#miasmal-writes

[miasmal-sweetness]

Bump in the Night - yandere!Cloud x reader

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

Just a little one-shot for yandere!Cloud while I dip my toes in to posting my writing on tumblr. I fell in love with this man as a child the moment I heard he wore a dress because who the fuck doesn't love a good dress, am i right.

Summary: 2.4k. Cloud is a good neighbor, and offers to keep watch for you when you’re scared one night. He won’t let this interrupt his nightly routine, though.

Pairing: yandere!Cloud x gn!reader

Warnings: Smut, yandere behavior, somnophilia, masturbation, general creepiness, darkfic/dead dove, dubcon/noncon (reader is asleep), reader is gender neutral

Bump in the Night

You were nice. Or nice enough. Well, you were nice enough to him, specifically—Cloud couldn’t really care whether or not you were nice to others. Anyone else would probably think you were just being a good next-door neighbor, with the way you smiled and greeted him each morning when he stepped out of his apartment.

You’d be watering your little plants on the balcony that surrounded your door, your hair a mess and wearing only a robe and house slippers. It wasn’t a long robe, either. It’s a robe he thinks about often at night. It shows just the perfect amount of skin. The right balance of revealing your soft thighs while covering enough to leave him desperately wanting.

Maybe you’re wearing it now. Maybe if he looks out on to the balcony, you’ll be there in your robe, and a breeze will pass in just the right way with just the right strength to reveal more of your skin. Cloud knows there’s a fat chance of that happening, but there’s no harm in dreaming—well, other than how fucking hard he is now.

Cloud thinks of himself as a man of amazing self-control, but every man has his limits. You are his. Cloud starts his nightly routine; set his sword down, make sure the door is locked, begin to strip out of his armor, and open his closet door. The walls of Stargazer Heights are paper thin, and that means he can sometimes hear you padding around your apartment or lying down in bed. It’s a treat when he hears you speak.

Tonight, you must already be asleep. Your apartment is silent, other than a very faint sound of the fan you keep running. But he’ll still lean against the wall, just in case you make a sound, and imagine you in your bed as he strokes his cock. Maybe you’re wearing your robe. Maybe you’re not, and you just throw that on every morning because you sleep naked.

CRACK.

Cloud bristles. The wall was intact; he hadn’t somehow busted through it by jerking off. And that didn’t sound like a noise you would make… It sounded like it came from outside. Cloud tries to brush it off, gripping his dick again and returning to his thoughts of peeling back your blanket and—

CRACK. POP POP.

Did someone really have to fire their gun right now? Cloud grits his teeth and hisses, opening his eyes again. There’s another noise now, coming through the wall this time. You’re whimpering. Your bed is creaking, and you whisper harshly, like you’re scolding it for giving you away.

Cloud feels his heart flop in his chest. He didn’t know you could make those kinds of sounds. And as hot as it is, you also must be scared. What’s he supposed to do, though? Walk over there and tell you he heard you crying through the wall because he listens to you every night to get off?

Either way, his session is interrupted—by his own choice. He absolutely could keep going just to the sound of you whimpering, but his concern outweighs his arousal. He’ll just knock on your door and check on you. He’ll just say he heard gunshots outside and wanted to make sure you were doing okay. That’s a normal, neighborly thing to do. It’s less normal that he’s knocking on your door with a raging erection, but it’s dark and his pants mostly hide it.

“It’s Cloud,” he adds with his final knock. After all, it’s the middle of the night and you’re no fighter.

At this, you unlock the door and crack it open, peeking out at him with teary eyes. “H-hi,” you whisper, glancing behind him. No signs of any danger. “What’s up, Cloud?” You’re trying to even out your voice, but you’re failing. You’re too tired and too startled to put on a good act, but Cloud thinks it’s cute anyway.

“I heard gunshots,” he says, staring in to your eyes. Cloud wasn’t one for such intense eye contact most of the time, but you didn’t complain and it made you squirm and blush, so he kept doing it. “Just thought I’d see if you were doing okay.”

You press your lips together and slowly nod. You’re lying, of course. The sounds of gunfire scared the living shit out of you. You know it’s not likely to spread to the apartments, but what if it does? Your anxiety will be the death of you someday. “I’m, um, I’m okay,” you quietly, slowly say. “I’ve… been better.”

Cloud breaks his stare as you speak to glance down at your legs. You had opened the door wider, and it’s like a dream come true to him. You’re wearing the robe. Cloud coughs and looks back at your face. “I’ll hear if anyone tries to come in,” he says in an attempt to offer some sort of comfort. “So… don’t worry.”

You appreciate it, but it doesn’t feel like enough to soothe all your worries. “Um, thanks.” You drop your gaze to your feet and fidget with the hem of your robe. You have no desire to be exposed to the outside world after hearing gunshots, but you also have no desire for this conversation to end. It brings some small amount of comfort to stand in the light by your door with Cloud.

Cloud’s eyes follow your hands down to the hem of your robe. Are you doing it on purpose? Do you know? Are you teasing him? No, there’s no way. He’s seen you fidget plenty of times. Right? He feels sure of it, and then you lift your robe a little higher to run your fingertips over a loosening stitch, and he feels a lot less sure of everything other than how much he wants to fuck you in your doorway.

“I can keep watch while you sleep,” Cloud offers. He’s staring at your thighs like they have the secrets of the universe written on them, but you don’t seem to notice as you mull over the offer. “Want me to come in?”

It takes a moment, but you finally give him a meek nod and open your door for him. Cloud steps inside. It smells like you in here. It’s dark, but he can see some of your clothes lying around, and a few plushies on your desk and your bed. You’ve made an actual home out of this place—Cloud’s apartment still looks like a motel room that someone could get tetanus in.

“Thank you,” you tell him, locking your door again. “Uh… Do you want something to drink? I have coffee and tea. J-just the instant stuff, though.”

“I’m fine.” The last thing Cloud needs is to be any more wound up right now. He can’t take his eyes off your bed.

You start to fidget again. “You don’t have to stay up to keep watch. I just need someone here until I fall asleep.” That still sounds weird, doesn’t it? You’re an adult; why are you still acting like a child who needs your daddy to tuck you in? Even though you scold yourself, you’re unwilling to tell Cloud that you’ve changed your mind and he’s free to go. “Or you can stay the night here… I’ll take the floor so you have the bed.”

Nope. No way. He is not passing up this opportunity. Besides, you had crammed your queen-sized bed in to his apartment—the thing was begging to be used to its fullest potential. “We can share the bed,” he stated, folding his arms over his chest. He resists the urge to tap his foot. It would be easy to just toss you on the bed… “Neither of us are sleeping on the floor.”

He says it with such authority that you—weak-willed, push-over little you—accept it without question. Maybe that’s why he likes you. You listen to him and you don’t make him do stupid tasks, even if he’d gladly do them for you. Tifa makes him be nice to people. Aerith tries to push him to be a good person, too. And his years in Shinra were filled with constant orders and scrutiny.

But you just take him as he is and do what he says. Finally, he gets to be the one giving out orders. He once bumped in to you and pretended to spill his drink, then told you to pick it up—all so he could watch you bend over. Sure, Tifa gave him a nasty look, but he rode that power high for three days.

You pull your covers down and climb in to bed. It’s too dark to make out anything clearly, but just the fact that your underwear—if you’re even wearing any—is revealed while you crawl on the mattress is enough to make him shudder. Cloud tries to calm himself while he takes off his shoes. He’s just here to comfort you, and that’s all. Unless you want more. Do you want more? Fuck, he wishes you’d just say it.

You look up at him as he climbs in next to you. You’re trying to be polite by lying on the absolute edge of your side, but he wishes you’d be rude.

“Good night,” you say, pulling your blanket over yourself. “Wake me if you need anything.”

“Good night.”

Cloud pulls the blanket up to his chest and leans back against your pillows. Okay, it seems like you really do just want him to keep watch. And that’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. He is a fighter. He is in control. He doesn’t go back on deals. He has amazing self-control, even though his hand in lingering over the bulge in his pants.

You’re already asleep, and Cloud decides to believe that you fell asleep so quickly simply because he’s that comforting to you. He looks at your sleeping, peaceful face. Your lips are slightly parted and a lock of hair has fallen over your face. If he waits a few more minutes, you’ll fall in to a deeper state of sleep. So he does, listening to your soft breaths as he waits.

He tests the waters by sliding the blankets down ever so slightly. If you wake up, he’ll just say he was too warm. You don’t respond, so he slides them down further. You’re sleeping on your side, and your robe has fortunately followed gravity and parted.

Cloud swallows a little too loudly, but you don’t hear it. Palming himself over his pants isn’t enough anymore; he’s pulled out his cock. There’s a little part of him telling him that this is wrong of him to do, but he’s pretty good at ignoring that voice by now. You’re sleeping, anyway. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He gingerly pulls your robe further open. Unfortunately, you are wearing underwear. Fortunately, they cover very little. Cloud lets his fingers ghost over the skin of your thigh; he shudders as though he was the one touched. He tries to keep as still and quiet as possible as he strokes his cock, sometimes stopping just so he can savor this for a little longer.

His fingers crawl in between your inner thighs, wedging between them. You’re warm—the thought of fucking your inner thighs nearly sends him over the edge. He tries to creep his hand further up, but you stir. He pulls his hand away just in time. You adjust yourself in your sleep and roll on to your stomach. It takes away the sight of your belly and chest, but now your thighs are parted and he can lift up your robe to reveal your ass.

Cloud lets you sink back in to a deeper state of sleep before he does this. He’s trying to be a gentleman, after all. You need your sleep. He peels your robe up and admires the sight. He gently rubs your inner thighs, your ass, touches your scanty underwear—and finally runs his fingers down the gusset of your underwear.

He thinks about the sound of your whimpers again, and imagines you making those sounds as he touches you through the fabric. He’s practically fucking his hand at this point; the bed even creaks here and there. He should be more careful. He should calm down and be quiet, or you might wake up. But the risk of that only spurs him on.

You’re good, quiet, obedient. You let him be in control. And even if you decide to go against this if you wake up, he’ll just remind you that he’s doing you a favor. He’s losing sleep for you—you don’t need to know that he’d have lost this sleep anyway jerking off two or three times to the thought of you. He’s here because you wanted him. You owe him. And you live in Stargazer Heights; you don’t have a way to pay him with money. Lucky for you, he’ll accept this instead—you should be grateful. You should be thanking him. If you don’t, he’ll leave the sector—and who will take care of its endless woes then?

All it takes is the thought of you thanking him for him to finally cum. He’s panting, looking like a wild animal as he watches his own cum spurt on to your ass. He grits his teeth as he strokes out every last drop. The damage is already done; it’s not like a little more will hurt, and it looks so good on you.

Cloud creeps off of the bed and wipes his hand off with some tissues you keep by your desk. He’s sick. He’s disgusting. His parents would be so ashamed of him. He scowls at his own thoughts—his parents are dead and it’s not like anyone saw, so it’s fine. He’ll be a bad person if it means he gets to feel your thighs again. Any shred of resistance left in him was gone the moment he touched them.

“You really are a deep sleeper, huh,” Cloud muses, grabbing another tissue. Even if he thinks you should wear his cum all the time, he can’t leave you like this and risk you finding out. Not until he’s certain you want this… or until you can’t do anything about it. He wipes away what he can; your underwear will dry by morning, he’s sure. He’s had enough wet dreams about you that he’s certain of it.

Cloud settles down at your desk. He promised he’d keep watch, keep you safe. And he will, now that he’s had his fun. But maybe he’ll take his payment again in, say, thirty minutes. Although, you just gasped in your sleep, so maybe it’ll be ten minutes.

[miasmal-sweetness]

Here, Kitty, Kitty

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

Graduation is near and I am ignoring health issues by writing hot trash. I put on fake nails for the first time in a literal decade so I have had to relearn how to type during this and I am going to blame that for why this is honestly Not Good and pretty sloppy.

This is absolutely my attempt to reclaim the pet name “kitty” for myself after my weird abusive ex ruined it for me years ago since that’s what he called me.

Here, Kitty, Kitty

Summary: yandere!Cloud x reader. 3.1k. Cloud finally has the perfect nickname for you, but you’ve gone missing. Don’t worry; your hero will save you, just like always.

Warnings: he calls you kitty, duh; reader is gender-neutral but has a vagina; smut; Cloud 100% kidnapped reader; bondage; noncon; suffocation/drowning

“I’m home, kitty.” That’s it. Short and sweet and it rolls off the tongue. That’s what you are—short, sweet, and you also feel great on his tongue. Cloud is certain you’ll love the pet name; his heart has skipped many beats every time he’s thought about it.

Cloud sets his sword down by the door, waiting to hear the usual signs of your presence. You two have been living together for a while now, and you’ve settled into a routine. By now, dinner will be ready, and you’ll be waiting for his return in the kitchen as you flip through a cookbook for the umpteenth time. But this time, he doesn’t hear your breath, your footsteps, the soft turn of pages, or you stirring a pot. It’s silent.

Cloud steps further in to his house. Were you asleep? You had tossed and turned a lot the night before; he wouldn’t blame you for needing a nap. He peers in to the kitchen and finds no sign of you, not a single dish out of place, like you hadn’t even eaten breakfast. The living room is similarly empty, even though the couch is where you usually take your naps. Maybe the rain outside disturbed you; there was a large window that overlooked the couch, so it could be a little loud and chilly there.

You’re not in the hall. You’re not in the extra room he’s let you slowly turn into your own space. His heart is starting to pick up the pace; if you aren’t in the bedroom, then—no. He can’t think that way. Cloud cracks the door open, just in case you really are sleeping, but throws it open when he finds that the bed is empty. Cloud takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. There is one other place you could be, but not only did he keep it locked, you also hated it. The basement—a place you’d only go in to if he dragged you kicking and screaming.

It was storming, though. Maybe you found a way to get in and took shelter out of fear. Cloud left the bedroom after another glance, heading straight for the basement door at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. He keeps the key on him at all times; there’s no way you swiped it off of him, since it’s still in his pocket. Maybe you found a way to pick it.

Either way, Cloud pushes the door open and makes his way down the stairs. “I’m coming down, kitty,” he calls, flipping on the lights. “Don’t be scared, okay?”

He knows before he even sees the basement that you’re not there. He can feel it, but he holds on to that bit of hope anyway. Hope matters little in this world, though. You aren’t there. The basement is empty. His gaze lands on the red silk that lies by the wall. Strong, tightly-woven silk that he brought home after you kept getting horrible rope burns and bruises when he tried cuffs. You were too weak to get out of it, but it didn’t hurt you, either. He wishes he had used it that morning.

One of the windows has been broken open, and your struggle is remembered by the shards of glass covered in your blood. The bars that covered every window were damaged on only this one, pried apart with a hammer from the toolkit he forgot to take back from you. You said you needed it to work on your sewing machine; it needed maintenance, but he didn’t have the time to supervise you or do it himself. What a dumb decision. He should have just stayed an extra thirty minutes.

Now you’re gone, probably lost somewhere out in the rain and possibly trying to fend off monsters. You aren’t a fighter. You were easy for him to drag here; so easy he wouldn’t have had trouble even without years of training and mako forced in to him. You’re probably scared, cold, and lost, wondering why he hasn’t saved you yet.

Of course, deep down, he knows that’s not true. You ran away. Pried off the prison bars keeping you caged, escaped the room he kept you in for a month and a half before he thought he wore down your will—the room he still brings you down to sometimes when you misbehave or something triggers his paranoia. Cloud knows all of this, but he’s good at ignoring it. You need him, whether you like it or not.

Grabbing the silk rope from the floor, Cloud trudges back up the stairs and grabs his sword. You can’t have gotten far. The house is way out in the countryside, where paths are limited; your bare feet are not going to move quickly or easily on the rocky terrain. He follows a fading trail of blood leading away from the broken window. He’s so focused on your trail that the feeling of cold rain pouring on him is barely noticeable; he only thinks about it when he realizes that you must be freezing.

He moves a little faster.

Eventually, the trail of blood stops, either because the wound clotted or the rain has washed it away. He hopes it doesn’t hurt to badly. He does. He does believe that—he’s tries to drown out the thoughts that insist that you deserve it for being such a brat, that this will teach you a lesson, that this is nothing compared to what he’ll do when he drags you back home. The thought of making you crawl over the broken glass you left behind in the basement is interrupted when he notices footprints left behind in the mud. They’re barely visible, but they’re there.

The footprints guide him to a few shrubs. Some strands of your hair are caught in the leaves and branches; he wonders if you were trying to crawl under them for shelter from the rain. Evidently, you gave up and tried taking refuge under a tree, but that must not have been good enough. Your trail leads right to a dying tree leaning against a small, rocky hill; a small source of relief from the rain. There are no prints leading out. You’ve barricaded yourself in with branches and leaves, mostly in an effort to stay hidden. He smiles at the childish attempt—he might be pissed that you left, but it’s adorable that you think that would be good enough.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “You can come out.”

No response. He doesn’t even hear you shift.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he teases, circling your poor attempt at a hiding spot. “Come to me, kitty.”

You want to tell him to fuck himself. You want to stick your head out just to spit at him. Even though you know it’s over, though, you refuse to reveal yourself. He’ll have to drag you out by your ankles, something that you know he has no problem doing. If you can’t escape, you can at least make this difficult for him. You sink further in to your spot, batting your lashes to blink away tears and rain drops.

You’re dirty, bloody, sweaty, and drenched in rain. You have scratches going up and down your waist, legs, and arms. The soles of your feet are red and covered in scrapes. You just want to be able to cry in peace, but you’ll hold your breath until you pass out if it means he won’t get the satisfaction of hearing you.

“Come out, kitty. It’s okay; you’re not in trouble.”

Liar. You know the second you’re back at that house, he’ll be grabbing at you and crushing you and making you say you won’t leave over and over until you lose your voice and he’s satisfied. You knew the risk of leaving, and you decided at the time that it was worth it—but that was before the storm came and slowed you down. Your lips and fingers are already blue. You couldn’t keep going. You can’t keep doing this. All you have the strength to do right now is sit in silence like a pouting preschooler who doesn’t want to leave the park yet.

Cloud crouches down by your shelter. You wiggle away from him, casting your eyes to the ground. He reaches past the thorny branches you’ve barricaded yourself with, not even acknowledging the thorns that scratch his arms and leave blood in fresh red lines.

“Come on out, kitty,” he urges, holding out his hand to you. His voice is soft now, gentle; it reminds you of when you first met Cloud. He had been rough around the edges and awkward, sure, but you thought you saw a good heart behind it all. Sometimes you still did, when you saw his eyes go soft as he stroked your hair or kissed bruises that formed when you bumped in to the counter—when he’d bring you treats from outside, reminders of the life he took from you, with a look in his eyes that implied a quiet regret that he couldn’t voice. Somewhere in him, that sweet boy with those big blue puppy dog eyes is reaching out for you, asking you to stay with him after he’s already lost so much.

You give in. You’ve never been able to resist him—not when his eyes go soft and he looks like you just broke his heart. You take his hand and crawl out from your spot, seeking new refuge in his warmth. Even in the icy rain, he still runs hot. He wraps his arms around you as you miserably shiver and sniffle. This was a terrible idea. You never should have left. It was pointless, and only ended with the both of you upset.

Cloud’s hand moves down to your waist, and you hiss when his fingers brush over your scratches. He murmurs an apology as he examines your wounds. They’re shallow, just plentiful.

“You didn’t run in to any monsters, right? No other injuries?” he asks, running his thumb over dried blood that crusted on your hip.

“No,” you mumble, staring blankly at your bruised knees.

“Good.” He continues to contemplate your scratches, rubbing small circles in to your thigh. “Why did you leave, kitty?”

The new nickname finally hits you. Even in the cold, you feel a little warmer from it. You supposed it’s fitting—back in the sector, you made nightly rounds in the neighborhood to give snacks to the strays. Your heart sinks a little, and the bitterness of your situation claws its way back up your throat. Sure, he’s being sweet now, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s keeping you captive. “I wanted to go home,” you spit, lifting your head to stare venom in to those stupid big eyes of his.

“This—”

“No!” You pound your fists against his chest, even though you know it barely does anything to him. “That is not my home! You are not my boyfriend! I want to go home to my friends, to the sector, to the cats and my neighbors!” Each cry is punctuated by another thump of your fists against his chest, and he takes it all without even a wince.

“Kitty, don’t—”

You won’t let him get a word in edgewise. “Take me home!” you demand, unleashing your fury in the form of a flurry of weak blows to his chest.

Finally, he responds to your pathetic attempt at a tantrum. He grabs your wrists and holds them together with an infuriating amount of ease. His eyes aren’t soft and sparkly anymore. He doesn’t have that pout that you fall for so easily. His gaze is hardened, sharp, and focused entirely on you as he throws you on to your back. You grunt when your back collides with mud and your hair is soaked by a puddle.

“Listen, kitty,” he snaps, giving a harsh yank to your flimsy shorts. You try to scramble away, but he pins you in place with just his weight. “This is home now. You can either make it easy on yourself and accept it or you can keep throwing your tantrums, but it won’t change a thing. There is nothing for you back there.”

Your top is ripped off, torn in two and discarded in the mud. He doesn’t seem to care one bit about the dirt and mud you’re in, nor about the puddle that you keep trying to lift your head out of. “Th-that’s not true,” you sputter, forcing your legs shut with all the strength you can muster. “My friends—our friends—”

“Do you really think anyone even noticed that you’re gone?”

You fall silent at this, mouth agape. You had considered the possibility that no one noticed or cared, or that they quickly forgot about you and brushed you off when you never came back. But you always held out hope that they remembered and looked for you.

“You were just another body to them,” Cloud mutters against your neck. He’s running his hands up and down your body, between your trembling legs, as though nothing is wrong and he isn’t saying horrible things in your ear. “I took you away from that. Give you a home and everything you need. Keep you warm and safe… and you fucking run away?”

Your legs are forced apart, and you feel like a hot poker is being shoved in to you. You weren’t prepared in the slightest, but that doesn’t stop him from pounding in to you.

“Cloud, stop!” you cry, trying to wriggle away from him as he sucks on his favorite spot on your neck.

“Quit moving around so much,” he grumbles, finally stopping the brutal pace of his hips. The relief you get is brief and nowhere near enough; Cloud stops just long enough to turn you on your stomach, before resuming the same pace. With your face now shoved in to the muddy puddle below, he can enjoy himself without you saying things like “no” and “this hurts.” You can only guess that this isn’t one of the days he enjoys it.

Even though you’re half-drowning and you can vaguely hear him hissing obscenities and complaints, he still shoves his hand between your legs and plays with your clit. And it still feels good, no matter how much pain you’re in. When this nightmare first started, Cloud had been awkward and inexperienced. With plenty of practice, however, he found each spot you enjoyed, and which way was the best to pleasure you. The kind of knowledge and familiarity you’d only expect to grant a partner. He knew every inch of your body; it was mapped out in his mind better than anywhere in Midgar.

And you hate it, even as the warmth builds up in your gut. He grabs you by your hair and lifts your head to let you take in another desperate gasp of air, before shoving your head back in to the mud. This isn’t like him. Even on the days you’ve been a brat and he’s come home angry from whatever the hell he faced out there, he’s at least been apologetic while brutalizing you. Frantically telling you “sorry, I’m sorry” as he fucks your throat without concern for your gag reflex or chokes you from behind as he tries to bury himself as deep as possible inside of you.

There are no apologies. The closest relief you have is the brief gasps he allows you to take, and it’s still nowhere near enough. Your eyes burn and are covered in a haze. You can feel the pressure inside of you building; the lack of oxygen only seems to make it more intense. He lifts your head just to hear you moan and sigh. He knows every sign of your orgasm—the shake of your leg, the way your core tightens, the feeling of you contracting around him.

“That’s it,” he breathes as you writhe in pleasurable misery. “Say my name, kitty.”

You obey without question. Whatever will get this over with—and his fingers away from your clit. “Cloud,” you whisper.

“Say ‘thank you, Cloud.’”

If it weren’t for the lack of oxygen and orgasm turning your brain to mush, you would have put up a fight. But there’s no point to it now. “Th—thank you, Cloud,” you manage to croak, struggling to speak past the hand around your throat and his increasingly frantic pace. You hear him groan against your ear.

“More,” he demands. His voice is breathy and agitated; he can’t tell you exactly what he wants to hear, but you can hazard a guess.

“Thank you for—f-for saving me,” you eke out, squeezing your eyes shut. The high of the orgasm is fading, replaced by pain from overstimulation and the tears he created inside of you. Still, you’ll savor the oxygen he’s letting you have. “Thank you for… f-finding me—I was lost and needed you.”

Of course that’s what he wants to hear. Another groan, and he rolls his hips against yours as you feel his cum spill out of you. Cloud rocks his hips against you as he rides out the last of the high; he wants to savor every last moment inside of you. You don’t dare complain. He’s letting you breathe, and the pain isn’t as bad as before, at least.

You fall back in to the mud when he releases you, your arms barely able to move in the clumsy motions you manage in a late attempt to catch yourself. You struggle to push yourself up and roll away from the puddle, panting as water drips from your face. You hurt. You want to cry. And you feel Cloud lifting you up by your arms.

“Let’s go home, kitty,” he says in that gentle, low voice. All malice is gone. The sadism that had been in his eyes just moments ago is gone, the only evidence of it being the mud on your skin and cum dripping down your thighs. “You can have a bath to warm up when we’re back. You should feel better then.”

You don’t fight when he sweeps you off your feet. You don’t fight when he rinses you off and sets you in a tub of warm water. And you just watch as he fixes the broken window, reinforces the bars, and boards them up to keep you from getting any more ideas. You’re tied up in a pile of blankets on the floor, his attempt at softening the reality of your confinement. You’ll be down in that basement for at least a week, until he decides it’s safe to let you out again. You should have known he’d keep his promise—he’d always come to your rescue.

[miasmal-sweetness]

Barefoot

Inspired by my family members who always told little me growing up to not let a boy ever get me barefoot and pregnant.

Also not very good because I wrote the vast majority of this while very hypoglycemic and depressed lmao

Summary: 4.2k. Cloud’s dreams are dead. Shinra didn’t pan out. The city wasn’t for him. So he’s back in Nibelheim, forever a country boy. But you’re here, too, and you’re just happy he filled his promise to come back safe. Cloud is satisfied with his future in this sleepy town as long as you’re in it, but what’s this about you wanting to leave for school?

Alternative summary: Your small town boyfriend kills your big city dreams before anyone else can.

Pairing: yandere!Cloud x reader

Warnings: Forced breeding/baby-trapping, impregnation, reader is AFAB and referred to as a mom, Cloud kills your dreams, dubcon, manipulation, talk of abortion, not proofread bc it's meeee

MDNI – NSFW – 18+ only – take care of yourself

Barefoot

The sun is setting. Some of the Chocobos in the town’s ranch are scattered about, already settled for a good sleep. From the water tower, they look like puffs of bright yellow pollen gathered in the grass, at least when they tuck their heads against their wings. Normally, you’re filling the silence between you and Cloud with your happy chatter about your favorites—whom you have named Peep and Meep—but your words are in short supply today.

Cloud glances down at your hand. It’s next to his. So close… He could just grab it. Why aren’t you holding his hand? Has he brushed you off too many times? As he ponders the possibilities of why you might be mad at him, he misses the sight of you repeatedly parting your lips and closing them again.

“Did I piss you off?” Cloud finally asks. He can’t think of anything specific as to why you’d be angry or sad. You’ve been happy lately, maybe a little lost in thought, but things have been going well. He’s back in Nibelheim. You two are officially together. His mother is thrilled and adores you, your father approves of him, and you’re happy he kept to his promise to come back to you. So what’s the problem?

“What?” You snap out of your thoughts and finally look at him with wide eyes. You look tired—not physically, but mentally. Something is eating away at you. “I—no, no, I’m not mad.” You laugh, more to comfort him than anything. “I was just—erm, thinking, that’s all.”

Cloud grunts, a crooked frown on his face. He stares in to your eyes for a moment longer, searching for any signs of a lie, and finally accepts it as the truth and looks back at the Chocobos. “What are you thinking about, then?” He should have figured. You thought a lot—frequently, you thought too much. You had yet to take his advice to knock it off.

“Um…” You aren’t looking at the Chocobos. You’re looking at your hands, and then your kicking feet, and then your hands again as you rub circles in to your palms with your thumbs until your skin is red and raw. “I’ve been thinking that I want to learn more. A-about healing. You know, if anyone gets hurt out here, there’s not much we can do.”

Cloud nods. He knows this isn’t why you’re rubbing your own skin off your hand. “That’s a good idea,” he says, ignoring the anxiety rising in his gut. “One of the traveling doctors should be coming by next month; maybe you can—”

“Actually, I wanted to go to the city and study there.”

That’s why you’re so anxious. Why you’re tense and your voice is tremulous. Why you two aren’t spending your time on the water tower talking about Chocobos, chatting about your days, or making out. Cloud hides his surprise well, but it still takes him a moment to be able to speak.

“The city, huh?”

“Mm-hm.” This time, he’s silent. You stop agitating your palm to place your hand over his, but it feels wrong. “There’s a practitioner program there. I’ve saved some money for the tuition—and it’s not that long! I’d be back soon.”

“And how long is ‘not that long’?” he questions, turning his head to look at you again.

Your nervous smile drops, and your gaze shifts to the side. “A year and a half,” you admit, squinting. Cloud bristles at your words, and you return to trying to comfort him. “I know! But I’ll come back here afterwards. And I can visit on breaks—or you can visit me. I’ll write all the time, too.”

This cannot be happening. He goes through all that bullshit with Shinra, has to swallow his pride and come back a failure to you, and now that you two are settled, you want to leave? No way.

“Cloud, please,” you murmur, squeezing his hand. “I can’t be a merc like you. You know this place is… Th-there aren’t a lot of opportunities for me here. I have to make my own.”

Cloud scowls. “You think it’ll be better in the city?” he grumbles. He wants to rip his hand away from you. He wants to brush you off and tell you it doesn’t matter, but he can’t. He can’t do that to you—certainly not now, when the threat of you leaving him is looming. “Trust me, you’re the last person that should go there. You wouldn’t last a day.”

“I have to try,” you insist. “I know it didn’t work for you, but—” You see the raw emotion that flares in his eyes. Wrong path to take. You change the course of your words, hoping it’s not too late. “Cloud, my only option in Nibelheim is to one day stay at home for a husband to look after our kids.”

“What’s wrong with that?” It hurts a little bit, how disturbed you sound when you say the word “husband.” When did your futures diverge like this? Was it his fault for leaving first? “We can get married. You don’t have to worry—”

“I want more than that, Cloud. I want my own life.”

You were right, and he knew it. You were like his mother when she was younger. He heard the stories of how adventurous and bold she had been, how she had defiantly claimed that she would never be a housewife—she would be a traveler. And yet, she had fallen for a man who did all the traveling instead, who left and died and now she was alone and all her dreams were gone.

And even though he sees longing in her eyes sometimes, all his mind focuses on now is one word from you: kids. Children bind people together forever, whether they like it or not. A child was the same thing that tethered his mother to this place—even his father, before his death. Maybe his mother still mourns her dead dreams, but she was otherwise happy, right? You could be, too.

Cloud finally reciprocates your grip on his hand and intertwines your fingers. He softens the scowl on his face for you. “When are you planning on leaving?” he asks, bringing your hand in to his lap.

“The end of spring,” you answer, scooting closer to him. “So we still have two months together.”

“Then we should make the most of it.”

In the dark, it’s pretty easy for him to get away with “accidentally” tearing the condom when he opens it without you even noticing—especially when you’re so worried about someone seeing you two while he fucks you behind a barn. You aren’t normally so agreeable to sex anywhere other than his house, but today is different. Maybe you feel guilty. Maybe you’re excited because you think you’ll actually get to follow your dreams. Doesn’t matter.

Leaving it all up to one ripped condom is too risky, so over the coming days, Cloud gets to researching. He’d never really thought of himself as father material, not until now. He’d learn to be a good one, though. Or not—he was pretty sure you weren’t keen on kids, but you’d probably learn to love it. Eventually. And if you really didn’t, then there were options to get rid of it in the city. After you were married to him, and only then and with his permission—there was no other way. The village aunties wouldn’t allow otherwise. Neither would your father.

So Cloud reads about pregnancy and fertility when he has downtime. He tracks your cycle as best he can by going through your things and counting your pads. He pokes holes in every condom the both of you own and gives you grapefruit juice every morning to screw up the birth control you take. And he fucks you every day, of course—he even keeps you on his cock for a while after, in the hopes that it might increase the chance of something taking.

The clock is ticking, though. There’s only two weeks left until you leave, and you’ve shown no signs of pregnancy. No backache, nausea, or fatigue. If anything, you’re more energetic—always excited about school. About leaving him. That’s what rings through his mind as guilt fills his chest when he slips off the condom mid-sex. You deserve this. Who cares if it’s wrong? It’s not like you’d ever find out, and when you see the mess he’s made, he’ll just say it was an accident. An honest mistake. You’ll believe him—you always do.

It’s a week until you leave now, and you have still not voiced any changes. No weight gain. Nothing. He’s running out of time, and he knows it.

“You can stay a little longer,” Cloud insists, holding you by your wrist. You’ve started packing your bags, taking what you can of your home—another slap in the face to him. If you really leave, you’ll even deprive him of the ability to go to your room and be among your possessions. “You said the program doesn’t start for another few weeks.”

You smile at him in a tender, almost pitying way. You slide his hand off of your wrist and return to folding a blouse. “I want time to get settled in,” you remind him. “You know I’ve never been to the city before.” You want to suggest that he come with you and show you around, but you know how it will go. He’ll shut you out the second you try.

Cloud snatches another shirt from your hands and tosses it across your room. “You don’t need that much time,” he argues as you sigh. “You can stay. At least… another two weeks.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Damn—you shouldn’t have looked in his eyes. You’re certain he must be aware of the effect his eyes have on you when he softens his gaze and gives you those big blue puppy eyes. He even juts out his lower lip, ever so slightly. You’ve never been able to say no to that face, and this time is no different.

“A week,” you offer, crossing your arms over your chest.

“A week and a half,” he counters. A smirk crosses his face for a quick second, but he replaces it with the pout you know, love, and also hate.

“Fine,” you groan, slouching your shoulders. You comb your fingers through your hair and sigh down at your half-packed bag. “Fine. I can stay an extra week and a half.”

He’s bought a little more time, but he knows you will try to leave eventually. Cloud wraps his arm around your waist and draws you closer; he’s thought of backup plans, in case you never do get pregnant. He could just… take you. You’d be pissed, but it’s not like you could do anything to stop him. Still, he’d rather not go that far unless absolutely necessary. If there’s any chance he can just get you to settle down on your own, he’ll take it.

You lean in to him, and he decides to seize this opportunity, too. His fingers creep down to the hem of your skirt; you try to hold it in place, but he just lifts it up anyway in the back.

“Wearing those for me?” he teases, snapping the waistband of your pink panties.

“You’ve been insatiable lately,” you grumble, swatting his hands away. “You can’t give me a break?”

“Nope.”

And he means it. Cloud’s hands are already on you, his lips against your jaw as he slowly guides you to your bed. It feels nice, but you still pull away and rest your hands on his chest.

“Cloud,” you whine, “Not here. What if my dad—”

“The door’s locked,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t worry so much.”

“What if he comes home and—”

“He won’t. But if he does, I’ll just tell him I was taking good care of you.”

He looks annoyingly proud of himself. You open your mouth to sass him back, but he’s already kissing you again. You’ve known Cloud for years—you started fooling around when you were still a little younger and a lot dumber. Neither of you were skilled at first, but you know each other’s bodies well, and he knows every spot that makes your toes curl. You resign yourself to your fate as he pushes you on to your bed.

This is the you he’s used to. You put up a fight sometimes—you have to look decent, keep your reputation as someone respectable and capable—but you always give in to him. Why does it have to be different when it comes to the city? What’s so special about it? His misery comes out in the form of a harsher bite to your throat than usual.

“Cloud!” you scold, “T-try to be careful. You know how annoying it is to cover up hickeys.”

He doesn’t even think about listening to you. “Then don’t cover them,” he mutters, before lowering his head again to suck at the same spot.

“Asshole.”

“Mhm.”

Even as you grumble and complain at him, he can still feel how wet you are when he shoves his hand down your panties without warning. Some of the fire in your eyes dies out as he toys with you, replaced with something soft and wanting. You scowl and voice another complaint when he pulls his hand away to undo his belt and strip out of his shirt. He doesn’t bother to do the same for you; he decides lifting up your shirt and tossing your panties on the floor is good enough.

Cloud grips you by your thighs as he looks you over. Fucking you on your childhood bed under your father’s roof probably won’t earn him any points with your family, but they don’t need to know—and if they do find out, they’ll have to put up with him once you’re knocked up anyway. Cloud feels you shudder when he just barely penetrates you; as much as you’ve griped at him today, you’re still excited. Unusually excited, even for you.

“Take your time,” you quip, resting an arm above your head. “Not like anyone else could walk in here.”

“Brat.”

As punishment for your sass, Cloud thrusts in to you without warning or hesitation. You cry out and grip your sheets, but it puts it an end to your mouthiness at least. He doesn’t let up, though; he’s now intent on pounding you into nothing on your bed as he forces your knees to your ears.

“C-Cloud…” You want to tell him to stop, but you don’t. It feels good, even if the bed is creaking loudly and you feel like a pretzel and you think did he put on a condom? He’s hitting the perfect spot and your moans are getting louder, your fears of being heard slowly dissipating from your mind. Fuck it—if he’s this set on railing you like this, you may as well fully enjoy it. “Harder, please!”

You feel his nails curl in to your thighs. He laughs at your demand, but acquiesces. Normally, Cloud focuses on your face, the expressions of pleasure on it, and your breasts as they bounce. Right now, though, his gaze continues to be drawn to your belly. He releases one of your thighs and rests his hand over your lower belly, pressing down like he’s trying to feel his own cock inside of you.

He can’t help but think of you—pregnant, waiting at home for him. You’d look cute, he’s certain. Adorable, even. You can’t leave. You can’t do anything. No one in town is going to let you work while pregnant, and every village auntie and uncle will have their eyes on you. Watching out for you. Watching you. Knowing that he’s the reason you’re tethered here, that he’s the one who snapped you back to reality and kept you here, that he’s the one you belong to. That’s what pregnancy really is, isn’t it? Ownership—using your body as a tool, forever changing it.

And then he realizes that your breasts look a little larger today. Your belly feels different—a little firmer. You normally have a smattering of acne around this time, too, somewhere on your body. Your face or your chest or your back, but there’s nothing. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it spurs him on nonetheless. You feel like you’re going to break in two with how rough he’s being, although moans spill from your lips anyway as your shame leaves you and you play with your clit.

Cloud puts his teeth to your neck as he feels pleasure run through your body. You contract around him, your chest and core tightening while your throat releases tiny, pathetic squeaks. He’s turned you into a trembling mess on your bed, probably permanently stained the same sheets you’ve had since you were a kid. The ones with unicorns and stars on them that you’ve always loved. He knows it’s awful of him to enjoy the sight, and awful of him to enjoy the thought of breeding you, but the pleasure from it outweighs any shame. The moment you mewl his name, he cums. He thrusts as deep as he can and uses his weight to keep you in place; he’s not going to let you waste a single drop.

“Cloud,” you eke out. You feel… warm. Very, very warm. You know this feeling—it happened recently when he said a condom broke. And you don’t remember him putting one on this time. “Cloud, Cloud!”

“What?” he snaps, resting his head against the crook of your neck.

“You had a condom on, right?” Your heart is racing again, but more from the acid that’s crawling up your throat than the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you. “Right?”

Cloud thrums and shifts; he pulls out a little, only to sink deeper inside of you again. You can feel his cum oozing out of you, dripping on to your precious pink sheets below. “Didn’t have one on me,” he mutters. “You’re on birth control, anyway. Doesn’t make a difference.” He reaches his hand up to squeeze your cheeks. “Don’t worry so much.”

You scowl up at your ceiling. You hate that it feels good; you chalk it up to some sort of primal instinct that tries to encourage reproduction. “Help me clean up, then,” you order, starting to push up on his chest. “And let’s pray my birth control is working.”

“No need,” he says, finally pulling away from you. “You know I’ll always take care of you. So quit worrying.”

“Easy for you to say. Come on, hurry up before anyone comes back.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Cloud is fortunate that you’re not very good at holding grudges, even though you try; you complain a bit when he pulls you on to his lap the next day, but ultimately give in. And the day after that. And the day after that. And on the day after that, it’s you that starts it, even inviting him to your room. While you recover on your floor, still annoyed about your sheets, he pretends to clean himself up in your bathroom.

You haven’t used any pads in a while. Your appetite is different lately. You’re hornier, for sure. And your breasts are definitely bigger; he grabs them enough that he’d notice even the slightest change. Your skin is still clear, too; he wonders if this is what people mean by the glow that people get when they’re pregnant. You must be pregnant. You have to be; there’s no other reason this would all be happening. Not like it’ll hurt to keep trying, just to be sure, up to the very last moment.

It’s the night before you leave, and you’ve invited him up to the water tower. You’re hiding behind it, staring down at the earth below like it’s going to swallow you up. You wish it would, especially when he wraps his arms around you from behind and places a kiss on your neck.

“Cloud,” you breathe, frozen in place. You don’t reciprocate his touch, but you at least don’t pull away either. One of his hands comes to rest on your belly, and it makes you feel like throwing up.

“Thought you’d want to go to bed early,” he says, rubbing a small circle over your stomach. “Tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” The bitterness in his voice is gone now. He knows what this is about.

“I… yeah…” You clear your throat. You have to just spit it out. You thought about dealing with it on your own—it’s not like there aren’t those kinds of options in the city. But you can’t. All your savings are gone, poured into your hopes and dreams in the city; your family wouldn’t lend you the money without a good enough explanation, and it just brought unwanted questions. Cloud was your last hope. “Cloud, I-I have something to tell you.”

You turn to face him, but you aren’t able to look him in the eye. Not now. Cloud looks you over as you struggle to piece together your next words. Loose dress. Messy hair. Tired eyes. Your lips are dry and chapped. If you weren’t about to tell him such wonderful news, he’d just bend you over here and now; it’s hard for him to resist you when you look so helpless.

“I’m pregnant,” you finally spit out. You sneak a glance at his face; his eyes are wide, but his lips have twitched into a smile. “I-I took a test. I took a lot of tests… I, um—you don’t have to—”

Cloud wraps his arms around you again. It’s comforting and scary at the same time. “You look terrified,” he says, stroking your frizzy hair. “Don’t be. I told you I’d take care of you.”

“Then… you’ll help me—”

“You’ll make a great mom, anyway,” he interjects, completely ignoring the question you wanted to ask. He knows exactly what it is, and he’ll tell you “no” if he really has to, but it’s easier to avoid that subject for now. He doesn’t have to worry, anyway. Who else will you turn to? The moment he announces it, you’ll have the whole town chaining you here. And the village aunties certainly won’t let you try anything. Your father definitely won’t let it go, and he’d force a marriage whether you’d like it or not. “We can get married. Probably soon before anyone starts talking.”

Fuck. Fuck. This was not how he was supposed to respond. You knew Cloud; you knew he was not fond of kids. If anyone was to grumble a bit and tell you to take some cash, head to a clinic, you thought it would be him. So what happened? Why was this man, who had never expressed any desire to be a family man or tied down in any way, suddenly talking about marriage, a child, and your family’s approval? Why did he look so happy, so smug?

“I still want to go to the city,” you manage to say, your voice as tremulous as your lower lip. “I want to get an education.”

Cloud laughs—a short, mocking laugh. “How are you gonna manage that now?” he teases. “You can’t do this alone. Maybe—maybe after. When the kid’s older.” It was a lie, but by then, you’d forget about it. You wouldn’t care about it anymore. You’d be broken in, like every other woman here. Except Tifa, maybe, and she was fortunately leaving very soon for her boyfriend in the city.

“Cloud,” you plead, finally looking into his eyes. He looks so fucking happy, and as angry as it makes you, you also know you can’t resist those puppy dog eyes.

“Be realistic,” he insists. “Your dad would lose his shit if you tried. It’s going to be okay; I’ll go over tomorrow and get permission, we’ll get married, and then we can tell everyone.” He would absolutely be letting it slip to a few of the biggest gossips in town, but you didn’t need to know that. As tears well in your eyes, he cups your face and lifts your hanging head again. “Relax. You don’t need to worry about anything now. I’ll always take care of you. You can just stay home with the kid.”

He’s right. Fuck. He’s right. You can’t get an abortion. You can’t run away. This town will grab you and drag you down—it already is. No one will let you leave with a child holding you here. In just a few minutes, you have been forced to watch all your hopes and dreams be swallowed up by the dirt of this town.

And he knows it. He’ll let you cry it out later. If you’ve calmed down, maybe he’ll let you sneak off and get an abortion—he’ll make up some lie to all the townsfolk. For now, at least, there’s no hope of you leaving. Even if you never truly accept that, he’ll just knock you up as many times as it takes for you to understand. He’ll keep you barefoot and pregnant, broken and tamed like so many other women here. You’re better off this way.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs as you cry your tears against his chest. “I’m here. You’re with me. That’s all that matters.”

Right. You had Cloud by your side through this. He’d do anything for you—and anything to you, if it meant you’d stay.

[miasmal-sweetness]

Eye Level

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

My brain is currently refusing to cooperate and work on any other writing until I spit out my dumb little one-shot with my favorite trope (size differences) with one of my favorite demons. So here ya go. Hopefully I’ll be back to writing out my planned Cloud fics afterwards.

Eye Level

Summary: Alastor x reader. 4.1k. You're short. You know it, everyone at the hotel knows it. You've assumed that it's some sort of divine punishment for whatever sins you committed while alive, but it's really not so bad, as long as no one hides your step-stool. Today, you've found a new problem with it, though, when you try to get a little closer to your favorite 7-foot-tall demon.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dead dove do not eat, size difference (reader reaches Alastor’s hips), smut, reader is gender-neutral with reference to having a vagina, reader wears a dress and bloomers, Alastor being sadistic, reader being a masochist, Alastor calls you “good girl” because I’m a sucker for it

The red light of the sky outside is bleeding in to the hotel, burning your eyes and causing an ache in your head. You want to shut it out, but Niffty is busy cleaning all the windows. Rubbing your right temple, you shift on the couch in an attempt to angle yourself away from the worst of the light as you continue to read your book. The words on the page seem harsher than before against the rough, yellowed pages. In addition to Earth’s actual sunlight, you also find yourself missing the convenience of heading out to the pharmacy to pickup some painkillers that weren’t illicit substances.

“Something the matter, dearest?”

You lift your head at the sound of Alastor’s voice. He’s blocking the light as he stands in front of you, his long shadow easing the pain in your head. You have to crane your neck to look at his smiling face, but you’re used to it at this point.

“Oh, I just have a headache,” you say with a light shrug. “I’m okay. How are you doing?”

“Wonderful as always, darling,” he assures. “Why don’t you join me for a cup of coffee upstairs? I’ve found it works like a charm for a headache.”

You perk up at the thought. It’s a little late in the day to have coffee, but you’re not one to turn down a drink and a snack with Alastor. You take care of most of the cooking for the hotel, since Niffty took over your old job of cleaning, so having something made by another person is a nice treat. Plus, he’s good company—he’s the most polite person you think you’ll ever meet in Hell.

“I’d love to,” you say, sliding off of the couch. You smooth out your dress and tuck your book under your arm; you can finish it another time. Your certain that if you were taller, Alastor would do the gentlemanly thing you see him do with others and link arms with you, but that’s not really possible at your height. Instead, he leads the way by engulfing your little hand with his.

You’re barely focused on the small-talk he makes with you as he guides you up the stairs. His gloves are smooth, and you can feel his claws tickling the skin on your wrist and hand. You know that, as much as Alastor enjoys invading other people’s personal space, he does not enjoy allowing others in to his personal space. Despite this, he has been rather open to your presence; picking you up, holding your hand, ruffling your hair. It feels nice. It makes you feel special—like he’s bestowing an honor on you just by patting you on the head, one that the others don’t get.

You nearly trip over a step, and it snaps you out of your thoughts. Alastor stops you from hitting the ground by extending his arm, letting you put your weight on him for balance.

“Careful, dearest,” he chides, “I’m not always here to catch you.”

Your headache is back, caused by the heat rushing to your face and chest. “Right, thank you,” you mumble, ducking your head. “I-I was just thinking.”

“About what?” You should have seen that coming.

Your eyes dart around as he guides you towards his room. “Uh, j-just—the book you lent me,” you spit out. “I’m almost finished with it. It’s really good.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says, holding open the door for you. “It’s not often I meet another down here that enjoys a good book.”

You smile and step in to his room—immediately, you’re hit by the scent of paper, candles, wood that is well-cared for, and decaying leaves and other plant matter. You know his room changes. You know that what you see is different from what the others see when they enter. You’ve heard them mention the swamp that makes up half of the room, often complete with a decaying deer. Every time he has invited you in, however, it has been nothing other than a lovely room that looks like it belongs in some fancy townhome from the 1920s.

Just another thing that makes you feel special.

“If you have a favorite book, I’d love to read it,” you suggest as you slip out of your shoes.

Alastor’s grin grows even wider than usual. “Really? Well, I’ll have to think about it; I have quite a few in my collection that I favor.” It’s a lie, an excuse to put this off for later. There’s something he doesn’t want you to see. You can sense it, deep down in your gut, but you ignore it. He’s always shielded your eyes from the bad—from the gore of Hell, from those that would try to take advantage of you, even from some of the arguments among the others. This is no different.

Moving on from the topic, Alastor snaps his fingers, and a tray of coffee and small snacks appear on his dining table. He’s added cream and sugar for you; he doesn’t understand your sweet-tooth, but he does indulge it.

“Oh, and a treat for you, little one.”

He snaps his fingers again, and when you next blink your eyes, you find that a dish has appeared on the tray. It’s a slice of cake—the same you remember ogling outside the bakery window the last time you went outside the hotel. The hotel doesn’t offer payment for your services, so your measly pocket change was not enough to get it. He must have noticed your longing for that delicious, soft piece of cake. You don’t even remember the last time you had the luxury of cake. The last time was probably when you were alive, and you have the feeling it was one of those store-bought cakes that are dry and covered in thick, sickeningly sweet icing.

This cake is fancy. This cake is fluffy and standing tall, covered in berries and whipped cream with just the right amount of sweetness. And most of all—it means that Alastor paid that much attention to you on a silly outing that he didn’t need to be a part of.

“Thank you, Alastor!”

You throw out your arms and wrap them around him. It’s a chance as good as any. The closest you have come to hugging him is when he’s picked you up and carried you around like a doll. Surely a gift like this means he would be okay with it—although, the second you touch him, you realize you’re probably reading a little too much in to a slice of cake, and maybe it’s because you forgot to eat lunch.

Your arms wrapped around his legs, your feet in between his. And now you remember just how short you are compared to him. Normally, you’re either staring at the ground or you’re turning your head all the way up to look at his face, which makes it easy to forget that your head reaches an… unfortunate location that you have just unknowingly pushed yourself against.

Your face is burning again. Your head is throbbing. If you weren’t already condemned to Hell, this would probably have gotten you in. Your cheek is right against his groin. You fear looking up at his face for a reaction, but you do it anyway and see that, despite his smile, he looks to be just as shocked as you, if not more. And then it changes. The shock is fading. His eyes are getting darker, and that strange look in his eyes—one that you’ve never seen on him—is directed at you.

You force your body in to action. “I-I’m sorry!” you squawk, stumbling away from him. “Um! I-I just—I was excited; I didn’t mean to—uh, s-sorry, sorry!” You’re clumsily making your way back towards the door, nearly slipping from the lack of friction your socks have on the polished floor.

Alastor takes a step closer to you, and you bristle, picking up the pace. “Ma cher, don’t—”

“Sorry!” you cry one last time, slipping out the door and in to the safety of the hallway. You dash to the end of it and around a corner, where you wait to hear any signs of him following. Nothing. The only thing you hear is your own racing heart and the blood rushing through your body. You feel hot, shaky, and a little sweaty—your feet are sweating through your socks.

Your socks.

You forgot your fucking shoes in his room.

Groaning, you sink down to the floor and peel off your socks, freeing your overheated feet. You replay the event in your mind as you stare emptily at your toes, wiggling them all one by one. You just had to go and try to hug him—you couldn’t just be patient and wait for him to one day, just maybe, initiate it himself. At the very least, you could have been more careful. You think it might have been a nice hug otherwise. You can still feel the crisp fabric of his pants and the warmth he radiates; you can smell the light scent of smoke and cologne on his clothes. The button of his pants had been against your cheek, and you have no control against the intrusive thought of how the bulge in his pants had felt.

Smacking your cheeks with your palms, you shake your head, as though it would toss the thought out. You need to stop being a little creep and get your shoes. You have one pair of shoes, and you are not willing to walk barefoot anywhere in Pentagram City. The longer you leave them there, the more likely you are to abandon them entirely in hopes of never having a confrontation with Alastor. Well… maybe you could ask Charlie to get you a new pair of shoes? You groan at yourself; you’re already trying to get out of it.

You push yourself to your feet and dust off the skirt of your dress. You take quiet, slow steps towards his room. You can do this. Just don’t think about it. Did he like it? No, stop it. Did it excite him, like it excited you? Stop that! You’re wet—maybe from fear, maybe from arousal. Your hands are shaking as you reach for the doorknob. You contemplate whether it would be best to knock or simply crack the door open and grab your shoes without entering. Alastor is polite, though; you know he’d much rather you be decent and knock.

Heart racing, chest heaving with tiny and anxious breaths, you tap your knuckles against the door. It opens almost immediately.

“Yes, dearest? Have you calmed down now?”

You can’t bring yourself to look at his face; instead, you resort to looking at your bare feet. “I—um, I realized I forgot my shoes here,” you mumble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

He laughs at this—it makes you shiver, and you hope he doesn’t notice. “You were in quite the hurry,” he teases. “What scared you so badly, darling?”

You mean to simply snatch your shoes and flee, but the moment you cross the threshold, he’s closed the door behind you. Your heart is pounding, as though it thinks you’re sprinting down a hallway from a monster. But it’s just Alastor! He’s never harmed you, only kept you safe—and yet, you feel like you’re caught in a trap. You can feel the warmth of his body radiating from behind you; he’s close, and for once, you wish he’d be less comfortable with you in his personal space. Despite this, you can’t bring your dumb feet to move. You are caught like a deer in headlights.

“What’s wrong, pet?” He’s never called you that before. It’s new and exciting, even though you internally scold yourself for the warm feeling building up in the depths of your gut. “Why have you gone quiet? You’re not ignoring me, are you?”

His fingers ghost over your hair as he speaks, his hand finally coming to rest on your shoulder. It’s not as though you’re hiding your discomfort well, but that doesn’t stop him. Alastor’s left hand comes from behind you and cups your chin, slowly drawing you back until your spine touches his leg. You shut your eyes. You won’t look at him; it makes you feel at least a little less exposed, even if you know he can see the red in your face all the same.

“I don’t appreciate the silent treatment, dearest,” he warns, giving your cheeks a squeeze. “I guess I’ll have to find a way to snap you out of it.”

You’re lifted off of your feet; the sudden feeling of instability makes you open your eyes, even though you try to resist. Before you can register it, Alastor has dropped you on his bed—a bed that seems rarely used—and is now kneeling before you.

“You’ve been terribly rude, pet,” he chides, resting his hand on your knee. “First you get so close to me, then you run off and leave me wanting? Now you come back and refuse to say a word to me.” He clicks his tongue in disdain; its the feeling of his claws digging in to your skin that truly express his displeasure. You shift in place, but keep your mouth sealed. Your mind is blank, anyhow.

When his claws pierce your skin, you move out of reflex, jerking your leg away from his hand. Alastor’s grip is iron-clad and holds you in place so tightly that you can’t even move it a millimeter. Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and goosebumps are running up and down your arms. Your mind is getting hazy, to the point that your vision blurs as his other hand creeps up the skirt of your dress.

You try to control your breaths, try to look anywhere other than him. He’s relishing the sight of you as his fingers curl around the waistband of your frilly bloomers. He grips your hip harshly—you know it will leave a reminder in the form of a bruise later. His thumb lightly brushes over your clit, and your toes curl in response. It’s like he’s fascinated by the response your body has to it; he’s watching every twitch, shiver, and shake as he toys with you. Finally, a mewl escapes your lips. Something about the noise draws him out of whatever it is that he’s thinking, and he looks you in the eyes.

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman, darling,” he says, relaxing his grip on you. “So… yes or no?”

This is closer to the Alastor you’re familiar and comfortable with. He looks so calm and pleased that it’s like it’s just another day for him, one where he does not have his hand in your underwear and he’s just making you feel special by gracing you with a pat on your head. The familiarity is reassuring, and you’re such a sucker for how special he makes you feel, so surely there’s no harm in this…

“Yes,” you finally eke out.

Alastor’s grin widens; his thumb immediately resumes teasing you. His other hand strokes up and down your thigh, his claws tickling you and leaving red streaks in their wake. You moan again and are met with the reminder of his watchful gaze; unable to take the feeling of scrutiny anymore, you grab the lapel of his coat and tug on it.

You hear him chuckle and crack your eyes open again. He’s released you—for now—to shrug off his coat and set it aside.

“An eye for an eye, pet?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to agree to this suggestion; he pops open the buttons on the back of your dress in one quick motion. Your dress is pulled from your body, leaving you and your bloomers entirely exposed. You instinctively cover your chest with your forearm. This is hardly an eye for an eye—and you know, deep down, that he knows that and enjoys every bit of imbalance between you two. And you do, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.

His hands are on you again, this time running up and down your waist, back, thighs, and chest. He’s parting your legs and moving in between them, leaning down to press his lips to your throat. You whimper, now suffocated by the dizzying smell of tobacco. Alastor gives you a gentle peck, before his teeth graze your delicate skin and earn a moan from you. You instinctively bristle from the delightful pain, and he pushes your legs apart again.

“Relax, sha,” he murmurs against your neck. “Relax. Would I let you get hurt?”

Yes. He absolutely would. You know that, and you stuff it down. Who cares? Who cares if you get a little hurt? If he lets it happen? If he’s the one to do it, if he’s the one watching and enjoying it, that’s all that really matters.

So you relax for him and melt in to his touch, letting him guide you down to the soft bed. You don’t resist when your bloomers come off. You’re completely exposed to him, and he’s simply standing over you, grinning at the sight. The one sacrifice he does make is his gloves, shedding them to feel your skin in its full glory. His hands are much warmer without his gloves on; the feeling of them rubbing your legs is soothing.

“Alastor,” you mewl—for a moment, you realize just how pathetic and weak you sound, but decide that it’s fine to be pathetic and weak for him and slip back in to your haze. For every inch of fog clouding your mind, Alastor seems to gain a new degree of focus. You can’t tell exactly what it is he’s so focused on, so hungry for, but you enjoy it all the same.

“You sound so lovely when you say my name.” His voice sounds so different now—animalistic, growling. Your heart rate spikes again, but you’re not about to back out now, so you enjoy the adrenaline rush as you gaze up at the ceiling. You hear a shift of fabric, feel him moving between your legs as he looms over you. He slips one hand underneath you to feel the small of your back, and you finally realize what he’s about to—

“Ahh!” you hiss, curling your spine as you reflexively try to escape the source of the pain. You’re brought back to the reality of your situation for a brief moment; Alastor is over seven feet tall, you are definitely not, and he is definitely entirely proportionate for his height. It hurts, worse than anything you think you’ve felt before. You feel like you’re splitting open, despite how wet you are and the fact that he’s barely inside of you.

Alastor’s hands hold you in place by your hip and your arm. You can feel his own excitement and agitation from the tightness of his grip—so tight he’s trembling in the slightest—and the hint of sweat on his palms. “Behave, sha,” he orders through his teeth. He’s trying to suppress your squirming as much as possible, but you can still wriggle in his grip, and every movement of your hips sends a wave of pleasure through him. “Relax and behave.”

Your body is slowly adjusting to the pain, and his voice is bringing you back to that lovely, pleasurable haze. You force yourself to stay still and breathe through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs with a sigh. “Good girl.” You shudder at the words, and he pushes himself further inside of you. You don’t struggle this time; you simply yelp in pain and squeeze your eyes shut to bear it. He releases your arm to grab you by your chin, forcing your head up. You open your eyes, your face contorted in pain; he’s smiling, of course. It’s a feral, sadistic smile, but it’s not quite the same one you’ve seen before he rips apart some idiot trying to wreck the hotel. This one is different, and you hope it’s one he’s reserved only for you. No matter how frightening it is, you’ll still delight in the honor.

You manage to relax a little more, having adjusted to the feeling of being torn in two. Alastor sighs at the feeling and once again pushes further inside of you. Every effort of yours to behave will be rewarded like this—with more pain, blood, and tears that prick your eyes. You had your chance to say no. You still could. But you don’t. You’re special. He wants you. And you want him—you want him to degrade you, too.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, sha?” he coos in a tone of faux concern. Still, you whimper and nod, curling your fingers in to the linens beneath you. “I know, pet, I know. It must hurt terribly.” Another inch inside of you, another swallowed scream.

“P-please,” you beg. You barely even realize the words are spilling out of your mouth. “I can’t—I can’t take it.”

“You can,” he assures, his hand moving down to your throat. No matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. He’ll save that for another time, another day. There’s nothing wrong with denying a bit of pleasure now to make it sweeter later. “You can and you will. I will make you.”

You try to scream when you feel the sensation of a burning, sharp pain pierce further inside of you, but he clamps his hand over your mouth.

“No,” he breathes. “You won’t make a sound unless you’re quiet about it. I am the only one who can hear you. This is just for me.”

You swallow back the scream; it feels like it’s still stuck in your chest, making it ache as it tries to beat its way out through your sternum. It’s too painful to breathe. Every single movement is painful. This is as far as he can go without really hurting you—without you truly breaking apart. You can smell blood. You feel like you can maybe taste it, too. The sight of it only spurs him on, and he pounds in to you without any concern for the pain it will cause you.

You can’t even scream; it’s too sudden. Once the waves of pain truly set in, you let out a weak cry and grab on to his arms in an effort to steady yourself. Spots of all colors are appearing in your vision as the sounds of the room—skin against skin, muffled groans that he’s trying to hold back, your own crying—get further and further away. Your grip on him loosens, and he notices.

“I can’t keep going if you’re sleeping, pet,” Alastor taunts, grabbing you by your chin and squeezing. When your pupils only dilate further, he takes a handful of your hair and pulls, giving your head a shake. That does it; you’re awake enough, for now. “There you are.”

You can’t escape the pain. You just have to live with it. Any time he sees you slipping out of consciousness, you’re awakened with a sharp jolt of pain. And now his movements are too fast, too harsh to even begin to pass out. Tears freely flow down your face at this point, as freely as the blood pooling beneath your thighs.

“A-Alastor,” you sob, one hand reaching up for him. “Please.”

The pathetic sight of you stupidly reaching for him is what sends him over the edge. His claws curl in to your skin, and blood drips on to the linens beneath you. He’s looming over you as you feel warmth replace the feeling of an icy knife in your belly, spilling out of you and on to your legs. His eyes are closed, he’s panting, and his brow is furrowed. You like the sight of it, but you can’t fully enjoy it when he’s still causing you so much pain.

Finally, his eyes open, and he pulls away from you without warning, sending another ripple of pain through you. You’re throbbing. You feel like you’ve been impaled and suffocated. You definitely did not cum. And yet, when the look on his face softens, the pain lessens. He’s back to the gentleman you know and adore.

“Oh dear,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand—a hand covered in your blood. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

As he helps you bathe and feeds you a potion to help heal some of your wounds, you let that haze settle in permanently in a part of your brain. As long as he makes you feel special, as long as he calls you sweetheart and pet and sha, you’ll take whatever pain he throws at you.

[miasmal-sweetness]

miasmal-sweetness

24, they/them, Miasma/Mimi, lover of semicolons and em-dashes

Requests - OPEN

MDNI - 18+ blog

I write and reblog dark content (yandere, non/dubcon, gore, etc). It's not everyone's thing; I get that, so be nice to yourself and avert thine eyes.

Fandoms I'll write for | Topics I'll write | Topics I won't write