via

19 character x reader pet friendly

[hypnoswrites]

Cavalry

I locked in.

Warnings: Yandere! Tamsy x fem! Reader, manga spoilers, violence, reader gets hurt, description of blood, gaslighting, near-death experience, Tamsy is an obsessive piece of shit in this

Your mask filter hummed faintly as it worked overtime.

Crouching behind a large refrigerator, you slowly peaked up from your hiding spot to check if things were safe. When you didn’t sense any danger, you stood up fully, clutching your notebook. It didn’t contain any relevant notes yet, but it’d all happened very quickly, so you weren’t gonna stress it. Not everyone was as diligent as Tomme.

A few meters ahead, the corpse of the trash beast was still twitching.

It had been massive, twenty times the height of a person, its body made of fused garbage and jagged rebar, a crooked mouth of shattered glass still grinding weakly against itself. Black sludge leaked from the wounds Tamsy had inflicted upon it.

Tamsy stood beside it, relaxed, like he’d just finished stretching instead of killing something that could’ve crushed a truck. His distaff glowed faintly where he held it, the light slowly dimming as whatever power he’d used faded out.

You tried not to stare.

“You can stop looking like that,” Tamsy said through his mask, flicking something sticky off his sleeve. “It’s dead.”

“I’m not scared.” You said petulantly, annoyed he’d caught you. 

“I didn’t say that.” He added on. “I know you’re very brave.”

If it had come from anyone else, it would have sounded blatantly sarcastic. And maybe, just a little, it did. But this was Tamsy. Tamsy was usually so nice, so you told yourself the faint edge of sarcasm had to be in your imagination.

You looked away quickly, pretending to check the horizon instead. The polluted fog blurred everything past a few dozen meters, turning the wasteland into shifting silhouettes.

“I was just making sure there weren’t more,” you muttered.

“Mhm.”

He nudged the beast’s head with the tip of his boot. One of the glass teeth cracked with a dull crunch.

“You supporters worry too much.”

You were glad you were here, and not one of the other supporters. Follo especially would’ve taken very heavy offense to a comment like that. It implied the worry was unfounded, as if it was unnatural to worry when faced with a sharp, sludge-drooling behemoth that wanted to kill you. Instead of saying all that, you just let out a simple: “That thing was huge.”

“And now it’s not a problem.” Tamsy stretched his arms over his head lazily. “See? Easy job. Just like Semiu said.”

Easy.

Right.

You adjusted the strap of your mask, suddenly very aware that you were the one here who hadn’t actually done anything useful. The mission had been simple: escort Tamsy into the zone, observe, and write down anything that was even remotely interesting. You’d written some small stuff down, but the fight had been done too quickly for you to find anything really worth commenting about. 

Tamsy lifted his foot off the trash beast corpse, and turned to walk your way, vital instrument lazily swinging side to side in his grip. 

That said… Why was the beast still twitching? Was the core still int-

The windmill flank of the trash beast suddenly screeched as it whipped around in a final effort to kill tamsy, flinging a slab of debris outward. Tamsy dodged it, and hit the trash beast with his distaff, the damn thing finally getting flung around and decomposing like it should’ve done to begin with. 

The debris, however, was still heading your way.

Your brain reacted before the rest of you did.

No problem. This part you’d practiced. Supporters weren’t frontline fighters, but you still had to survive long enough to observe and give actual support. If one thing had been drilled into you, it’d been on how to dodge trash like this. Your boots landed down on solid ground, a good way’s off from where the projectile had landed, meaning things were gonna be just fine-

Your balance vanished instantly.

“Wha-!”

With an immediate shift in trajectory, you went down hard, suddenly face to face with a very large pile of sharp and rough trash..

Your leg twisted underneath you as you fell, pain exploding up to your thigh as something tore open against the jagged metal. Your arm slammed against a rusted pipe with a sickening crack that echoed through your mask.

For a moment all you could hear was the roaring in your ears.

Everything went white with noise. Your ears roared so loudly it drowned out the polluted wind, the distant creak of shifting scrap- everything, though you were pretty sure you’d let out a cry loud enough to alert any trash beast in a hundred mile region. 

It was one of your worst habits, one that the other cleaners hadn’t managed to train out of you yet. Whenever you got hurt, you cried out like you wanted everyone in a wide radius to hear you, which wasn’t an ideal quality in a career where being sneaky and getting hurt often were part of the job.

When your vision finally steadied and you were no longer screeching out of instinct, you raised your head to assuage the damage.

That… that was a lot of blood.

Somewhere nearby, footsteps crunched across rubble.

“Oh dear, you’ve tripped?” Tamsy covered his lower face with his sleeve, in shock at the state of your leg. You couldn’t bring up the energy to snap at him, knowing he didn’t mean it like that, and also you were a bit too focused on the fact that part of your femur was sticking out of your skin. “For a supporter, you sure are clumsy.”

Shame burned inside your stomach, and you couldn’t lift your head up far enough to make eye-contact with the giver. “Yeah, haha, my foot must’ve… must’ve caught on something.”

You huffed out and shakily sat up and grabbed at the top-part of your leg, trying to squeeze your upper leg so it would stop bleeding so profusely. There were protocols for this, but they seemed to elude you at the moment. Calling for back-up was the best option, right? But it was just you and Tamsy here, and he was way more experienced than you, and he’d yet to even touch his choker. Was there a reason… not to? 

Were you missing something?

“I should… call back-up, right?” What you should’ve done in the first place was accept Gris’ offer to come along back at the base. He’d have you bandaged and in a car within mere minutes. But you’d been prideful, telling him Semiu had specifically said the job was supposed to be an easy one, one that only needed a single giver and a lil back-up just in case. Tamsy had even specifically asked for you! “That’s what… I should do.”

“Are you asking me?” Tamsy said softly, sitting next to you. “What do you think?”

You tried to focus. No problem, of course, you’d been trained for this. 

You tried to recount the moment. You’d dodged, your foot had caught on something, and then you’d gone down hard, straight into a heap of broken concrete and twisted pipes. In a strange stroke of luck, it was only your leg that had broken so badly. Still, the pounding in your skull and the nausea curling in your stomach made it pretty clear you’d hit your head too.

A trash beast had been killed. You had been sent to observe.

“My head feels weird,” you murmured, reaching for your notebook to record the observation. Your fingers fumbled for the pen, your grip unsteady as if the thing had suddenly become too heavy to hold. You tried to write, aware of Tamsy watching while you struggled to form the word concussion.

He came closer and his hand slipped around yours, steadying it. Through the blur in your vision, you watched as he guided your hand across the page, helping you finish the letters.

When the last squiggly ‘n’ was written, you smiled at the notebook, before smiling at him as well. “Thank you for your help.”

His eyes crinkled over his mask. “It’s my pleasure.”

A few more moments passed.

As if realizing you needed to complete the next part of your internal mission, you clumsily raised your hand to try and touch your choker to reach Semiu. Tamsy grabbed your hand and lowered it again, gently. You looked at him, confused. 

His eyes crinkled, still smiling. 

“Tamsy?” You said softly.

“Yes?” He replied, cheerily.

“Why aren’t we calling for back-up?” Your gaze dropped to your ruined leg. A wave of panic twisted through your stomach as you noticed the bone jutting through the skin again. God. Once the haze wore off and you weren’t half-dissociated anymore, that was going to hurt like hell. “I’m hurt.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Oh dear… did you hit your head that hard?”

Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. He nuzzled his forehead gently against yours, making sure the mask didn’t get in the way. 

“You must be in a lot of pain.” He said breathlessly.

“Huh?” You officially lost it. What was going on? Why was he acting this strange? Was he twirling around the subject, or were you really that concussed? You struggled a little to get out of his embrace, but to him, it probably felt like you were settling into his embrace. You could do little but let out another. “...huh?”

Tamsy pulled away from your face and your eyes widened as you saw blood on his mask. Was your head bleeding? That did make things way worse. Why wasn’t he panicking like you were?

“Tamsy? Why aren’t we calling back-up?” You asked again.

“You just asked me that.” He replied. “Are you dizzy? Why don’t you lie down for a bit.”

“You aren’t answering me.” 

The wind dragged through the polluted zone again, pushing gray dust over the broken concrete around you. Somewhere behind Tamsy, the corpse of the trash beast shifted as pieces of it settled, metal clinking softly against itself.

Tamsy tilted his head a little, like he was considering something amusing.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “Didn’t I?”

“No.” Your voice came out weaker than you meant it to. “You didn’t.”

Your head swam. The world kept tilting slightly to the left, like gravity was having a disagreement with itself. You tried to focus on his face, on the familiar curve of his eyes above the mask.

Something about the red smeared across the fabric kept pulling your attention.

“Tamsy,” you tried again, slower this time, like maybe clarity would come if you spoke carefully. “There are protocols. If a supporter is injured during…during a giver operation, we…”

His gloved fingers brushed your wrist where he still held your hand down, his grip gentle but firm enough that you couldn’t lift it.

“We call back-up. That is protocol, yes.” He nuzzled your forehead again. “Good job remembering that.”

You swallowed.

“That’s…my job.”

“Mhm.” He pat your head, and it made you feel even dizzier for a few moments. “And you are so good at it, aren’t you?”

Another pause stretched between you.

Your leg throbbed violently now, the shock starting to thin out. Every pulse of your heart sent another hot wave of pain up your body. You squeezed your thigh again instinctively, though your grip had gone weaker with only one hand, the other still firmly held by Tamsy.

“Tamsy,” you said again, more urgently this time. “I’m bleeding a lot.”

“I noticed.”

“So we should call-”

“You’re very observant today.”

Your stomach twisted.

You blinked at him.

“What?”

Tamsy leaned back slightly. His posture was casual.  Like you were huddled together watching a movie during a break instead of in the middle of a polluted zone with your bones sticking out.

His eyes crinkled again.

“You wrote it down and everything,” he said, nodding toward the notebook in your lap. “Concussion. Good job.”

Your gaze drifted to the page automatically.

Your chest tightened.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Because I think I have one.”

“Probably.”

“Which is… bad.”

“For you, yes.”

Your brain tried to follow that sentence and stumbled.

“…for me?”

“Mm.” 

Another gust of wind rolled across the wasteland, carrying the sour stink of rot and chemicals. Your mask filter buzzed harder for a second.

Your thoughts felt sticky. Like they were moving through syrup.

“Tamsy,” you whispered, suddenly very tired and very very scared, “can you please call Semiu?”

His eyes softened.

“Oh, dear.” he said quietly.

There was almost something blissfully fond in the sound.

“You still think we’re doing that?”

Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened a little. You stopped trying to put pressure on your thigh and instead tried to push yourself upright, planting one shaky hand against the ground. Your arm trembled violently, matching your breathing.

The strength simply… wasn’t there.

Your elbow buckled before you could lift yourself even an inch, and you sagged back against him.

You swallowed hard and tried again, slower this time, willing your muscles to listen. Tamsy tilted his head the other way now, studying your face like he was watching something incredibly fun. 

“I did tell you,” he said.

A thin, helpless panic fluttered in your chest, beating faster and faster as the realization crept in that you weren’t able to get out of this. “Tell me what?”

“That you should lie down.”

Your vision swam again.

“I can’t lie down,” you muttered. “My leg…”

“You’re already halfway there.”

It took your brain a few seconds to process that.

You looked down.

At some point during your struggle, you had slid sideways against the broken concrete. Your body wasn’t upright anymore. Tamsy’s arm was loosely around your shoulders, keeping you propped up into the embrace.

You didn’t remember sinking down so much.

Panic fluttered weakly in your chest.

“Tamsy,” you said again, voice trembling now, your hands desperately clinging at your leg to keep pressure on it. The pool beneath you was growing. “You have to help me. Why aren’t you helping me?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then his eyes crinkled again in that same pleasant smile.

“You just asked me that.”

Were you going insane? Why was he acting this way?! Tears welled in your eyes and your lips wobbled as you tried to repeat your question again and again, still unsure why Tamsy was acting so crazy. Your bloodied hands couldn’t reach your choker, nor put enough pressure on your leg. He was just sitting there… watching!

You were going to bleed out.

With pure fear in your eyes, you stared up at Tamsy, knowing there was nothing you could do but bleed out into his arms if he didn’t allow you to call help. Even if help was called, you were quickly losing consciousness. They wouldn’t be here in time. You’d die. You were going to die. 

A distant engine cut through the wind.

Both of you turned toward the sound automatically.

At first it was just a low mechanical growl somewhere beyond the gray fog, vibrating through the piles of scrap and broken concrete. Then headlights pushed through the smog, two harsh beams cutting across the polluted landscape.

A truck.

Your brain lagged behind the obvious conclusion.

“…what?”

The vehicle rolled closer, tires grinding over rubble until it stopped a short distance away. The side door slammed open.

“Afternoon,” a familiar voice called out. “Cavalry’s arrived.”

Gris jumped down from the truck, already moving fast. His boots crunched across the debris as he crossed the distance between you.

Your brain stuttered.

“…Gris?”

He crouched immediately, eyes sweeping over your injuries with efficiency.

“Well, damn,” he muttered. “You really outdid yourself this time, huh?”

Gloved hands were suddenly everywhere: checking your leg, your arm, your pulse. Gris worked quickly, movements precise and practiced. He’d already brought a medkit.

“Your arm is broken. Head is bleeding,” he said aloud, half to himself. “Leg’s a mess too. Femur stickin’ out like it’s trying to escape-”

You blinked at him.

“How…?”

Gris looked up briefly.

“How what?”

“How are you here?”

Gris frowned slightly, like the question was odd.

“Tamsy called it in.”

Your gaze snapped toward the giver beside you.

Tamsy was still sitting exactly where he’d been, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely around you to keep you upright, looking like an angel keeping you company in your dire time. 

His eyes crinkled cheerfully when he noticed you looking.

“…you did?” you croaked.

“Of course,” he said affectionately. “It’s very important to me you make it out of here safe.”

Gris snorted.

“No flirting with my patients, Tamsy,” he said while wrapping a band around your thigh. “But good lookin’ out for her. Any later and she might’ve bled out. Couldn’t you have stopped the bleeding yourself, though?”

Tamsy shook his head. “My control over my vital instruments is not that delicate. I was worried I’d hurt her more if I tried to do something like that.”

Your brain still tried to reconcile everything with the last several minutes of conversation, not truly grasping the conversation the two men were having about you.

“But..” Your voice came out weak. “You…”

“Hold still,” Gris said, tightening the makeshift tourniquet. “This’ll suck.”

It did.

Stars burst behind your eyes as he secured the pressure band. You screeched wildly, for a moment completely out of control with the amount of pain coursing through your body. 

“You’re lucky he called when he did,” Gris continued matter-of-factly, like you’d not just metaphorically ruptured an ear drum. He was probably used to it. You did have a penchant for getting hurt, though never before like this. “We’ll get you to Eisha in no time.”

You stared at Tamsy.

He tilted his head at you, still smiling with his eyes.

“What a relief, isn’t it,” he said.

Your thoughts slid uselessly against each other.

Had he…?

But you’d asked him.

Multiple times.

Why hadn’t he just said-

Your head throbbed violently and the question dissolved before you could finish it.

“Alright,” Gris said after a moment. “Let’s get you in the truck before you start passing out on me.”

The ride back was bumpy.

You were half-propped against the side bench of the transport, Gris driving while Tamsy was keeping your leg raised, checking the bandages every few minutes while the engine rumbled beneath the floor of the car.

Your leg had been stabilized as best as possible. Your arm was splinted tight against your side and some impromptu stitching had made sure your head hadn’t bled more than it already had. The total pain had settled into a deep, throbbing burn that pulsed with every movement of the truck.

Your notebook still sat loosely in your lap.

You stared at the word concussion for a long time.

“…Tamsy,” you murmured eventually.

“Hm?”

He was sitting beside you, one elbow braced against the wall of the truck like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You didn’t tell me you called backup.”

“I didn’t?”

You turned your head slowly toward him.

“No.”

“Huh.”

He sounded mildly surprised.

Gris snorted from behind the wheel.

“You’re concussed,” he said. “Memory’s gonna be a little scrambled.”

Maybe.

That had to be it.

“Oh… I’m sorry.” You said, feeling ready to cry by the relief of it all. You’d been scared to death, sure you’d die on a pile of polluted garbage. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you looked away, trying to ignore how Tamsy’s gaze had been zeroed in on your face the second you got emotional.

Tamsy pat your good leg comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

You exhaled weakly and leaned your head back against the metal wall.

Something tugged at your skin.

Your eyes drifted downward.

For a second your brain didn’t quite register what you were seeing.

A thin strand of blue yarn wrapped around your ankle.

Tamsy’s hand rested loosely nearby.

And very casually, like he’d been doing it the whole time, he was slowly pulling the thread free.

A little more blue yarn slipped out from your ankle, disappearing into his sleeves.

Your eyes widened slightly.

Tamsy glanced over.

For just a second, his eyes met yours.

Then he gave you a small, playful wink.

And continued pulling the yarn.

[houndstraumfrau]

Strade | Character Study

This one was a little harder to write than Rire, as, instead of thinking outside the game itself, I had to psychoanalyze the man in front of me. Pin him down, pick him apart, put myself not only in the MC’s shoes, but Strade’s as well. 

This is a little sporadic, okay.. A lot sporadic, but I have tried my hardest to stay on track and keep it in chronological order, or, in the order that the game itself progresses. 

(Keep in mind that this is a very long post, and there are huge spoilers for YKMET: Strade !)

"It’s more of describing being in a safe place, and safe-keeping and being cherished and held…it’s not supposed to be creepy…it’s another way of describing being ‘kept’ in a special place. I love playing with those contrasts."

(Deftones' Chino Moreno on the track Entombed | Koi No Yokan )

The Braying Mule isn’t really anything out of the ordinary. It’s a relatively clean bar, safe and comforting. There’s people hanging out in groups, chatting the time away. It’s inviting, a warm (both literally, and in its autumn color scheme) place away from the rainstorm brewing outside. 

Strade blends into this place very well, actually. A middle-aged, plainly-dressed man in a bar drinking beer? Typical, expected. He’s openly friendly, it’s not off-putting for someone like him to come up and want to chat. He’s very obviously a regular here, stating that this is his favorite bar, implying that he might know everyone (or mostly everyone) here, and is perhaps on more than just a first name basis with some.

This is where you come in. In Rire’s route, you stick out badly, bringing attention to you with your demeanor and your attire. The Braying Mule is a bar where anyone and everyone is welcome. You, with your job or your education, your basic hobbies and inoffensive thoughts, blend in as well.

However, there are two things to consider.

1: The MC (You) feels out of place compared to the mingling patrons (BTD)

And 2: Strade’s never seen you around here before. (Both Games)

This is deeper than just having an MC, and a gameplay mechanic needed to progress the story.

When you look at Strade’s dialogue added to YKMET, he states, quote: “I was just thinking to myself how I wanted someone to talk to.” 

When combined with the later conversation after being kidnapped, when you threaten him that someone could’ve seen and called the police, he brings up the fact that the bar has four cameras, and that the second he locked eyes with you, they went down because of the rain.

This is interesting to note. Especially if you respond ‘Yeah’, to him asking if you just got off work, and were headed home. His face changes, pretty drastically, compared to any other option chosen. He goes from looking sympathetic, to looking fairly guilty, saying you have ‘terrible luck’, rather than just saying you’re ‘unlucky’.

The bar is a ‘great place for conversation’, (read: frequent bar goer) he says early on. And then later, ‘I guess your bad luck is my good luck.’ (read: the entire game)

The MC asks themself during a short downtime: “What am I doing here?”

There were plenty of other buildings to seek refuge in. Maybe further down there was a cafe, or maybe a restaurant, even a corner store. Maybe you didn’t live too far away, as you’re seen to be walking, rather than driving. 

But this bar is ‘nostalgic’. It calls to you quietly, and lulls you into a false sense of security. 

You wandered in to seek shelter, then were trapped, not only by the weather, but by Strade himself. 

So, we know why you’re there, and we know why Strade’s there, when taking his words into consideration.

He was casing the joint, eager to meet someone new to sate his ‘itch’, couldn’t take anyone already there, either because he knows them, or because they’re already paired with someone. He was waiting for someone unrecognizable.

This is possibly another explanation as to why no one is ever reported missing, even though he takes people from the Braying Mule all the time. 

Who’s going to remember the face of someone new? People are fickle, they bar hop all the time, if someone doesn’t come back, there could be a variety of reasons. Maybe they didn’t like the alcohol, maybe it just wasn’t their style. 

This scene in YKMET is very different than in BTD. Where you choose to go there, then choose if you want, to go home with Strade, leave, or use the bathroom. All of which lead back to Strade being overly aggressive with you, with a very short conversation beforehand.

YKMET: Strade has him more fleshed out right off the bat, making him feel like a father figure, emphasized with him saying that he likes to fix things for neighbours.

In Boyfriend to Death, getting kidnapped makes you feel punished for daring to walk through the doors to begin with. As if the MC made the wrong choice of bar to drink at. 

In YKMET, getting slammed against the brick wall, then thrown into Strade’s trunk makes you feel betrayed. The friend you made under poor circumstances, the upstanding, outgoing guy who loves machines has turned against you. You should’ve been more weary. But.. How could anyone have seen this coming?

As most would say. Though this is always the case when it comes to serial killers. They’re the ones you least expect.

His behaviour here should be noted as we go further into his game. The way he stands up  even before you answer yes-or-no to having a drink, the way he pressures you to drink if you do say no, the way he refuses to let go of you if you push him away when walking together.

Both Strade’s share this behaviour. In Boyfriend to Death, he is more relentless about it, whereas in YKMET he plays around with you more, lets up a little easier. 

Regardless of the game, Strade is self-righteous, almost viewing himself as immortal. Taking the cameras out of the equation, he seemed so sure no one would see you out on the street, even in BTD. He seemed so sure that you had absolutely no one to worry about you. When you’re at ‘home’, he knows Ren won’t come to save you. When you scream, both times on the first night in YKMET, Ren, and Ren with Strade, ignore you and go about their day. On the third night, the only one to get answered when calling for help is Strade himself, even the times when you’re right in front of Ren.

Strade’s done this dozens of times, says so himself if you ask him. No one has caught him, killed him, yet. 

When getting into the meat of things, we need to focus less on the torture itself (but we’ll discuss that too), and how the MC and Strade both interact with/react to each other. 

How both MC’s possible masochism and sadism is in tandem with Strade’s. How MC’s pain, fear, comfort, are all reflected off Strade like a mirror.

Before the game was ‘conceived’, Gatobob had done a playthrough on stream (now a VOD on her website under the gamepage for YKMET: Strade), saying early on that Strade had something called ‘dark empathy’. 

That this feeling he gets from others is an addiction, reiterated through flavor text in MC’s inner dialogue within the game. Such as, the very first torture scene with only the knife.

The MC writes Strade’s behaviour during the game off as weird. I write it off as fascinating. 

Here is where I want to talk about the original game for a bit, which came out nearly 10  years ago now. I want to point out not only the huge improvements in Gato’s writing between the two games, but Strade himself growing over the years as well. 

In Boyfriend to Death, Strade comes across as utterly selfish, and even amateurish. 

He is eager to get started the second he knows you wake up in the basement. He cuts you with no fanfare, no dialogue talking you through it, telling you how it’ll go. If you continuously refuse the stitches, he will not give them to you, instead leaving you to bleed without being cleaned up (or if you were cooperative/had low sanity, you get the bare minimum of a washcloth to the face). When not choosing the drill or the hammer, he outright mocks you, grinds his boot into your wounds, then says that some people weren’t meant to have control. 

The hammer scene in BTD plays out differently. He’s not drawing it out, he’s slamming nails into your body, then a screw, and before you know it, there’s a car battery stuck onto the metal and you’re convulsing until unconscious. In the same scene, if you spit at him, suddenly your leg is being sawed off and eaten by him.

Similar overt sadism happens with the drill as well. Where he’s drilling into you, and then again, cutting your leg open. Except this time, it’s fed to you instead. Otherwise, you’re a one-hole pony, before he forces himself upon you.

During floating death endings (as Gato calls them), he’s either uncaring, or obviously pissed off at something you did. 

Like, how if you cut yourself to death, he lets you and laughs (read: uncaring).

Or if you refuse to speak, he kills you, even though he went through the effort in taking you in, and it hasn’t even been a full day of you being there. (read: pissed off)

What I’ve learned from playing and replaying Boyfriend to Death, is that Strade only cares about two things. And that’s himself (his pleasure and safety), and Ren. 

Though I have to put Ren a bit further down in this analysis since it comes up later during a few YKMET scenes.

If the MC is bleeding and dirty, he only gives it thought for a scene that’s easily avoidable if you are persistent in saying no. If the MC is hungry or thirsty, he offers twice, but doesn’t linger on it. If the MC is crying and in pain (9/10 times), he reacts with excitement, and doesn’t offer much comfort, if at all. Sexual assault scenes are frequent, just as frequent as the dreaded love-stat death ending, which lets us know he is easily lost in his own feelings, even if the MC is actively dying. 

This Strade punishes you for having a knife, multiple times. Even when he’s dying, the only thing he can focus on is making you hurt, making you know that you fucked up. He gives no second chances. 

I’m certain in this particular game Strade has killed dozens as well, maybe even more, but it seems like he does it for the same reason someone has a quick hook-up, to get off and then leave. He says he wants to get to know you intimately, but then doesn’t give you many options to do much, or say much, without turning things for his own benefit. 

He’s obsessed with your pain, addicted to it, but not in the same way that he is in YKMET.

I want to get back on track. I want to dig my fingers into his head, read his thoughts and his expressions in YKMET extensively now. Every scene, every ending, every possible option. I’ve dedicated around 3 days straight of playing and re-playing YKMET, then watching playthroughs of others’ experiences with the game when not going through it myself. 

I’m definitely not some psychiatrist, but I felt like one at times, taking notes on pen and paper before formatting everything here. 

It’s odd from the start, just like MC says, when paying direct attention to Strade over everything else. 

He is still cruel, very much so, in some of his dialogue and actions. Like during the second day, before your choice between tools, as he’s telling you how cute you’d look with your liver in your mouth. And if you fall down the stairs during the first night, he’ll drill, or hammer nails into your broken knee, then press upon it on day three as it’s swelling (which happens regardless). 

But.. he is soft, too, just as much as he is sadistic. I think, omitting BTD2 Ren, Strade cares about you the most. And his care is cruel by default, yes, but these little mercies are something to look into.

During the intro, as I said before, he’s pressuring you to drink, eventually letting up and apologizing. This isn’t the only time within the game where this occurs. 

When you back out of cutting yourself, he says that he won’t make you. When he offers you the granola bar and you decline, he says again, that he won’t make you. Letting you have these choices, alongside the ‘major’ one, I think fits him nicely. He likes making you do things, but he also likes letting you have free reign, despite you not really being free.

During the first night, you can call him down (lie), and either ask for something to eat, or have him turn up the heat in the basement, both of which he obliges. If you’re low enough sanity, and nice enough to him, during the second night, he’ll touch you until you orgasm. The same goes for a hidden scene during the third and final night, where you back out of killing him at the last second, leading to a semi-consensual oral sex scene.

These are the more obvious soft moments. Interlaced between are times when he has feather light touches, he is careful around your wounds, and he is weary of the damage he’s causing. 

He doesn’t let you deny the stitches, even if you’re afraid of the needle or if you try to fight back. He doesn’t drop you like dead meat after the tool choices. Instead, he resuscitates you after the hammer, even kissing you after you gasp back to life. He makes sure to clean your ‘tiny holes’ after he loses control and forces himself upon you after the drill. 

There’s something to note about his words, too. The way he tells you to relax when kidnapping you, the way he talks you through the house and into the basement. The way he reassures that no, he isn’t going to hurt you yet. This continues throughout the entire game.

He’s very sweet, and unfortunately very honest, as well, when considering that he openly states how he thinks he’s going to kill you, and then later, that he had fun, but is going to kill you.

Even when you attempt to escape, both on the first and the third day, he understands, sympathizes with you. When you fall down the stairs, sure, he’s hurt you before, but it was all planned. He didn’t want you to break your leg, he even asks you not to cry otherwise he will (but he catches himself before really admitting that). You aren’t even punished for having the knife during this, or really during any other time, as he just makes a mental note that he needs to be more careful. 

You can attack him lots of times within the game, but to me, there’s two notable times that are important. Once, when given the knife to cut yourself. And the other, when you tie him up in his side room.

The first one shows us that he’s masochistic, too. That, even when he knows what you’re going to do, he wants you to anyway. The tension between you two, held tightly just for a few moments, before you lunge at him. Of course, you don’t actually get to hurt him, he stops you immediately, but that isn’t the point for him. This is another reason why I believe him to think of himself as immortal. That is..

Until you zip-tie his hands. 

But, now I want to focus on his face. Throughout the game, his expressions are varied, emotions plastered for you to see, unabashedly. This.. rage.. on his face that he has, when he knows he’s captured, knows you have the upper hand. It isn’t rage at all.

It’s fear. It’s desperation. It’s the turmoil of a man who has been turned to prey. 

Strade shows anger lots of times, but if you really look at it, it’s a manic sort of thing. A twisted growl, a smirk. You can see impatience twitch when he waits for your choice on day two. 

In Boyfriend to Death, even when you’re quiet, his anger is quickly dissolved into Schadenfreude. And in that game, the only time there is a similar look of terror/rage, it’s when you attack Ren and get the axe ending. 

That quick fear, one that falters out into complete silence. There’s no time to play around with you. He wants you gone, plain and simple.

I don’t think I’ve seen anyone ever say that Strade was afraid in that moment, maybe because we didn’t know he could feel that back then, but maybe it’s that fear and anger are hard to distinguish on a face sometimes. 

Ren was unable to defend himself. Ren was scrawny and skittish, and Ren wasn’t the Ren we know. Why wouldn’t Strade fear for him? Fear losing him?

In YKMET, attacking Ren leads to him fighting back, Strade kicks you off when you get close to killing him, but he knows that Ren had been down there anyway. Knew, before any real danger could arise. And he knows Ren has that backbone, an ache just like Strade does.

Just like you do.

-

There’s one ending that sticks out the most to me. Written off as just another death, but one with a layer of uncertainty to it. And it is uncertain at a surface level glance. But there is something deeper there. And to understand it, we need to go back and read Strade’s dialogue during day three with the table saw.

Strade says, quote: “I really love machines. Did I ever tell you that? I like to pull them apart and figure them out. But there’s more to it than that. Machines are all made by people. For a purpose.. Ah, an intention! I love to look for that intention. The reason people make what they make. Do what they do.” Pause. “People think machines are ugly. More than ugly. Repulsive. People make the machines, but they don’t want to look at them. I find that very interesting. But it does make sense, doesn’t it? Intentions can be very ugly.” End quote.

The main menu theme for YKMET is called ‘Words Are Such Gross Machinery.’ 

Within the game, MC’s inner monologue also mentions machinery, more specifically, when thinking about Strade. 

“He moved with perfect sureness and precision, like a well-oiled machine.” When choosing the hammer.

“I felt like I was being pushed through a corridor. Sweat and heat, walls closing and pushing me closer to a killing machine.” When choosing the drill.

Multiple different scenes say that Strade moves with mechanical precision.

This isn’t about the table saw, some power tool, or even the killing machines Beg and Cry from TINR. This is commentary on Strade himself, the things he does to Ren (and you), and a fourth wall break all in one. 

This is calling out to the player, even me, as I sit here and write this all down. Looking at something grotesque and wanting to know more, finding meaning in the grossness, finding comfort at the end of the bloody tunnel. 

Strade is a serial killer, not unlike real life ones. And this analytical behaviour is present in our everyday lives, living on in true crime documentaries and conspiracies around cold cases. The why and how. How could someone like Strade exist? Why would someone like this game, this.. man?

MC says in the uncertain ending ‘You Loved Him Too Much’, quote: “He was looking at me like he had destroyed something magnificent. Destruction is too simple. He was looking at me like he had built something magnificent.” 

From the ground up, Strade has built someone just like him. Taking you apart like one would a broken machine, and mending you to fit his worldview, sadomasochism and all.

Quote: “Once you stare into the sun long enough, you can’t see anything else. I shared his addiction now; His ravenous hunger for light and life. I opened my eyes and my body. And I let him inside.” End quote.

You had died, yes, whatever you that was there before wandering into the bar, before being torn apart, before breaking down completely. 

You metamorphosized into him. And so has Ren.

I was keeping this discussion about Ren, and the TPOF dream sequences that occur in the game, for last. I anticipated that this would take up most of the word count, and even though I wanted to strictly talk about Strade, I knew I had to include this as well. 

Afterall, there is no TPOF without Fox, no Fox without Ren, and no Ren without Strade. 

Strade was the catalyst for the entirety of Ren’s ‘dark path’, even though he had such a little cameo in TPOF himself. 

There’s 7 dream sequences that can occur on night two, I labeled and put them in a somewhat coherent order.

Fox (Beginning)

City (Celia)

Desert (Derek)

Mountain (Mason)

Death (End)

Doppelganger (Strade)

Lawrence 

Lawrence isn’t really necessary to go over, however the other ones are. 

The bold words are green in YKMET, being said by Strade himself, demon or not. These are just my interpretations, so bear with me. I’m open to what others might think about these, too. 

Fox is as follows:

I'm in a box. A moving box. Dark shapes of a world outside rushed past me.

Like a car... but I wasn't driving.

Why am I so afraid?

“Are you ready to live?”

The car is going too fast. I can't focus!

“Let me out!”

“You're already out. This isn't a test drive.”

“You're going too fast! There's fire!”

“You're already burning.

Living.”

“PLEASE LET ME OUT!!!”

“Oh... I love you so much.”

When you start The Price of Flesh, you’re groggy, waking up mid car ride to the auction, before someone notices you moving, and another voice tells them to put you back to sleep. 

In the beginning of YKMET, we all know Strade blindfolds you and throws you into his trunk. However, after the scene where he gets you off, he says that calling an orgasm ‘the little death’ in french doesn’t really make much sense, as this is as alive as you can get. 

I take this at face value, this dream meaning that this new life of torture is already living. That they aren’t trapped on a simple test drive. That they can’t get out of the car once the ride has started. They can’t get rid of Strade once he’s there. He’s imprinted, burned into their memories and onto their skin.  

City is as follows:

I was up somewhere high. The window was hard to see through. Cold.

“Are you down there?”

I tried to see, but it was blurry and dark. City lights bled through the window, into my eyes.

“I don't know. I can't see.”

“If you're not down there, where can you be?”

“What do you mean? I'm down there... I just can't see.”

I pushed my face against it and it stretched.

“Are you?”

My fingers began to poke through the glass. My weight pushed it further and further out. But I still couldn't see.

“You can stay with me, here.”

I pushed… My face slid through, followed by my body.

And I fell.

“I love you so much.”

If you have played Celia’s route, you know that you’re trapped within an abandoned office building on the very top floor.

Across the street from the bar in YKMET are very high-rise buildings, ones you have to crane your neck to see the top of. MC could be dreaming of themself up high, watching another version of themself down there walk into the bar. Wanting to stop it, they burst through the window, but it’s too late, they’re already inside.

I think of another scenario, too. One where the MC internalizes Strade’s fear of losing them, hence Strade wanting confirmation that they’re still down there (in the basement), and telling them they can stay there with him. 

Desert is as follows:

I struggled to breathe. Something weighed down on my body.

“Are you here yet?”

I struggled under the weight as panic travelled through my nerves. I can't breathe! I- I...

I thrashed in terror, and the sand fell away around me.

“Are you coming to see me? Will you ask for me?”

I blinked away the last grains and tried to see where I was. Nothing but darkness and warm sand. I tried to see a horizon, but I couldn't focus.

“There will be blood here. But not yours.”

“Hello? Who are you?”

I tried to stand up, but I couldn't seem to get a foothold. The sand kept shifting under me.

“PLEASE!”

“Exquisite vitality... Sublime profanity…”

I sank into the softness and screamed.

“I love you so much.”

This one takes place in Derek’s route, the only time Strade appears at all in TPOF. Morphed into a demon of pure sadism, feeding off of pain and fear. 

There will be blood here, he says, but promises that it won’t be ours. MC dreams of being crushed, suffocated under sand, but it's as if they’re being crushed under Strade’s expectations, too. The expectation to survive the climate, to ask for him, to bring upon him by killing another as a sacrifice. 

Are you here yet? Yet, implying that you will be there, eventually, inevitably. The MC dreams of something that is bound to happen, written in stone. They’ll go through this again, and go through the path needed to reconnect with Strade again. Nightmares of forever.

Mountain goes as follows: 

My body ached from climbing. That's right... I was climbing a tree.

I grabbed and pulled, fighting through a thick canopy.

“Can you see it yet?”

Frustration and sharp branches clawed at me.

“Just... a little more”

“Are you looking?”

My head burst into clear night air. I saw a mountain, and a forest.

“Look.”

“At what? What am I supposed to-”

My body froze. Cold sweat covered my palms.

“Where are they?”

Something smiled, and I stared into the sky.

There was no moon. There were no stars.

“No…”

There was nothing. Only nothing.

I looked down as the world shifted.

“Why don't you let go?”

My hands slipped as I tried to grasp the rough branches. They flowed through my fingers as my legs dangled into the sky.

“NO!”

I couldn't hold on. They wouldn't stay still.

“I love you so much.”

I fell into the void.

The tree overlooking the neverending forest, and Mason’s cabin. 

This is another falling dream, except this time, you’re falling up without meaning to, as if sucked into the black hole of a sky. MC is trying to grasp onto the world, as meaningless as it could be. This is fear of losing what they have in life, losing themself before Strade. Strade wants them to let go, there’s no need to hope for something else other than this life they have now, can’t they see it yet?

(Another thing I noticed, and perhaps am just projecting, but ‘I stared into the sky. There was no moon. There were no stars’ reminded me of My Own Summer by Deftones. If that was intentional, that's pretty awesome on Gato’s part.)

Death goes as follows:

I gasped and sat up slowly. As my eyes adjusted slowly, I took in the soft waves of the snow. It fell around me in thick, warm clumps.

“Are you listening?”

Of course, none of that was real. Silence and snow surrounded me. Softly caressing me.

“Why won't you listen?”

I looked for the voice.

“I am listening.”

No wind or muted snowfall penetrated my cloak.

I am happy here.

I am safe here.

“You are not here.”

The voice!

I screamed at the voice.

I screamed again.

Why couldn't I hear!?

“I will listen for you. And you will scream for me.”

“I love you so much.”

A Mason ending that happens when you wander the wilderness until the beginning of winter. Or, have a run-in with Lawrence, and more importantly, death itself. The snow is warm because you’re hypothermic, actively dying. 

This is an escape for MC, a way to forget about Strade and the things that ‘aren’t real’. They are bickering with the voice, no longer afraid, and no longer tormented. They are angry that it won’t listen to their pleas for death, and Strade is angry that they want to die (read: you are not here). He takes their voice, as it is all they have left to fight him with, and morphs it to scream for death by his hand, and his hand only.

Doppelganger goes as follows:

I blinked and strained to see in the darkness. Slowly, I began to make out a shape. It moved with me.

“Who am I?”

I fearlessly reached out and touched the moving shape. My fingers met soft, familiar flesh.

“Oh. It's me.”

“It's me.”

It was my skin, I could feel it. I could tell by the electricity inside it.

“That's me.”

I moved, and my reflection moved with me.

“Are you sure?”

My fingertips halted, gently pressed against my own. I tried to focus on the details.

What do I look like? What am I supposed to look like? Who is this?

“It's me.”

Filled with sudden revulsion, I pulled back.

But I did not.

I reached for my throat as I stumbled backwards.

“I love you so much.”

You and Strade are now one. You love him so much that you two are indiscernible from each other, sharing the same familiar flesh and electricity. 

Ren and Strade are now one. Strade loves Ren so much that Ren is now molting from himself, ready to burst out of his cocoon to show off his new body. 

You and Ren are now one. Two victims that went through near identical situations, picked out of hundreds of others to live. 

You are not scared in this nightmare as you are in others. You are repulsed, but curious about the thing in front of you. You do not try to run, you do not try to escape, you merely pull back and clutch onto yourself, as if confused as to how you ended up like this.

You understand Strade on a deeper level, forced to stoop to his fervent sadomasochism. You’re a cog in a machine that he created, his words your blueprint. 

I’m unsure of where the MC ends up after this specific ending. I’m unsure of just how bad the chaos of having not one, not two, but three ‘Strade’s’ all in one house would be. 

I know it would be repulsive, I know it would be ugly. But there’s something to admire about a love so violent, so sadistic, and so self-destructive. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Strade couldn’t find something more beautiful than you.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Language Barrier (Yanderes x reader) P15

Tw: oral fixation, non con touching and kissing,

Minors and ageless will be blocked

part 1, part 14

You must have fainted at some point, or your kidnapper put you to sleep with their abilities, as you couldn't remember how you ended up on a soft, white duvet. Soft chattering reached your ears, predictably, it was in a language that you couldn't understand… or comprehend.

You felt a presence behind you as dainty fingers caressed your arm in a feathery fashion, causing it to tickle and itch at some points. You groaned as you tried to focus your vision and regain your strength. You're unbelievably disoriented, there are times where you were tempted to give in, to fall back asleep to the gentle cooing and touches. But you fought that urge away and kept your eyes open anyways.

You're in a communal area of sorts. A lounge, where it doesn't look luxurious, but it looks cozy. Cushions, pillows, mattresses and other soft furniture filled the room. Some beds were elevated off the ground, some were simply on the floor next to weathered coffee tables. The walls are chipped and peeling, dimly and warmly illuminated by oil lanterns.

Humanoids and creatures alike were enjoying their time, pouring broth from teapots to teacups for each other. Some are asleep, most are socializing over food and drinks, a handful were reading and there were a dozen receiving massages.

You turned your head to see who is behind you. It's unsurprisingly, none other than the androgynous entity that assaulted your mouth and throat. They're laying on their side, propping the side of their head on an elbow. Inky black strands of hair also joined into stroke your skin, as if they're petting a domesticated animal.

They smiled before cooing something at you. Of course you wouldn't understand anything, so you ignored them.

It only earned you a kiss on the lips. After that, they brought their attention elsewhere and began talking again, you think that they're in the middle of a conversation when you woke up.

You looked around and saw that they were talking to a humanoid hanging above the two of you, resting on a hammock.

You felt something on your neck. Touching it, it felt like their hair, soft and silky. But you couldn't take it off you no matter how much you pulled on it. Then you remembered, your assailant could control their hair with some sort of magic, using them as another limb.

An additional pair of hands from their back went on to tenderly discourage you from tugging on your collar. But they weren't making it into a big deal, continuing to converse nonchalantly as you tried to swat their hands away.

They paused mid sentence seeing that you're still defiant and kicking up a fuss. Within a split second, you felt like you were in a paradise that's secretly a hell. They're using their powers on you to release all tension from your body, so much so that you lose all control over your muscles.

You're too relaxed, letting drool drip down the corner of your mouth. You were immobilized for the next few minutes while the two wrapped up their conversation for the day.

Once the other party left the area, your kidnapper turned you around to face their ethereal, smiling face. They tangled their legs with yours and nuzzled their nose in your face.

They used a pair of hands to massage your neck and sensually card through your hair. The other pair was used to slowly rub all over your body, most egregiously, under your clothes.

You just realized that you were given a change of clothing, you're now wearing something similar to the ravenette, with your back fully exposed for them to violate too.

Quiet smooches and smacks reached your ears as they peppered kisses all over your face, concentrating their focus primarily on your lips. They would linger a lot more once they touched your mouth, letting their soft and succulent kisser meld with yours. Their tongue lapped any stray tears or spit that may have dribbled down your chin.

Eventually, they stopped. Lying their head on the pillow you shared with them, looking at you with adoring green eyes and holding a content smile on their androgynous face. Movements from their hands and hair ceased to a halt, each appendage resting on a different body part of yours.

They sighed, closing their eyes in serenity.

This didn't stay long, though. A shadow loomed over the two of you, making your captor shoot their eyes open in alarm. They suddenly sat up, cross-legged, pulling you into their lap and protectively holding you in their six arms. It appears that they grew an extra pair due to stressful stimuli. A hand was wrapped around the back of your head, another on your spine, another on your sides and rear.

Not only that, their hair encased you in a cocoon, further protecting your neck, face, and wherever else it can gain purchase on your body. Their grip on you became uncomfortably tight as if they were expecting the other party to snatch you away from their arms.

You heard talking, the stranger seemingly taking on a teasing tone of voice, while the ravenette had an edge to theirs.

You thought that this provoking encounter caused them to loosen their spell on you, just enough for you to regain control of a limb. You used your fingers to pry the hair off your eyes, revealing that a woman is seemingly taunting your captor while leering at you deviously.

None of the other members of this lounge bothered to look, but it appeared as if they were uncomfortable too. They're avoiding your gaze and a few handful even decided to leave the place discretely. Looks like they didn't want any trouble for themselves either.

You felt them flinch when the woman suddenly lurched forward, their once soft strands tensing up until they almost resembled metal wires. You didn't like how it pressed deep into your vulnerable human flesh, but at this point, you think your captor is the lesser of two evils.

The woman threw her head back in a loud, condescending laugh, pointing at the two of you and speaking at a blaring volume. You're assuming that she's humiliating them or something along the lines of that.

In the end, though, they scrambled to get up on their feet. Making a mad dash when fleeing the scene with you still protectively packaged in their hold. You had to squint and scrunch your forehead when the blinding Venus sun stabbed your eyes, their hair did help to shade you from it at a considerable level, but it's still blazingly hot and bright. Especially you just came from a cool, dimly lit room.

They ran as fast as they could, whizzing through the cramped alleyways and dodging other citizens of this complicated place. You felt the wind hitting the skin that was exposed to the air.

Only when they deem it to be safe enough, they planted their back against a wall and gently let you down. However, you're still mentally imprisoned within the bars of their telekinesis. You're standing, but you feel extremely cozy, not wanting to run away or do anything else.

Your eyes did scan the environment, though. It appears as if your captor has taken you to a completely different city, or perhaps you're just not as well-versed in Venusian geography. This could be the same area where 2718 fought with the giant and where the library is located. But one thing is for certain, you didn't remember being here. This is an entirely new place for you.

They warily looked around, when they truly think that they're off the hook, they let out a relieved sigh before giving you an apologetic smile. They said something as they ran their slender fingers through your hair, tidying it and brushing stray strands away from your face. As usual, you didn't understand a word.

They began pressing kisses on various spots on your face, tenderly cupping your cheeks with their soft hands. They spent the next few minutes loving you up, caressing you as much as possible with their extra limbs and hair. All this while, you couldn't muster the willpower to pull away.

They stopped when they heard your stomach growl. Which caused your face to heat up, and you felt embarrassed. But you are hungry, you don't know how long it has been since you last ate, you are sure that it's been a good while, though.

They giggled, clapping one of their many pairs of hands as they cooed something at you. Your captor had a rope of their hair swirled around your neck, its movements reminded you of a snake constricting its prey. It wasn't too tight that you couldn't breathe, but any deviation from where they intended you to go, you felt uncomfortable.

They encased a large hand around your relatively smaller one and began walking in a specific direction.

You looked down. Feeling slightly upset that the new shoes you woke up with aren't as comfortable as what 2718 originally gifted you. It's noisier and you tend to scrape against the rough ground, your kidnapper wore the same type too.

You can't lag behind, or the leash around your throat will tug you forward.

-

They cooed at you as they presented a flower, it looks very similar to that of a cacti bloom. It smelled faintly fruity, you're not sure what exactly it is. They had bought it off from a random vendor, you're unsure as to how much it costed as you weren't paying attention to the type of coins being exchanged.

And in their other hands, held some sort of fruit- it's deep red in color and has a matte skin. You think it's related to a prickly pear, except it has no pricks. Probably due to centuries of selective breeding, it does make sense for this to be available in Venus, though. As the climate here seem to be more arid than anything.

You had no idea what to do with the flower, so you looked up at them for advice. They were sitting on the carpet elegantly with their legs to the side, other patrons are also relaxing and socializing in the surrounding areas. Your captor plucked a handful of it's magenta petals and placed it on their serpent like tongue before chewing on it.

You were about to do the same, but they let out a sound that indicated you shouldn't do such things. Your captor confiscated the flower from your hands and set it on their lap.

They brought their face close and pressed their lips against yours. Tongue prodding against them, and you were powerless to stop them from inserting the pulp.

It's… nice. Sweet, a bit tart. Perhaps it's due to your captor chewing, the pulp had the texture of mildly chewier oatmeal.

They fed you like a mother bird, petal after petal. Maybe you were just too hungry to give a damn, you accepted it as if it was normal and was grateful that you get to satiate your hunger.

Eventually though, you pulled away. Having enough of the masticated petals, you wanted to try the real thing. So you quickly plucked one and shoved it into your mouth. This earned a panicked exclamation from them. And you quickly found it to be justified.

Because your entire mouth stung. It's so bitter, so spicy and just horrible. You spat it out and hacked, coughing up a lung as your tongue felt like it was sloughing off your orifice.

You whined, making them hold you in place and press their mouth against yours again, greedily. After a bit, you stopped squirming, it seemed like their saliva neutralized whatever damage was done by the petal. Their tongue lapped against every and any sore spot, thoroughly cleaning them.

Once you recovered, you heard them sigh as they cupped your cheeks lovingly. They proceeded to peel open the fruit, abandoning the blossom for now. They took a bite and chewed, tilting your head towards them.

Even though the unchewed version of the fruit looked delectable and juicy, you learned your lesson. You don't think you would want to eat it straight from their hands anymore. So you opened your mouth and fed yourself from their tongue.

It simply tasted like some vague fruit puree. It's surprisingly cold, too. It felt bizarre to be eating from their mouth; there isn't any experience you can compare it to. This is entirely new.

Once the feeding was done, they wiped your lips and smiled with that stupid, eerie, lovesick expression that you grew to be more afraid of.

They said something, seemingly trying to coax you to agree to whatever they have in store for you. Not knowing what to do, you simply stared and tried to make sense of them through general body language or cues. Your captor must have found this adorable, though, as they clasped their hands together and let out a soft squeal before littering your face with kisses.

They then got up, not without you in their multitude of arms. They have their hair wrapped around you like a baby sling, shielding your eyes from the scorching sun with inky strands shaped into a visor.

You felt yourself bob up and down as they traversed through the crowds, your eyes darting around to try and catch any signs of the translator or 2718.

But you found none.

[deadgrls-world]

thank you @cutelarien for this prompt 😉

𝚂𝚆𝙴𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙾𝙾𝚃𝙷

𝚃𝙰𝙼𝚂𝚈 𝚇 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚜𝚏𝚠, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚒𝚗, & 𝚛𝚒𝚢𝚘 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚜𝚢

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝: 𝚃𝚊𝚖𝚜𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝚠𝚌: 𝟷.𝟽𝚔

When Rudo joined the cleaner’s, the two of you did not hit it off immediately. You had heard that he had mentioned only being a cleaner until he got what he needed from them, and you had an instant disdain for this selfish little boy. You avoided being near Team Akuta simply so you wouldn’t have to deal with what you had assumed to be an insufferable child. You couldn’t fathom why Enjin or Corvus had allowed him to join the cleaners with clear ulterior motives. Is there something about him that is you hadn’t seen in him, but others had? You didn’t want to actually talk to him yet, just see what the deal was with this weird little kid. The smell of the kitchen let you know that lunch would be ready soon enough, so you’d likely find him heading that way. You left your room and stalked down the hallway, trying your best to look inconspicuous. Tamsy had told you once before that you had an awful lying face, but what did he know? For all he knew you could’ve been putting on a bad so he wouldn’t catch onto your real one. That was what you had said to your boyfriend, to which he had said, “If that were true, you would have not just admitted it.” Fuck him. Maybe you were ahead of him and had already knew he would’ve thought that. But you weren’t.

So, you hoped that you wouldn’t run into someone who would recognize that you were up to something. The list of people that could apply to was relatively short. Corvus and Tamsy were at the top, then after that the likely hood of each name detecting your deceit was smaller and smaller. If you could succeed in your nosy mission to finding out what Rudo Surebrec had shown the others without running into Corvus or Tamsy, then you could call it a successful one. You continued down the hallway, listening for people and chatter that would lead you to your target. You heard Enjin’s loud booming laugh from a distance, and you were assured that there was one of his team members with him along with whatever gaggle of people he was hanging around these days. You found him, Riyo, and Rudo surrounding a table in the commons area. In front of Rudo was a plate piled with different sweets. Your mouth started to water when you laid your eyes on it; your sweet tooth was infamous around HQ.

“ Well look who it is,” Enjin called. He had spotted your frame lurking around the open door. “Funny how the sweets come out and you pop outta nowhere.” Trying to come up with a quick excuse, you spit out, “I smelled them when I was walking past.” Riyo giggled, “Maybe if you ask real nice, Rudo here will share some with you. You might even save him from a second neck with the way he was putting the sweets away before you walked in.” That quip caused Enjin to bust out into another fit of loud laughter. You looked at Rudo who had a look on his face as if he was awaiting your next words. Riyo looked at you with amusement clear on her face as you considered your words. “Maybe he will,” you started as you turned to Rudo. You stalked towards him, arms crossed. Enjin’s fit had quelled by this point; his intrigue for your following actions and words towards Rudo was evident. You leaned down and arms still crossed as you said a littler quieter than before. “So, Rudo? Gonna share with a a fellow connoisseur?” You grinned with curiosity gleaming in your eyes. Enjin had once akinned you to the Cheshire Cat; a children’s book character he had seen on a torn up book in a trash heap somewhere to the west. He said he almost brought the page to you just for you to see, but it was covered in gunk and he didn’t want to touch it.

Rudo looked quite unsure of what he wanted to do next, he seemed as though he wanted to turn you down, which was what you expected of this selfish child. What you didn’t expect was his answer: he hummed a yes and created a line down the middle of the plate and said, “You can have that side.” Signs of shock were subtle on your face, but still remained in place. You quickly collected your self and thanked him politely, refraining from the passive aggression that you had shown him seconds ago.

You turned around to grab something to contain your food and saw a plastic baggie; perfect. You pushed the food into the bag and decided that you would thank him again. “Thank you, I’ll remember that,” you said looking at him while you waved a goodbye in Enjin and Riyo’s direction. They looked slightly surprised at the both of your reactions to each other; Rudo’s acceptance and generosity and your politeness and appreciation.

You walked out of the room and quickly dropped whatever expression you had plastered onto your face and popped a chocolate into your mouth. You hadn’t an idea that you’d talk to the boy when you had planned on spying on him, much less actually like him. And while Enjin’s was right, you did have a sweet tooth like no other, you had actually been trying to cut down on sweets. Tamsy had warned you against eating so many, fearing that you would be in poor health after a while. You also felt wasteful consuming so many, but you couldn’t turn Rudo down after asking him. You had simply expected a no. And you couldn’t throw them away either because that would simply be even more wasteful. Your only option would be to hide the treats from Tamsy. That wouldn’t be hard, right?

You had made back up to your room, and immediately started looking for a spot to stash your candies. Tamsy would be back soon, to lay down in your shared room after a long mission and relax. You walked over to your dresser, looking through your drawers. This would be a good place, heat and moisture shouldn’t affect them badly here. Wait no, Tamsy did laundry on Tuesdays, and he would put up yours as well. It might work if today weren’t Monday, but it was. You closed the drawers and looked further. Your eyes landed on your nightstand. You walked over to it and crouched down. It was styled like a table; there were no drawers. You contemplated putting that treats under it, but you were afraid that bugs or rats might get to them before you do. You tried setting the bag on its side behind the lamp on the dresser, but the bag wouldn’t stay up right. You heard steps coming down the hall and just by the pace and weight knew it was Tamsy. You started to panic; looking around you found a claw clip on the floor, picked it up, and started pinning the bag to the inside of the lamp shade. The top of it was hollow, so if Tamsy were to look down the middle, you would be caught out of luck.

The door started to click open as soon as you had it situated. You whipped around and started finding something to act like you were doing; changing clothes. You were about to change clothes. You moved to the dresser before Tamsy’s eyes fully adjusted to the room. “How was your mission?” you asked, praying you didn’t have a ‘lying face’ on. “It was fine. Nothing worth mentioning. What have you been doing?” You could tell he was already suspicious with the way he was eyeing you. He walked closer to you, his yellow eyes boring into you as if trying to dig deep inside you to find the truth. “Not much. I just got back from the commons hall where I was talking to Enjin and them.” No lie yet. Unless you count by omission, which you didn’t so he shouldn’t be able to tell yet. He hummed in response, not looking at all like he believed you. “Is that all?” he said, stepping closer. The space between you two was barely enough to take one more step, one that neither of you had taken yet. “For the most part, yeah.” It was so vague you knew he knew you were lying the second the words left your lips. He was silently staring at you, surely thinking of how to get you to admit to whatever you had done, something he had gotten very good at.

“If I asked ‘Enjin and them’,” he began, mocking your earlier use of of the words, “would they tell me the same story?” You swallowed what little spit was in your already dry mouth, “For the most part,” you repeated. Tamsy raised his chin and lowered his eyes at you, “For the most part.” You stayed silent while he analyzed you, clearly trying to determine whatever it was you were hiding from him. “Why don’t you just tell me whatever it is you’re lying about?” Well, there it is. You thought you might have a little fun with this to alleviate the tension. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you spoke with another Cheshire grin creeping across your face. Tamsy quickly realized the switch in your behavior and matched it easily. A playful smirk curled on his lips as well, “I wonder what you could’ve done to want to hide it from me.” He took the step between the two of you that had contained the only space left. He wrapped his arms under yours, pressing them against your back. Your bodies were pressed against each other firmly now, and you roped your arms are his neck, letting one hand hang in space and the other cradle the back of his head. “What an odd thing to wonder,” you answered coyly.

Tamsy looked you in your eyes with a look you couldn’t quite place, and craned his neck downwards to brush his lips against yours. You took the opportunity to kiss him, hoping you could distract him and get him to let this go. His tongue reached into your mouth and almost took your breath. He pulled away and hummed as if he had caught you. You look at him with bewilderment dancing across your face. He licked his lips before whispering, “Chocolate.” Realization at your earlier mistake of eating one leaving the Commons room struck you. Tamsy’s smirk grew larger before he teasingly said, “Tastes like your sweet tooth got the best of you.”

[shocked-collar]

thinking about soft Strade once again

Good neighbor Strade. The man everyone knows as the happy-helper. The guy you can count on to come on over to check out your flickering light or creaky porch, all for the cost of staying around and talking with him. But I don't think it ends there.

We know Strade is a big fan of the macabre, but people are collages of personality, featuring so many interests and hobbies and creative aspects that they often can't be nailed down to just one, and Strade is no different. If he was having a real good night, driving home in the pouring rain or falling snow, and he recognized you as his neighbor walking home? You bet he's pulling over to offer you a ride. It's okay, he doesn't care if the seat gets wet. He'll even turn the heat up for you once you get all buckled in, just to make sure you're not shivering on the way home.

It's kind of nice, actually. He doesn't get to talk to you very often! You two always seem to miss each other in the neighborhood. He just hopes you don't think he's been avoiding you. What keeps you so busy, anyway?

By the end of your ride together, you two sit in the car outside your house just a bit longer to finish up a conversation. You're then allowed to leave his vehicle and rest in bed safely, bringing with you a lovely interaction shared with a good neighbor.

He's not constantly on the prowl, sometimes he just likes enjoying people.

[deadbeatdaugter]

kishibe modern au: he snooped through my phone and saw that his name was listed as “wallet ”

[banjollll]

The first rule of the forest:

Trust no one

[uvobreakmylegs]

Trap

inspired from that one scene from the film The House That Jack Built (tho reader gets a better outcome, all things considered)

Kishibe x female!reader

Warnings: noncon, smut, fingering, groping, kidnapping, captivity, sexual harassment, mentions of gore, mentions of death

Word Count: 13.9k

The bar that you worked at just so happened to be situated close to the main office of the devil hunters, and as a result, a fair amount of your clientele were those same people who worked in Public Safety, usually the ones that were just getting off work and were in desperate need of a drink after spending a work shift witnessing countless horrors.

Despite your job as a bartender not coming close in terms of what they went through, you saw a lot just from witnessing the state they were in when you served them: the exhaustion that had seeped into their bones after they would sit down and the far-off gazes as they relived whatever fresh hell they'd been through before downing the rest of their drinks before calling you for another. Sometimes there were even entrails that covered them which you needed to clean up; it was only possible to do so once you held a spare rag up to your mouth and nose while keeping the dustpan as far away from you as possible before you deposited the remains in the dumpster at the back, after which you would quickly scurry away, eager to escape the awful smell.

It'd be easy to be annoyed with them for things like that, but you kept yourself in line by reminding yourself that they were the ones killing the devils so people like you could live in relative safety. If the price for that was sometimes needing to clean up something gross, you could live with that.

And certainly the last thing the exhausted hunters needed was someone nagging at them about a mess.

You got used to the changing faces, of those who either left or those who had died in the line of duty. More often than not, they simply stopped coming in with no explanation, which was a good indication that they were dead, as the ones who would quit usually ended up telling you their life story: why they got into devil hunting, what had happened since that point and why they now wanted to leave. You would listen – they didn't really want much engagement from you, just for someone to hear them out. At the end of it, the hunter would usually slam down their glass and declare that they were going to quit before heading out the door and you never saw them again.

Though there were often times when they would softly put down their empty glass and decide that they needed to keep with it despite the hardship. The irony that followed was that sometimes those hunters who decided to keep going didn't come in after that.

Even though you could make a good guess as to what had likely happened, you preferred to tell yourself that they had changed their mind immediately after and decided to quit after all. Even if it was a lie you were telling yourself, it was nicer to imagine a happy outcome for them, a future that they could – and should – have had.

And the faces at the bar continued to change.

Except for one.

Kishibe.

During the entirety of your year and a half of working at the bar, the biggest constant was the man who called himself the strongest devil hunter and who always, always came in for a drink once his shift had finally ended.

He was an odd one, to say the least. In terms of looks, he stood out almost immediately from the other devils hunters in large part due to his blonde hair and the recognizable scar that ran from the corner of his mouth and across his left cheek. And in terms of what he was like as a person, from what you could see, his monotone way of speaking and his quiet demeanor was deemed to be unsettling to most who interacted with him. He was also constantly drinking, as on more than one occasion you saw him take a swig of that flask he always carried around right as he entered the bar and then again when he left. That, combined with how much he drank at what became his designated seat at the bar, left you thinking that the fact that his liver was still functioning at his age was nothing short of a miracle.

Speaking to him had been weird at first. You had assumed that he would be like the other hunters who came in on their own, the ones who were in a bad place and were trying to drown out the turbulent feelings inside of them by way of harsh liquor. Those ones didn't want to talk; they just wanted a drink and for you to leave them alone until they needed a refill. With your experience with other hunters and the general vibe that surrounded Kishibe, it seemed like the safest choice to keep your distance from him.

But despite your attempts at creating that space, Kishibe turned out to be eager for a chat whenever you were around.

Though the topics the two of you could discuss were limited, you slowly found yourself warming up to the veteran hunter the more you spoke with him. While it was hard to tell what Kishibe was feeling in general, the fact that he continued to seek out your company told you that, at the very least, he found you to be tolerable. Tolerable enough to ask you questions that were guaranteed to get him boring answers. You doubted that he cared much about what your day had been like before you arrived for your shift or what the results of your off-day shopping trips were; he must have just wanted to hear something about how the average person's normal day went, one that was free of hunting and killing.

Until he told you to stop or he didn't bother to ask anymore, you were happy to oblige.

At that moment, Kishibe was on his third drink, staring down at the dark liquid within the glass with the same blank expression that was always on his face. Just like the other devil hunters that were currently in the bar, he was finished for the day and was getting a few drinks before he'd head home. Though with Kishibe it definitely wouldn't be just a few, and it wouldn't end with whatever he got at the bar.

It was relatively quiet at the moment with the small bits of chatter throughout the room being contained to the tables where the other patrons sat, so there was no need to raise your voice when you spoke to him.

“Kill a lot of devils today?” you asked.

Kishibe glanced up at you before returning his gaze to the glass.

“No, nothing like that today,” he said.

“Oh? Then were you training new recruits again?”

“Some of that,” he answered plainly, “but today I was mostly dealing with paperwork.”

“Ah.”

While you weren't inclined to say paperwork was the worst thing to deal with considering that the man killed monsters for a living, you could easily see how trudging through documents and filling out papers could be an exceptionally mind numbing experience.

“I guess it's too bad that being the best devil hunter doesn't exempt you from the boring parts of the job,” you said.

He shrugged.

“It's something that inevitably comes with any sort of job,” Kishibe told you, raising the glass to his lips after.

You leaned your elbow on the surface of the bar as you asked “did the training with your students go well at least?”

“No,” he answered bluntly.

“Oh. Why not?”

Kishibe waited to reply as he took another swig of his drink before saying “they're motivated by money, which is the worst reason to join Public Safety. Not only that, but they're hopelessly weak as well, which makes training them even more of a waste of time.”

“But the point of training them is to make them stronger, right?” you asked.

“There's no point because they're not cut out for it.”

“Is that you saying that they're not crazy enough?”

“It is.”

“Ah.”

You'd heard him say that before. About how the only people who can make it as devil hunters are the crazy ones and anyone who was too sane was little more than cannon fodder. His words.

Whether or not what he was saying was correct wasn't something you could really judge, but considering how long he'd been at that job, it was possible that there just might be some truth to what he was saying, though you doubted anyone else at Public Safety would be willing to agree with his statement out loud.

“Well,” you began, “maybe they'll surprise you. Maybe they just need a bit more time.”

“Doubtful. You either are cut out for devil hunting or you aren't. And these ones aren't,” said Kishibe.

He took a cursory glance across the room before he added “they'd be more suitable for a job like this one.”

Then he looked back to you as he asked “you need any new workers?”

You shook your head.

“Unfortunately we're all good on staff, so I don't think we can take any of them,” you answered jokingly.

“I see.”

He brought the glass back up to his lips as he said “then I guess they'll be dead soon enough.”

Kishibe spoke those words in that same monotone voice, while part of you wanted to believe that he was just a fan of dark humor, you knew him well enough by now to know that he meant what he said. Whoever these students were, they must have been massively under-performing for his opinion of them to be so low.

“Have you tried talking to them about that?” you then asked.

“I have. They just see it as motivation to prove me wrong,” he said, “I'm not going to bother if all it does it encourage stupid behavior.”

“And you can't speak to anyone higher up about your concerns?”

“Very few apply to work at Public Safety in general, so they'll accept anyone without question.”

“They're that desperate for hunters?”

Kishibe nodded.

You smiled, taking the opportunity to joke as you said “maybe I should apply then, especially if they don't care much about someone's background. It'd probably pay better than what I get from this place.”

In response to that, Kishibe gave you a long, hard look, his glass held in midair as he stared at you. Though his expression remained neutral, you got the sense that he wasn't amused.

“…. I was joking,” you said, “I know that I'm not up for killing devils.”

Just like that, the slight bit of tension that had fallen on the two of you dissipated. and the air felt light once again.

“That's good,” he told you, bringing the glass to his lips before saying “you're smart in knowing your limits.”

“Unlike your students?”

“Yeah.”

With one last swig, he drained what was in the glass. The veteran devil hunter then set it down closer to you, silently asking you for a refill. You obliged, grabbing the nearby bottle you had opened for him earlier and filling up the glass until it reached the brim.

As you put the bottle back on the shelf and while he lifted the glass to his lips once again, you commented “it is nice that you're trying to look out for them.”

He stopped what he was doing, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Even though what you're saying doesn't seem all that kind, you must really be worried about them if you're that insistent that they need to quit,” you clarified, “I can only imagine how tired you are of seeing those white grave markers multiplying every time you go to that graveyard.”

The expression on his face remained blank after you said that, which, of course, made it hard to read just how he felt about your statement. But when he averted his gaze and took that sip of his newly poured drink, you took it to mean that you were correct.

Kishibe was pretty open, after all. If you were wrong, he would have said so. You felt certain of that.

“But maybe don't give up on them just yet,” you added, “like I said, they might surprise you.”

“….. I'll consider it.”

You smiled at that. That was as big of a win that you could get when it came to Kishibe, who no doubt had an issue of being stubborn due to age.

You really hoped those students would be able to prove him wrong.

There wasn't any more time to dwell on the matter, however, as a few more men walked in at that moment and took their seats at the bar, waiting to be served. The small moment that you had to chat with your most regular customer had come to a close, at least for now. Even if Kishibe spent a lot when he visited the bar, you would get in trouble if you ignored other customers in favor of speaking with him.

Even if this wasn't the greatest job in the world, you didn't want to face the terror of unemployment.

…. Was there such a thing as an unemployment devil? You'd need to ask Kishibe later, if you remembered.

It picked up quite a bit after that, with a more steady stream of patrons filling the seats and orders for drinks flowing in. As such, you were too busy to continue any form of conversation with Kishibe; the most words that were shared between the two of you were your affirmations when he called you over to refill his glass. And the hours would manage to pass in that way.

It was the same way it usually went. Another busy night where your feet would definitely be aching by the time you got back home.

It was near the end of your shift when Kishibe called you over to ask for his bill, settling up before he headed out for the night, presumably to wherever it was he called 'home'. The time he did so was as usual, as was the rather high bill he had racked up during the hours he'd spent chugging down drinks. He barely reacted to the high amount you had printed out for him, his face staying as blank as always as he fished out the amount needed from his wallet.

“Heading home?” you asked him.

“In a bit,” he said, “need to take care of something first.”

“I hope it's not work related; I doubt you'd be in any condition for late night devil murdering.”

“Even if it was, I'd be fine.”

You raised your eyebrows at that, but otherwise said nothing to disagree with him. If he noticed that reaction of yours, he chose not to comment on it as he handed you what he owed.

“You get off soon, don't you?” he then asked.

“Yeah, why?” you asked back absentmindedly as you placed the money in the register.

“Did you walk or drive here?”

“Oh, I usually walk,” you answered, “my place isn't too far away.”

“Will you be alright heading home by yourself at this hour?”

You smiled as you nodded at him, answering “I'll be fine. I've walked that route dozens of times and I've never had any issues. Plus, there's hardly anyone around this time of night.”

Kishibe nodded slowly once you answered, and while he spoke again just to say “that's good, then”, he said it more to himself than to you.

Shutting the register, you looked back to him as you asked “but what about you? Are you walking? I feel like it'd be dangerous if you got behind the wheel of a car right now.”

“I usually walk, too,” he told you, “both the business I need to take care of and my place are close enough.”

“I see. Well, I hope you have a good rest of your night.”

“Same to you.”

With nothing else to be said, Kishibe began to make his way out of the bar, remaining surprisingly steady as he walked to the door. You weren't sure if his tolerance for alcohol was something else, or if he was just really really good at pretending to be sober.

As he walked out, you noted the reactions of the other devil hunters as he passed them by. A majority of the ones who were still present stiffened when he did so, conversations turning quiet until he was out of earshot. Some were clearly nervous with him being so close. And then there were others who looked at him, trying to make eye contact so they could have some small bit of a good interaction in wishing him well for the night by way of a brief farewell.

Kishibe didn't pay attention to any of them, and when the door shut behind him, the visible tension in the nervous hunters lessened instantly, a collective sigh of relief hitting them.

Seeing that sort of reaction was another thing that had felt weird at first.

Despite the fact that he was constantly drinking, none of the other devil hunters regarded Kishibe as being an old drunken fool as you might have expected. Conversations would quiet down once he walked through the doors, anyone who had begun to get a little too rowdy cutting it out the moment they realized he was there. Kishibe wasn't interested in interacting with any of them, however. Once he had sat down, his only focus was on downing the many drinks he would order while he made conversation with you.

Those sorts of reactions were probably due to the respect that the other devil hunters felt for him. But it was respect mixed with something else:

Fear.

As you only ever saw Kishibe within the small space of the bar, you had no idea what he was truly like when he was out hunting devils. While you could make a guess of how strong he was based on his general aura and the way the others regarded him, you were limited to him when he was in that seat chugging down drinks like no tomorrow.

There was only time where you had gotten an inkling as to what he was capable of, and you hadn't even been around to witness it.

A while back and on a rare night where Kishibe was absent, a devil hunter who was relatively new to the job and had only recently started going to the bar with his colleagues made an impulsive decision when he was tipsy and had smacked you on the ass as you were walking by his table. The hit had been so hard and unexpected that you ended up dropping a tray full of drinks, and the glasses you'd been carrying shattered on the floor alongside the spilled liquor.

When you told the guy to get out he scoffed at you, and at that moment there wasn't much you could do other than clean up the mess while one of your coworkers got a refill for the orders that had spilled. By the time all of that was done, the group the guy had been with had left, one of the others paying for their bill while the guy snickered at you. That, along with the way your boss had berated you after for spilling the drinks despite your explanation, had caused that night to be a bad one for you. It was bad enough that it was still affecting you the next day, leaving you somber through your shift.

Kishibe noticed your mood almost immediately, and after some prying on his part, you told him what had happened. After getting the full story, his expression stayed level as it always did, and it made you sad as you thought that he didn't care about what had happened to you.

But then he asked you for a description of the man who had hit you as well as the ones who had accompanied him. That had surprised you, but you still gave him the information he wanted. Kishibe left soon after and much earlier in the night than he usually did.

Truthfully, you hadn't expected much to come from any of it. Maybe at most the bar owner would receive a letter of apology and some small bit of compensation for the spilled drinks as well as the group promising to be on better behavior. And even then, you weren't really interested in any of that. All you had really wanted was for someone to agree that the entire situation was unfair for you. Kishibe hadn't even done that, so your somber mood remained even after your shift ended.

You weren't expecting to see the guy who'd hit you so soon after that.

A few days later, shortly after you had come in, the devil hunter who had so brazenly smacked you entered the bar and gave you a formal apology, promising that he would never bother you again. The entire thing was very short, as he didn't bother making any excuses or tried to blame his actions on the alcohol. He simply apologized, left an envelope full of money as compensation for what you had dropped and then exited the bar.

Despite his apology to you, he couldn't look you in the face, and there was a distinct haunted look in his gaze as he stared at anything other than you, as though he was terrified of making direct eye contact with you.

Neither that man or the group he had been with ever entered the bar again, and when Kishibe came in that same evening, he didn't mention anything. You didn't ask about it, either. Whatever it was that he had done to get that result, you decided that you didn't want to know just in case the answer was something that would keep you up at night. Even if it wasn't something gruesome or morally questionable, it was simply easier to pretend that the incident hadn't happened.

At least those previously rowdy devil hunters were a bit more well-behaved from that point onward.

Late on the next Tuesday night, you found yourself alone as you were the last one clocking out, and therefore the one who needed to do the final clean up and shutting down of the bar. Luckily for you, Tuesdays were always slow and there was never much of a mess to take care of, so despite the late hour you were in good spirits as you exited the building, locking the door at the back while you thought of what you were going to do from here.

Your thoughts went to a new video game you had bought, having only had enough time to play a little bit before you had started your shift that day. While normally you may have felt the current time was too late for something like that, you had tomorrow off, so it didn't feel like a horrible idea to stay up late on your computer. It was very likely that all of your day off would be dedicated to playing the game.

But you were jumping too far ahead. You hadn't even gotten to tomorrow yet, you told yourself. Focus on getting home right now.

You walked along quiet streets as you did just that, at one point zipping your hoodie fully up as the chill of the night air was more uncomfortable than you were expecting. At least you wouldn't need to be out here long, though you still bemoaned the fact that you had forgotten to bring your gloves with you. The only solution you had was stuffing your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep them warm.

As was expected for how late it was, the street you were walking on was virtually abandoned. Any people that you did catch sight of could only be seen on adjacent streets that you passed, all of whom were minding their own business as they hastily made their way to wherever they needed to be. You were in the same camp as they were, and your pace increased as all you wanted in that moment was to get home where you'd be able to relax and unwind.

One walkway you passed by was particularly loud, and you caught sight of a group of businessmen who were chatting with one another. From what you could see, they had been out drinking. Socializing for work, more than likely.

So it wasn't a surprise when you rounded the corner of a turn you needed to make and you saw what at first appeared to be another businessman in the distance, moving about oddly as he walked towards you. With the distance between the two of you and the fact that you had only spared him a brief glance at first, you assumed that he was one with that group, making his way back for one reason or another.

But as the person was walking in your direction, you were compelled to look up at him as he came closer.

It wasn't a businessman at all.

And as the picture before you became clearer as the person continued walking towards you, your pace slowed before you came to a stop as recognition turned to confusion upon realizing just who it was on the path before you.

Your most loyal regular at the bar, Kishibe, was out on the sidewalk by himself. His height, hair and the scar on his face made it easy to identify him. That he was out at night wasn't much of a surprise, but what made you confused was the fact that he was stumbling, barely able to keep himself upright as he went forward. The only explanation for him to move in such a way was that he was drunk.

You were in disbelief. How was that even possible? You'd seen that man consume enough alcohol that it should've been fatal and it had never affected him, yet now he wasn't even able to walk in a straight line – just how fucking much did he have to drink to get that way?

When he nearly fell to the pavement was when you snapped out of your stupor.

Holy fuck

“Kishibe!”

You ran over to where he was leaning against an adjacent wall, lightly placing your hand on his back as a way to help steady him while you asked “are you alright?”

He turned his head to look at you, and after a moment, he shook his head.

“Let me lean on you,” he mumbled.

Taking hold of one of his arms, you did your best to keep him standing as he got his feet firmly beneath him.

“Do you need to go to the hospital? I can call an ambulance,” you said.

“Hospital? No,” he answered, “just get me back to my apartment.”

“I don't know where that is.”

By that point he had his arm over your shoulder, though he was swaying far more than you were comfortable with. Still shaken by how he had nearly fallen moments ago and worried that he could still end up tumbling onto the pavement, you ended up grabbing ahold of his waist in an attempt to keep him steady. Although if he was really going to fall, you had a bad feeling that he would just end up taking you down with him.

You really hoped that wouldn't happen; ending your night by having one or both of you getting a concussion was something you wanted to avoid.

Kishibe had reached a hand into his pocket and had pulled out his cellphone, his fingers seemingly not cooperating when he attempted to put in his passcode. After a few failed attempts at unlocking it, the screen turned brighter as he got in and within a few moments, he had typed in an address and held it in front you.

Your mind blanked before you took the phone from him with an “okay.”

Looking at the screen, you found that the location put in was only fifteen minutes away from where you currently stood. That wasn't too bad, but as you glanced over again to Kishibe and the state he was in, you worried that the short walk would be too much for him right now. If he lost his balance again you didn't think you had the strength to keep him up on your own, and if he passed out there was no way you'd be able to drag him to his apartment. Plus if he hurt himself you'd probably need to call an ambulance, which would be a whole other mess that would likely see you waiting in the hospital for hours.

“Are you sure you want to walk there? With how you're doing right now, I think it might be better if we call a ride for you,” you told him.

“No.”

“But the idea of you walking seems dangerous.”

“You really think anyone will let me into their car with how I am now?” he countered.

Ah. That was true. Kishibe was only still standing up right now because you were supporting him. And not only was he unsteady, but he also reeked of alcohol. Any driver would see him and refuse to let him in out of fear that they'd need to clean his vomit out of their car afterwards.

So the only option was to walk him back?

….. This sucks.

It was late, you'd been on your feet for hours, your fingers were still numb from the cold and you were tired. You'd been looking forward to your plans for when you got back and yet you needed to be the one to deal with this?

Despite saying none of that out loud, Kishibe seemed perceptive to what you were thinking as he said “I know it's inconvenient, but I'd appreciate it if you would help me out.”

“…..”

…. Well now you felt like an asshole.

Kishibe needed help and you were trying to get out of it, and now he was aware that you were trying to get out of it. The fact that he needed to push to get you to help him wasn't good at all. And all of it was just so you could go home and play a video game?

Why were you like this?

With that, you forced a smile onto your face as you said “of course. It's only a short walk, right?”

He nodded.

Readjusting the hold you had on him, you kept the smile on your face as you continued with “plus, maybe the walking will help you feel better.”

“Maybe.”

As the you began to walk him back, heading in the direction that was directly opposite of your apartment, you told yourself that this could always be worse. Kishibe wasn't being loud or aggressive, which you appreciated. While you were stuck with his arm around you and the pace at which you traveled was painfully slow, it would have been a lot worse if he'd insisted that you help him while also being belligerent about it.

At least he was a pretty chill drunk, even if the way he wobbled in your grip still made your stress levels rise every time it felt like he was about to lose his balance.

“If you need to stop to rest a little, we can do that. Just let me know, okay?”

He nodded after you told him that, but with the vacant stare in his eye, you wondered how much he had really heard.

Oh well.

As the two of you went by the path you had passed previously which was full of the businessmen, you found that it was empty now. Either they were getting more drinks somewhere else or they were going home. Though as you took one last glance in that general area, you caught sight of a tiny bit of movement at the base of the building, your eyebrows furrowing until you realized what you were looking at.

“Gross,” you commented.

“Hm?”

“Cockroach.”

Kishibe hummed in response.

“I'm surprised it's still alive in this weather,” you said, “I would've thought the cold would have gotten to it.”

“They're good at finding ways to survive.”

It was good that he was speaking to you. As you were still worried at the thought of him passing out while in the middle of the way home, you figured that continuing to speak would probably be best; whatever you could think of as long as he stayed lucid enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

With the sight of the bug from moments ago, at least there was an easy topic of conversation to have.

“Is there a cockroach devil?” you asked.

He closed his eyes as he nodded slowly.

“We don't have control of it, though,” he then told you.

“Good thing I'm not afraid of cockroaches, then. Wouldn't want to make your enemies stronger,” you said.

You paused as you readjusted the grip you had around his waist before you added “I am pretty scared of spiders, though. Is that an issue?”

“Public Safety has control of the spider devil. If anything, I would encourage you to be more afraid of spiders. That way she'll be stronger,” answered Kishibe.

“Okay,” you answered, laughing a little as you said “though maybe I don't want to be too afraid of them. It'd be a different kind of issue if she became too tough and decided to run off to do her own thing, right?”

He shook his head.

“That's impossible.”

“Why's that?”

“Because if she tried that, I'd hunt her down and take her out,” he said simply.

“You're sure you'd be successful with that?” you asked.

“Of course. I'm the strongest devil hunter there is,” Kishibe told you.

“That might be true,” you said, “but if a devil were to come for you as you are right now, I'm worried you wouldn't be able to do much.”

“I'd handle it.”

“…. You can't even walk on your own.”

“I'd handle it,” he insisted.

Despite his tone, you were skeptical. After all, you were the only one keeping him upright at that moment. Still, it was better to let it go. Just treat it like you're at work, you told yourself. Work that you wouldn't be getting paid for, but work nonetheless. Even though this wasn't the way you wanted your night to end, reminding yourself that you had the day off tomorrow helped in making you feel better about it.

Walking to Kishibe's apartment took about an extra eight minutes due to his slow pace, and there was only so much you could do to get him to move faster while still being polite about it. If only you had the strength to pick him up and carry him, it could've gone so much faster.

At the very least it would have made for a funny scene, at least from an outsider's perspective.

You did your best to stay positive, and you continued to ask him questions as a way to make sure he was still conscious as you escorted him back home. Though after your conversation about the spider devil, Kishibe only answered in grunts or hums, but at least he was still able to answer you. That was a good thing, at least. As long as he was conscious and able to continue walking, that was good.

When you caught sight of Kishibe's apartment building and noted the tall flights of stairs that decorated the sides, you frowned. And when you asked him which floor you needed to get him too, you groaned internally when he answered that his unit was on the fourth floor.

Of course you needed to get him up several flights of stairs.

You didn't want to think about just how long it took the two of you to get up the stairs, nor did you want to think about the times you needed to help him lift up his own feet so he could ascend those stairs with you. By the time you reached the door of his unit, you felt well and truly exhausted from the ordeal, and you wanted nothing more than for him to unlock the door and go inside so you could go back home.

Except Kishibe handed you the key to his door.

Of course it couldn't be that simple.

You couldn't even get him to go in on his own, as when you turned the handle and opened the door to his unit, his weight suddenly bore down on you, pushing you into the darkened apartment with him following after and only managing to regain his footing once he was inside. Even then he stumbled backwards after, his arm hitting the open door and forcing it back shut when he fell against it.

“Are you okay?!”

All you heard in response to your worried question was a grunt that seemed like he was trying to indicate 'yes', which lessened your panic a little, though it'd be nicer to be able to see him. In the pitch dark of the apartment, you reached for a nearby wall as you searched for a light switch. After several moments of blindly pressing your hand all over the surface of the wall, you found it, and you needed to shut your eyes once the overhead light turned on as you needed to adjust to the sudden brightness.

Once you were able to see, what greeted you was what appeared to be a sparsely decorated apartment that only seemed rather ominous as the rest of the lights within the space had also been left off. From what you were able to see in your current position, you caught sight of a darkened living room area, and beyond that, a sliding door that opened up to small balcony. There was a couch in the living room, right? You could just leave him there, couldn't you?

Please let me leave now, you silently begged.

“Could you get me to the bedroom?”

Despite how he mumbled his words, you heard him clearly. Looking back to where you'd left him, you were dismayed to find that he was still drunk out of his mind. He still had his back leaning against the surface of the door, and it seemed that was all that was keeping him upright. With the way he was blocking the way out, it meant you'd need to move him, and more than likely you'd need to escort him further, this time to his bedroom.

Once you saw him at your next shift at the bar, you'd need to ask what exactly he'd done to get himself that fucked up. That, or maybe he could just give you a really nice tip for all of the effort spent getting him home safe.

But you made yourself smile at him as you said “sure. Just hang on for a second, okay? I'm gonna turn on some lights so the two of us aren't stumbling around in the dark. I'll be right back.”

A pair of hazy looking dark eyes glanced in your direction after you spoke, and he nodded in understanding. With that, you placed both his phone and the keys to the apartment on a small table that sat in the small hallway before slipping off your shoes and making your way further into his unit. It took a few tries, more than a few moments of turning on light switches before you hastily turned them off once you saw that you had entered a room that you didn't need, but not long after you found what you were looking for: the bed Kishibe needed to pass out on top of.

The bedroom matched the apartment in that it looked rather plain, almost like Kishibe didn't spend a lot of time here. It made sense; with how much he must have on his plate as a devil hunter he probably didn't have the time to decorate his living space. He just needed some place where he could eat, clean himself and then sleep soundly at the end of each day before he returned to his work.

The queen sized bed did look – and feel – rather nice, you felt compelled to note. He must have spent a lot on that to have a good night's sleep.

With your goal of finding where you needed to take him achieved, you returned to the main hallway to retrieve Kishibe. He was where you left him, once more looking dazed as he stared down at the floor beneath his feet. Your gaze traveled down as well, and when you saw the tied up laces of his shoes, you came to a realization.

“Are you going to be able to untie those?” you asked, pointing down at them.

“Probably not.”

At this point you weren't able to be annoyed; it wasn't entirely unexpected given his current state. Just another thing you needed to take care of for him, but at least it wouldn't be as difficult as helping him stumble his way up the stairs.

Do a few things more to help him and then you can go home.

Kneeling down on the surface of the entryway, you reached for the laces of one of his shoes. He didn't say anything as you undid the knots. When you asked him to lift his foot up once they were loosened, he did as you told him and you pulled the shoe off of him, placing it down and out of the way before repeating the process with the other. Again, he said nothing, but you felt those blank brown eyes staring down at you the entire time.

After getting his shoes off, you gently grabbed him by his shoulder and moved him away from the door. Immediately he was back to leaning on you, this time with his nose in your hair. You could feel his breath on your head, followed by the sound of his voice as he let out a content hum.

This was so fucking awkward. He definitely owed you after this.

“Kishibe,” you began, “just a little more walking and then you can rest, okay?”

He grunted again as you once again led him while his weight bore down on you.

With his face still in your hair, you heard the moment when, in the middle of making your way to the bedroom, he inhaled deeply. The sound of that and the feeling forced you to come to a stop.

And after letting out a short breath, you continued to walk with him.

He's drunk, you told yourself. Extremely shit-faced, over the top blackout drunk. He probably wouldn't remember any of this come tomorrow, and while you weren't enjoying this, it'd be better to keep your relationship with him positive. You didn't need to mention any of the creepy parts; just how much you had done to help him.

He'd better be appreciative.

A feeling relief washed over you when you finally got him into the bedroom, the bed only a few feet away.

Pulling forward, you saw this as the final hurdle. Just get him onto the bed. That was all you needed to do, and then you could go home and collapse onto your own not-as-comfortable mattress that had been all you could afford.

You tried to move him so he would lay down on his back, and then you could gently let him go. You didn't really want to bother trying to get him actually into the bed; that seemed like it would take even more time and would be even more of a hassle. No, just getting him on there was enough.

“Alright, here we go.”

Kishibe was supposed to let go as you maneuvered him in front of you. Once he felt the edge of the mattress against the back of his legs, he should've understood that he was safe to fall backwards and that he needed to let you go.

But the arm he had wrapped around your back stayed in place, and when gravity finally won the battle and began to pull him down, you were brought down with him.

A short cry escaped your lips as you ended up on the bed with him, pressed tightly to his chest with your lower half hanging off the mattress.

Goddammit

“I'm sorry,” you began, “I didn't mean for that to happen.”

“Hm.”

You weren't sure of what to make of the way he hummed when you said that, largely because all you wanted in that moment was to get off of him. Bracing your arm on the mattress, you pushed your weight onto it as you tried to get off of him and escape the awkward situation.

Only the arm he had around you wasn't budging.

When a few moments passed with you desperately trying to leave the bed only to have your efforts thwarted by the surprisingly strong grip he had on you, you looked back to him as you asked “Kishibe, could you let me go? I can't get up.”

“Why do you want to get up?” he asked.

“Um, because I need to go home?” you said, surprised that you even needed to clarify that.

“It's late; you should spend the night here.”

“That's okay. I'm sure your couch is comfortable, but I'd really rather sleep in my own bed,” you told him.

“Who said anything about you sleeping on the couch?”

His question made you blink.

“I…. Where else would I…..”

Your question trailed off as you glanced at the mattress you were currently on top of, and a sick feeling began to form in your stomach. A feeling that grew stronger with every moment that passed with his arm still wrapped around you.

“Kishibe, please let go of me,” you said.

“Why?”

“Because I don't like this and I want to go home.”

Again you tried to pull yourself up, and again, Kishibe kept you pressed to his chest.

“Please,” you said again, “I don't want to spend the night-”

You were cut off when you felt his other hand move. Instead of joining the one wrapped around your back, his free hand went down to cup your ass as he blatantly groped you.

Shock and revulsion shot through you and when you struggled again against the grip he had on you, it was with far more force and desperation.

“Let go of me,” you said, “now!”

Again, he only hummed in response.

But that time he actually did let you go, removing his arms and letting them fall to the mattress.

You pulled off immediately, getting to your feet and taking a few steps back in record time, breathing heavily as the brief burst of adrenaline was still running through you. Kishibe remained splayed out on the bed with his legs still hanging off the side. He was still staring at you, however.

After taking in another deep breath, you spoke.

“Rest up and get sober,” you began, “and then when we see each other next, I'd appreciate it if you could come to the bar with an apology.”

You then turned and walked out the door, deciding to leave it at that. Though you noted to yourself that he may very well not remember what you had said or what had happened. As you had told yourself earlier, he was drunk. But even then you didn't intend to back down on this. Even if he didn't remember, at the very least you deserved some form of the word 'sorry' for how he had held you down and tried to coerce you into sleeping with him. Regardless of if his actions were caused by the alcohol, you needed that after he had ignored you the first few times you had told him to let you go.

As long as you could get that, you'd be happy to go back to how your relationship was before, with him as a customer and with the solid surface of the bar separating the two of you.

Returning to the entryway, you quickly collected your shoes and slipped them back on before you prepared yourself for the walk back home. It was late, but you'd probably be okay as long as you hurried back. You probably didn't have the energy for your game, as you'd thought before, so it'd be straight to bed for you once you returned.

As long as you could get a good night's sleep, that was enough.

With that thought in mind, you stood before the front door as you reached for the handle, turned and then pulled it.

The door didn't budge.

“Huh?”

You tried again, turning it again and pulling, just to have the same thing happen.

Maybe I'm turning the handle wrong, you briefly thought, only for your brows to furrow when your attempts to turn the handle upwards resulted in nothing. That wasn't right. Clearly the way you had been trying was correct.

So why wasn't the door opening?

Taking your gaze away from the handle, you noticed something that you had missed earlier: in place of a bolt or a chain on the upper part of the door, there was instead a lock which required a key to open it. Was that really what was keeping you in here?

… It's okay, you told yourself. You left the keys on the table right behind you. One of those would open it.

Your attempts to quell the bad feeling brewing within you were unsuccessful, as when you turned to reach for the keys that you had placed only minutes earlier, you found that they were gone.

….. Were they still there when you had gone back to get Kishibe after turning on the lights? You couldn't remember.

Speaking of Kishibe, he would be the reason why they were gone, right? Thinking back to when you had been searching for the bedroom, that would have given him more than enough time to take the keys and then lock the door. When else would he have been able to do that?

But why would he do that?

“What exactly am I supposed to apologize for?”

Hearing his voice made you jump, and you turned your gaze towards where Kishibe had emerged from as he strolled out into the hallway at a leisurely pace, ending with him leaning against the wall. His large black coat was gone, leaving him clad in his white shirt, black pants and his tie that he had loosened during the time that you had left him alone. In one hand he held his flask, and he unscrewed it to take a long gulp of whatever was in there before he looked back to you, those same blank eyes staring straight at you as he waited for an answer to his question.

He didn't seem quite so inebriated now. He was walking just fine and his gaze was zeroed in on you.

“…. Kishibe, why is the door locked?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing as you stood still within the entryway.

“Because I locked it,” he answered plainly.

“Wh-why?”

“Because I don't want you going out.”

The veteran hunter took another swig from his flask before adding “it's dangerous out there, especially at night. You're much safer inside with me.”

“That's….. That's nice, but I'd really rather go home,” you said.

“Why? Is your cheap apartment really that great?”

His comment made you blink in surprise – you'd never mentioned it, so how in the world did he know anything about your apartment?

“I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I could go back there, yeah,” you told him, “so could you please unlock the door? I don't want to be here any longer.”

Kishibe hummed.

“That's too bad. Because I've decided that you'll be staying here from now on,” he declared.

“….. You can't do that.”

“I just did.”

Kishibe stood to his full height, and that was enough to make you back away until you found yourself pressed against the door, holding your hands to your chest as your heart rate increased. What was happening? Why was this happening? He seemed fine now, despite the state he'd been in – had all of that been a ruse just to get you into his apartment?

Why?

“I don't understand.”

Your words came out hushed, barely able to come out around the blockage in your throat.

“You don't? I would've thought understanding it would be pretty simple,” he said.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you swiftly and with ease as he told you “you're not leaving. I'm keeping you here so you'll be safe.”

“Safe? From what?”

“Everything.”

Kishibe was standing directly before you now, looming over you as he continued with “humans, devils and whatever else; you won't need to fear them anymore. Nothing will come for you as long as you have me.”

He reached a hand up in a move that looked as though he intended to cup your cheek as he said “all I ask in return is that you do as I say.”

The rough skin of his hands made contact with your cheek as you said nothing in response.

You needed this to be a joke.

You needed to him to take a few more moments for comedic effect before he revealed that he wasn't being serious, be that in the form of the words “just kidding” or “gotcha” or something that told you that the reality of the situation wasn't what you thought it was. Even though this entire scenario was completely abnormal for Kishibe, a man who always seemed serious, you needed him to tell you that it was just a fucked up prank, that he just wanted to mess with you.

It didn't feel in line with the man you had grown to know, but you needed that to be the case.

Except Kishibe never said such a thing to you, instead keeping his hand on your cheek and softly rubbing against your skin, his calloused touch feeling surprisingly gentle.

His thumb then moved across your bottom lip and that sent a jolt down your spine.

You pushed his hand away as you said “this isn't funny.”

“It's not supposed to be,” he told you.

You shook your head.

“You're being weird and you're playing a prank or something stupid like that, but I don't like this and I want to leave.”

Kishibe only hummed at that, which only left you feeling worse.

“Stop this, please,” you said, desperation tinting your voice as you said “the joke has gone on long enough and I want you to let me out.”

But he still didn't say anything further. All he did was stare down at you with a look on his face that you couldn't read while his presence was quickly becoming overwhelming.

Seconds were ticking by and nothing was happening. Kishibe was still standing over you. He wasn't backing away like you wanted. He wasn't agreeing with your assessment that this entire thing was a joke, like you wanted. And he wasn't producing the key and letting you out of what had become a deeply uncomfortable and unsettling scene with him.

The longer it went on, the harder it became for you to breathe, all the while the sick feeling that surrounded you only grew more intense as you were slowly forced to accept the reality of the situation:

He wasn't joking.

And you were helpless.

How long of a period had passed before he spoke again, you had no idea. Too wrapped up in your thoughts and growing fear, it easily could have been minutes or seconds. But you were snapped out of your thoughts instantly when you heard his low voice once more.

“You didn't answer my question earlier: what am I supposed to apologize for?” he asked again.

“For…… For touching me. Grabbing me like you did in the bedroom,” you hesitantly answered.

“I don't see why I should apologize for that.”

Kishibe tilted his head slightly as he continued with “you belong to me now. Why shouldn't I be able to do whatever I want with you?”

His words settled in your mind, your pulse beating rapidly as your mind raced.

Then you screamed.

As loud and as hard as your vocal chords were capable of, you screamed for help as he continued to loom over you. It wasn't brave or noble, but there was nothing else you could do to fight him off. You were too weak for anything like that.

Screaming was all you could do.

The screams for help that tore out of your throat come out with such ferocity that you managed to be surprised initially. Never in your life could you remember the volume of your own voice reaching such levels, but you'd also never been in a situation like this one. You turned away from him in order to pound at the door as you continue to call for help, hoping that the extra noise will help to get someone's attention – be it of one of his neighbors or a passerby on the street – just as long as it's someone who'll call the police. If you can just get one person to inform the authorities that something's wrong, then you'll get out of this.

Just one person with a phone and an idea of where you were. And maybe, just maybe, a group of well-intentioned people who might be brave enough to burst down the door to get to you. Even if Kishibe was strong, he could only take so many opponents at once, right?

Your throat was aching and the way you slammed your hand against the door was became weaker as the pain that shot through your hand was beginning to become too much, but you kept up with it. You needed help. You needed someone to know what was happening before Kishibe shut you up.

…. Before he shut you up?

It hit you then: through all that time of you desperately making a racket and being as loud as possible, Kishibe hadn't once made any effort to keep you quiet.

He still wasn't.

With tears still rolling down your cheeks and your hand still balled up in a fist on the door, the cries that had so forcefully come from your mouth came to an end as you glanced back at him.

He was taking another swig from that flask. Completely at ease and unbothered at your desperate attempt to seek help. You watched in disbelief as his Adam's apple bobbed as the harsh liquor ran down his throat before he pulled the flask away from his lips, just as leisurely screwing the cap back on before the metal container once again disappeared into his pocket.

Kishibe looked at you.

Then he glanced up at the ceiling.

You followed his gaze, and while you didn't see anything odd with the plain white surface above you two, you noticed that something was amiss:

Someone above you was blasting music loud enough that you could almost make out the lyrics of the song that was playing.

…. It hadn't been that way when you first entered the apartment. Nor had it been the case when you had first tried to leave. You would have heard that, would have noted something like that immediately. Which only meant…..

The realization sank in as you looked up to the ceiling in horror, coming to the conclusion that in the middle of your screaming and banging, the person directly above you had heard, and made the decision to play the loud music in an attempt to drown you out so they didn't need to listen anymore.

They didn't want to help you.

“It doesn't sound like they're going to do anything,” Kishibe said to you, drawing your attention back to him.

“Doesn't seem like anyone else is going to bother, either,” he added, reaching back up with his hand so he could place it on the door by your head as he leaned in closer.

“You're alone in this.”

The cold words he spoke sent a shudder through you, and you shook your head as if denying what he had just told you would somehow change the way things were going.

“Why?” you asked, your voice wavering as you continued “why won't anyone help me?”

“Because nothing bad is happening to them, so they don't care,” he answered plainly, “maybe if they knew you, it might bother them. But bad things happen to complete strangers everyday; just because this time it's a bit closer in proximity doesn't make them care any more or any less.”

His other hand reached up to play with your hair, almost absentmindedly running his fingers through the strands as he continued to speak.

“As long as they're in the clear at the end of the day, that's all that matters to them,” he said.

“That's…. That's not true,” you sniffled, “someone out there wants to help me. They need to.”

Kishibe shrugged.

“Maybe some would,” he said, “but clearly those people aren't in earshot right now.”

The callousness of his words sent your emotions into a frenzy once again. Tears began running down your cheeks again while you sobbed. Only you weren't screaming this time, nor were you banging against the door. What was the point? If no one would help you even after hearing that, then why bother?

All you could do was cry about it like the pathetic weakling you were.

With your forehead pressed against the door, you weren't able to see any of what Kishibe was doing. You knew he was still behind you – it was hard to ignore how closely he was looming over you – but he had yet to do anything to you.

Would he even do anything?

As soon as you thought that, you remembered how he had groped you in the bedroom, how he had held you down against him even when you told him to let you go. In that same moment, you felt one of his hands around your waist and his fingers slipping beneath the layers of your hoodie and shirt so he could caress your skin directly. His other hand found its way to your jaw so he could direct your attention towards him once again.

Of course he'd do something further. Why had you even considered that he might not?

The blank brown eyes you had grown to know met yours, and despite the futility of the situation, you still made yourself put out one last plea. Even if he was odd, he was still human at the end of the day, and therefore, he needed to have some sort of empathy, right?

“I won't go to the police – I won't say anything about this to anyone,” you told him, “so please, reconsider.”

“No.”

His answer to your request was swift; he didn't think twice about it nor was he moved in any way.

Kishibe had made up his mind and there was no changing it.

Just as swiftly as his answer, he then angled your jaw upward so he could claim your lips in a kiss.

The taste on his tongue was harsh, a cocktail of the liquor he'd consumed over the course of the evening. The strongest remnant of alcohol that flooded your senses was most likely whatever he had just gulped down from his flask. The stubble around his lips brushed against your skin and the sensation made you jump, though with the hand he still had on your jaw, you again were unable to escape his grasp. There was nowhere for you to go; he had you pressed firmly between the front door and himself. The only bit of freedom he allowed you were the ways in which you trembled beneath his grasp, how you shook and shivered while his free hand continued to caress the skin beneath your shirt.

The whimpers you made in response to his touch were swallowed up by his mouth as he prolonged what was certainly a show of mockery for an action that was meant to be tender.

Did he really need to torment you in this way?

When he pulled away from the kiss he did so with a clear plan in mind, as his hands immediately went to the zipper of your hoodie and forced it down before pulling the entire piece of clothing off of you, taking your bag with it. Both items were tossed behind him and he quickly placed his hands on you once again, moving them all over as he explored your body through your clothes. Even through your clothing at acted as a sort of barrier, the feeling of his calloused palms stroking up your sides and down your spine were enough to make you jolt in place and force whimpers out of your mouth.

He moved in closer, pressing up directly behind you which allowed you to feel the growing bulge in his pants.

When he shifted his focus in order to grope your breasts through the material of your shirt, you placed your head so it was pressed against the door again, still sobbing. All you wanted in that moment was to become one with the door; merge into it so he couldn't do this to you anymore. You didn't care what happened to you, just as long as this would stop.

Instead of that mercy, Kishibe continued to toy with your chest. Then he began to speak.

“I'm a bit surprised you let it get as far as what happened in the bedroom,” he told you, “you really had no issue going into a man's apartment that you'd never been to before? There was nothing that raised any alarm for you until I had you on top of me?”

You whimpered.

“You're too naive; that's why you won't be leaving. If I don't step in you'll get yourself killed.”

His thumb and pointer finger found your nipple through your clothes, and when he began to focus on that by pinching it between his fingers, a strangled noise emerged from your throat.

Kishibe felt the need to comment on that.

“Do you like being played with from behind? You're more responsive to this than I was expecting,” he said.

“N-no….”

Your shirt remained as it was only for a few more moments before he decided that he wanted to feel your bare skin, resulting in him ripping your shirt down the neckline and pulling your bra down with it. With skin now on skin, it was instantly noticeable when the shrieks that left your mouth as his fingers tweaked your nipples sounded less horrified and more wanton.

“You really do like this,” Kishibe said, a hint of pleasure in his voice.

“No,” you said again.

Instead of acknowledging your denial, his hot breath hit your ear as he said “I was thinking it'd probably take a little bit to get you wet enough so fucking you would be a bit more comfortable, but I probably don't need to wait all that long, do I? If those noises of yours are any indication, I bet I could slide into you right now.”

“No!”

Even with you raising your voice, he still wasn't listening.

His hands crept around your waist again before they found the zipper of your pants. The sound of it zipping open seemed loud within the space of your head, but it didn't compare to the feeling of his thumbs slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear before he shoved your panties down past your thighs, taking your pants with them.

With your most intimate area now exposed, you shuddered as the chill air attacked your flesh. When Kishibe began to palm and knead your ass, you whimpered. Your lower half was then pulled away from the door and he moved his knee between your thighs so he could spread your legs wider. You could feel how heavy his gaze was on your cunt. Heat filled your cheeks while you bit down on your lip, the tears that were still flowing now a bit more angry.

It was humiliating. He had you pressed against the surface of the door, your palms laying flat against it while your ass was sticking out. You didn't want to merge with the door anymore; you wanted to curl up and die.

But even that wasn't an option for you.

A pair of thick fingers found their way to your cunt, caressing your folds in a way that felt experimental before his middle finger slipped between them, the tip shallowly ghosting along your heated entrance which caused you to shudder. The wetness that was beginning to drip out of you easily coated his fingertip, much to his amusement.

“Thought so,” he said.

“No.”

It wasn't true. You weren't enjoying this; just because he forced such a reaction out of you didn't mean that you wanted it. He knew that but he was just insisting on being as horrible as possible. How could you have not realized what he was really like until now?

“Hard to argue when I have the evidence smeared on my fingers, don't you think?” Kishibe asked you. He pushed his digits into your folds for emphasis, and the squelching sounds of him dipping into your wet heat only made you more ashamed. His free hand then returned to your chest while he fingered your cunt.

His fingers were sliding along your walls easier than you would have liked, and the feeling of his blunt nails inside of you as he stretched you out caused several shudders to run through your body, becoming intense enough that you needed to bite down hard on your lip to try and keep down the shameful whining noises that wanted to emerge because of it.

He must have noticed the way you were trying to keep it in as he way he was fingering you suddenly became rougher, with him curling his fingers while searching for the sensitive spots inside of you. He moved in closer as well, breathing huskily into your ear as he spoke to you.

“I wish I'd done this sooner,” Kishibe whispered, “if I had known how eager you would be for me, I wouldn't have wasted so much time before.”

No insults or retorts left your mouth that time; you were too busy trying to be as quiet as possible as all you could focus on was the awful affect he was having on you while his fingers continued to slide in and out. He was being rougher now because he wanted to humiliate you even more – that was the only explanation. To have you moan like you were enjoying this as a way to torment you further. As if the way your wetness was dripping down the inside of your thighs wasn't enough, turning cold once it hit the open air and sending more shudders running through you.

When his other hand came down to toy with your clit, you ended up biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You hated how it felt good. How the feeling of his fingers rubbing hard circles against that nub had your legs shaking and your insides burning. Kishibe intended for you to cum on his fingers, and you hated that he would more than likely be successful in that goal.

Why aren't you stopping him?

…..It hit you that you hadn't really tried much to get away from him. Aside from the way you ordered him to let go and how you pushed his hand away, there was very little in terms of actual resistance on your part.

But what could you even do? How would a civilian fight off an expert devil hunter?

Even though you couldn't imagine any scenario where you on your own managed to get away from him, maybe the way you had done nothing other than cry through your assault had been enough to reaffirm in his mind that you needed to be kept away from the world. For your safety, he said.

You wondered if he was actually delusional enough to believe that excuse.

That train of thought was derailed completely when you felt Kishibe's fingers brush against a spot within you in tandem with the fingers on your clit, and your vision whited out as he forced out the reaction he'd been looking for.

You came on his fingers.

Your face and ears were burning and you could taste iron from your bleeding lip as you tried your hardest to keep in those awful moans.

Mercifully, he didn't continue fingering you when you came. Instead he seemed to savor the way you were clenching down around him as you heard him let out a breathy sigh into your ear. When you had finished, he stayed like that, his chest pressed against your back and the fingers on your clit giving you one last stroke before he pulled away.

After another moment, he pulled his fingers out of you, his hands finally leaving those sensitive, intimate areas. A new wave of anxiety washed over you as you had a horrible idea of what was going to follow.

You heard his belt being undone. And then his zipper, which was hastily followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down.

And then his hands were back around your waist, pulling you back into the position he had forced you into earlier that you had unconsciously moved from as your body unintentionally moved back to press against the door, still trying to escape him even though you knew there was no point.

He spread open the lips of your pussy, guiding his cock to your entrance after. Your breath hitched when you felt him rub the tip against your folds, gathering up your wetness on the end of his length just as he'd done with his fingers earlier.

He shoved himself in.

And once he was inside of you, he only took a brief moment to savor it, letting out a small sigh of contentment as he finally got to experience the feeling of the walls of your cunt clamping down on his dick.

“Good girl,” Kishibe mumbled.

Your heart was in your throat, however, as despite knowing where things would be heading once he had begun kissing and groping you earlier, the feeling of his dick being sheathed halfway into you just cemented that this was real: he'd locked you in his apartment and claimed you as his own. And if he continued to get his way from this point, then this would be the rest of your life, one spent as a plaything to Kishibe's whims.

Only for a moment was that thought able to run through your head, however, because soon after he began to fuck you in earnest. Despite your successful resistance before, you weren't able to keep quiet once you felt him moving against you, his cock plugging up your hole again and again as his hips thrust hard against your ass. The sobs that were mixed with your moans bounced against the surface of the door, filling up the small, empty space of the entryway.

If only you were loud enough to drown out the noises Kishibe was making.

For a man who was normally so quiet, there was no attempt on his part to keep in his own groans and grunts. Still positioned with his mouth by your ear as he kept you close to him, you heard everything. His own harsh breathing mixed with small curses that left his lips in time with the cock that was slamming into you. Swears that were changed out for praise of you when his fingers returned to your clit to stimulate you further, causing your sensitive walls to quiver around him.

The words “good girl” were said to you many times during that period.

Your back quickly became sticky with sweat, your own body heat combined with that of Kishibe making it get to the point that it was becoming too much. The feeling of cold from when you had been outside was forgotten as it felt like every part of you was burning up while his body was engulfing your own as he used you to chase his pleasure. You wanted him away from you, just a little bit.

With a shaking hand, you pressed it against his chest as best you could with the awkward position, silently trying to communicate that want of yours.

Kishibe grabbed your wrist and forced it back against the doorway, keeping his hand gripped firmly around your arm and refusing to let go even when you tried to wiggle out of it. Eventually you were forced to give up on getting what you wanted.

Just like everything else tonight.

With the brute strength he was displaying as he pounded into your pussy and how sensitive you still were from your previous orgasm, you found yourself cumming much faster the second time. Your pussy walls clenched hard around him once again, but this time Kishibe made the choice to fuck you through it.

That only prolonged your orgasm, and the longer it went on, the more strained your moans became as your throat was thoroughly raw by that point.

Once your pleasure faded, you were left waiting for Kishibe to finish. Something you didn't need to wait long for as soon enough you felt him stiffen within you, and then his swollen cock erupted, long white streams of cum painting your insides as he kept himself pressed close, wanting to be as deep within you as possible. He groaned loudly as he did so, and his hand returned to your breast to knead the soft flesh once more as his own orgasm began to ebb away, his cock still twitching in the aftermath.

The entryway was now filled with the breathless gasps of the both of you and the scent of sweat and sex.

Once his cock had softened, Kishibe released the grip he had on you and pulled his dick out of your pussy, and finally, he stepped away from you.

Immediately you slumped down, exhausted, your front half still pressed against the door while you sat in the entryway, your pants still around your ankles and Kishibe's cum and your own release dripping down your thighs and onto the floor beneath you. You still had tears to shed, apparently, as the sight had you going back to sobbing. Your throat hurt and your nose was stuffy, but all you could think about was how you wished you hadn't made the choice to help Kishibe earlier.

If only you had decided to go with your own selfish instincts, you wouldn't be here right now. By now you probably would've been asleep, safe and sound in your own bed in your own apartment, and the only danger you would be facing would be the possibility of your next door neighbor's children running wild again and slamming doors so hard that the walls would shake.

Being reminded of your day off that you had planned out had you crying harder as you realized you couldn't ever go back to days like that.

God how you wished you could redo your actions from tonight.

You were reminded of Kishibe's presence when you felt his hand run down your back, his knuckles grazing you lightly and with a touch so soft that it felt out of place when you thought of what you had just experienced at his hands.

He wasn't trying to comfort you, was he?

With robotic movements, you turned your head once again so you could see him, see the face of the man who had hurt you so horribly. Unsurprisingly, there was no real emotion to be gleaned from his expression as it was as blank as it always was. Though when you looked at his eyes, you found that there was a hint of something there. Something more intense and obsessive than you had ever witnessed from anyone, much less Kishibe.

“You did good,” he told you.

“Fuck you,” you weakly hissed in response.

“Mm, not right now. Maybe in the morning.”

He moved his hand to your upper arm, squeezing you in what seemed to be an encouraging manner as he said “it's late now. We should get some rest.”

“Can you walk, or should I carry you?” Kishibe then asked.

You didn't respond. Instead you shrugged off his hand and turned your head to face the door, not wanting to look at him any longer.

“Alright then.”

Within a moment, you were scooped up off of the floor and into his arms with surprising ease, and while you were feeling disoriented from the way you were moved about like that, Kishibe had turned and walked away from the door with you held firmly against his chest.

It shouldn't have been too much of a shock that it was this easy for him to pick you up, and yet…..

“You could have just forcibly taken me if you wanted,” you mumbled.

“I could have,” he said.

The way he so readily agreed with you turned your emotions to anger once again.

“So why bother with all that bullshit?” you snapped.

“Because I thought the way you doted on me was nice,” Kishibe said.

“You're a scumbag.”

“Hm.”

Kishibe neither agreed nor disagreed with you, as he stepped into the bedroom with you, taking care to make sure your feet didn't hit the door frame as he carried you in. Once the two of you were fully inside, he stopped and then looked at you.

Having his gaze fully on you once again had that bit of anger die out, as suddenly you felt more vulnerable than you'd ever felt in your life before this point. Your shirt was torn and the majority your legs were still bare as he hadn't bothered to readjust your pants before he'd grabbed you, so you were in his arms with your pants around your ankles.

Not just humiliating, but awkward as well, especially when you moved to cover yourself back up as the way he stared at you had those intense feelings of shame and helplessness running through you once again. Though you knew it wouldn't accomplish much of anything, and especially not when you were at the mercy of Kishibe's whims.

“Did I say you could cover up?”

The sound of his voice made you freeze, and then when you processed his words, you began to shake in his grip. While it seemed that you were out of tears to shed, you were still able to sniffle softly in despair.

That got him to react, and Kishibe leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead before he buried his face into your hair again.

“It'll be hard for now, but it will get better,” he told you.

You only shook harder in his grip.

With a hum against your hair, he spoke again.

“You should be happy. In this world where people's priorities are on themselves and themselves alone, you have someone who's willing to do anything to look out for you.”

And with that, Kishibe used his foot to close the bedroom door firmly behind the both of you.

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: The Formula for Life [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: The Formula for Life [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito is your creator, and you ought to listen to his rules. But something inside you wants more.

For Horrorfest request: I got two different requests for Mahito + creating a Frankenstein-monster style of reader, so this is for those!

Word count: 5400ish

notes: yandere, very dubious consent, power dynamic abuse, non-graphic descriptions of sex; violence and death (not against reader); Mahito in general is a warning

You are perfectly imperfect. 

Mahito is not entirely sure where he heard the phrase before –a women’s magazine, maybe, or some 1960s British film with upbeat, witty dialogue and blonde starlet at the helm–but as he stares down at your prone, sleeping body, he decides that it’s a phrase which suits you well.

You are a perfectly imperfect human, naked as the day he made you. Something in him puffs up at the thought, a hot sensation that makes his chest tingle. Yes, he made you, didn’t he? He is your… creator. Or as close to a creator as you will ever get in this world or the next, because whatever came before no longer matters. 

There is no before-you. There is only the you-of-now, resting with your eyes closed and your mouth slack and ah, here, now, finally–

You wake up.

Limbs jerk and your neck twitches and he wonders how much it hurts–the stitches criss-crossing your body like his own, keeping the various parts of you held together. The skin and muscle and sinew, bold black stitches sewn across your hands and arms and legs and chest and every single part of you. There is even, and he finds it a delightful detail, a stitch across one of your ears. It’s cute. 

Like you, he thinks. Cute.

Cute as you sit up on his makeshift operating table, testing out your newfound limbs. Cute as your eyes squint, as your pupils adjust to the dim lighting, as your gaze steadies on the only other living thing in the near vicinity–him.

Cute as you try to say your first words. 

“Ah…” You say, or try to say, and he wonders just how much of speech your soul remembers, and whether or not that connection will extend to the way your body works. No matter. He’ll just teach you, if necessary. 

He grins, and puts his fingers on either side of your lips, squishing them together.

“Hel-lo,” he says, slow, moving your mouth with the words. “Can you say that? Hel-lo?”

You blink at him, awareness and confusion seeping into your expression. The stitches that cross your face, going from the corner of your scalp across the top of your nose and landing around the curve of your neck, scrunch in with the effort.

Your mouth opens, and closes; he can hear the spittle in your mouth working, can see the way your cheeks move, the pink of your tongue testing out its boundaries.

And then–

Then, you lean forward, and he grins, eager to hear you try; but ah, you surprise him. Cute, ugly thing that you are. Your hand extends, wobbling, and your fingers loosely grip his own lips like they’ve never held anything before. 

“Hel-lo,” you mimic, slow, warbled, the word coming out almost foreign. “Hel-lo?”

He grins, and can’t help the croon of pure, unadulterated delight that follows. 

–

He has a lot to teach you. You, dear pet, are a lot of work. Not that he minds. Not that he views it as a chore. No, teaching you is some grand, extended hobby. More fun than reading, more fun than experimenting, even, because isn’t that what you are? A complex experiment.

A beautifully awfully blank creature that belongs to him: that’s what you are, and that’s the first thing he teaches you. That you are his, wholly, and everything you should know and do will come from him.

You accept it so easily that he laughs until he cries, and then laughs some more, when you reach up to touch his tears and ask him what they are, and why they come from his eyes, and why your own eyes don’t leak like that.

“Don’t worry,” he told you, catching his breath, adoring the way your recycled callused fingers felt on his cheeks. “You’ll get some of your own eventually.”

And you did, of course. At the most stupid time, which was frustrating, but something he could work with.

The first time you cried was the first time he brought a human home to experiment on. Some salaryman he’d fetched on his late night walk home, exhausted, barely able to hold up his briefcase.  Mahito had set you on the ground (you never complained about it being hard, and maybe soon he would give you something soft to sit on, sweet thing that you are) and told you to watch, excited to see how you’d react. Would you be confused? Scared? Or simply feel nothing, and watch blankly as the man died?

But ah, how disappointing. You’d cried, of all things. Your hands had flown to your cheeks, feeling the wetness; your skin had gone all splotchy–”My head hurts, I feel warm,” you’d told him–and your lips curled into a nasty frown.

“Why are my eyes leaking?” You asked, and Mahito had to think about it. Because he wasn’t quite sure. He decided to root around in your soul for the answer, and it was so strikingly simple that he imagined slapping himself for it. You felt empathy for the man. You thought he was like you. And if you were being hurt, well, you’d feel downright awful, too. 

Silly thing. So that was the next thing he taught you: that the people he brought down into the sewer were simply experiments. Not living beings, not like you, and certainly not like himself. Nothing for you to worry about at all.

And you simple, sweet thing, what do you do after he tells you this? You listen. You’re so good for him that when he pats you on the head and says, ah, silly goose, this is not a person, it doesn’t matter if it gets hurt, if it dies, if it screams until its mouth bleeds…. You believe him.

And now, you simply watch–or don’t, if he says it’s okay to go about your simple day–as he goes about torturing countless living souls. Stretching, twisting, bending, hurting. None of it makes a difference, because Mahito told you it didn’t. The most you react is sometimes covering your ears–”Why does sound hurt, sometimes?”--and curling up on the nest of blankets he’s seen fit to give you.

You’re a bit like clay, he muses. To be molded and shaped in just the right way. And if something doesn’t work out, well, he can simply squish you in and start over. 

There’s something freeing, something altogether delightful, in the fact that you learn what he teaches you, you know what he gives you. 

He does not teach the concept of freedom–why should he?--or the outside world. 

There shouldn’t be an outside world for a creature like you, only the world he creates for you; this damp, dim world where he is the only thing you need to care about.

-

You do come with some surprises. Some things, it seems, came along with your soul.

“I know what this means!” You blurt out, beaming, looking to him for approval as you grip the well-worn cover of one of his stolen books. You read the title slowly, carefully, but there’s that flicker of recognition in the way your mouth sounds the words, understands the connection between the printed text and its meaning. 

You know something he hasn’t taught you. 

He frowns–and you frown just as easily, setting the book down like it burned your precious fingers. Your eyes get wide and your mouth gets slack and you stammer out an apology, even if you don’t know why.

It is one of your most endearing qualities, this readiness to understand that what he thinks is bad is bad, and the uneasiness in him flickers away, just a bit. You’re still his clay, his creature, his pet. 

He reaches out and runs his fingers into your hair, gripping your scalp hard until you grunt. 

“Well,” he says, when you look up at him with those confused doe eyes. “I suppose you could read my notes back to me, when I do my work.”

If you had a tail, it would be wagging.

And oh, he almost drools on you, from the way your expression shifts from that confused worry to unadulterated delight despite the pain that must be radiating through your scalp–

It feels good, sometimes, to make you look this way. It’s a strange notion, one he doesn’t want to think too hard about. It’s only natural that you should feel pleasure when he is pleased with you, but why should he feel the same? 

It’s a conundrum. Something to write about in his notes–the private ones you’ll never see, of course. The notes about you, and himself, plans and plots, theories and guesses. 

It wouldn’t do, really it wouldn’t, if you saw his scribbles about making sure you didn’t learn something that annoyed him. A something that would make you want to leave, or know other people, or comprehend that you were your own individual being.

Ignorance is bliss, or so he’s read, and he intends to keep you that way. 

–

Oh, oh, oh–your breath comes out in wispy pitter-patters that almost match the rapid beating of your heart. 

This… This is not allowed. It is not allowed because Mahito, your master, your creator, said so. And what your master tells you, you obey, because that is how the world works. He’s told you so many times, and it makes perfect sense.

He knows what’s best, because he’s smarter, and stronger, and you’re just a simple person. You’re supposed to make him happy, and would it make him happy, to break this rule? No, is what he would say.

And yet–you wonder. He likes it when you learn, when he teaches and you actually get it and can repeat it for him on demand. 

Like when you learned to walk without falling down, or when he taught you to stay still while he squeezed and touched and tickled your various body parts to see if they still worked. That was difficult, and it took many tries, but when you finally did it right, he praised you. Even if it made your stomach flutter in strange ways, and you were sometimes sore afterwards.

Would doing this make him praise you? Or would it make him angry?

Your fingers ghost over the covers, some of them all cracked and worn, others looking fresh and shiny. Books. His books. They’re all over the world, in stacks and stacks. On his hammock, on the floor, on the stacked table he said was a “book shelf.”

He said you weren’t allowed to touch any of his books or papers. Only what he gave you, when he gave you, and sometimes he even pointed to a line and said don’t you read past that, little pet, and you didn’t.

But he wants you to learn, doesn’t he? And you can learn from these books. Maybe you’ll learn something that makes you better, helps you avoid those stumbles that sometimes make him frown. Like when you first remembered how to read, or the time you tried to talk to one of his experiments.

Oh, you didn’t mean anything by it! You were just–bored. And while Mahito hadn’t been as sore once you told him why you tried to talk to it, he’d still punished you (rightfully so, you had been bad) and told you never to do it again. Unless he said so. 

So–so yes. He said not to read these books. But. If reading these books helps you be better, and being better means you’ll make your master mad less often, then reading these books is the right thing to do.

You just won’t tell him, and he won’t have any reason to be mad about it.

It’s so simple, you can’t believe you hadn’t thought of it before. Well–you can believe that. You aren’t very smart, or so your master says, and he knows everything. 

This will help then, won’t it? He knows what’s in these books, but now you will, too. 

With a lurching feeling in your stomach, you pick up the first book, a hard one with a shiny glossy cover that says HUMAN BIOLOGY, and flip to the first page.

–

You read about lots of things, and every one of them makes you wonder. 

The biology books make you wonder why your body looks like this, but all of the pictures of people (inside and out) look like that. You had never wondered before; you looked like your creator, and that seemed normal enough. But… none of these other people were all mismatched and jumbled. None of these other people had scars everywhere, patched together by black stitches that sometimes itched. 

The romance books are nice, even if they make you feel a bit funny. Your master touches you like the people in these books touch each other, but it’s not quite the same. He never says the same words, “I love you,” or asking, “Do you want me?” before he touches. You’re not sure exactly what love is just yet, but you’re sure one of these books will explain it properly.

One thing you learn is that the world is not actually the world. The world, you thought–you were taught–was just… here. With Mahito. In these walls, within the damp stone. But there is a whole entire world out there with things you’ve never seen before. 

Things you’ve never seen or done. Things that make you wonder why you live one way, and the people in the books another. People seem to live in houses, but this place does not match the descriptions in the book at all. People get married–you’re not sure what it means, really, except they are together, so maybe you and Mahito are married, after all? He does kiss you, and more besides. 

People have children, and these seem to be tiny people that grow up. But you don’t have any children that walk down a staircase–you have seen these in photos, and patch them into your images of houses–in the morning and complain about being tired. You don’t have a yard with a garden to tend to; you wouldn’t mind it, actually, from the pictures of flowers you’ve seen. They could be pretty.

You wonder how they smell. The books tell you most of them smell quite nice. 

It is this sort of wondering that gives you the strongest itch to tell your master that you’ve been reading, so that you can ask him to take you outside. Sometimes you even mouth the word to yourself, when you’re alone. “Outside.” It feels wonderful on your tongue, all tingly. But then your stomach hurts and you think he would be mad about the reading, so you don’t ask at all.

Not everything you read makes your stomach curl. You read about lots of things, things that make you smile, make you laugh. Things that make you forget the reason you started reading was to make Mahito proud of you, to learn how to be better. Things that have nothing to do with being better at all.

Even you realize that learning about the world outside isn’t going to help you in here. But the world outside sounds so… so… big. Big and full of things to see and do and experience. Full of people, trees, buildings and even animals. 

Oh, you really do love the idea of animals. One of your favorite books is a well-worn guide book to birds. Birds. What a wonderful thing they must be, all pretty colors, flying around in the sky; in the outside. 

What would it be like to fly? To have feathers with so many different colors? To make what the book calls “chirps” and “calls”? You’ve tried to imagine what they must sound like, but it’s hard, with no frame of reference.

And you can’t exactly ask your master to mimic them, either.

Sometimes, in your dreams, you turn into a bird. Feathers sprouting from your stitches and taking you up in the air. Birds, the books say, use their chest and supracoracoideus muscles to fly, flapping their wings in just the right way. You don’t think you have supracoracoideus muscles, except in your dreams, and you’re too afraid to ask. 

You’re glad Mahito hasn’t asked you about your dreams in a while. 

–

You are being so good today. So good, in fact, that Mahito has told you to sit quietly on your nest while he works on his latest experiment. You didn’t even have to read him his notes–you didn’t mind, and told him so, but he’d simply patted your head and said it wasn’t necessary today. 

So instead, you watched quietly, legs pulled up to your chest. It was harder to watch, ever since you started reading, because sometimes–

Sometimes you wondered if it was true, that the experiments were not people after all. They certainly look like the people in your master’s books. They talk like the people, sometimes, when they’re not screaming. 

But if your master says they aren’t people, well, he must be right. It does get a little frustrating when they beg you for help, because most of them can’t even see your master at all. That makes you feel a little sorry for them, sometimes, if they haven’t been screaming too loudly. If they could see your master, they might know he’s not doing anything wrong when he hurts them. 

He’s just learning.

Today, the experiment seems to be going well. Your master is smiling, humming, writing down his notes. You hope you’ll get to read these ones, eventually, but he doesn’t always let you. 

(He’s even got a private book, you’ve seen him scribbling in it sometimes. It is, however, the one thing you dare never to read. Not even to learn.)

And then the experiment does the silliest thing! When your master touches him, elongating his arms into a strange shape, he tries to run. Silly experiments, they never get far; but this one tries. He screams–ouch–and begins to run, flapping his arms like they’re on fire. No, flapping them like he’s a–

“Oh,” you say, leaning forward, a delighted smile on your face. “Like a bird!”

The man does not last long. Whatever your master did takes full effect, and he’s misshappen, no legs, a wiggling blob. Not like a bird at all, anymore, but it was nice while it lasted.

Nothing happens, for a moment. And in that moment you realize that something is wrong. It’s suddenly quiet, suddenly heavy.

Mahito, your master, your creator, slowly turns his head towards you with an expression you’ve never seen before. His pupils are too small, his mouth open in something like surprise. “A bird?”

“Yes,” you say, slowly, not knowing yet, not catching on. “It’s–his arms, you see? The way they moved.” You sit up on your knees and mimic the way you’ve seen birds flying in still photographs, the way you sometimes try to fly in your dreams. “When birds fly, they use…” But you stop, because Mahito is frowning. And when Mahito is frowning, you are doing something wrong.

But what, and when, and…

“How would you know what a bird is, pet?”

Oh, no.

The realization makes your guts clench so hard that you almost think you wet yourself, and you throw your hands over your stomach at the strange new sensation. An awful stomach-churning feeling. 

You don’t quite know what it is, but a memory from a book you read comes wafting back; a book about a woman who lives alone and a man tries to break into her house and kill her. She’s scared. Is that what this is? Are you scared? 

There’s no time to really wonder about this, because Mahito stalks over and grabs you by the hair, yanking you up until you’re on your feet, reflexive tears in your eyes. 

You don’t struggle, because he has explained to you that when you’re bad, he’s meant to treat you like this. And sometimes when you’re good, too. You’ve never figured out if there is a difference. 

“You’ve been reading my books.” Not a question, and you don’t answer. “What else have you been reading about?”

“Nothing,” you say, your voice hoarse. You scrunch your eyebrows together: that wasn’t what you should have said. You have read about lots of things. He asked, and you should have told him. That’s the rule he gave you. Simple and easy.

“I’ve read about lots of things,” you correct, confusion spilling from your mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say nothing. I don’t know why I did.”

His eyes widen, and you don’t know what he’s thinking, but there’s that small-pupiled look of surprise again. “You lied,” he says.

Something in you wants to struggle against the tight grip on your hair. It hurts. You don’t like it, when it hurts, that something says. Even though your master says it’s okay for things to hurt. Which is right, your master, or that something-inside-you that has only gotten louder in the last few weeks. 

“I didn’t,” you say, some instinct pulled from deep inside you to deny, deny, deny. Then you pause. “What is a lie?” 

His expression never loses its own sense of almost horrified wonder, even as his other hand comes to caress your face, catching against your stitches. 

“When something isn’t true. And it’s not true, is it, that you haven’t read about anything else?”

“Yes–no.” Your little head is confused, and the sting in your scalp doesn’t help. “I did read other things. Lots of things.” You swallow hard. “I just wanted to know… to know…” 

But how do you explain it, this desire to know? The desire to know that went beyond pleasing him, making yourself better for him?

“Know what?” He murmurs, almost not a question, releasing your hair. You take the opportunity to put your hands in your lap, holding them tightly together, as all of the knowing you’ve been doing in the past few weeks catches up with you.

The questions come like bubbles in the water, one after another, having been crammed inside your head for far too long without a proper outlet.

“Why don’t I ever talk to other people? Why do I look like this, when they don’t? Why don’t we go outside? I want to see, I want to know–” Your fingers hurt from how hard you wring your hands together. “About the sky and the animals and the birds and what music is and how a train sounds and how many wheels do they have, and there’s more, there’s more, I just can’t say it all–”

You can see his expression shifting, but you’re so steeped in your own release of the knowing that you don’t heed it as a warning. Instead, you ask something that has been bothering you a bit. A lot, if you were honest, and you were supposed to be honest, weren’t you?

“What are we?”

His gaze narrows as he looks down at you, and you don’t want him to look at you like that. Not with the question you want to ask. 

“What are we?” He repeats, a hint of something in it that makes you feel ashamed. A joke–no, that’s not the proper word. Mockery, you think. Mimicry. Birds can do that, but, you’re not wanting to stay on the topic of birds just now.

“Are we…” Your brain fumbles for the word, flipping through the figurative pages you’ve read and read and read. “Married?” Yes, that was it. Many of the people in the story books you read had marriages. And other things, too, that you don’t have, and he hasn’t talked about giving you. 

“Do you love me?” You say, voice rising in pitch. “What is love, exactly? And why don’t we live in a house, in a neighborhood, with a street and a fence? Why don’t we have children? Why don’t I have a job or a dog or parents or ride an airplane–” 

He shoves a palm over your mouth and you do finally heed the warning: Stop. Talking.

Your breath comes out your nose against the top of his palm, and your stomach hurts, and all of this feels so awful that it’s a relief when he speaks, even if he’s not happy with you.

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow and he frowns and his mouth twitches before he smiles, but it’s not a smile that makes you feel better. It almost looks–like a lie, you think, the connections falling into place. He’s smiling, but he’s not happy, and that makes it a lie.

“Why do humans always want more,” he asks lowly, and you almost try to answer before he presses harder against your mouth, making your teeth ache. 

“Even broken ones, remade ones,” he continues, “always seek out more.”

If his hand wasn’t on your mouth, you would ask what he meant. You try to think about an answer, and maybe when he pulls his hand away, he’ll be happy that you came up with one. But it’s hard to get your mind around the question.

It’s too slippery, too vague. Are you the broken one? If so, he should fix you. And what was wrong with seeking out more? Isn’t that why he taught you things? Maybe you learned the wrong things from the books; but he should have read them to you, and corrected you, if he was worried about that.

It’s all too much, too confusing, and before you can stop them, tears are leaking from your eyes. Hot ones that make your eyes scrunch and you cry openly against his hand, wanting the confusion to stop, wanting the ache in your chest to go away.

Instinctively, your hands reach for his arm, holding him like you sometimes hold your blankets.

His eyebrows raise again, and there’s a flash of surprise before he smiles. This time, it doesn’t look like a lie.

“You poor thing,” he says, crouching down and bringing you to your knees with him. His hand leaves your palm and your little sobs come out openly, almost barking into the air. “You’re so confused, aren’t you?”

You nod, and it’s true, and you resolve to never lie again. Lying hurts. 

“I-I don’t know what I did wrong or why I did it wrong and you’re mad,” you tell him, open, honest, like you should be. The words come out fast and stumbled.  “I thought I could read books to be better but now I know about birds and I don’t know what they sound like or why I don’t have things and why I’m so… so…”

The word doesn’t come and that only makes you cry harder. 

He coos, and pulls you against his chest. It’s familiar, this soothing, and it makes you feel warm even as those confusing thoughts stay stuck to your brain.

“Want to know a secret about the two of us, pet?” He asks, speaking against your hair. “A secret about you?” Every syllable is soaked in the promise of knowledge.

“No,” you breathe out, and it’s that buried-deep-down instinct again, pushing the word through your lips for you. You’re glad, though, because you realize this wasn’t a lie at all. You don’t want to know a secret. If the books you’ve read are to be believed (and are they?) then secrets always lead to trouble.

You don’t want any more trouble. Not now. 

He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Really? I thought you wanted to know everything.” A touch of amusement in his face, and you cling to it like a lifeline. You remember this side of your master; the side that smiles and pats your head. It’s much better than the side that smiles when he’s not happy at all. 

Your arms latch around him, snuggling as close as you can get, your face pressed against his chest. “Can we go to bed?” Your words are muffled against him, but you’re sure he understands. “I’m so confused.” And tired, and worried, and scared. All these awful feelings swirling around in your guts, making you want to be sick. 

Mahito pulls away from you, and there’s a brief snatch of fear before he begins to wipe at your tears with his fingers. He wipes too harshly, and his nails catch on the lid of your eye, making it sting. You don’t pull away. You remind yourself, if he thinks this is how he ought to stop your crying, it’s the best option.

Is it really? says that deep-deep-deep-down voice, and you tell it to be quiet, you’re tired, you aren’t thinking right, and it should stay buried with whatever secret your master knows. 

“Poor pet,” he whispers, cooing. “It’s all too much, isn’t it?” You nod, chin wobbling. His hands go from your cheeks to your head again, petting you on both sides, snarling in your hair. “I could make it go away, if you want.” Sticky words that you want to reach for.

His hands smooth all around your head now, and it’s almost like he’s trying to feel something inside. Like your brain, like your thoughts, like everything that makes you tick. 

Your eyes get wide and all you know is that when your master says something, it’s true. 

Is it really? repeats that voice.

“You could?” is what you say, because it’s simpler that way. Simpler to remember the way things were before the world had birds, when what he said was exactly so. 

“If you’ll be agreeable to it,” he tells you. 

His hands trail from your head down your shoulders, your neck, your chest, down and down and down, tracing each stitch on your body. And something in you–that deep-deep-deep-down part of you–says this is wrong. He shouldn’t touch you, you should be screaming, clawing at him, getting out of here. 

But you push that something down, with the birds and the children and the stories of courtship, with the way your hands trembled as they flipped each page, with the way you felt proud of yourself for finishing each book. 

Those things were nice, until they were not so nice; until they upset the very creator of your being, and made you too confused and hurt to think about them. What good was knowing about the more when the more made him upset? 

It feels better, not to think too much. Not to know so much. And if he can fix you–if he’s willing to fix you ,then it’s what you want, too. You think. Maybe. Yes? 

“Of course I will,” you stay, trying on a smile.

You can’t tell, even as his hands go from touches to gropes, if it’s a lie or not. 

–

You’re finally sleeping now, and he doesn’t mind sighing, sprawling out on the floor and watching with his chin propped into his elbow.

What an awful human trait, this desire for more-out-there-in-the-world. What good is creating your own little creature if it always wants to find out its place in some grander scheme of things? The only world you should know is here, and him, and yet you had to get your grubby little hands on his books and read about ridiculous notions.

You probably didn’t even understand some of them, maybe most of them. That is fascinating, in its own right. He wonders what you would do, if you saw a pretty little robin hopping on the ground, about to get pounced on by some neighborhood cat.

Would your expression of delight turn to horror as the bird was mangled in the cat's jaws? Or would you not process it as horror at all, but simply an experience to learn about? Could he touch you to overlook it, as he has his experiments?

It’s tempting, sometimes, to see what you would do with more outside stimuli. But that temptation doesn’t go too far, because the whole point of your being was to shape you for himself. And that does not include this damned human desire to explore the inside and outside, forever expanding your knowledge of whos and whats and whens. 

Well. At least you didn’t put up a fight at the notion of being fixed. At least you seemed properly subdued, once he made it clear he wasn’t pleased. He’d brought you up well enough, after all. 

He’s not sure he can really pull it out of you. There are many ways to reshape the soul, and the soul he pulled into that cobbled-together body has certainly been–well, changed, by the experience. 

Could he change it further? Wipe out your memory of those books? Maybe he could reach further down, deep down into your soul, and yank out the offending desires like weeds from a garden.

Maybe so.

For his own pleasure, he’s willing to try again and again, until you are just right. 

He owes it to himself, after all, to never give up on his most thrilling experiment. 

[sister-lucifer]

“You’re Really Not Cut Out For This…”

A Toby x Gender Neutral Reader Drabble 

Content/Warnings: Porn with no plot, bottom/sub Reader, degradation, a bit of mean Toby, heavy discussion of Reader basically being a free use sex toy, no specified genitalia for Reader, Reader + Toby are both proxies

This is not fully proof read! Please let me know if you see any typos

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, USED COMMERCIALLY OR FED TO AN AI. IF YOU DO THIS I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND FUCKING KILL YOU.

“You know, y-you’re reeeaaaally not cut— c-cut out for this-ss-s…t-this ‘job,’ I mean.” 

The sudden admission would make you pause if had the lucidity to do so. You can’t do much of anything with the rabid way Toby’s pounding into you from behind, shoving his cock into you with the whole of his strength without so much as a single thought to your wellbeing. You barely manage to babble out something that sounds like a question. You can feel him smiling despite the forced wrenching of his face. 

“I-I’m just saying,” he continues, punctuating that last word with a particularly acute thrust that makes you squeal, “You d-don’t—shhh!—don’t seem like y-you really enjoy this-ss-s…line of-fff-f work…hell, you’re not good at i-it— it either, if we’re being hones-ss-st-t.” 

There’s no ignoring the cheeky giggle in his voice as he insults you to your face. He leans over you a bit, putting more of his weight on you and practically trapping you beneath him. He keeps talking before you even get a chance to protest. 

“You’re definitely n-not my equal,” he growls with a chuckle, as if highly amused by the idea of your inferiority, “You’ve hardly su— s-succeeded at any mission th-the ‘Boss’ has given you— y-you…but you are so good at this—“ 

He laughs at the way you choke on nothing when he angles his hips upwards just right, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you that makes you see stars. You can feel his body shudder on top of you, a series of involuntary tongue clicks and whistles interrupting him for a moment before his endless chatter continues on. 

“You’re sooo— s-so fucking good at taking my cock…” 

He can’t contain the flood of sick giggles that burst from his throat before he can truly finish his thought. 

“…Tell you what I’m gonna do.” 

You shiver at how deathly serious his voice becomes suddenly. He’s speaking lowly into your ear, making sure you hear every syllable clear as day.  His stutter even pauses for that moment; he’s focused, suddenly, and a focused Toby is rare, but horrific for anyone who happens to be in his line of sight. 

“I’m gonna talk to the ‘Boss’…y-yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I-I’ll tell— t-tell him myself, ‘I don’t t-think the n-new— new— new one is cut out for this.’”

He grabs at your arms, pinning them to the mattress as he uses his body to hold you down. He’s starting to lose his steady pace as his excitement builds, his fingers flexing and popping in ways they shouldn’t be able to as he grasps your wrists.

“And he’ll l-listen to me, you know? H-He’ll lis— l-listen-nn-n to me, I know he will, be— b-because— beep! beep!— because I’m his f-ff-favorite.”

The word ‘favorite’ echoes in your mind, making you dizzy and sick. As much as you and the others are convinced that creature can’t feel emotion at all, it does show favoritism. It doesn’t love Toby, it doesn’t even care about him; on some level, Toby has to know that, he’s smarter than he lets on, but… 

…He doesn’t care. 

All he knows is that he’s getting positive attention from something, and it’s going straight to his ego. The only saving grace is that he’s usually too juvenile and short sighted to use that power against his fellow proxies. 

Usually. 

Unless he can get something he really wants out of it. 

“I-I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him-mm-m you’d be better off as my toy.” 

You nearly choke as Toby rocks you forward with a particularly hard thrust. You can feel your legs trembling, nothing more than jello underneath you, barely holding you up. Toby sucks in a breath through his crooked teeth as he watches you put the pieces together in your mind, though you can do little to show it. 

“That’s right, that’s-ss-s right!” He repeats, sounding far too pleased with himself, “I’ll tell him you’d be b-better off-ff-f being used, just-t something I can use— u-use— use to unwind after I do all the hard work that y-you— you could never.” 

He breaks out into giggles again, wrapping an arm around your neck and stifling your air without warning. You grasp onto his sleeve, clawing at his arm, but you’re far too shaky and weak to pull it away. He forces you to look him in the eyes, not wanting even a scrap of your attention to not be on him. 

“That’s right, you h-hear that?” He manages to choke out between his laughter, “I’m gon-nn-a get you demoted to a fucking hole!” 

He pushes—throws, really—your head back into the mattress before even have the chance to argue. He shoves your face into the bed, hand tangled in your hair as you whimper pathetically, exactly how he likes. He runs his tongue over his lips as he looks down at you, completely helpless underneath him, and it sends a surge of sick pleasure through his body.

“Just enjoy it,” He hisses through gritted teeth, “Because when I-I get m-mm-my way, this is all you’ll ever do.”

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out. 

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated. 

[uvobreakmylegs]

Catch and Release

Long fic with over 9k words in which the reader is a bodyguard working for the Nostrades and is present at the events of Yorknew. Events in the Yorknew arc have also been altered

Warnings: kidnapping, threats of violence, degradation, kink talk, mentions of death, the reader makes some not very good choices

To say that it was nerve-wracking to be sitting in such close proximity of one of the Phantom Troupe would be a massive understatement. You, along with the other remaining bodyguards of the Nostrade family, had witnessed this man – the one Melody had heard being addressed as ‘Uvogin’ – slaughter an entire group of mafia bodyguards and four of the Shadow Beasts completely on his own.

And now that same man was sitting next to you in the backseat of the car, the only thing keeping him in place being Kurapika’s chains.

Luckily, though, his attention wasn’t on you.

Keep reading

[after-witch]

Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

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

word count: 3000+

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

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

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

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

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

Because that is exactly how Chrollo Lucilfer found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is to say, he kidnapped you. 

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

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

And that is where you are now… 

Well. More or less.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

But.

But.

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you settle for words.

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

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

Ah. The table. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is the plan, dearest.”

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

“What?” 

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

“Chrollo--what?” You ask again. 

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

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

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

“Wait--” 

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

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

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

“I’ve been patient.”

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

“I’ve been kind.”

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

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

Your mouth twitches as you 

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no, no, no!” 

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

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

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

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

And he waits.

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

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

“There, now. That’s better.”

You don’t want this.

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

But it doesn’t matter what you want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t wait any longer, my dear.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you meet his gaze, he keeps it there. 

“This will hurt, I imagine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m cruel?” Pain chokes your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what he whispers is nothing so human. 

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

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

He sighs against your skin. 

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

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

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

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

Oh, the tiles. 

One of the tiles on the ceiling is cracked. 

Someone should really fix it. 

[after-witch]

Best Regards [Hisoka x Reader]

Title: Best Regards [Hisoka x Reader]

Synopsis: You're tasked with looking for Hisoka on the Black Whale. You get more than you bargained for. Commissioned piece.

Word count: 3800ish

notes: violent noncon, sexual assault, violence against reader, descriptions of blood and injuries, victim blaming against reader

It was not in your nature to question Chrollo Lucilfer, and you weren’t about to do it now. Even when there was a small, hard, resilient pit in your stomach that wondered if this was the right move. Or if perhaps you should have said something earlier, before everyone separated. It’s not as if Chrollo was ever unreasonable, but everything was for the good of the Spider and if that meant acquiescing to his decision in this case, when he seemed so intent. 

He had asked you to allow him to keep your nen until Hisoka was found and dealt with, and you handed it over without a complaint. Of course you did. It was the first time he’d ever asked for your nen, and if you were willing to self-reflect a little deeper,  you might admit that it was at least a little flattering. 

You weren’t, you knew, the strongest (or even close to it) of the Spiders. You couldn’t mow down a group with a sweep of your arm or lift up an oncoming car and throw it into traffic. When it came to delegating who was leading the charge in a mission that required anything like that,  you were certainly not at the front.

You weren’t helpless. You could hold your own in certain types of combat, of course. Nobody in the Troupe was weak against the typical combatants you personally came across. Over-eager mafia guards with faith in their guns; greedy non-combatants eager to buy priceless forbidden trinkets… all could be dealt with using the knife in your pocket or a hard, horrible kick to their neck, cracking the bones like an egg. 

But if push came to shove with a nen user, well… there was a reason  you were not typically sent out alone. Your own nen was useful to the Troupe, but for reconnaissance only. Once you encountered a person, you could immediately identify them through their body heat signature through any surface.

All you had to do was activate your nen and begin to search, and spot the particular pulsating colors assigned to your target. From there, the rest of the Troupe could do what they needed. Which, admittedly, often involved the gruesome demise of said target--then or later, tied to a chair after all the information had been cut out of them. 

Maybe you weren’t the strongest fighter. But you were loyal to the death, and Chrollo knew that. It was an attribute that one must have, in order to be a proper spider. That’s what brought the lot of you to this godforsaken ship, after all, isn’t it? 

But now you were left without your nen, without that distinct advantage that gave you the upper hand when it came to finding your target. Chrollo would put it to good use. And he needed it more than you, because you certainly weren’t going to kill Hisoka, even if you managed to find him. 

If you did find him… well. You were stealthy.  You would slink away and find one of the others and set a beautiful chain reaction in motion, one that ended up with Hisoka exactly where he belonged. 

But first… to find him.

--

To call the Black Whale a “ship” was an understatement. It was not a ship. No, It was an entire country, teeming with life; with people, fights, loves, friends and so many dirty little secrets.

Hisoka was one of those dirty little secrets. He was somewhere on this ship, and come hell or high water, he would be found. By Chrollo. By the others. By you, perhaps. And he would be dealt with, as others had been in the past. 

The only problem was--how in the hell were you going to find him?

WIthout your nen, you were left to rely on your natural senses. They were heightened of course, but that didn’t necessarily make it an easy task. There were thousands of people on this tier alone… crowds and crowds, weaving in and out of public areas, arguing over this and that, laughing, yelling, calling to so-and-so over the noise. 

In theory, Hisoka should be easy to spot. He was tall. He was outrageous. He never failed to make a splash, appearance-wise. If he was walking in a crowd, it wouldn’t be impossible to spot him, if you were looking for him. Yet no matter what room you searched, how many faces you scanned, he wasn’t there.

You’d wondered, though, if he might have altered his looks before getting on the ship. Maybe he toned them down to avoid being too obvious. 

He had to know that the Troupe would follow him. He wasn’t stupid. He was many things, yes, but never stupid. 

You pass yet another common area--this one even dingier than the last, which seems to be the trend--that proves to be fruitless, filled with only groups of people in varying states. Some look tired or hungry or sick. Some are arguing. Some holding hands. Some yelling after one another to come-back-so-we-can-do-this-and-that. 

But no Hisoka. The same as the other rooms, the other corridors. Countless people, blurry faces that you wouldn’t remember in a few seconds, none of them the person that you were desperate to find. If only you could see his damn body signature. 

And really… but oh, the thought shouldn’t come to you, because Chrollo would not have brought any of you here (surely) were it not true. Yet here it comes anyway, slow and practical: Is Hisoka even on the ship? 

You glance around you, taking in the mundane faces once more. He could be here. He could be in hiding. He could be in disguise. 

Or he could be somewhere else entirely, and all of this was a trap meant to lure the Troupe onto the Black Whale. Or maybe he was--

“Found you~!” 

There’s no time to react to the deceptively jovial nature of Hisoka’s voice before your body whips backward and your stomach lurches hard, yanked by the power of nen-induced gravitational forces that pull you completely against his chest and refuse to let you move forward. 

But you’re not helpless, are you? No. Your hands move quickly, pulling out the knife in your pocket and preparing to jab straight into an artery. Chrollo might not be happy if Hisoka bled out here and now, but it’s better than letting him get away--alone or with you.

Hisoka is faster, and your knife is thrust out of your hand with a sticky sound. You can tell Hisoka is gripping the handle tightly when the point of the knife is pressed against your back. Not in subtle warning, but truly pressed, the point digging into your flesh with a flash of pain.  You can feel blood trickling down, wetting against your shirt, where it will surely stick and stain.

“You never were the strongest, hm?” His voice is right in your ear, his breath a mixture of some sweet concoctions. Gum and candy and mints. “Why did dear Chrollo send you out alone…” 

You feel your lips curl up in a sneer, for all the good it does you, but whatever insult your mind was going to conjure is lost when Hisoka lets off a soft little hum and begins to drag you--though the word is perhaps not quite correct, as you’re stuck to him with his damn Bungee Gum--away. All the while, the knife stays in the flesh of your back, burning every time he gives it a little twist. 

No one in this part of the ship pays you any attention after they see who’s dragging you. Eyes glance over you and quickly look away. Someone skitters off--maybe to find whatever passes for law enforcement, though they had precious little presence in this part of the Black Whale--but you don’t place faith in them.  You never placed faith in anyone but Chrollo and to a different extent, the other members of the Troupe.

Present company excluded, of course. 

Before Hisoka dips into one of the winding corridors past the common room,  you jerk your hand behind your back. Hisoka easily bats it away, keeping you from grabbing the knife--or so he thinks. You let the blood you’ve gathered from your wounded back drip down your fingers onto the floor. You leave another smear on a wall just before Hisoka turns. 

Blood, deep and red--your version of Hansel’s pitiful breadcrumbs. 

With any luck, someone from the Troupe will find it. 

--

The maze of the Black Whale has never been as irritating as it is now. Soon enough, Hisoka has taken you away from even the outskirts of the level, into what must be some little-used crew spaces. The room he seems to decide upon is sparse and dark, with metal walls and a few gas lamps giving the room a soft glow. There are no beds or furniture, only the lamps and a barred clock. Maybe it was meant to be a crew quarter before it was abandoned.

Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that once Hisoka has locked the door (where did he get a key? The question is tucked away for later, for Chrollo, for the others) he releases you from his hold and you stumble forward. Your back aches and the damn knife is still in his hand, twirled easily with his fingers. 

He doesn’t quite look like himself. Gone are the ostentatious clothing and styled hair. Instead, he’s wearing something simple, a dark shirt and trousers, and his hair hangs loose. He’s still Hisoka, there’s no doubt about that. The smile alone is enough to give him away, now that you’re up close. But it’s enough to make him blend in with the masses, when you aren’t sure who you are looking for. 

“Well?” He asks, splaying his arms out, holding the knife carelessly--like a toy. “Do you want to play? Or shall we wait for the others?” The light of the gas lamps makes his visage even more irritating to you. You want to shine a spotlight on him, show him for what he is. 

You take a fighting stance, and he only quirks his head at you before his smile grows wider. More indulgent. But there’s no judgment on your end for that, no need for a bruised ego or snapping words. You’re not a combative fighter, and you never were. You could hold your own sometimes but… against Hisoka? The thought isn’t even worth entertaining. 

But what else were you supposed to do? 

With your back bleeding and your nen (such as it was) gone, you launched yourself at Hisoka with just the faintest hope of lasting long enough for backup to arrive. 

How quickly it ends would be laughable, if you could find any of this funny. The knife he pilfered from you flies through the air, aimed at your chest--my heart, you think--and you manage to dodge just enough for the knife to slice your shoulder, cutting your shirt and taking off a layer of skin. It was thrown so hard that the blade slides right into the metal wall. 

You could whirl around and try to grab it. But it’s smarter to keep an eye on Hisoka, so you do.

And… so does he. His eyes roam up and down, and it makes your stomach begin to harden, your thoughts turning to things they normally didn’t in a situation like this. 

“Ohh,” Hisoka says, voice slow and sticky as his telltale trick. “Well, that’s a sight.” 

You don’t know what he means at first. But when the sting of your missing skin catches up with you, you glance down at your injured shoulder. The knife cut through the fabric of your shirt as well as your bra strap, both of which now hang limply down, exposing one bared breast. 

There’s only so fast your thoughts can go, trapped in a metal room with Hisoka, no clear way out, and a knife firmly embedded into the wall. Your eyes dart here and there, desperate for options. If you could get the knife out, you might be able to keep him occupied long enough for someone else to spot your blood, and if they did--

Hisoka sighs, interrupting your thoughts, and it’s almost like a croon which makes the hairs on your arm stand on end. Sensing danger was a skill you developed as a child, and it was no less fine-tuned as an adult. Something was going to happen. Something awful. 

“Well, well--why not?” He asks himself. There’s a smile on his face and his voice and it sets your nerves on edge. “We’ll be here for a while. Don’t want to get bored, do we?” 

You only have time to get out a gruff “What are you tal--” before Hisoka swoops in, extending his leg for a kick, and breaks your leg with his foot. It’s as simple as breaking a twig for him, and for you there is a bright flash in your vision just before you go down. The sound of the crunch is almost worse than the pain, but only for a moment, when you land hard and awkward and the pain bursting in your ribs sends stars into your eyes.

But you don’t cry out. You’re better than that, at least, it’s the one thing you hold onto in the moment as adrenaline and pain compete for attention in your racing mind.

Something else elbows in, as well, almost literally--Hisoka, pouncing down on you, tall and looming. His wrists grab your arms and pin them down to the ground. The carpetless floor is cold but you can feel sweat--or perhaps it’s the blood from your back--underneath.

“Should I break these too?” Hisoka muses, not quite addressing you. He’s smiling softly, almost serenely. It makes you hate him more. “I do so want to hear all your pretty noises.”

Hot breath pushes in and out through your nose and you grit your teeth.

“Fuck you,” you say, before spitting right in his satisfied, smiling, smug face. 

But the bastard doesn’t change his expression at all. The thin dab of spit sits on his cheek and he just beams down at you, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

“Well, it was your idea.”

You see his hand curl in a fist just before he punches his wrist out, short and swift, and breaks your nose. The sound of the crunch is registered first, before a heavy, sharp pain--the pain of splitting bone fragments--spreads across your face. Unbidden tears stream down your eyes, and you feel and taste the blood that pours from your nose rather than smell it. 

“You know,” Hisoka says, leaning close, his breath hot on your bleeding face, “on some women, this might make them look less pretty. But on you?” He sticks out his tongue and laps at the spot underneath your nose, teasing your upper lips. “It’s darling. Really.”

“Fuck you,” you repeat, a hint of bubble in your tone from the blood that makes its way into your mouth. You spit, managing to dribble some of it out. It oozes down your chin with your drool and tears.

Hisoka reaches out and tucks a sweaty piece of hair behind your ear.

“Eager, aren’t we?” 

Somehow, it didn’t register before, what Hisoka meant. What Hisoka was planning. 

You aren’t stupid. You’ve seen him act vulgar before; seen him groan and wet his lips in battle, flirting, cooing, sometimes even sporting an erection visible through his pants.

Speaking of--you glance down and see that “sometimes” has occurred now. And it’s then that things seem to click into place in your frazzled mind, pushing through the pain in your back and your leg and your face. 

He’s going to…

The word doesn’t come, because Hisoka busies himself by tearing off the rest of your shirt, the bra flying to the wall with it. You have the presence of mind to strike out when his fingers dance along the waistband of your pants, but it does you no good. He grips your fingers firmly--they might be fractured, but there’s a rush of humiliating adrenaline that keeps you from focusing on it--and peels off your pants and underwear in a surprisingly swift motion. At least, you think dimly, he didn’t rip them. 

There’s a slow thought process that begins to weave its way into your brain. What should you do, now? It wasn’t something that happened, wasn’t something even on the radar, of previous assignments and missions and heists. People who hated the Troupe wanted all of you dead. No one had--to your knowledge--tried to do something like this before. No one had been strong or smart enough to even get this close to you, much less the members who were physically stronger. 

But this was Hisoka, and a completely different scenario. One that you found yourself unprepared for, physically and otherwise. Do you fight? You won’t win. Do you seethe and tell him exactly what you think of him? He might get annoyed and kill you, and then you’d be useless to everyone. 

At least if you live, they’ll know Hisoka is on the ship. You can still help. You can still--

There’s a condescending gentle pat to your cheek--then another, and another. It doesn’t hurt directly but it jostles your face, causing fresh, sharp pain to shoot up your nose. 

“Are you still there? Don’t pass out on me now… you should be able to take a few broken bones.”  

You feel your gaze harden and it only makes him laugh. He traces a shape--a heart, the fucker--on your cheek with his finger before taking both of your wrists and pinning them next to your head on the floor. 

When you glance down again, you realize he’s pulled down his trousers, which must be discarded somewhere in the room. You can see his naked, erect cock and there’s a strange realization that comes over you.

He’s going to fuck you. Here, in this isolated room, underneath the ocean. He might kill you after. Or during, who knows. It’s a fact that this will happen and that these are possibilities. The logical part of your brain holds onto this fact, as if it might make it easier. 

“Ready?” He smiles down at you.

You’re not ready, and he knows this, and that’s what makes it fun for him. 

He pushes inside with a single hard thrust, and you feel a burning sear on your insides as he presses his cock fully inside you with no attempt to ease himself (or you) into things. 

“Mmm,” he groans, pulling out just enough to thrust back in again. “Tighter than I thought. The boss hasn’t had you?” 

There’s a blossoming pain in your chest. Broken ribs or humiliation or some terrible mixture of both. 

You grit your teeth and you don’t say exactly what you want to say, because it might make him angry enough to kill you, but you can’t let things slide entirely.

At least nothing bad. Because you can feel his cock twitch inside you and it makes bile rise in your throat, hot and stinging. 

“Don’t--” Your breath hitches when he thrusts inside you harder than before, you’re sure you must be bleeding between your legs now. But you force yourself to continue.

“Don’t talk about him… you… you traitor.” You wish the word had some weight, but you can tell it means nothing to Hisoka. 

Hisoka runs his fingers through your hair. There’s something sticky on his fingers--your blood?--that makes you wince. The deceptive gentleness only lasts a moment before he backhands you, catching your broken nose on his fingers. Tears fall from your eyes against your will, and you feel fresh blood trickle out of your nose. 

“So mouthy! I love it!” 

His cock twitches again and you feel him sigh at the sensations it must give him, to be forcing himself on you, thrusting himself in and out of your abused sex.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Long enough for the searing pain to turn into burning ache, for the pain between your legs to blur together with the pain everywhere else. 

But eventually he must be reaching his limit, because he begins to speed up his thrusts, pressing the fingers on your wrist down enough to hurt. 

“Tell Chrollo,” he says, a hint of an uncontrolled, breathy pant in his name finally creeping in at the direct use of Chrollo’s name, “that this is his fault.” 

HIsoka’s fingers tighten on one of your wrists as he increases his force and his speed, and you feel and hear the crunch, the sharp pain joining the ache of your battered body. 

“He sent you alone,” he continues, thrusting harder with every word. “He took your nen, semi-useless as it is.” 

There’s no grand finale to his orgasm, only the feel of his muscles tensing above you, a single final push as he emptied himself inside you. And then Hisoka himself, leaning in to whisper in your ear, voice dripping with deceitful honey. 

“He should have known better than to send a weak thing like you to look for me. He could have at least let you keep your nen… then you might have seen me coming, no?”

A chaste kiss is pressed to your cheek. You feel the stickiness of clear lip gloss left behind. Ah, you think, a dull, slow, stupid thought. Then he didn’t give up his vanity entirely on the ship. 

You don’t move from your spot on the ground. You’re not sure you want to try, just yet. You hear Hisoka’s footsteps receding, hear the whining of the metal door opening and the clang of it shutting behind him. 

For a while, you hear nothing at all. Nothing except your ragged breath. 

And then your grunts and irritatingly soft whimpers as you slowly, agonizingly sit up. You don’t want to be found like this. Weak and bleeding and…

Your fingers fish around on the floor until you find your torn shirt, your underwear, your pants.  It takes you a long time to get redressed. Your shirt doesn’t even cover you fully, and you fumble with your aching fingers and likely broken wrist to tie it off, giving you an ounce of modesty.

Every part of you aches. Some parts of you are broken. There’s a horrible soreness between your legs, and you know without checking that it’s not just Hisoka’s seed that’s leaking out of you but blood. 

But you manage it. Carefully. Painfully. 

Sometime later, the door opens again, a metallic whine.

His footsteps to you are slow, careful. You dimly register him kneeling in front of you and saying your name. You feel his eyes looking you over, and it’s a different feeling than Hisoka staring at your exposed, broken, bleeding body. But it’s just as open, and you only just resist the urge to curl up on yourself and hide what little that you can.

But it’s not Hisoka, come to brag or finish you off. It’s Chrollo, standing alone, the lights of the hallway obscuring everything but his silhouette, which wavers despite the fact that he’s standing in place. Your vision is spotty, dizzying--from the blood loss or the pain or the stress or all of it at once. 

It would just aggravate your wounds, anyway.

You don’t see Chrollo’s expression when everything clicks into place, but oh, damn it all. You hear his breath hitch and somehow that hurts more than your broken ribs. 

“Look at me,” he says finally, his voice soft but commanding. 

And you do. Chrollo’s expression is neutral, calm. It’s what you need, maybe. What he thinks you need? You’re not sure if there’s a difference. 

“Hisoka.” He doesn’t elaborate further, and he doesn’t need to.

You nod. 

“I’ll have you taken care of,” he tells you. His words are slow and deliberate, and there’s an inkling of shame in your chest at them. You shouldn’t be in this position, not in front of Chrollo or at all. You’re meant to be above this weakness. Aren’t you?

There’s a few moments, and you’ve been around Chrollo to know what he’s going to ask next. It doesn’t make the way it turns your stomach sour any less unpleasant.

“Did he say anything important to you?” 

You think. You wet your lips, tasting blood and mucus. 

And then you shake your head. No. You won’t tell Chrollo what Hisoka said, because despite the way his words twisted something in you, deep down--it’s not true. You’re an adult. You joined the Troupe, fought for your place in it. You joined the mission. You agreed to go alone, agreed to hand over your nen. 

Chrollo sighs. He inspects you, again, looking for tell-tale signs of what you won’t say to him. 

And then he tells you, simply--

“You don’t have to lie. Not to me.”

It’s not an order. It’s not even a request, not really. It’s an admission of the fact that he trusts you and you trust him and you don’t have to keep things from him.

In the end, you don’t know what’s more bitter. Your failure, the mucus-tinged blood on your tongue, or the stilted admission that comes next. 

"He said it was your fault. He said you shouldn't have sent me alone without at least my nen so I could at least see him coming.” 

Your words sound robotic, even to your ears. How does Chrollo hear them? Hopefully for the mechanical repetition that they are. You don’t want the words to carry any weight, because you don’t believe them. 

Chrollo closes his eyes. Then he looks at you, and it might just make you cry. Because his expression, just for the moment that he allows you to take it in, is absolutely dreadful. 

It passes, and you’re glad, and maybe it’s the blood loss but you swear there’s a euphoric relief when Chrollo’s expression returns to neutral and he merely wraps his arm around you and assists you up.

You let him, biting your cheek to keep quiet with all of the pain in your broken, used body as he assists you to your feet--or rather, your one unbroken foot--before lifting you into his arms to carry you out.

You don’t want to wince. Or whimper. Or do anything but let your mouth fill up with fresh blood from the blisters from your teeth, the consequence of keeping quiet now. 

Because above all, you don’t want to see that look in Chrollo’s eyes ever again. 

In fact, you realize, grim--you’d rather die than see that look once more.

[zorosdimples-archived]

i like yandere fics because i would much rather be locked in a basement and subjected to unspeakable horrors than work

[depravitycentral]

Partnership

Yandere! Uvogin x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, theft, threats of violence, implied non-con, if your name is Stacy pretend it isn't, Stockholm Syndrome, brief mention of vomiting, Nobunaga is featured a bit in this but don't worry he doesn't want you, fem reader, MDNI

This is dedicated to @ramwrites, who is amazing and wonderful and offered to write me a welcome back gift, and I couldn't not give something back in return! Thanks for letting me write this for you; your writing is so good and makes me all giggly and inspired. For those interested, please check out her Shalnark piece - I haven't read it yet, but I'm sure it's just as good as everything else Ram produces.

WC: 10K

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! 

“So you went and got yourself kidnapped, huh?” Uvogin asks, cocking a brow at you.

               You, who’s tied to a metal chair, gagged and blindfolded, very clearly having no fucking clue what is going on.

               You squirm, sitting up straight at the sound of a new, unfamiliar voice. Your cute little sleeping shorts had ridden up a bit, exposing more of your thigh than you were probably comfortable with, and Uvo notices with a distant sense of enjoyment that the thin nightshirt you’re sporting is doing very little to hide the way the cold air is affecting your chest.

               You’re weak, really; a pathetic little thing that has him scoffing and crossing his arms.

               “Listen up, I’m only gonna tell you this once. A friend of yours – Stacy, was it? Anyway, this friend of yours got herself noticed by the wrong type of guy.” He starts, plopping down and sitting in his own identical metal chair, just without the restraints.

               You stop struggling when he mentions her name, and he takes this as a sign to continue.

               “See, Nobuanga’s not a bad guy. He’s a little rough around the edges, sure, but any guy who isn’t is hardly worth knowing.” He chuckles at his own assessment of his closest friend, though you don’t seem to share the sentiment. “Stacy works at that shitty little restaurant he loves – the one with the sticky, greasy booths and the fries that come drenched with salt and are so limp they literally drip oil.”

               He shivers at the mere memory, the hamburger he’d ordered barely worth eating.

               “Don’t know what she did, exactly, but somehow he’s smitten – she’s got him all fucked up, ranting and raving about how beautiful she is and how she smiles at him all the time and flirts with him on the clock. Real annoying, if you ask me.” He sighs heavily, letting his thumb sit at his chin as he loses himself in the story of his best friend falling in love – with your best friend, no less.

               “And then she quit her job, I’m sure you know. Started working up at that movie theater – more shitty, oily food, just popcorn instead of fries this time.” He laughs again. “Nobunaga went crazy over that, you know, thinking that maybe she wanted to work in a more intimate setting like that so that he could sneak her off into some abandoned theater and get some one-on-one quality time, if you know what I mean.”

               You grimace, at both the implications of his last statement and the mention of Stacy quitting. You know exactly why she’d quit – it was the whole reason you’d been staying at her place, really. She was convinced she had a stalker, that there was this crazy man who used to bother her at the diner and follow her home. It’d scared her, obviously, and she’d requested – with a guilty look and fiddling thumbs – if you’d be willing to spend the next few nights are her place with her, because maybe if there was more than one person home he wouldn’t get gutsy and break in. Of course you’d agreed, believing her fully and not wanting to leave her alone to deal with this crazed freak.

               Although now, you’re starting to regret that decision just a bit.

               “As I’m sure you know, it didn’t change much. Pretty stupid, to be honest – if a stalker’s that dedicated, how the hell is a change of occupation going to change anything? Chick’s pretty dumb, if you ask me.” He shrugs, and although you can’t see it through your blindfold, you’re sure his face is awfully apathetic about the whole situation. “She was ignoring him, refusing to serve him at the theater, reporting him to her manager, even calling the police and getting a description of him circulating. She was going to get a restraining order against him, even – again, like that’d do shit.”

               He snorts, and you bite into the gag harder.

               Sighing, he looks up at the ceiling. “See, that’s the thing about Nobunaga. He might seem a little lazy sometimes, but he’s got a heart of gold when it comes to the ones he cares about. He’d do anything for that woman – steal for her, kill for her, anything at all. He’s a sap, totally obsessed with the chick, but it’s kind of sweet in a way, I guess. Means he really cares about her. Isn’t that funny? Her stalker really is in love with her.”

               You don’t find it particularly funny, but you can’t say much.

               “Anyways, the police finally got a sighting of him last night. Went through the system pretty fast – I’m a little impressed, to be honest. Normally takes those bastards much longer to process things. Regardless, a few too many sirens were going last night, even a few cars parked outside the apartment he’s been squatting in, yelling his name in those big, gaudy megaphones of theirs. Caused a real stir, and sent the guy into a panic.”

               He takes a moment to breath, tapping his foot lightly on the ground. “So what does he do? He calls me, in the middle of the night, talking so fast that I can’t even understand the guy. All I’m hearing is Stacy this, Stacy that, police and blah blah blah recognized. I had to force the words out of him before it made any sense, the idiot.” That same laugh rattles in your ears.

               “Eventually I got him to be coherent, and he told me that he had to ‘make his move’, whatever the hell that meant. Said he couldn’t wait anymore, that he had to take Stacy and run – the police were coming, and even though it’s not hard to take out a couple of poorly trained guys, it’s still a pain in the ass and Shizuku’s not here to clean up his mess.

               “Anyways, he starts begging me – literally, actually pleading with me, imagine that – to come and help him out. He told me there’s this other chick at her place – some girl she’s been keeping around for some unknown reason, and he needs someone to take care of the body.” Your blood goes cold, fear suddenly creeping back up your throat.

               Was he going to kill you? Why was he bothering to tell you all this if he was just planning on slicing open your neck? Did he find some sick pleasure in prolonging your death?

               He notices your discomfort, it seems, because soon he’s rolling his eyes, scoffing at you. “Calm down. You’re such a bad actor – can’t even see your face, really, and I know you’re scared shitless now. I’m not going to kill you, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

               You calm slightly, but not much.

               “As I was saying, there’s this girl he needs me to take care of – a quick death, nothing too flashy, which makes me immediately ask why the hell he’d request me of all people, when every time I kill it’s messy. It’s kind of my trademark, you know?”

               You didn’t, and you hoped it’d stay that way.

               He sighs again. “Anyways, I head on over to Stacy’s apartment, meeting Nobunaga outside and listening to him run down the plan. He’s going to run inside and knock her out, pulling her out of bed and running off to God knows where he’s got all set up for the two of them. And while he’s busy doing that, I’m supposed to head in and eliminate the friend. Seemed easy enough, if not a bit tedious, so I agree and we head inside, keeping mind of the sirens still in the distance.

               “Everything’s going smoothly, except once we get the front door open, it becomes very clear that Nobunaga was stupid and panicked and didn’t bother to doublecheck if Stacy was actually asleep.” He pauses to sigh dramatically, like it’s some big annoyance. “She’s fully awake, standing about ten feet away from the door, and then she starts fucking screaming.”

               You remember that bit – the screaming, that is, because it had woken you up from your slumber on Stacy’s couch. Everything is still blurry after that, disorientation fogging your brain from being so abruptly woken up.

               “She’s yelling and screeching, and if Nobunaga hadn’t been there I probably would’ve killed her myself just to get her to shut the fuck up. She’s got one of those high, shrill, shrieky voices, you know? The kind that really drive me up the wall - it’s damn annoying.” He pauses, looking at you skeptically. “Hope you haven’t got one of those, things’ll get messy real quick if you do.”

               You hope you don’t, either.

               “He rushes forward and tries to grab her, but she swats at him and, get this, manages to punch him in the dick.” He laughs aloud at that, slapping his knee and throwing his head back. “This weak-ass girl manages to get him on the ground flat, stupid ass’s hands clutching at his dick, and what does she do in the meantime? She runs over to the couch, grabbing this girl and staring back at me like I’m some monster.”

               You make a noise through the gag, but Uvogin ignores it.

               “I’ve gotta hand it to Stacy, though, she’s got guts. She starts yellin’ at us about how she won’t let us kill the girl, how she’ll kill herself before she lets us get our hands on her, and immediately Nobunaga crumbles. I don’t know why the idiot didn’t think of the possibility earlier, but he totally freezes up when she threatens that, just gaping like a fish. It was pretty awkward for me, to be honest, because watching him get so thoroughly rejected was giving me serious second hand embarrassment. I mean, the chick literally said she’d rather kill herself than let Nobuanga take her – pretty harsh if you ask me.”

               He looks back at your covered face, letting his gaze linger on the edges of the blindfold. “So he panics and gives into her demand, telling her he won’t kill her friend – says that he’ll just take her too, so that way everyone’s happy.”

               He frowns a bit at you, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, everyone except you, probably. And except Stacy, too, probably. And except me. So really, Nobunaga’s the only happy one.”

               Your face would sour if it was able to.

               “Anyways, it wasn’t hard to knock them both out and bring ‘em to their respective holding places. I’ve got no clue where the hell Nobunaga’s keeping his chick, but I’m sure you’ve figured out that you’re Stacy’s little friend.”

               You nod, slowly, the movement limited by your restraints. Your wrists have gone numb and your ankles feel bruised and sore, the ropes keeping them pinned the legs of the chair making blood flow difficult.

               “So, what to do with you now.” His voice is wistful, like he’s actually contemplating, and that same familiar fear washes over you again.

               He groans, the chair skidding out behind him as he stands to his full height. “Would you quit it with the fear? I already told you I’m not killing you, are you even listening to me?”

               You nod again, faster this time.

               Uvogin sighs, shuffling forward towards you. You can hear him approaching, and although your shoulders stiffen up, you try not to look as terrified as you feel. It doesn’t seem to work all that well, but he spares you another comment about it.

               Soon the blindfold is ripped off your head, leaving your hair messy and out of place, your eyes squinting and blinking rapidly to adjust to the rather bright white light hanging over you and what you can now see is an absolute behemoth of a man.

               He’s fucking huge – towering over you in every sense of the word, muscles practically bulging out of his body with how defined and massive they are. Black hairs cover every inch of his body you can see, even his arms and especially the bits of chest peeking out of his white top. Ragged, unruly hair sweeps down to his shoulders, making the muscles of his neck look even firmer, and you gulp. Any chance of escaping has basically left you now – there’s no way in hell you could ever beat that, especially if he’d already managed to kidnap you once.

               He clears his throat and your gaze is brought up to his face, a small, strange wave of embarrassment flooding through you as you realize you’ve been caught staring. He’s smirking, though, and you take in the sharp line of his jaw, the thick, dark eyebrows that frame equally dark eyes. He’s attractive, in a strange, rugged sort of way, and you immediately feel sick at the thought.

               “You like what you’re seein’?” He teases, and you immediately look away, still unable to reply with the gag covering your mouth.

               He laughs, and sets his hands on his lips. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Before you freak out, I can’t kill you because that damn Stacy really seems to care about you, and she’s told Nobunaga she’ll kill herself if she doesn’t get regular proof that you’re still alive.”

               A flame of hope ignites in your chest, and internally you thank Stacy, even if this whole situation is less than ideal.

               He seems to sense your sudden upturn in mood, chuckling with a condescending lilt. “Oh no, princess, that doesn’t mean I’m letting you go. No, you’ve gotta stay put, because now that you know what I look like, you’ll go to the cops and report me as fast as those little legs of yours can manage.”

               You shake your head at that, eyes glistening with tears as he shuts down your last hope of escaping. Please, you internally beg him, hoping he’ll somehow be able to sense this too. I won’t, I promise!

               His gaze narrows at you, before that same smirk is back. “I’m sure if you could talk you’d be telling me how you’ll never tell a soul, but you and I both know that’s bullshit. So I’ll save us both some time and keep you here, so that I don’t have to track you down again and lock you back up once you’ve just gotten free.”

               You visibly deflate, and if Uvogin had been a kinder man, he would’ve almost felt bad for you. But instead, he just hums, crouching down in front of you. Even squatting he’s still taller than you, and it does nothing to make you feel less scared.

               “Now listen up, here are the rules. I’m a pretty nice guy, all things considered, so don’t break my rules and I won’t break your bones.”

               Your eyes get wide, but you nod along. He smiles, patting your knee.

               “That’s good, see? You’re already doing better than that Stacy girl, at least you’re not fighting me every step of the way.” Something about his statement makes guilt eat away at your chest – are you supposed to be fighting more? There doesn’t really seem to be a point – this man is massive, and you’re all bound and unable to move. You’re doing the best you can, right?

               “First,” He holds up a finger, “don’t even bother trying to escape. I’m bigger than you, faster than you, stronger than you, and smarter than you. There’s nothing you can try that I won’t see through, and you’ll end up regretting it more than you can imagine.

               “Second, no trying to hurt yourself. Nobunaga will kill me if I let you die, and it’d be a pain to deal with him.” He fixes you a stern look, and you nod.

               “Third, don’t go digging through my shit. I’m doing my buddy a favor by keeping you here, and if I find you snooping around… He didn’t say anything about roughing you up a bit, and it might be good for Stacy to see you with some bruises or a cast or two.” His threat doesn’t go unheard, and you nod again, throat bobbing as you swallow.

               He stares at you for a moment more, gaze calculating and judging whether you’ve really accepted his conditions, before strong fingers come up to untie the knot keeping your gag in place.

               “Don’t you scream, I’ll have to shut you up if you do.” He warns, before pulling the fabric away. Immediately you’re flexing your jaw, the muscle aching as you move it, and he watches with a neutral expression. You’re still tied up, unable to move really, and Uvogin gets a fleeting thought of how pitiful you look.

               “Um,” You start, your voice a bit hoarse from being so dry and unused for the last few hours. “What’s your name?”

               He blinks, before laughing a bit. “Of all the questions you could’ve asked, all the things you could’ve said and done as soon as you woke up from learning you’ve been kidnapped, and that’s what you chose? Shit, you wouldn’t survive in the wild, would you?”

               Shame creeps up your neck at his belittlement, but before you can defend yourself he’s answering. “It’s Uvogin.”

               You nod, not willing to look at him. It’s silent for a few moments, before he sighs again and reaches forward to untie the rope shackling your ankles and wrists. As soon as you’re free, you try to stretch out your limbs, keeping a weary eye on the man – Uvogin.

               What a stupid name.

               “Well, the fact that you’re not screaming your head off is a promising sign. Get up, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.” He orders, already taking off towards the door in the corner of the small room. You try to follow him, but your legs aren’t moving right, and it takes you a while to make your way over there. He looks irritated at your lack of speed, but says nothing, only holding open the door until you make your way through.

               You’re led down into a rather sparse apartment, only furnished with a single gray couch against one wall (with a few stains on it that make you wince a bit), a TV and some cabinets, a wooden table and two chairs, and a beat-up fridge in the adjoining kitchen. Everything’s clean, but the space lacks any sort of personality, and it makes you uncomfortable.

               “That’s your bed, extra blankets are in the closet. If you need anything tell me, and I might snag it for you next time I’m out on a job.” Something about the way he says ‘snag’ makes you nervous, so you just mutter a small affirmation.

               He gives you one last glance over, his eyes once again lingering on your chest, before stepping through the doorway.

               “Wait, Uvogin!” Your voice, a bit wobbly and unsure, makes him turn back, his brow cocked and curiosity dancing on his features. (And a bit of surprise, too, because he hadn’t expected you to say anything to him, or even use his name. Maybe you weren’t as skittish and weak as you seemed – though, he doubted that.)

               “Um, is it possible for me to see Stacy soon?” You asked, voice growing smaller with every word. He blinks, before standing up a bit straighter.

               “Actually, you’re in luck. Nobunaga called me about an hour ago and let me know we’re meeting up in a few days – he said it would be good for Stacy to have a ‘playdate’ with you. Whatever the fuck that means.” Uvogin shrugs, looking entirely uninterested, and you bristle at Nobunaga’s choice of words. Poor Stacy.

               Excitement brews in your chest; at least you’ll have a familiar face, and hopefully the stranger hasn’t done anything too terrible to your friend. Nodding, you glance back to the floor, wishing the hulking man staring at you would just leave. He does, a few moments later, and only then do you allow yourself to slump onto the bed he’s assigned you. The bedroom is bare like the rest of the home, with a twin bed set in the corner and a small set of drawers sitting nearby. It makes you laugh humorlessly – were you supposed to fill that chest? With what? You hadn’t brought anything with you, and you seriously doubted Uvogin would let you return home to grab some of your clothes.

               Sighing, you sat onto the bed, the mattress firm under you. Distantly, some part of you was pleased – at least the bed would be comfortable enough.

               Time passes slowly as you sit on the bed – not your bed, not yet. You stare at the wall ahead of you, the fear slowly seeping out of your system until only exhaustion remains. Sleep eventually takes over, and although you try to fight it, you’re slipping into a dreamless slumber before long.

               Uvogin’s tolerable, you’ve found. He’s certainly not nice, nor is he an especially great person to be around, but he could be much worse, you suppose. He’s fed you twice daily for however long you’ve been stuck here (it feels like a week, so you’re assuming it is, if only to stave off any self-doubt that’s creeping into the corners of your mind), and the food’s not terrible. It’s clearly takeout, the packaging sometimes even having Chinese characters on it or restaurant logos, and you’ve been mostly satisfied with his choices so far. He’ll sometimes ask you what you want, and while you were too scared to answer the first few times (which only makes him scowl and roll his eyes, muttering a small damn, Nobunaga owes me one), eventually you’d felt safe enough to be honest.

               He hasn’t hurt you, either. At least, not yet. You’re aware he could, if he wanted to – those muscles make it hard to forget, and you’d seen him crush his phone in his hand like a bug when a phone call with someone named Franklinwent poorly.

               He’s scary, still, but you’ve reached the point now where you aren’t practically hyperventilating every time he enters the room. You still keep him in your field of vision, weary for any sudden changes in his behavior, but every day that passes has you growing more complacent with your position. The constant threat of Stacy potentially facing consequences for your actions doesn’t deter you from being on your best behavior, either.

               Besides, sometimes he’s even a little bit funny – not that you’d ever laugh at his jokes, but he has this weird sense of humor that you think you’d like, if the situation had been different. If you’d met him on the street you definitely would’ve tried to cross to the other side, but you would’ve found him oddly charming, his snide remarks and cocky air a bit entertaining.

               You try not to think about that, though, because the mere presence of these thoughts means the Stockholm Syndrome is starting to kick in. And while you aren’t the most resilient person on the planet, even you have to admit it’s a bit early for that.

               Sighing, you take another bite of the curry he’d brought you, pleasantly surprised that the spice level was perfect. Uvogin didn’t have many rules, it was true, but he did have a few unspoken ones – one of which being that meals, particularly take-out meals, were to be eaten at the small, rickety table. Together, which wasn’t ideal.

               “I’ve gotta make sure you don’t try to starve yourself or choke.” He’d told you the first time, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you into the seat across from his, the noodles sitting in front of you still packaged neatly in their container. At first you’d been nervous he would try to poison you, but eventually hunger got the best of you and you were slurping the noodles down, still keeping a nervous eye on the hulking man in front of you.

               “So, big news.” He starts, taking a bite out of his chicken. He always took big bites, you’d noticed, but he ordered enough food that even if his pace was twice as fast as yours, he never finished before you.

               You glance up at him, trying not to let toomuch curiosity show on your face, but he seems to realize anyway.

               “I know you haven’t been up to much, but don’t make your excitement so obvious. Hurts my feelings to know you think I’m so boring.” He’s joking, you think, and to sate him you attempt to smile.

               “Nobunaga called me again this morning; today’s the day.”

               You practically choke on your food, eyes blowing wide and your hands beginning to shake. Finally, finally you’d be able to see Stacy – you’d been worried sick about her the last week or so, terrified that her transition to the life of being a captive hadn’t gone as smoothly as your own. (You snorted bitterly at that – smooth probably wasn’t the best word for how you’d been feeling, but at least you hadn’t been hit yet, or assaulted or any number of things. Hopefully Nobunaga wasn’t any worse of a person than your own captor.)

               Uvogin is watching you, you realize, with a strange look in his eye. As soon as you glance up at him you look away again, clearing your throat and trying to keep your voice even as you ask, “That’s good, it’ll be nice to see her again.”

               It’s silent for a moment, before his booming laugh makes you wince a bit. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. Finish up, I don’t like wasting food. Once you’re done we’ll head out - try to not to choke.”

               He says that right as you start shoveling the food into your mouth, hoping that eating quicker will mean you can see Stacy quicker. He chuckles at you, but you follow his orders and slow down a bit. He throws you one more glance, that cocky smile on his lips, before digging into his own food again.

               He’s eating a bit faster than normal, too, you notice.

               He apologizes with an insincere tone as he ties the blindfold back on you (he’d told you that you can’t know where you are just in case you decide to get rebellious and run away), and soon you’re stuffed into a car. Everything’s hard to keep track of when you can’t see, but Uvogin’s talking (like normal), so you try to tune into the sound of his voice to help the time pass.

               “Now listen, you might not wanna touch her too much, Nobunaga’s a bit…” He trails off, and you can hear his hand tightening on the steering wheel. “Possessive. You’re her friend and all, and I’m sure he won’t hurt you, especially not in front of her, but be careful.”

               You nod, absentmindedly.

               “Also, don’t be too surprised if she doesn’t look the way she used to. He was always going on about how she was dressed too inappropriately in her day-to-day life, so she might be a little underdressed.”

               He’d hesitated to say underdressed, and you tried not to think about what that could mean.

               It’s quiet for a few moments, and you shift in the car seat. He’d let you sit in the front, an unexpected luxury, but you didn’t like that he could see you while you couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t hurt you, you were mostly confident of that now, but who knew what he had planned.

               “We’re almost there. If things go badly, I’ll get you out of there. You’re pretty damn weak, a broken bone would probably take a few weeks for you to heal. I don’t want to deal with you being injured, and I’m sure you don’t, either.”

               Your lips must’ve given away your fear, because a moment later he’s sighing. “Did you know that you practically reek your emotions? I feel like I can smell ‘em, even when I can’t even see half your damn face.”

               You don’t have anything to say to that, but you force yourself to speak anyway, not wanting to dignify his last comment. “Do you think – well, do you think Nobunaga will want to hurt me?”

               Uvogin ponders your question for a moment, surprised that you’d spoken up. You hadn’t done much talking in the time he’d had you – he was sure it was because you were scared, but it was nice to hear you talking to him like you weren’t scared shitless of him. Even if you had every reason to be so terrified.

               “Honestly, probably. Especially if you touch her.”

               You suck in a breath, and Uvogin hums. “But it’s not going to happen.”

               “What do you mean?”

               You could practically hear his toothy grin.

               “It’s my job to protect you, right? So I will. Even if the one you need protecting from is the same guy who wants you to be protected.”

               Something in his tone gives you the impression he means those words more than he’s letting on, and you shiver as you imagine just who this Nobunaga guy could possibly be.

               “Oh my god, oh my god – you’re alive! Thank god!” Stacy sobs, arms wrapping around you like a vice before you can even respond. You clutch her back just as tightly, burying your face into her brown curls, a few tears pricking at your eyes. You’d been nervous that Nobunaga would’ve hurt her, with the way Uvogin was describing him, but after a thorough look-over, you find no bruises or marks marring her olive skin.

               Eventually she pulls back, but keeps her hands firmly grasping your shoulders. Her eyes are red with tears, and her lower lip is wobbling. She’s not hurt, but she looks bad – there’s heavy bags under eyes and her hair is frazzled, her lips look swollen and she’s clutching onto you hard. Really hard.

               “Stacy, are you hurt?” You ask, letting your hands cup her cheeks. You see Nobunaga – who Uvogin had pointed out with a small that’s the guy when you’d walked in – stiffen up at that, and Uvogin’s warning flashes through your mind. You might not want to touch her. Right.

               Stacy glances over at her captor, and you follow her gaze, only to see Uvogin give you a small nod and drag his friend out the door by the collar of his purple kimono, calling over his shoulder that they’ll be back in exactly five minutes, and that they’ll know if you try to escape.

               As soon as the door closes, Stacy pulls you in for another hug, the words flying out of her mouth so quickly you can barely understand her. “He’s – Nobunaga, he’s horrible. He never leaves me alone, and he treats me like I’m some incompetent little baby, and he’s always touching me and I just – I can’t –“

               You cut her off by pressing her face into your neck again, rubbing the back of her head and letting her cry. You’re crying too, now, but your tears fall silently compared to her sobbing.

               You don’t say much, because what can you say? It would be a lie to tell her that everything’s going to be okay, and every other reassurance that dances on the tip of your tongue just feels wrong, like you’d be pointedly lying to her. Instead, you let her get it out, her grip on you never loosening. You’d known Nobunaga had been the root of all her anxieties the last few months, long before he’d gotten the gall to kidnap her. And while you were happy that she wasn’t hurt, it still pained you to see her like this.

               Eventually she’d calmed down, and you feel her pull back and wipe at her sniffling nose. “I’m so sorry.” She whispers to you, looking like she’s on the verge of crying again. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this mess, I should’ve just gone quietly and left you alone. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay with me for a few weeks, now you’re really stuck with that monster.”

               You don’t tell her that it’s okay, because it’s not. Some part of you is still bitter and resentful towards her for involving you, because she’s right. You could be still living your life if she hadn’t requested you to help deter her stalker from making a move. But despite your anger, you can’t find it in yourself to hate her. Not when she’s like this – not when she’s probably experiencing something even worse than you.

               “It doesn’t matter now, all that matters is that we’re both alive, and we’re both okay. Or, at least, okay as we can be, given the situation.” You tell her, smiling softly. She blinks at you, eyes wide and vulnerable, before nodding and swallowing.

               “Yeah, I was worried that you wouldn’t be, with the way Nobunaga was talking about Uvogin.” Her voice was hoarse still, and you laughed humorlessly at that.

               “Yeah, well, he hasn’t hurt me yet, so I think I’ll be okay. He mostly just ignores me, honestly, so I guess I’m lucky.” Your attempt at optimism doesn’t make Stacy smile like you’d hoped. Rather, her lips pull into a frown and her eyebrows furrow.

               “He ignores you? That doesn’t make sense.”

               You expression mirrors hers. “What? I mean, the only reason I got kidnapped too was insurance so that you wouldn’t kill yourself –“

               Stacy’s face morphs into one of horror, and her grip on your shoulders goes slack.

               Quickly you’re backpedaling, worried the mention of her self-imposed death might’ve triggered something you wanted to avoid. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, I totally understand why you –“

               “Alright, time’s up.” Nobunaga’s voice interrupts, and knuckly hands are suddenly on your shoulders, pushing you aside so that Nobunaga can stand in front of Stacy. You stumble back, falling backwards against Uvogin’s hard chest, immediately standing up straight.

               Nobunaga’s cupping Stacy’s chin, and you can see from this angle the way he smiles, a slight pink color flooding his cheeks. It makes you sick, and the pained look on Stacy’s face only makes your gut sink more. She’s looking at you still, and something about the way her brows are cocked inward that makes you feel like she’s almost pitying you.  

               “Did you miss me, baby?” Nobunaga’s cooing down at her, and it makes your skin crawl. Uvogin sighs from behind you and grabs your wrist, dragging you out of the room. His grip is surprisingly gentle, and as you watch Stacy slowly fade from your view, you can’t help but be slightly grateful that at least your captor isn’t leaning down for a kiss like hers.

               The car ride home is mostly quiet, and it’s not until you’re nearing the end of your time in the vehicle that Uvogin breaks the silence.

               “So, what did you talk about while we were gone? Girly shit?” You think he’s attempting a joke, but you can’t even pretend to laugh at it.

               “She’s not happy.” You comment, voice slightly flat, and Uvogin snorts at your words.

               “Of course she’s not happy, she’s just been kidnapped. And by her stalker, no less – would anyone be happy? Hell, are you happy?” He asks you, and you blanch at his question. Somehow, though, it feels like some sort of trap, so you stay quiet.

               He doesn’t say anything more until he’s pulling you out of the car, your footsteps hesitant and clumsy because he’d put that damn blindfold on you again. He guides you up to the apartment, and soon you’re standing in the living room area, the fabric falling from your eyes.

               “I’ve got some errands to run today, so I’ll be gone for a while. Do you want anything while I’m out?” He asks, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed. You’re a bit touched that he’s offering to get you something, but you try not to focus on it. Of course you’re feeling grateful for him – he may be holding you captive, yes, but at least he hasn’t tried to kiss you or touch you. Poor Stacy didn’t share your luck.

               “Um, maybe some chips? I don’t care what flavor, just something crunchy…” You trail off, looking at him nervously. You’d never requested anything before, and some part of you is convinced he’d only asked you the question to laugh in your face and deny you.

               He cracks a smile and nods, hand already on the doorknob. “Okay. Okay, but you’d better be prepared to share, because I happen to be a big chip fan myself. So don’t get greedy, yeah?”

               You half-smile, rubbing at your arm. “Yeah, I won’t be.”

               He steps out the door, and once again the apartment is silent, his presence gone and all movement within the room gone, too.

               The TV won’t work for you, you know that, but you’re still trying to get it to behave. Uvogin had to type in some password every time he turned it on, and it was too long and encoded for you to ever be able to decipher it. Still, you were clicking the power button of the remote over and over, hoping against hope that it would somehow short circuit and bypass that password screen. When it didn’t, you only sighed, rising to your feet and wandering towards the monitor.

               Uvogin, you’d learned, was surprisingly meticulous – surprisingly organized, really. Meaning there was a chance he’d written down the password to the TV and had it stored somewhere. He’d only been gone for about a half hour, if the clock was any indication, and you had a lot of time to kill before he returned home. Not that he was your only source of entertainment – though, you’d read the single book he owned three times already.

               Your knees crack as you kneel down in front of the cupboard the TV was sitting on, the wooden doors creaking as they open. The shelves are mostly empty – a few older remotes, and a cable channel guide.

               Frustrated, you huff and let your shoulders slump, trying to decide what to do next. The TV obviously wasn’t planning on cooperating, though there was a cupboard right next to the one you’re searching through that could potentially hold the answer.

               Uvogin’s rules distantly float through your mind, his gruff voice replaying in perfect clarity. Third, don’t go digging through my shit. Glancing back up the clock, you bite your lip. You had time, because while he was massive and huge and scary, there was no way he could get all his errands done in just thirty minutes.

               With a deep breath, you move over to the other cabinet, letting your fingers curl around the knob. The doors don’t creak when they open, and immediately you’re scanning the shelves. These ones are full – with boxes, each labeled with a date on them. Cocking a brow, you examine the dates. January 4th – January 25th, April 29th – May 7th, and so on.

               Intrigued, you slowly slide out one of the boxes, noticing not a single bit of dust is sitting on the cover. He must use this cabinet much more often than the one you’d been searching through previously, as a thick layer of dust had sprung up in your face the moment you opened the cabinet door.

               The box itself is light, but you still set it down in front of you, your fingers delicate and careful, too worried that you’ll break something if you press too hard. And then Uvogin would know, surely, especially if he truly used this cabinet that often.

               Slowly, you take off the box’s cover, and immediately your brows are scrunching together. What the hell?

               When you’d imagined the kind of ‘shit’ Uvogin didn’t want you to snoop through, you hadn’t pegged it to be this. Whatever this was, that is.

               It looked like a box full of receipts – tons of pieces of paper, all in weird sizes or shapes that looked like they were ripped out of some sort of notebook. The handwriting is messy, the letters all crammed together and difficult to decipher. You pick the paper on top up, turning it this way and that, trying to read the text.

               Her: Sorry, I know it’s late, but I need to ask you a quick question.

               Them: Yeah? What’s up?

               Her: Do you think he’s alright? Chris, I mean – he hasn’t called me back for a few days, and I’m worried about him.

               Them: You know Chris, it always takes him a while to respond. I wouldn’t worry, he’s just unpredictable.

               Her: Yeah, I guess…

               [6 second pause]

               Them: Go to sleep, it’s late. You’ve got work in the morning, right?

               Her: Yeah, I do. Okay, okay, I’m getting into bed now. Goodnight.

               Them: Goodnight, call me when you hear back from him.

               Her: Okay.

               What was this? The ambiguity of it all confused you – who was her? Them? Chris?

               You furrowed your brows, confusion sitting in your gut alongside a strange feeling. The hairs at the back of your neck prickled up, and a small pang of unease bolted through you.

               Setting the piece of paper back into the bin, you picked up another one. This one was shorter, more to the point.

               Her: Are we still on for Friday night?

               Them: Yeah! Freddy’s, nine o’clock sharp. I’m buying, remember.

               Her: You always say that, and you always get too shit faced to pay. Liar!

               Them: Hey, I just know how to have fun! You could learn how to do that, you know.

               Her: Yeah yeah, okay, I’ll see you later.

               Your fingers are shaking as you finish reading the small, triangular slip of paper. Your lips are slightly parted, brows still crunched together. Something about the interaction between Her and Them felt oddly familiar – like something you’d heard before.

               And the mention of Freddy’s. That’d been the name of a bar you frequented often with your friends, back before everything had gone to shit with Stacy.

               Unnerved, you set the piece of paper back in the box and slide the box into its place on the shelf, running your eyes back over the listed date. August 28th – September 16th. One of your best friend’s birthdays was in that range.

               Wiping your palms on your thighs, you try to calm the pounding of your heart. Something feels off, wrong in a way you can’t quite place. Surely, Freddy’s is a common enough name; it doesn’t necessarily mean your favorite bar. Plus, even if it does mean that particular bar, who knew who these people were. You surely don’t - who the hell is Chris?

               Wanting to put some distance between you and the cabinet, you get to your feet again and close it, wandering away into the little hallway connecting the living space, bathroom and two bedrooms. Cupping some water in your hands from the bathroom sink, you splash your face, letting the cold wash over your skin. Closing your eyes, you try to calm down. It doesn’t mean anything – how could it? You’re probably just all shaken up after seeing Stacy and her freaky captor. Nobunaga disturbed you, you can’t deny it.

               Sighing, you open your eyes, wiping your face with your towel. (Uvogin had been kind enough to give you one designated as your own, saving you from the horrible fate of having you dry your body with a towel that he’d already used.) Though you notice with a small start that the towel is wet, despite you not having showered recently. Odd.

               As you turn to leave the room, you notice a shirt sitting piled up in the corner. It was black, and surely not your own – holding it up, it looked big enough to dwarf you. Must be Uvogin’s, then.

               His bedroom is across from your own, and while you haven’t been inside it yet, it feels wrong to just leave his shirt on the floor, where it could get dirty and maybe even moldy. Besides, doing a little cleaning would keep you occupied – both from boredom, and from contemplating those weird slips of paper further.

               You slowly open the door, immediately getting hit with a wave of musk. Uvogin normally smelled decent, but the scent in here is strong enough to make you wince a bit, the overwhelming stench of sweat, mint, and male making you a bit nauseous. To your surprise, the room is spotless – a very, very large bed sits floated in the middle, a navy and black flannel comforter covering the top while a few large, puffy pillows sit at attention at the head. A few pairs of boots are lined up in the corner, and a single picture looks to be taped up on the wall above them. Curiously, you step forward, moving towards the photo.

               Uvogin had told you very little about himself – only that he worked as a contractor, of sorts, and that he didn’t have too many friends, so you wouldn’t have to worry about visitors. But now that you’re looking at the photo, you’re wondering if maybe that last statement hadn’t been so true – the photo is of a dozen or so people, all posing for the camera with various degrees of a smile on their face. Uvogin’s in the back, on the left side, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a shorter blond man, his blue eyes in a wink and holding up his thumb. Uvogin’s smiling, and as you scan the photo, you stop when you hit Nobunaga, who’s seated in the front row next to a woman with big glasses and a modified cross necklace. Everyone looks happy, and briefly you wonder whether Uvogin considers these people friends. He must, if Nobunaga’s present – an odd sort of satisfaction worms its way into your chest at the thought. You don’t like Uvogin, surely not – but still, everyone needs friends, right? Even kidnappers.

               God, you really are starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome.

               Shaking your head to try and clear the thoughts, you approach his closet and snag a hanger, trying to hang up the shirt you’re holding in your arms. The thing is tall, and as you try to get the hanger’s hook to wrap over the metal bar, your eyes fall to the side, noticing something out of the corner of your vision.

               It’s a soft pink, and you cock a brow. Uvogin? Owning something pink?

               Eventually, and with a soft grunt, you get the hanger to successfully sit onto the bar, and immediately you’re investigating the pink thing. This goes directly against his rules, you know – you’re quite literally snooping, but hopefully he’d still be out for longer. Besides, even if he comes back, you could just tell him you’re putting away his shirt, and maybe he wouldn’t call you on your half-lie.

               Whatever the thing is, it’s wedged pretty far back in the closet – you’d only managed to catch a brief glimpse of it, and for good reason. There’s a storage container in the back of the closet, an organizer of sorts with some compartments that all seem to be stuffed full. It’s hard to see, the overhead light dim to begin with and not penetrating too deeply into the dark closet, but you’re able to fish out the pink fabric soon enough.

               It's lace, you realize, your curiosity only doubling. That same pin-prickly feeling is back, and as you slowly flatten out the cloth, your breath catches.

               It’s a thong. Pink and lacy, with a bow decorating the back, right over the tailbone.

               But more than that, the thong looks familiar. There’s a thread pulled on the front right side, and a stain on the fabric at the very bottom, looking awfully similar to the color your own discharge makes once it’s been washed.

               Your fingers are shaking again, and you stumble back a bit, the back of your knees catching onto the bed so that you fall back and land on your ass, too busy staring at the cloth in your hands to bother trying to situate yourself.

               These panties are yours.

               You’re sure of it – you know because Stacy bought them for you a few months ago. She’d cheekily handed them to you with a big, gaudy bow on top, a wink sent your way and a demure because I know you’ve got a date tonight, and I also know you haven’t gotten laid in way too long. That was the night you’d been set up on a blind date with a friend’s coworker. He’d been nice, though you hadn’t slept with him, and you hadn’t gone out again after that. He didn’t seem all that interested in you as a romantic pursuit, but he was funny, and you’d hoped you could become friends, at least.

               And his name was Chris. And he’d gone missing a few days after.

               You drop the panties, a hand coming up to cover your mouth.

               You don’t want to, and you know you shouldn’t, but before you can stop yourself you’re rushing forward to the closet, digging back to that storage compartment and rooting around for anything else you can find. It must be a coincidence; it has to be a coincidence. These can’t be your panties, you must be mistaken – why would Uvogin have these? How could he have these? You’d lost them in the laundry a while back.

               At least, that’s what you’d assumed.

               Pulling your hand back, you see you’ve grabbed a few items. They’re smaller, not clothing, but nonetheless incriminating. There’s a chapstick container, with a strange flavor on it that you’ve only seen once, back when you won it in some weird fundraising fair you’d been at for your job. Kiwi banana grape, it said in curling black lettering, and when you pop open the top, you notice it’s almost completely empty.

               There’s also a button; it’s black with a strange shape, one you recognize as being from your favorite jacket. It’d fallen off one day, but you’d been too busy walking around the city to have realized. It was a real bummer, because it’d rendered the jacket unwearable because too big a draft would sneak through it.

               And lastly, there’s a bandaid – it’s old, you can tell, with a kiddy pattern of some fairies and a dinosaur on it that the nurse had apologized for having to use, telling you it was all they had available at the time. You remembered it – it’d made you laugh that you’d gotten your flu shot and she’d patched it up with a bandaid designed for six year olds, even going so far as to snap a photo and send it in the group chat you kept with your friends.

               You feel sick.

               Throwing the small items back into the compartment, you rush to the bathroom, barely making it before you’re heaving, all the curry you’d forced down your throat earlier coming right back up.

               What the fuck?

               Who was Uvogin? Why did he have all of this? How did he have all of this? What did it mean? Your head’s rushing, too many thoughts and implications swimming through your oversaturated mind, and you have just barely enough strength to flush the toilet and stand up, staring at yourself in the mirror.

               Stacy’s words rush back to you as you examine your face, seeing your wide eyes and the way your chest is rising and falling with each harsh breath slipping through your lips. He ignores you? That doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense – none of it at all. Why would your by-association captor have any of your personal items? Especially personal items you’d lost or thrown away literal months ago, long before you’d ever started staying over at Stacy’s?

               You know why, you just don’t want to admit it, and as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you try to come up with any other possible explanation. No. It can’t be. Stacy’s the one with the creepy stalker, not me.

               Suddenly, the sound of the front door’s lock clicking open makes you snap up, adrenaline suddenly coursing through your veins. Uvogin’s home.

               Immediately you’re running to your bed, jumping under the covers and shutting your eyes tightly, praying that Uvogin will think you’re asleep and won’t bother you. You need more time to figure this out – it’s all too much, and while it probably won’t be any easier the longer you wait, you need something.

               You can’t look at him yet. You won’t.

               “I got your chips! Didn’t know which flavor to choose, so I got three I think you might like. I’m serious, though, you have to share. I’m an animal, and I will steal your food.” He laughs at that, and you hear him set down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Your eyes are still closed so tightly that it hurts, and you ball your fists up in the blankets as hard as you can. You’d curled up into a fetal position, and you force yourself to stay still as you hear his loud footsteps coming down the hall.

               He calls your name, peeking his head into every room he passes. Soon he sees you in your bed, and although you look a little stiff, his shoulders immediately lose their tension. A smile flits across his lips, and he slowly, quietly shuts the door, retreating back to his own room.

               You sigh, peeling open your eyes and trying to get your breathing under control. You’d been holding your breath, and now that he’s actually home in the apartment, it’s difficult to not let yourself panic.

               It becomes much, much more difficult when you hear a noise come from his bedroom, though. What the hell’s this?

               There’s a muffled curse, and your blood runs cold as quick, heavy footsteps lead right up to your door. He swings it open and your eyes fly shut, trying desperately in vain to appear like you’re still sleeping.

               “Wake the fuck up.” He says, and immediately you open your eyes, your fear too strong to ignore. He’s holding the pink panties in his hands, and you realize with a small burst of terror that in your haste to get to the bathroom, you’d left them on the floor. In his room. Right where he can see that they’ve been moved.

               Fuck fuck fuck.

               "I only have three rules. What are they?” He barks, and you’re trying to curl up even smaller, hoping his promise of not hurting you will still ring true. Though, he’s lied about pretty much everything else – how do you know if that part wasn’t all a lie, too?

               “No hurting myself, no escaping, and no – no snooping.” You whisper, and Uvogin bares his teeth.

               “I’ve been good to you – patient, something that takes a hell of a lot of effort for me. And what do you do in return? You go and do one of the very few things I’ve forbidden.” He looks impossibly tall right now, towering over you with those muscles, the panties looking downright tiny between his monstrous fingers. “Tell me why. Explain to me why the hell you were snooping through my closet.”

               You shut your eyes again, too scared to look at him. “I was putting away a shirt you left in the bathroom. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did it, please don’t hurt me, please –“

               He interrupts you with a huff, and you tense up, waiting for some blow to land. It doesn’t, though, and after a good thirty seconds, you finally peel an eye open, almost too scared to see what he’s doing.

               You don’t expect the small smile that’s sitting on his lips, nor the hand on his hip. He locks his eyes with yours, then sighs. “Well, this is most definitely not the way I wanted you to find out. See, I had this whole plan – Nobunaga came up with it, one of the very few things he’s ever thought of that actually impressed me.”

               You’re confused again, but that sick feeling still hasn’t gone away. All you can seem to look at are your panties, wedged in his fist.

               “He told me that since you and Stacy were so close, we could cut a deal – kidnap you both at once, get more bang for our buck. There was no way to hide Nobunaga’s feelings for Stacy, sure, but you? Well, you haven’t noticed anyone following you, have you?” Uvogin asks, cocking his head at you and letting his smile get a bit wider.

               You quickly shake your head no.

               “I’m better at this stuff than he is. He always gets too excited to talk to her, wants to interact and have her lookin’ at him. I get it, I really do. Even now, even with you scared shitless and looking at me like I’m about to kill you, just you acknowledging me is getting me hard as a fucking rock.”

               Involuntarily, your eyes dart down to his navel, and with a small, strangled sound of fear, you notice the way there’s a prominent bulge forming in those shorts of his.

               He laughs at your change in focus, and steps forward. Hooking a finger under your chin, he smirks down at you. “I’m better at hiding myself, and I was willing to play the long game, content with watching you until the right time came to snatch you up. But when Nobunaga offered, telling me there was a way to get you all to myself and make sure you grew to want me organically? Well, I couldn’t resist, could I?”

               You want to tell him he absolutely could’ve, or that you wouldn’t have ‘wanted him organically’, whatever the hell that meant, but your tongue doesn’t seem to be working.

               He leans down, face coming closer and closer to yours. “You had no idea, did you? How do you think I knew what kind of mattress to get you? How do you think I knew exactly what to order for you for takeout, even when you were too scared to tell me? How do you think I know what shampoo and conditioner to buy you, or even what kind of fucking cologne you like? Believe me, I’m only wearing this shit for you.”

               You’re frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him.

               “Do you get it now, princess? See, Nobunaga doesn’t give two shits about whether you live or die – he’ll get Stacy to do what he wants no matter what. But me? I give a shit.” He’s so close to you that you can smell his breath. It’s minty, like he’s just recently brushed his teeth. The cold smell only makes you shiver, fear still tingling up your spine.

               “Why?” You whisper, overwhelmed at his sudden confession.

               He pauses at that, smirk falling away as he genuinely considers your words. He’s quiet for a moment, before he smiles again, but this time it’s not as predatory – there’s something oddly soft about it, and it makes you feel worse.

               “Because you’re perfect. That’s all.” He answers like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and before you can say anything he’s clambering on the bed next to you. You want to fight him off, to jump up off the bed and run, but you can’t seem to find the energy to. Besides, you’re not delusional enough to think you could beat Uvogin in any sort of physical altercation or chase. And while he still seemed to be adhering to his promise of not hurting you, you didn’t feel like testing the waters.

               “So I guess the jig’s up. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out, but I can work with this, too. At least now I don’t have to act like I don’t know you. And now, I don’t have to do all that respectful distance shit – you’re mine now, babe, and now I don’t have to hide it.” He’s grinning again, his teeth looking too sharp, and before you can blink he’s above you, your wrists pinned above your head and his lips inches away from yours.

               “So why don’t I show you just how much your attention the last week’s been affecting me?” His voice is low, sultry, and makes you gulp. He presses his face into your neck, deeply inhaling and groaning. “I promise I can make you feel good… I’ll tell you my last rule, okay?”

               You’re frozen, but when he pulls back to glare at you, you shakily mutter out an ‘okay’.

               His grin is wolfish, predatory, scary. “Rule number four is no running away from me, even if that cute little body of yours can’t take anymore. Got it?”

               You nod.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Language Barrier (Yandere male x reader) p1

tw; non con touching, infantalization, violence, general yandere shenanigans, afab reader

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked, dni please

hi okay so this does get heavy inspiration from Eden from DOL, but i guess with the horny kinda dialed all the way down

trying 2 make another oc with defined looks and name and shit so bear with wmee idk what to name this fucker so im just gonnna go with the unoriginal "The Man Oc"

also unedited so dont expect much kay <3

Part 2

He stopped when you tugged on his sleeve. There was a pebble in your shoe. He lets go of your wrist from his large, calloused hand.

He watches you hop on one leg, using his arm for support as you shook the offending rock out of your footwear. Saying nothing this entire time.

You looked back at him and see his stoic face. Old scars litter his countenance as choppy, short, blond bangs did poorly to hide some of it on his forehead. No doubt, he is a man of many experiences and battles. He seems neither annoyed, happy or sad, it was hard to get a read on him.

But, you were... grateful for this stranger. In some ways. Waking up in a foreign land where you can't speak the language or understand the culture, or understand why everyone is out there to get you-- must be horrifying when facing alone.

Had he not found you struggling against the bandits that caught you as you were running away from another hostile group, you don't know what situation you would be in right now. And you don't want to think about it.

You initially thought he was another person trying to capture you for his nefarious needs, hollering, thrashing and crying as he pinned you down against the sandy ground with very little effort. He tied your wrists and ankles up using the clothes of the bandits he killed swiftly. It was strange he didn't use the rough and painful rope that was in their possession already, instead opting to go the extra mile to obtain the softer fabric.

He gagged you too, muffling the screams and shouts. And that is still not enough, he pulled a sack over your head, obscuring your vision. But at least it provided a bit of heat relief from the blazing, desert sun.

The stranger carried you with an arm as he calmly walked away from the bloodied scene. His grip on you was unrelenting and strides unwavering.

He walked for hours, his boots scraping against the abrasive ground and he would rub soothing circles on your back with his free hand, pressing his cheek against your head. It was confusing and terrifying.

All you would do is whimper in fear and take whatever unwanted touches at the time. It's not like anyone would save you, calling for help only replaces the person trying to harm you.

At one point, he stopped momentarily and you felt the coolness from a shade wash over you. Hearing something click and something creak open told you that he must have reached his home. Or at least, a building that required him to unlock the door before entering it.

He sets you down gently on something soft.

The pressure on your wrists and ankles were removed when he slashed the cloth with something cold and sharp. His footsteps were moving away from you, maybe it was the best time to remove the sack and gag.

And so, you did. Shaking like a leaf in the process, fearing your fate.

You regained your vision and squinted as the environment was brighter than you expected. It was a wooden abode... of some sort. Very humble and cozy, if it wasn't for the fact that you were taken here against your will.

You're sitting on a slightly worn couch. Right in front of a Cathode Ray Television that's turned off and layered with dust. There is a small dining table in the corner of the living room, enough chairs for three. a modest, wooden shelf stood next to the television, holding various books written in a foreign language, along with other miscellaneous objects such as figurines made out of glass and completed puzzles.

You cower in fearfully as the man emerges from a room, closing the door behind him.

He sets a tray down on the coffee table in front of you. The stranger relocated the gag and sack away to make space for him on the couch.

He picked something up from the tray and gently pried your arms away from your face. It looks like a golden brown biscuit, plain and simple. He prodded your lips with it, Smells nothing out of the ordinary, it should be edible, right?

The man held a hand under your chin to catch the crumbs as you hesitantly took a bite. A small, approving smile made its way to his chiseled face.

It tasted fine. If not, a little bland. You slowly grabbed it out of his hand and munched on it with your cautious eyes on him. He looked away from you, pretending that he lets his guard down so that you would do the same, he picked up a cup filled with dark, steaming liquid. You would like to assume it's coffee, but it smells savory.

You finished your biscuit and discretely dusted your hands against your clothes. You woke up finding yourself clad in a long sleeved dress that reaches half your shin, frills decorated your neck area and sleeve cuffs. There were some damages from your run ins with the offenders. It doesn't help with the heat.

You made yourself as small as possible, hunching over and watching the man switch the television on by merely twitching his forefinger. Well, that's not very probable, isn't it? You doubt you're even in the same world as your peers.

He took a sip of his drink as he gave you a side eye glance. He picked up the other cup filled with the same substance and carefully hand it over to you.

Your nerves are slowly easing up. You're thirsty after all that running and screaming anyways, might as well help yourself.

To your surprise, the beverage is nothing other than... beef broth, at least, it tastes like it. It's delicious, but it's odd to have it served like this.

Your savior picked up a biscuit and dunked it in his savory drink. He paid no mind to you anymore, he seems to be more interested in the infomercial showing on the TV screen. You have no idea what the presenters are promoting, but they're holding a glass figurine, similar to what he has on his shelf.

He set his cup down and rubbed his chin, chewing on the soggy biscuit in the process. He turned to you and stared at you for a while. His blank gaze intimidated you, so you scoot yourself away from him.

The man extended his hand and grabbed your chin. Using his thumb, he wiped your lips clean from the brothy residue. You felt his rough digit dragging your skin, you pushed his hand away from you. He did not protest.

The both of you spent a few more hours watching the television and finishing the food. The man progressively slouching into the couch and your shoulders relaxing from the tension.

The television turned itself off when daylight disappeared. The man groaned tiredly as he forced himself up on his feet. He placed his hands on his back and straightened it, sounding a satisfying series of cracks in the process.

You remained silent. Wondering what is going to happen to you next.

He turned to you, snapping his fingers near your hand before presenting an open palm. Not understand what he wants, you meekly raised your hand, only to have him grab it in a firm hold.

He pulled you along with him into a room, he illuminated the room using an oil lantern nearby. You noted that he didn't bring any matches or lighters or anything that can easily start flames.

He closed the door behind him before sauntering towards the wooden tub, he twisted the metal knob nearby and let clean water rush into it.

He began to remove his leather vest, then began unbuttoning his shirt.

He paused when he looked over his shoulder to see you desperately trying to escape the room, yanking on the door knob.

He sighed and advanced towards you, seemingly a lot more impatient than before.

You let out a yelp as he grabbed you by the collar of your dress, lifting you up in mid air. You flail around, trying to gain purchase on anything stable. He walked back to the tub and dropped you in, causing a splash and the tub to overflow.

You were soaked, the warm water was causing your dress to feel ten pounds heavier. You splutter and gasped as you wiped the droplets off your face, this distracted you from the man's nudity. He joined you, having his wide, bare chest pressing against your clothed back, his strong arms locking you in place.

He restrained you until you calmed down from your panic, until you tire yourself out from squirming too much.

Eventually you did, he gave out a grunt of approval. Grabbing the bar of soap on the caddy, he worked up a lather and slathered you with the suds.

The man mostly focused on you, scrubbing parts of you with his palm. You gave up on swatting his hands away and reluctantly allowed him to stick his hands under your dress. It felt violating as he roamed all over your naked body, passing over your breasts and inner thighs a couple times.

You sniffled, crying in embarrassment and upset. He stopped upon realization. The man paused for a little while as you whine and wipe the tears off your eyes.

He turned you around, so you would rest your chin on his shoulder as your chest meets his. He slung your arms around his neck as he worked on your back and hair.

You continued sobbing as he tried his best to remove your soaked clothes without hurting you. He did, in the end. You were completely exposed to him and you were frowning.

He washed you with the water surrounding the both of you. Once he lets go, you tried to hastily remove yourself from the tub.

He grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you back in, trapping you with an arm again. He shook his head as he went on to wash himself with the soap.

You remember that you were hopelessly crying the entire time, also scrubbing yourself at times to try and remove the filthy feeling from being touched without your consent.

He drained the tub and carried you out with him, not before drying your hair with a towel. The man left your dress in the tub.

You were given a fresh shirt of his to wear, he took it from a cabinet in the bathroom.

He went on to dress himself up.

He returned to you to see you still in tears, rubbing your eyes with both hands. Maybe he doesn't understand why you're in so much distress, maybe he does. You don't know, maybe he understands and he gets some sick kick out of this.

He cupped your cheeks and wiped the tears away with his finger. The man brought you closer to him and pressed his lips against your forehead. He also brushes your hair with his fingers.

You forced yourself to settle down, knowing that he will only continue this as long as you seem upset.

Satisfied with your behavior, he lets you go and took something off a shelf near a mirror.

He handed you a toothbrush with toothpaste readily applied.

You hiccupped as you unwillingly stuck it in your mouth and proceed to brush your teeth with it. You hated his gaze on you, you felt so dirty.

Once you were done, you spat the bubbles into the sink and rinsed your mouth with the running tap water.

The door flung open by some unseen forces. You bolted out of the bathroom and into the living room, just wanting to get away from him

You did catch a glimpse of him using the same toothbrush to clean his own teeth.

You tucked your knees under your chin as you hid yourself under the coffee table. All the other doors were locked except one; the bedroom. You didn't want to go in there as it seems like the man has somewhat of a supernatural control over his home.

And the proportions of his furniture is way off, you had to tiptoe to reach the sink.

The technology or lacking thereof is strange, it felt like you traveled back in time and forward simultaneously. Everything was scaring you but you were smart enough to realize that this man is so far the lesser evil if you had to choose between him and fending yourself off from the maniacs outside.

You heard him whistling, but in no particular melody. Just short bursts of high pitched whistles and finger snapping. Is he... Is he trying to call you over like a dog?

He found you anyways. This time, he pulled you out of your hiding place by your sides. He raised an eyebrow as he pulled you into his arms, carrying you on his hip.

As expected, he brought you into his bedroom. Setting you down on the well used, soft mattress.

He tucked you in before slipping under the covers with you. Lights dim without him flicking any switches or snuffing any flames.

You scrambled away from him. Of course, that was proven futile as he brought you back and positioned you in such a way that you're laying on him, using him as a gigantic pillow.

You can hear his heartbeat as your ear is pressed against his chest. It's slow and serene.

He rhythmically pats your rear, trying to lull you into a deep slumber.

It would go on like this for four days. Wake up, watch TV, drink broth from a tea cup, eat biscuits, or carrots, or slabs of cooked mystery meat, or weird fruit, struggle with bath-time, sleep. With each passing day somewhat easing you into his presence.

The man spoke very little. Preferring to communicate in huffs, grunts and sighs.

You tried finding a common, intelligent language to talk to him with. You tried many times to indicate that you have a name, contrary to his belief. Still, he addresses you with whistles and finger snapping.

You did the same to get his attention. Aside from a brief glance, he would ignore you. Unless you tug on his sleeves or poke him. You couldn't get a name out of him.

He developed a hobby of giving you back massages as he watches TV. He lets you sprawl over his lap as he kneads you with his knuckles and fingers, it would be nice if he did it with your consent.

Every meal, he would attempt to feed you. You're not sure if it's something he likes to do, or he just thinks you're not smart enough to do it yourself. Moreover, when he feeds you something new, he would hold his hand under your chin, expecting you to dislike it enough to spew it out. There was a piece of fruit that was so atrocious to you, that you spat it out onto his hand as soon as it reaches your tongue.

It disgusted you when he would nonchalantly pop the mildly chewed up fruit into his own mouth. Eating it like it's a fresh piece.

After knowing that you don't like something, he would return to the kitchen to prepare something that he knows you eat.

It is confirmed that he bakes his own biscuits. He is fast on his hands when it comes to cooking. He is using a wood-burning stove. You still don't know how is he lighting fires that quickly and easily, there aren't any lighters or matches in sight.

He owns a refrigerator, it's by no means new or very modern. It looks like an average white fridge from the 1980's, there were some stains here. But... why use a stove that was out of date since the 1890's?

There were some occasions where he would have visitors. You don't know what his relation to them is, but there was always an air of animosity between him and them. You dare not to ask for help or even make yourself known as it might just make more trouble for yourself. You preferred to hide in the bedroom when that happens. He didn't give you any hints on what to do when visitors do appear, which is odd.

It usually ends with the man getting a piece of paper, a book, a weapon, a scroll, a heavy bag that makes clinking noises when shaken or a dead body to clean up, namely, the visitor's.

He would drag those who were unfortunate enough die by his dagger into the kitchen. Making you wonder if the broth of the day is made of whoever-- whatever he killed.

On the fifth day though, the man packed a full waterskin and carried a modified saddlebag on his back. He doesn't have a horse or a vehicle, but he has a glass figurine of a... peach? Well, some sort of fruit.

He would dress you up like how he found you, he washed the dress by hand and dried them under the sun. So you assumed.

For the first time ever, you step foot out of his home. Only to see that the nearest building is probably a couple miles away, it looks like a dot from his porch.

He picked you up and carried you on his hip, staring deeply into your eyes. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.

Suddenly, He flung the figurine against the ground, shattering it into numerous pieces.

Before you realize what was happening, your surroundings began to warp and distort. Flashes of colors and shapes spooked you to no end, everything felt liquid, solid and gaseous at the same time. The only thing that is constant is the man, he has his eyes closed and maintained an iron grip on you.

You scream, but you hear nothing of the sort. You hear a whole orchestra playing, a trumpet playing, a harp string vibrating- anything but your own scream. It is absolutely nauseating.

Soon, the phenomenon subsided and everything clears up. Your ears pick up the sound of a busy market, your skin felt the burn of the sun, your eyes see tents and tents with merchants selling various goods. Everything seems relatively normal for now. The relief you felt, you do not want to go through that again.

He sets you on the stone floor. You spotted other entities and humanoids manifesting out of thin air too, they must have used similar methods to get here. But, they're all appearing within this massive circle, with ancient glowing runes etched onto it.

You immediately emptied your stomach, vomiting violently onto the ground. Hunched over with your arms clutching your abdomen. Garnering the interests of a couple onlookers.

They quickly looked away as soon as your companion shot them a fierce glare, though.

He has his hands around you, steadying you.

You leant against his leg, gripping onto his shirt. He popped the lid open to his waterskin bag and urged you to drink its contents.

The feeling of cool, fresh water soothed your throat. He allowed you to take your sweet time, either ignoring or snarling in retaliation to the stares of others. No doubt, they have that nefarious glint in their eyes, there is something about you that screams "fresh meat" to them. Luckily, the majority of them get the message that you're already claimed.

You didn't notice that he tenderly placed his wide, cowboy hat onto your head. Shielding you away from the merciless sunrays and hiding you from the eyes of others.

And that, brings you to the present. There was still quite a long walk before you enter the heart of the market. You insisted on walking by yourself, persistently wriggling out of his hold when he tries to carry you. He understood and allowed it. Provided that he holds your hand... or wrist.

You put your shoe back on and dusted your hands off.

You grabbed his hand that he has been offering. He protectively wrapped his fingers around it and the both of you moved on. Letting the chatter of other patrons and the scraping of boots drown the silence between the two of you.

[deadbeatdaugter]

drop whatever you’re doing and read this series rn

[meyousing]

𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖔𝖗

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘: you had been by yourself for most of your life. the idea of meeting a stranger who could change that for you only seemed like something that would happen in a romantic film, not in real life. you were pleasantly surprised at how real this could very well be.

𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘: chrollo x reader, yandere, implied kidnapping, brief nsfw, mentions of violence. all of this is below the cut.

You had become accustomed to living alone, having grown up under the care (or rather lack thereof) of your grandmother. Life with her was typical, albeit bland, since she hadn’t provided much more for you aside from the bare necessities; any type of relationship nonexistent. You moved out as soon as you turned 18, wanting to experience what else life could offer you outside of a place where every day began to feel the same, and ultimately blur together. Years had passed since then, you were able to find a job that was stable (keyword stable, not so enjoyable, due to it being a dreaded retail job), but you had not bothered to meet any new friends outside of casual coworkers, nor had you ventured into the dating world just yet, as you had grown used to disappointment with the boys you had met in your teens. Perhaps it was from your grandmother’s indirect neglect in your developmental years that made the idea of seeking out new relationships of any kind seem of no use to you. However, shifts at your usually drab retail job now felt worth attending, you suddenly looked forward to helping other people with their woes at your customer service desk. Something you regularly hated; now a joy, all because of someone in your life who had given you a new outlook. 

Your usual workday consisted of getting to work at 7:30am following a brief routine, packing away your personal belongings in your designated locker, and walking out to tend to the front desk of your supercentre. The place was a bit dead right now, New Years having just passed; the store now entering its “ghost months” since there was no urgent holiday coming up for everyone to buy items in bulk for. Contrary to the popular belief that these ghost months would be a relaxing time for you since the store was simply less busy, that was not true. If you had received a cent for the amount of customers who would come in and try to refund holiday decor that they pretended they hadn’t used (meanwhile you understood they were just being cheap, but couldn’t exactly say that to them) and was defective (how would they know this if they claimed not to have used it?), you could probably retire early. There was one day in particular where the amount of customers coming in to angrily try and refund a Christmas tree or New Years airhorns was absurd; your patience waning as your shift progressed. You began to expect that every customer walking over to you was about to tell you the same tale, to unload the same item onto your desk. It wasn’t until a few hours before the end of your shift that the masses began to die down and you finally felt like you could breathe again; that perhaps the last disgruntled man who exited the premises with tinsel banners falling out of his arms was actually the last of them. You had taken a moment to compose yourself and looked down to your phone, idly swiping up and down to see if you’d gotten any notifications in that time, hoping something would show up to distract the growing rage in your mind; when the sound of a customer clearing their throat brought you out of your phone-induced stupor. 

You hadn’t known that your first interaction with this customer would not be your last.

He was just so… normal? It was hard to pinpoint the right word. Right off the bat, he was different from most customers; you had gotten so used to the old, frazzled people demanding to speak to a manager before you could offer them any kind of solution; making your shoulders tense up and stay that way. This man, however, simply asked you for directions to somewhere else in the city. He walked up to your desk seemingly out of nowhere, you looked up at him and noted his appeal instantly; trying to not let that distract you from his question. Longer black hair slightly covered a cloth wrapped around his forehead, a black turtleneck hugging his muscular form covered slightly by a black trench coat. He told you that he had wanted to treat his coworkers to a nice dinner, since they were all staying in your city for some work-related purpose, yet he could not locate the restaurant he intended on taking them to. His charismatic speech made what would have otherwise been a quick, short conversation into something that nearly got you in trouble with your managers for “slacking”; not even realizing you’d spent half an hour chatting away with the man. He had initially leaned into the counter and asked for your opinion on the restaurant, his attentiveness to your thoughts about something as trivial as a local diner’s greasy food making your cheeks heat up (even the tone of voice he had when asking; smooth and kind). From there the conversation continued, until that half hour ended with him sheepishly apologizing to your irritated manager and asking you for your phone number, to keep chatting at a more convenient time. Your hand was a bit shaky while you wrote it down for him on a sticky note, even signing it with your name and adding a cheeky little heart in the corner–his charm seemed to have rubbed off on you, giving you the confidence to add the little detail. His fingers brushed against yours as you handed it to him, exchanging smiles, with his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer, before he exited the premises. 

With that meeting as your first–despite the captivating aura he possessed–he hadn’t even really set a high standard in your head just yet; perhaps due to you always being disappointed by past men who would seem too good to be true, just like this, but then eventually reveal their true intentions, and how they were directed to your body instead of you. Yet this man seemed to check every box; he was not too good to be true. 

 Your first date brought you both to a cafe, and you could recall the weather that day being quite dreary.You’d ordered a chai tea to keep yourself warm, the rain that pattered against the window at the side of your booth being easily tuned out by your heart-to-heart with the man who had introduced himself to you as Chrollo. 

“Did your work dinner go well?” you asked, fingers clasped around your mug as you brought it to your lips. The heat of the tea warmed your insides, giving you that “warm and fuzzy” feeling, though you were certain that the sensation was coming from a different source.

Chrollo smiled at you. “It was… alright. I should have expected nothing more from a diner, I figured that your description of the place as greasy was meant for the restaurant, not the food.” He then made a minorly disgusted expression as he reminisced, making you giggle, which was followed by his own fond chuckle at your reaction. 

“A greasy restaurant? Like what, the workers or something?”

“I guess so… I don’t know. I guess I was just so entranced by you last we spoke that I wasn’t thinking straight” he rubbed his neck bashfully. You couldn’t help but try to hide your face in your hand, cheeks lighting up at his words. 

“There’s no need to be such a sweet talker” you chuckled shyly, not missing how his face softened even further at the sight of you becoming so flustered so easily. Something flashed in his eyes then, something you took as mutual infatuation. His hand reached towards the one you had covering your cheek, bringing it down to the table and holding it there briefly. He slowly raised it to his lips, kissing your knuckles while maintaining eye contact. If his words were enough to have you a ruffled mess, his actions caused that tenfold. You were certain that your entire head was fuming red by now, his actions rendering you speechless. He lowered your hand again, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.

“If you find the truth in my words to be sweet talking, I’m delighted to make you feel that way.”

That date led to many more, and after about a month and a half you two had agreed upon exclusivity; a relationship. At first, you hadn’t expected anything this serious to ever come of your whirlwind romance, especially since your first-ever conversation with him implied to you that he was not from your city, and that he was only visiting for a time. As you got to know him further, he explained to you that while it was difficult for him to let you know exactly what he does for work, he and his employees travelled for it all of the time by his call, and he had decided that after meeting you, this city was where he wanted to stay. You were more than happy to let him reside with you in your apartment, and he accepted your offer with utmost gratitude (he still expresses thanks to you to this day). Knowing that it was convenient for him to continue his life and job as normal, while deciding to be with you, made your heart swell with a sort-of pride, you were absolutely enamoured. Nobody had ever made such a grave decision for you before, and that wasn’t his only one. He was utterly devoted to you, being with Chrollo was like being with a prince you could have only ever imagined being present in a fairytale. It made you feel as though holding off on relationships for most of your life was worth it, that divine timing had given you your person right when it was supposed to happen. 

 There had been one too many dates when he decided to unexpectedly bring you gifts, usually a piece of jewellery that you knew had to be more expensive than what could account for months worth of rent for your apartment. You were still unsure of his exact job by now, but you knew his wage must have been extremely high to be able to afford these things for you. You almost felt guilty for not being able to return the favour with anything of the same calibre, yet he insisted that your love was more than enough–or as he said in particular; more than he deserved. He always pampered you, offering you a massage or running you a bath if you had a particularly rough day at work; though knowing that you’d come home to him and that alluring smile made rougher work days slowly become a thing of the past, your anticipation of seeing your lover again outweighing any anxiety or frustration that your job would try to inflict upon you. He was always attentive to your needs, making food for you that he knew you preferred, and ensuring to correct it (or send it back, depending on the circumstances) if it wasn’t to your liking. He was also attentive to your other needs, giving you whatever you wanted whenever you wanted it, while being respectful of any boundaries you set. He was the closest thing that you could ever compare to perfect. And it was because of his respect for you, that you had never questioned something that has burned itself into your curiosity, you tended to wonder about it all the time; why did he always wear that makeshift bandana around his forehead? you had never seen him without it. Although, plenty of people had one particular fashion staple in most of their outfits, so you’d left your curiosities at that. You couldn’t deny that it looked really good on him anyways.

Your whine was stifled by Chrollo’s lips as he lifted his chest off of yours, resting on his elbows as he pulled his softening cock out of  you. He broke the kiss to sit back fully, you instantly missing the warmth of his body and reaching out for him. He chuckled hoarsely, linking his fingers with yours. 

“I’ll be back in a minute, okay? I’m just going to get a cloth for you.” You nodded when he squeezed your hand tenderly before feeling his weight leave the bed. It was a bit late into the night, late enough for it to be completely black outside; the only visibility coming from the street lights that illuminated a small area of your bedroom, the silhouette of falling snow making you feel serene. You watched through your eyelashes as Chrollo walked to the bathroom, observing how he leisurely turned on the light, wrapped his black bath robe around himself, and grabbed a small wash cloth. Your eyes drifted closed as your body continued to come down from the high you had just felt, listening to Chrollo turn on the tap, feeling relaxed by the sound of running water. Chrollo wet the material with warm water as he had done for you in the past, and you could hear him sauntering back to you after the tap was turned off and the cloth was wrung out, lightly tapping you on the thigh to get your attention. You had subconsciously closed your legs while waiting for him, now parting them slightly and feeling Chrollo’s cum seep out of you, making a lewd chill run across your body at the sensation. He always knew just how to make love to you; leaving you so pleasantly exhausted right after climaxing that you had to fight to stay awake. Chrollo always let you rest, but he insisted on cleaning and caring for you first so you could fall asleep comfortably. Your eyes squinted open as he wiped you off, watching him as he focused on ensuring your comfort. As your once sweaty body began to dry, and the cold weather started to make itself familiar to you again, goosebumps rose all across your body. This went slightly unnoticed by Chrollo when he stood and turned to dispose of the rag. You shivered and reached out to halt him, hand wrapped loosely around his wrist and catching his attention as he looked back to you curiously. 

“Cold” you complained with a quiet tone, voice a bit shaky as another chill rattled your body when you spoke. Chrollo grinned sympathetically at you, leaning forward and placing a kiss on your forehead, the warmth of his lips bringing you comfort. “Let me get you something to wear, then we’ll sleep.”

You relented and released his arm with a nod, arms coming over your chest so you could rub your arms and try to heat up, though Chrollo never kept you waiting for long whenever you needed something. He walked away once again and your eyes had fluttered shut from fatigue while you waited, the idea of sleep beginning to seduce you more and more. You noted Chrollo’s return as you felt him guide your arms above your head, helping you into one of his long sleeved tops (you could tell it was his from the lingering scent of his cologne near the neckline as it went over your nose). Then he slid a pair of boyshort panties up your legs, making sure the waistband hung on a comfortable spot along your hips before squeezing them sweetly and joining you on the bed once again. You let your eyes strain open one last time so you could follow his movements and slot yourself against his side, head on his chest and leg hiked over his torso as he laid on his back against the pillows. He lifted a heavy blanket over top of yourselves, arms coming together around your body to hold you even closer.

“We’ll have to get a new heater for you, love. You’re freezing now, and I thought I had warmed you up quite well” he murmured with a soft chuckle as his hand moved to stroke along your thigh, watching the bumps raise as his chilly fingers trailed along your skin. 

“I didn’t even know it was on. Didn’t think it was that bad” you muttered, lips squished against his torso slurring your speech. Chrollo smiled at your response, and one of his hands left you to reach at the night table, your ears perking up to the swish of pages from a book as he brought it to his side. You knew he had planned to read and write for a bit, something you didn’t need to open your eyes to know about since he did it almost every night. 

“I’ll write it down here so we don’t forget.” You then heard scribbles of the small pen that he kept like a bookmark inside of the journal. You intended to at least nod in acknowledgement to what he said, but sleep was starting to welcome you with open arms, and you had trouble resisting. Chrollo could tell that you had fallen asleep by the slowness in your breathing, only bringing a hand up to caress your hair to lull you deeper. 

Typically, your sleep after sex with Chrollo was solid, and you were a considerably heavy sleeper during, though for some reason tonight was different. Perhaps it was due to the cold winter air, but when you awoke, you didn’t feel as cold anymore, your body seemed to have equalized its temperature from the combination of the blanket and Chrollo’s body heat as you slept. Instead, your attention was caught by a sound; a soft buzzing that rang out every other second from somewhere distant in the bedroom. You slowly opened your eyes, and in your fatigue-induced delirium, had not realized that Chrollo was not against you anymore. More specifically; he was no longer in bed, or the room. This alerted you slightly and you looked around, noticing that nothing in the room seemed out of the ordinary aside from his missing presence. That was until you saw his phone resting on top of his book, which had been placed neatly back onto the night stand. The screen was lit up in the darkness, vibrating as if he were getting a call. It was hard to see what was on the screen from your distance, your eyes still a bit foggy, so you began to inch closer to it. Normally, you would never think about invading someone’s privacy like this; especially Chrollo’s, but him not being around confused and concerned you. Not to mention how odd it was for something like this to wake you up, the phone must have been ringing nonstop for minutes for it to have had this much of an impact on your consciousness. 

Hesitantly, you rubbed the remaining sleep away from your eyes before crawling over to Chrollo’s side of the bed, slowly grabbing at his phone just as it stopped vibrating. The trembling completely stopped once the device was in your grasp, making no sense to you, since you hadn’t hit any buttons yet. You blinked a few times, the sudden brightness of the screen in an otherwise pitch black room made your eyes burn for a moment. Once your vision adjusted, you saw the time across the top of Chrollo’s wallpaper (a photo of you from a picnic you’d had weeks prior), it said 3:45–meaning it had been nearly 4 hours since you had fallen asleep. The rest of the phone showed just one, untitled notification that took up the rest of the screen:

Look up.

A chill ran down your spine, the notification filling you with unreasonable dread. Phones usually did not ring at the rate that his was unless it were from a caller instead of a texter, and if this had been a genuine text message; it would have been from a contact, and would not be taking up the entire surface of the phone. This felt fabricated, like it was purposeful and meant to be seen by you specifically. Again, you began to feel a bit unreasonable as you sat there, hunched over with your muscles still, neck craned down to the hand in your lap where the phone screen began to dim from not being touched. How pathetic, feeling so startled, just from an unusual phone notification. In the grand scheme of the situation, this was not as unnerving as being alone right now. After rationalizing the odd appearance of Chrollo’s phone, you instead began thinking about a disappearance that was certainly much more important right now…where was he this late at night?

“You’re usually more compliant than that.”

Chrollo’s voice came out of nowhere and you couldn’t help but jolt in surprise, head turning to the bedroom door which you hadn’t realized was wide open this entire time. Because of the darkness, the entire hallway was merely a shadow; you couldn’t see anything. But you knew that his voice had come from there.

“Chrollo?”

“At least, you tend to comply a lot faster than you did just now. If I hadn’t intervened, would you have looked up at all?”

You knitted your eyebrows in confusion, unable to say anything in response to this. What was he doing? You wanted to ask him exactly that, but his emergence from the darkness caught you off guard. He looked… different.

Despite only being illuminated on one side by the street light outside that shone dimly into your bedroom, you saw that his usually shaggy hair was slicked back and off of his forehead, and he wore an outfit you had never seen before. Shirtless, but his fair skin was somewhat covered by a grand coat that lined his neck with fur and ran down to his ankles. He had pants on that could have matched the dark colour of his coat, but you couldn’t see the tone that well in the shade of the room. Though, what was most notable of this sudden appearance change, was the lack of cloth around his head. 

You suddenly felt much more awake, eyes shooting up to his forehead and spotting a tattoo that resembled a type-of cross in the centre of it. Your distance from him in the dimness made it hard to fully see in detail, but something about what you could see made you think that this tattoo was heavily symbolic for him. Why else would he have hid it from the public for so long, even hiding it from you this far into your relationship? Your relationship with Chrollo was most stably built upon respect, yet you were unable to stop yourself from immediately asking him exactly what you had been thinking, tone coming out a lot sharper than you had intended:

“Why would you hide that from me for so long?” You had instantly regretted it. He had not reacted right away, nor did he say anything for a moment. Assuming this was because of your suddenness–asking something that truthfully was not your place to ask, especially in that tone–you took your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed on it nervously; not wanting to say anything else just yet so as to not worsen what damage you’d already inflicted. You hadn’t used a tone like that with him thus far, feeling a little bit guilty despite how obviously it was accidental. But then to your confusion, Chrollo chuckled, beginning a stride into the room, towards you. 

“I had to wait until the time was right. You know, a lot of planning had to be done the moment that I picked you. I knew I made the right decision on our first outing together. Everything just had to be done slowly, on the right schedule, but now that most of it has been finalized, I feel that we’re ready.”

His words confused you entirely. He had unloaded too much information at once, your brain completely frazzled by his words.

“What are you talking about?”

Chrollo’s lips pursed then broke into a grin, you hadn’t noticed how quickly he managed to walk over and stand directly in front of you until he was right there, his legs pressing against the edge of the bed as his hands raised to rest in his pockets. You backed off slightly, deciding to keep some distance between you both until the situation started to make more sense. From his new look, to the unusual tone in his words and manner of speech, you felt less comfortable being so close to him. Something was not right with him, you couldn’t tell how serious he was being right now. Was he in the mood for some late night prank?

“My naive little (y/n). You’re just…so perfect for me.” He tilted his head slightly, watching your defensive form with endearment in his eyes. Your knees have been brought to your chest, a hand holding onto one while the other holds you up and off of the pillows. 

“You’ll be coming with me from now on, it’s time to leave this place.” He said this with finality, and his voice made it so that; had he said something less irrational, you almost wouldn’t have questioned it, but when his words registered in your brain you had to. 

“What? Chrollo, if you want to move we can talk about it. Maybe at a different time, like over dinner or something…not in the middle of the night.” Okay, so if this wasn’t some sort of prank and instead just his proposition to move out with you…why did he decide to do this right now? why could he not have waited until the morning to ask you this…you were tired! Yet Chrollo’s expression unnerved you as he smiled in a way that would have usually made you blush, had the circumstances been different.

“You really are adorable. Come here.”

He kneeled onto the bed, sitting on the side opposite of you while extending his hand. You still felt uneasy about this, the vagueness of what he was telling you left you with more questions than any kind of answers. For the sake of getting to the bottom of what he was doing, what was going on, you took your time as you scooted closer to him, placing your hand flat on top of his palm. He then placed his other hand on top of yours, effectively trapping it between both of his. His grip wasn’t painful or anything, but you knew that it would take some effort to get out of it without him just letting you go. You usually would never consider taking your hands away from him, yet you felt the need to be guarded right now.

“Have we ever talked about the Phantom Troupe?”

He looked right into your eyes as he waited for your answer. You shook your head no, and were not looking forward to wherever this conversation was going. You knew of the phantom troupe and what they do; what they’ve done. What’s with bringing this up out of nowhere? You two never talked about such obscure topics, he knew how you felt about injustices. Bringing up a group that embodies the word was something you hadn’t expected him to do.

“A pity. But I suppose it’s never too late.”

His grip tightened on your hand then. The squeeze was so hard, it now ensured that your hand was stuck where it was; you were connected to him until he allowed you to be let go.

“Chrollo, my hand–” you whimpered.

“You’ve always been alone. You’re an outcast, just like the rest of us.”

Ouch. Naturally with being in a relationship, you’d spoken to him about many personal woes, especially your lack of a real family, your lack of genuine, close friends. You always told him how much joy it brought you to finally be able to go on outings with someone who meant the world to you, and you to them–that someone being Chrollo. Your throat started to swell and your eyes watered. An outcast? He had never spoken to you this way before, insecurity plagued you.

“Why…would you say that to me?”

“Because it’s what makes you so perfect. It was fate that brought us together, (y/n). Now that we’re established, it’s time you hear the truth and continue your life the way it was meant to be lived.” His hand on top of yours rubbed along the side of your wrist soothingly.

“It doesn’t have to be an official inauguration, but I’d like for you to join me and the rest of the spiders.”

He barely gave you any time to fathom the weight of that sentence before he continued.

“I truly do love you, (y/n). I wouldn’t have stayed in one place for such a long time if not for you. It posed a bit of a risk at points, trying to operate in such a small town for longer than the duration of our initial mission. But this era has reached its end, it’s time to go home.”

He stopped talking then, allowing silence to fall, to let his words linger for a bit. Your eyes slowly panned down and away from him as you stared off blankly, yet your mind raced at a mile a minute. Your boyfriend…your angelic, loving and devoted boyfriend, was a member of the phantom troupe. By that same logic, he was a criminal, with a Class-A bounty on his head. And now, he wanted you to come with him as he continued his rampage in other places of the world. Your heart thrummed rapidly, ears ringing and chest beginning to heave laboured breaths as the reality of this situation truly dawned on you. Chrollo, who you had been vulnerable with, showed tender parts of your heart and body, was a lie. He was not who he claimed to be, yet you had been so utterly fooled. Naive, like he said you were. 

You were certain that he could feel your hand beginning to clam up, and you started to drag it out of his grasp. As expected, his grip had not let up just yet, your effort futile. You imagined that maybe if you expressed your want to be let go, he would. Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you hated how different they looked. Eyes that were usually tender and loving, or so you thought–maybe they never truly were tender or loving–now looked much darker. Narrowed, sharp and focused right on you. He still seemed so definitive in his words, in his decision to “bring you home,” wherever that may be. 

“I…” you started, your throat dry and making the syllable sound more like a crack in your voice. You swallowed hard then cleared your throat, not wanting to have to repeat yourself once you had said what you planned to say, since you were beginning to feel ill. You hadn’t noticed that your eyes had shut immediately after catching sight of his stare, in a subconscious way to cower away from the intensity of it. You forced yourself to be brave and stare back right back at him once again, though anyone else with eyes could tell your bravery was a front. 

“I…will not be going with you. That lifestyle is not for m–”

“Of course you would think that you have a choice” he cut you off and chortled, despite his tone being humourless, almost disappointed. You didn’t like the sound of it. “It was cute of you to think so. You don’t need to partake in the lifestyle, but you’ll be at my side no matter where we spiders go.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, and panic began to seep in. You really did not want any part of this anymore, and you started pulling away from his hold even harder now. The finality of his words made you anxious, your once watery eyes now fully shedding tears. You thrashed back and dug your feet into the mattress, exerting as much strength as possible into getting away from him. If you blinked you would have missed it; Chrollo smirking from the corner of where your eyes were focused on your interlocked hands, before he slightly loosened his grip. With the amount of power being put into your squirming, it caused you to fly against the pillows and land on your back away from him, skull having been inches away from hitting the headboard. He was on top of you in an instant, and you immediately recoiled and tried to wiggle away from him, but he had managed to pin down your limbs. 

“Chrollo, please don’t make me go with you, I’m happy here! I’ll keep your secret, if you just leave me behind, I promise–” He leaned closer to you as you became hysterical, the unexpected proximity making you panic as you hiccuped, trying so desperately to wriggle out from under him and just run. “I’m used to being alone like you said, you can leave me here, I won’t hold it against you!” you sobbed.

“Don’t cry, my love.” He brought up his hand to thumb at the tears dripping down your cheek, and you despised how quickly the feeling of his palm against your face managed to calm your hysterics down–as if none of this had actually happened–that the man caressing your face was indeed the same Chrollo you knew and fell in love with. But his appearance alone helped you to know better; that tattoo now becoming his most prominent feature as he stared down at you. Your body stilled for the most part, aside from the rise and fall of your chest in quick succession, as well as your quiet cries.

“I’m begging you…” you whispered, sniffling and taking a deep breath to try and regulate it. The look on Chrollo’s face could almost be described as sympathetic, eyebrows meeting sadly as his hand pressed further into your cheek. But you were starting to know better. 

“I know that you’ve been alone for your entire life.” He began to speak, his hand slowly sliding down from your cheek and closer to your neck. The change in placement made you whimper; this being an action he’d done to you in the past that you had learned to associate with pleasure, but now filled you with dread.

Before you could say anything else, not even a second had passed, and suddenly there was a horrible sensation in your throat, like you had been punched. You groaned, and it should have been audible, yet you couldn’t make a sound–your vocal chords had somehow been struck. Your eyes widened in fear and confusion as you tried to make a noise, anything at all, only to remain silent. What just happened?

Your pain made it so that you had barely noticed how Chrollo’s hand seemed to have moved positions within that time–not quite in the same spot as it was before–it was a bit lower on your neck now and closer to your collarbones. His fingers wrapped against the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing along your throat. He wore a much too prideful smile, and it was in that moment that you realized what kind of power Chrollo had secretly been capable of; what he had over you. No matter what you wanted, if it was different from what he desired, there would be nothing you could do. 

He leaned even closer to you, hand starting to squeeze around your throat painfully as your eyes screwed shut. He dug his thumb hard into the side of your trachea, forcing your eyes wide open as pain cramped under the pressure of his hand. Your vision began to strain, periphery darkening. His nose brushed against yours as he murmured his next words, which you almost missed as reality began to black out around you. 

“I promise, you’ll never be alone again.”

© meyousing 2022. do not share/export my work on to any other platforms. do not translate my work.