rebellion from you. He hardly even lets you finish your vows, sounding impatient to the to the 'I do'.

The clapping is loud as Chrollo's hand settles onto your waist, his pink lips perking into a smile as he leans closer to you, his breath smelling of mint as it fans across your cheeks, his whisper of your name making your breath hitch as he kisses you, your first intimacy as an officially married couple.

The kiss is innocent and tame, but the weight of its meaning makes your shoulders sink and your stomach drop, something inside of you slowly curling up and dying. He pulls back for a moment, before diving in again, this time shoving his tongue into your mouth and wrapping his arm fully around your waist, a sharp inhale sounding as he kisses you harder, deeper, fervently, his fingertips pressing into you and crumpling the fabric of the dress he'd forced you into.

Eventually he pulls away, slightly out of breath and his hair a little out of place across his forehead and god that damn smile is back as he looks at you, this sort of wide-eyed expression settling across his face that looks too boyish and genuine to be real.

My wife... He muses under his breath, licking his lips and not letting his gaze falter from yours.

Many kisses will come later that night, as he strips you out of the lacy white lingerie you're wearing under the dress, as he pushes inside of you with a sort of muffled strangled noise, as he sweats and his hips stutter and he buries his face into your neck and claims you as his.