Call me Dream. (Blog run by 1 member of a DID system, may go through periods of inactivity.) dark content blog, highly NSFW. Mun is 25, must have age in bio to interact. I write and repost Feitan Portor
This writing contains: pregnancy, smut, boob sucking, and other things, ïżŒ ïżŒïżŒ
âââââââââââ
7 months pregnant has done many things to you. Given you a glowing complexion. A sudden hatred for loud noises. An emotional attachment to oddly shaped pillows.
And, most dangerously of allâŠ
your back aches, your feet are swollen, and there's a tiny human doing what feels like sword training, inside your womb. Getting off the bed slowly, grabbing the robe that is
tossed on the floor to cover yourself with. you pad downstairs quietly, hoping not to wake Feitan, though honestly at this point you're not sure why you bother. the man has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to you leaving the bed.
Youâre halfway down the stairs when you hear his voice break through the silence of the pitch black house.
âWhere..are youâŠgoing?
"kitchen," you call back, not bothering to hide the fact that you're on a mission.
Feitan is at the bottom of the stairs moments later, shirtless and irritable, his dark eyes fixed on you with that look that says he already knows this isn't going to end well. he's gotten used to your nocturnal adventures over the past seven months, but his tolerance for your increasingly unhinged food combinations is wearing thin.
âItâs almost 4âŠin the morningâ he says flatly.
â The baby is hungryâ which is technically a lie. The baby is not hungry. But you are, and you want something unhinged and unheard of.
pulling out a jar of pickles, chocolate syrup, and sriracha mayo. you can feel his stare intensify as you gather each item. the silence stretches between you, heavy with his judgmental eyes.
ââŠâŠNoâŠ.â
âYou donât even know what Iâm makingâ
âDoesnât matterâŠ.answers is noâ
but you're seven months pregnant, your hormones are a mess, and you're at that point where you genuinely don't care what anyone thinks about your food choices. you waddle over to him, hand on your lower back, and give him the look. the one you've perfected over months of pregnancy. the one that says if he doesn't help you right now you will not let him fuck your pregnant pussy, and you will cry, and he will feel guilty about it for the rest of his life.
twenty minutes later, you're both standing in the kitchen staring at your creation. pickles dipped in chocolate sauce with a generous dollop of sriracha mayo on the side. it looks like a crime against humanity. it probably is.
"try it" you say, holding out a pickle.
Feitan stairs at the pickle like it has personally wronged him.
â..NoâŠ.â
âFei, this baby that is in my womb at this very moment is yours. it was made from your sperm, that came out of your body. so if the baby is craving this, it must mean that you will most likely will like itâ
he sighs. it's a deep, resigned sigh that speaks volumes about his current life choices. he takes the pickle from your hand and brings it to his mouth like he's walking to his execution. you watch his face as he takes a bite, watches his expression contort into something between disgust and betrayal.
â ..disgustingâ
"the baby's been active tonight," you say softly, watching his expression shift. you take his free hand and place it on your belly, right where the baby just kicked.
his entire demeanor changes. whatever gruff exterior he's been maintaining completely softens as he feels the movement under his palm.
"strong," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"takes after their dad," you say softly
he doesn't respond verbally, but his hand stays on your belly, protective and warm.
âŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠâŠ..
In the early morning, 4 maybe 5 am, you were standing at the kitchen counter, holding the little pumping machine to your right breast as your face churned with a grimace. Your nipples were sore, from the machine sucking harshly and from how often you had to do it.
You had just started filling one of the little bottles, and as though Feitan knew what you were doing, he walked in. Squinting at you, almost asking what you were doing at this hour- till his eyes landed on your breasts you didn't bother to cover.
âGo back to sleep, I'll be done soon.â
you muttered in a groggy voice as the whirring woke Feitan up from the hazy state he was in.Â
He took a few steps towards you, watched the machine milk you. Jealous that a stupid machine had the right to and he didn't.
You didn't mind if he watched, but that's all you'd ever grant him. But directly after sex, when his chest would be drippng with the light cream colored liquid that leaked from your tits while he fucked you, and as he looked down to his pale body in the bathroom, the sink running on a hand towel as you waited for him to come back to help clean you up.
His fingers couldn't help but swipe at the liquid before placing it on his tongue. The whisper of your taste on his tongue made one thing clear in his mind. If he couldnât wrap his lips around your nipple and suck till there was nothing left- if you wouldnât grant him that one favor, the closest thing he had was to fuck you in missionary from now on.
His eyes watched as the plastic bottle filled up with milk, almost hypnotized by the liquid. You winced as the machine sucked at your sore nipple, which only made the cogs in Feitanâs brain start churning with schemes.
ââŠThey always look so⊠full,â Feitan says, not taking his eyes off your breast.
With that being said he starts to guided you to sit onto the couch as you've done plenty of times when you'd pump, he already knew how he wanted to be fed, he had thought about it over and over again. And settled on this position, his back was pressed against the tops of your thighs. His legs extended onto the couch, unashamed of his cock rising from staring at the cream droplet that threatened to fall from your nipple.
Your hand was on the back of his head, fingers filled with inky black hair.
a low groan rumbled onto your skin as he lightly pressed his parted lips onto the skin around your nipple. Feitans tongue circled at your hardening nipple, lapping softly.
Feitanâs lips were slow to start sucking, pulling your nipple further into his mouth with a lactogenic motion from his tongue.
It took very little effort to pull milk to the surface. But the moan that reverberated onto your breast from a fat droplet hitting Feitanâs tongue, it was bordering on pornographic. It was as though he saw the pearly gates of heaven when the droplet infiltrated the taste buds of his tongue.
Your milk was warm, thick enough to leave a light cast on his tongue as he tried to suckle more liquid from your nipple. Feitans mouth was latched onto you in a way you knew it would hurt to pull him off.
Your hand holding his head up started rubbing gently at his scalp, seeing frustration form on his delicate features, unknowing why. But you were almost trying to soothe him as whimpers vibrated onto your breast. Watching his eyebrows furrow and the growing blush on his cheeks to deepen as his eyes fluttered open.
You inhaled sharply, feeling his tongue trail from massaging the bottom of your nipple to the little mound that provided the milk. Tracing the tip of his tongue on your bud causing you to hiss his name in a warning.Â
That's all it took for him to continue suckling on your sore nipple. You were about to rest back onto the couch with a sigh, caressing the back of his head as you felt relief wash over your shoulders, allowing him to take what he needed
Then your eye caught his bicep flexing, and you trailed your eyes down his pale arm parting your lips in shock as you watched his unashamed hand palm himself through his gray sweats.Â
Feitan only moaned as he heard his name fall from your lips, feeling his mouth suck rougher in order to pull more milk from your heavy breast that threatened to suffocate his nose.
His hand hesitantly removed itself from the stiff bulge of his sweats
he greedily drank from your nipple, so greedily that the corners of his mouth were threatening to leak the honeyed fluid- he was suckling so much, he couldn't swallow fast enough. Â
You inhaled as his hand led your hand to his cock by your wrist, gasping softly with a tingle on your cheeks from how hard he was. Feita placed his larger hand atop yours, pressing it onto his painful erection
You sighed almost in pity as he let out various throaty whimpers, firmening your fingers around the print in his pants .
âOh Fieâ you soothed, knowing how hard he was, it had to be painful. his hips bucked up into your hand for more friction.
you maneuvered your hand on his bulge to free it from its torment.Â
For the first time since he latched onto your nipple, his lips parted from your breast with a low moan. The cold air hitting his pinkening tip causing him to furrow his eyebrows, but all it took was for the feeling to settle before he attached onto your draining nipple once more.
You kept a light touch on his cock. you to slowly start stroking him, stopping your grasp right before your fingers could roll onto his flushed tip.
and with one last lap of your nipple, Feitan
unlatched from your breast. Huffing softly as his breath tickled your damp nipple
It was embarrassing, the way your milk left trails of a light white film on his cheeks, the way he was breathing heavily with his cock in your hand. Vulnerable.Â
Feitan saw your flushed face- and to comfort you he raised himself from your thighs lightly, keeping a massaging hand on your unsucked breast as he pressed his plump lips to yours.
It was filthy, Mouths dancing against each other in pure delirium. Being able to taste yourself on his tongue, on his spit laced with milk.
âââââââââââââ
Been trying to finish some of my other work, but I donât even know how to end half of them -.-ïżŒ
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Teeth Beneath Your Tongue (4k words)
Feitan Portor x Reader
summary: You are summoned to a remote mountain castle by the reclusive Count Feitan, a wealthy nobleman surrounded by strange rumours and darker warnings. What begins as unease turns to terror when you discover what he truly isâand what he wants from you. You should run the moment he touches you. Instead, you let him bite. (notes: this fic was very much inspired by Bram Stoker's Dracula)
warnings/themes: Reader Insert, Vampire!AU, Vampire!Feitan, Human/Vampire Relationship, Teratophilia/Monsterfucking, Biting, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Transformation, Gothic Horror, Fear Play, Non-Graphic Smut, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Dark Romance, Possessive Behaviour, Loss of Virginity.
The carriage has long since left the last honest road. You know this because the wheels no longer make the sound of travel, but of endurance. They drag and jolt over broken ground, lurching so hard that you must keep one gloved hand braced against the wooden frame to stop yourself from being thrown against the opposite bench. The horses ahead snort clouds into the evening cold. Every now and then, one of them gives a nervous toss of its head, and the driver snaps the reins with haste. He wants this journey done.
So do you.
Yet the closer you come, the slower the world seems to move.
The forest has thinned to black trunks and stripped branches. What little country there was has fallen away behind you, and in its place the land has become raw and stony, all jutting rock and grey earth with hardly a blade of green left to it. Even the snow cannot make it lovely. It lies in the hollows and clings to the roots in dirty drifts, as though the mountain has shrugged it off.
When you left the village, no one had tried to stop you.
Your mother had taken your hands and pressed them once between her own, dry and hot, but she had not met your eyes. The innkeeperâs wife had drawn a cross over her chest after turning away, thinking you would not notice. The boy who carried your case to the coach had done it with such speed that he nearly stumbled in the mud. No one spoke of Count Feitan above a murmur. No one said plainly that you ought not go. They merely watched you depart as one watches a candle being set too near a curtain.
You had told yourself that poor country people will always embroider a gentleman with stories if he lives alone and keeps his own counsel. A rich man in a mountain castle is bound to grow horns by rumour alone. But now, with dusk drawing in and that same castle beginning to show itself between great dark shoulders of stone, that reassurance sits badly in your stomach.
It rises not all at once, but in pieces. A tower first, narrow and severe against the bruised sky. Then another. Then the full breadth of it, built into the mountain as though the rock itself had pushed up walls and windows in some ancient fit of pride. It is larger than you imagined; larger, too, than seems sensible for a place so remote. Its steep roofs are frosted white. Its windows, seen from afar, are black and blind.
The horses slow of their own accord.
The driver mutters something you donât catch. He will not look back at you. By the time the carriage jolts to a halt at the front steps, he has climbed down already and set your case upon the frozen ground.
He doesnât offer you his hand. So you gather your skirts and descend without it, standing before the castle with your heart beating far too fast for a woman who means to conduct herself with dignity.
The driver climbs back to his seat at once.
"Youâre not staying?" You ask, unable to keep the strain from your voice.
His shoulders hunch under his coat. "No horses âere after dark."
Before you can reply, he has snapped the reins. The carriage wheels grind, the lamps swing, and then heâs gone, turning so sharply that one horse nearly slips. You stand alone with your case in one hand and the cold wind biting at your face.
The front doors are immense. Ironwork curls over dark wood old enough to have lost any shine it might have once possessed. There is a knocker the size of your forearm, fashioned in the shape of some winged thing whose face has been worn almost smooth. You take hold of it, lift, and let it fall.
The sound travels inward and seems not to end.
Nothing follows.
No servants. No voices. Only the wind worrying at your skirts and the distant, unhappy cries of something far lower down on the mountain.
You wait for a moment. Then, because the thought of standing on those steps any longer is worse than the thought of impropriety, you press at one of the doors.
It opens at once. A breath of cold, stale air moves over you from within.
"Hello?" You call, and hear your own voice come back to you, altered by the vastness beyond.
You step inside. The entrance hall is large enough to shame a church. Your boots sound small on the stone. A long carpet, faded to no clear colour at all, runs away into the gloom, and portraits hang high on the walls, their subjects lost beneath age and shadows. Above, a chandelier droops with dark crystals and unlit candles. The place does not have the disordered filth of abandonment. Itâs worse than that. It is kept. Not by many hands, but by some hard principle that allows dust in the corners and darkness in every height, while permitting not one chair to sit askew.
You pass beneath one archway and then another, following the only sign of life: a softer light somewhere ahead.
It draws you to a study of sorts, though that word feels too small for the room. Shelves climb the walls, a fire burns low upon a broad hearth, and curtains hang in long, heavy folds. There is a desk, a table laid with untouched decanters, and before the hearth a tall-backed chair turned partly away.
A strange shadow falls across the rug before the man himself moves, stopping you where you stand.
He rises without haste and turns to face you.
He is not what you expected.
You had built someone much larger in your mind. Broad, perhaps, and silver-haired, with the pomp of age and wealth hanging off him in rings and velvet. This man is slight; shorter than many of the labourers in your village, lean enough that the dark clothes he wears seem to sharpen him rather than soften his frame. Black from throat to boot, save for the pallor of his hands and face and the strip of purple silk wound over the lower half of his face, he might have been taken from the darkest part of the room and set on his feet. His coat is close-fitted and severe, with a high collar and long, narrow lines that make him look taller than he is. Dark hair falls untidily around a face far too fine-boned to be pleasant. His eyes are grey; not warm grey, but the colour of a blade kept from the weather.
At first, you feel a flicker of relief. That is your mistake.
Feitan sees it. Something changes at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Something meaner.
"You came," he says.
"I did, sir," you answer, striving for composure. "I am sorry to enter unannounced, but no one answered the door."
"No one here but me."
His speech is strange: careful and broken in places, as if he has learned your language from books and chosen only those parts of it he finds worth using.
The fire settles with a low sound behind him. He does not ask you to sit so, instead, you lower your case and fold your hands before you.
"I received your letter. You wrote that my presence was requested on a matter of importance."
"Important to me," he says. "That enough."
Itâs not the answer of a gentleman, nor is it given as an apology.
Feitan comes a little nearer. Close enough that you can see how still he holds himself. No wasted motion or social softness that eases the space between strangers. His gaze moves over you in silence, beginning at your face and ending lower, measuring with such cool attention that you have to stop yourself from stepping back.
"I hope," you say, because the quiet has become intolerable, "that you did not send for me merely to inspect me as livestock."
His eyes lift to yours.
"Not livestock," he replies. "Bride."
The word leaves your thoughts utterly blank.
"Sir?"
He extends one hand.
"Come here."
Everything in you says not to move. A well-brought-up girl knows when a situation has crossed the bounds of decency, even in a strange house. Yet something in the room has altered since he last spoke; the firelight seems lower, the air has grown close. You tell yourself that refusing would be childish, that he is only an odd man with poor manners, and if there is some misunderstanding, it must be cleared at once.
You take two steps. Thatâs enough for him. He catches your wrist with sudden force and turns your hand palm-up. A startled cry escapes you.
His fingers are cold. Not with the chill of the room, but with a lifeless cold that seems to come from within him.
"This is not properâplease let me go," you say, trying to pull back.
Feitan doesnât release you. His thumb rests against the inside of your wrist, not in any courting way; pressed there, rough and intent. His gaze has dropped to that small place beneath your glove where your pulse leaps wild beneath his touch.
His nostrils flare. "Mm. Good," he murmurs.
Only then does it occur to you to be truly frightened.
You pull harder. "Let me go."
He lifts his head. Those grey eyes catch yours full on, and the room seems to shift around them. Not in truth. You know that, and yet the edges of things blur. The fire becomes a soft smear of gold. The books lose their shapes. Only his face remains clear; pale and fixed before you, beautiful in a way that offers no comfort at all.
"Stay still," he says.
You do.
Horror comes not from the sight of his mouth, but from the ease with which it changes. His lips part. White lengthens behind them. Not blunt human teeth; something finer, narrower, made for puncture.
Your scream never fully forms. Feitan bends his head, and his mouth fastens to your wrist.
Pain flashes sharp enough to clear every spell from your mind. You wrench yourself backwards with all the strength panic gives a body. His grip slips in blood. You stumble, striking the corner of the table so hard that the decanters rattle. Two scarlet marks burn on your wrist. He straightens slowly, and there is a smear of red at the edge of his mouth.
You do scream then. He tilts his head, as though listening to a bird.
You run.
Out of the study and into the corridor beyond, skirts in your fists, shoes sliding on the stone floor. Your own breath roars in your ears. You snatch at the wall once to keep from falling and leave a streak of blood upon some old panelling.
The passage you came through is no longer the passage you remember. There are too many doors. Too many turns. Stairs where no stairs had been. Candle flames gutter as you pass, though there is no wind inside.
Behind you, you hear no pursuit. That makes it worse.
You take the stairs anyway, climb them in blind terror, and find not the entrance hall, but a gallery lined with tall windows full of the night sky. Moonlight lies in bars across the floor. Your shadow runs before you, stretches, shiversâthen another shadow crosses over it from above, though when you twist your head upward, nothing is there.
You choke on a cry and flee again.
The castle will not keep still. One corridor narrows into another. A door that ought to open onto some servantâs passage gives way instead to a chamber enormous enough to belong in a palace. A bed stands upon a dais, four posts rising into a canopy thick with violet velvet. A fire burns low here, too, yet you cannot imagine who lit it. The curtains are half-drawn. The bedspread glimmers dark purple in the unsteady light.
You back into the room because there is nowhere else to go.
Then the door closes behind you with a soft, final thud.
Feitan is already there.
Not in the doorway. Not coming through it. Merely there, a little to your left, one hand loose at his side, the other still faintly bloodied at the fingers, as though the chamber has always contained him.
Your knees weaken.
He advances, and now at last there is haste in him, but not the clumsy haste of a human man. It is something cleaner. More certain. You retreat until the back of your knees hit the bed.
"Please," you whisper, though you do not even know what you mean to beg for.
He looks at your mouth when you speak. Then, at the marks on your wrist. Then back to your eyes.
"Ran badly," he says.
You scramble backwards over the bed, trying to keep distance between you, but it gives under your weight and slows you. He reaches you with contemptuous ease. One knee comes onto the mattress. Then the other. The canopy curtains stir around him like dark water.
"Youâre a monster," you breathe.
His hand closes around your ankle through your stocking.
"Yes."
There is no defence against an answer like that.
He drags you down the bed a little, enough to bring you within his reach, and bends over you. You imagine he will bite you at once. Instead, he puts one hand beside your shoulder and studies you with such close scrutiny that it feels almost insulting. There is blood on his lower lip still. Without knowing why, you lift your trembling fingers and touch it.
His gaze sharpens.
You ought to recoil. But your hand lingers.
The change in him is small but terrible; his eyelids lower, his mouth parts a little on a breath he doesnât seem to need. When he kisses you, it is not with courtly care or with the fumbling greed of a stable-boy. It is deliberate and strange, as though he has decided this, too, is a form of taking and intends to do it thoroughly.
You do not turn your face away.
The cold of him disappears the moment his mouth is on yours. He tastes of smoke and blood and something darkly sweet beneath it. His hand goes to the back of your neck. The other gathers the front of your dress in his fist and tugs, not enough to tear, but enough to tell you that cloth is no obstacle he much respects.
The terror in you has not gone. It has changed; it runs molten through your limbs. You feel it in the arch of your throat, in the unsteady press of your knees, in the shameful softness opening through your belly each time his mouth leaves yours, only to return, deeper, slower, as though he means to make you understand the shape of him by force of repetition alone.
He says your name once, as if testing whether it belongs in his mouth.
Then his hands begin their work. You scarcely know how it happens. Only that buttons seem suddenly too many, ribbons too tight, bodice too confining, and that his touch is deft enough to strip away each small defence until the chill of the chamber reaches skin that no stranger has ever seen. He looks at you then with such grave concentration that you burn hotter for it.
"Wanted this," Feitan says. His eyes move over your body, exact and unhurried. "Now I have."
His mouth finds the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulder, the upper swell of your breast. Not breaking skin, merely pressing heat and teeth enough to mark sensation there. You clutch at the black cloth of his coat. Beneath it he is lean and hard, his body all taut muscle beneath your hands. When he moves lower, settling between your thighs with that same frightening lack of ceremony, your body gives a startled tremor from heel to scalp.
He glances up once, his grey eyes almost glowing in the candlelight. "You stay."
There is some old, womanly part of you that ought to die of shame. Another part, newer and more dangerous, only opens.
The room grows indistinct after that. Velvet. Candle-flame. His dark head bent over you. The bed-curtains swaying though no draft reaches them. Your own voice, breathless and not sounding one bit like yours. He is merciless in his attention. Not tender. Not cruel for sport either, but wholly absorbed, as though every response he draws from you confirms something he has suspected for a very long time.
Feitan learns you quickly; the catch in your breath when his mouth presses in one place too long, the way your thighs tense before they part once more, the sound you make when the flat of his tongue presses steady, only to withdraw and return in narrower, more searching strokes. He doesnât hurry. That is part of the cruelty. He gives each reaction back to you magnified, as though he means to discover not merely what pleases you, but how much of it you can survive.
By the time he comes over you again and settles between your thighs, guiding you into a closeness from which there can be no return, your hands fly to his shoulders and hold there. You feel the throbbing weight of him, the contained strength beneath your palms, the pause he gives you before the next trespass. The quiet moment ought to sober you. Instead, it breaks whatever final thread of resistance remains. Perhaps it is the loss of blood. Perhaps the castle itself is full of some old intoxication. Perhaps it is only him.
You touch his face. His skin is cold beneath your fingers, his features fine and severe in the candlelight, his eyes fixed on yours with a strange and terrible steadiness. You draw in a breath.
Then his hips press forward.
He enters you with one hard thrust that steals all speech. The shock of it bows you beneath him, the canopy above blurs. He says something low and vicious in a language you do not recognise, forehead nearly touching yours, and then he moves again. Each stroke is deep and exact, enough to make your fingers clutch helplessly in his coat. He does not waste himself on frenzy. He keeps to a pace that forces you to feel every inch of him, every return of his body against yours, every measured withdrawal that only sharpens the next press deeper in. The rhythm becomes its own kind of enchantment: relentless, controlled, inescapable.
He watches every change in you with unnerving hunger. Watches your mouth part. Watches your eyes flutter closed. Watches the moment your fear and pleasure become so tangled that neither can be named cleanly.
"You came," he says, voice roughened now. "Over mountain. Into house. To me."
He kisses you again. Bites at your lower lip. Presses your wrists into the sheets, pinning you, claiming the place where your pulse gives you away. When your back arches beneath him, he gives a small, satisfied sound and shifts, just enough, just differently enough, that the next thrust strikes through you with a brightness that has your breath breaking altogether. You clutch at him with what dignity remains. He gives you no quarter for it. He only settles more firmly between your thighs and keeps on, each motion sharpened by that same eerie attention, as though he has already decided your body is a text he intends to read to the end.
"Long time," he mutters against your throat. "Too long. Wanted this. Wanted you here."
Itâs more than he has said at any point, and it lands in you with a strange weight. Not romance, exactly, but something grimmer. The patience of a creature that has sat in darkness, choosing, and at last found what it means to keep.
The mounting pleasure becomes almost unbearable in its force. Every motion draws you nearer to some edge you donât understand. Your legs tremble around him. Your fingers slip against the cloth covering his shoulders. Feitan feels it too. You know by the way his mouth leaves yours and hovers at your neck, by the way his nostrils flare, by the sudden strain that comes into his face as if restraint costs him.
"Mine now," he says thenânot as a loverâs sigh, but as a verdict.
His teeth sink into the side of your throat.
The cry that tears from you is not wholly fear, nor wholly pleasure. The two have become impossible to separate. Heat breaks through your body in violent waves. At the same time, a dizzy weakness steals into your limbs, exquisite and alarming. You feel the pull at your throat, the answering throb low in your belly, the rhythm of his body over yours, within yours, the whole of him taking and taking while the room drifts further from the earth.
The bed-curtains darken at the edges of your sight, candlelight swims. His mouth remains at your neck only a little while, yet long enough to make the chamber tilt sweetly out of reality. When he lifts his head, his lips are red again.
He is beautiful then in a way that no sermon ever warned properly against.
He looks down at you as if he has reached the end of some private vow.
"Bride," he says.
You can barely think. Your fingers find his sleeve and cling.
"Yes," you whisper, though whether you mean the word or merely echo it, you do not know until he gives one short nod, as though all has proceeded according to his expectations.
He turns his wrist upward between you. His nails are narrow and very clean. One of them lengthens before your eyes to a dark point. With it, he cuts across the pale skin above his vein. Blood wells at onceâdarker than yours, thicker-looking in the candlelight.
A last remnant of good sense stirs, but he catches your jaw before you can turn away.
"Drink," he says.
The blood touches your lips.
It is warm. Warmer than anything about him has been. Some of it slips into your mouth before you can help it. The taste is so rich, so strange, that your whole body gives a violent shudder. He presses his wrist against your mouth until you swallow properly. Again. Again. Each mouthful travels through you like fire sent into frozen halls. Your stomach clenches. Your spine bows. Something sharp and bright seems to pass beneath your skin, threading itself through nerve and vein alike.
He watches without blinking.
"Again," he says softly. "More."
When he lowers his arm at last, a deep-red line trails from the corner of your mouth down your chin. He wipes it away with his thumb and regards the stain upon his skin with unmistakable satisfaction.
The room will not keep still. The velvet hangings seem to breathe in and out. The fire burns blue at its heart. Far below, or perhaps far above, wolves begin to cry.
You put a hand to your throat. The bite there is tender. Your other hand flies to your mouth.
Your gums ache.
Something is pressing there from beneath, small and hard and inevitable. You touch the upper row of your teeth with the tip of your tongue and feel at once that they are no longer what they were when you crossed the mountain.
Feitan sees understanding enter your face.
He bends, presses one final kiss to your brow, and in that gesture, there is something so possessive it makes tenderness seem a poorer word.
Night closes over the castle by degrees. Beneath your tongue, the points of new teeth begin to press through.
feitan probably came from a family before he was ever dumped in meteor city so i imagine phinks found him right as he was abandoned. fei learned from phinks' pseudo dominant personality and they both learned to terrorize the streets with motorcycle and barbed wire.
Feitan somnophilia drabble because I got the brain worms bad. TW: somno, dubcon, corruption, stalking
Feitan likes to watch you sleep.
He tries to justify it to himself. Itâs hot in Yorknew City this time of year and everyone kept their windows open. He wanted to make sure you were alright, a pretty little thing like you all alone in the city. So he would just stop by your apartment at night to check on you, nothing weird about that. He could protect you, keep you safe, even if he was too shy to approach you in the daylight.
So he started watching. Standing on your balcony like a shadow for hours on end. You looked so sweet, so peaceful in your bed. The way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the tangle of your hair across the pillows. Your tiny silk pajamas that rose higher and higher every time you rolled over.
On quiet nights he could even hear you. Little sighs and murmurs that slipped from your lips that fed directly into his growing obsession. You were perfect. Too perfect, especially for a monster like him. He knew he would never be able to rise to your level, so he would bring you down to his.
Months of planning, fantasizing, and obsession have lead him to this night. A carefully concocted sedative in your nightly cup of tea was all it took. You were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, blissfully unaware of what was to come.
He cracks open the balcony door and slips inside, crossing the room like a ghost until he reached your bed. He stands over you for long time, hardly daring to breathe.
Youâre so beautiful up close, dewy beads of sweat scattered across your brow like stars. Your silky hair spread across the pillows delicately. Even in deep sleep you were perfect, made soft and sweet just for him. He reaches out, brushing his fingertips to your cheek, holding his breath.
You donât so much as twitch.
With slightly shaking hands he undresses, his cock already hard and leaking against his lower stomach. He slips between your sheets, as slowly as he can bear and suddenly there you are. Soft, and warm, and real, and everything he could have ever wanted.
His hands roam your body, discarding your silken pajamas without a second thought. He explores by touch, feeling his way down while his lips follow behind, kissing and licking everywhere his hands have been; from the delightful softness of your breasts to the curve of your waist down to your plush thighs.
The moonlight illuminates your skin, catching on the little patches of wetness where his mouth has been. With a shaky breath he parts your thighs, letting your legs fall open on the sheets.
God, youâre perfect. Even in sleep, your body wants him, the lips of your cunt slick and flushed. His thumb rubs a few slow circles on your clit and you sigh with pleasure, no doubt feeling his touch in your dreams.
He grinds the head of his cock against your soaked folds, his hands gripping your waist. He could cum just like this, rutting against you, but he wants more, so much more. He angles his hips just enough, and watches in awe as his cock disappears inside you.
You feel like heaven, how your pussy clenches and flutters around him, so warm and tight. If heâs being honest he could cum already, but he wants to make this last as long as possible. He thrusts into you slowly, burying himself to the hilt over and over, grinding into you.
Your breasts sway gently with every thrust, almost hypnotizing. He wants nothing more than to go faster, harder, to make you scream. Maybe he will, one day. In his wildest dreams he takes you awake, your legs wrapped around his waist in a vice, pulling him deeper. He makes you beg for it, whimpering and crying like the pathetic little thing you both know you are.
The fantasy takes him right to the edge and he canât hold back any longer. His fingers dig into your waist as he drives his cock into your wet heat in a frenzy. He only gets a few good thrusts in like that before heâs cumming hard.
He stays buried inside you for a few moments, breathing hard. He wants nothing more than to stay like this, to lay down on top of you with your breasts as his pillow and fall asleep while you keep his cock warm.
But he has to leave. You canât catch him here, you canât know. He pulls out with a sigh, watching his release flow out of you for a minute before he wipes you clean.
Everything is exactly as it had been when he leaves; your silky pajama bottoms back where they belong, your body still soft and heavy with sleep.
Youâll wake up in the morning, wondering why you slept so well but think nothing of it. Your hips are slightly bruised, but you must have bumped into something yesterday. The ache between your legs gives you pause though, you canât explain that away. You shake it offâ itâs nothing, it has to be.
Right?
A/n: tysm for reading! This was partially inspired by my Feitan x reader longfic that Iâm about halfway through writing. Hopefully out before the end of Feb!
Looking up at the ceiling, thatâs all you can really do. look up at the ceiling and wait, wait for whatâs to come, waiting for Feitan to walk through the door. The thought of sleeping on the bed comforts you, at least youâre gonna be comfortable, at least heâs not gonna step on you after he wakes up. He always make sure to do that, to remind you of your place. Remind you that youâre nothing but an object for him to use. But at least youâre his favorite object to use, and Feitan makes sure to take care of his favorite things.
Just as you were gonna get lost in your thoughts, you hear the door slowly creep open, you donât look up, you donât know what kind of mood he is in, maybe he wants you to look at him. Maybe heâll feel offended If you look at him. maybe he wants to gosh out your eyeballs, Maybe he wants to look at them all day, you donât know. Just at the door completely open you hear the ruffling of a bag, he only makes noise to make his presence knownïżŒ, he wants you to look at him. after so long of being with him youâve learned a couple of things.
âmhmâ he breaks the silence with a soft hum, you donât make an attempt to move. You lay there with your legs wide open, making sure he admires his âgiftâ. Silence fills the room itâs suffocating.
You hear the bag ruffle again, heâs moving ,slowly, but heâs moving. He knows just what buttons to press to make sure that you feel the tense. You thought he was far away, but youâre proving wrong when you feel his fingers on your clit, softly pushing it down, barely lifting his finger watching your clit come back up and pressing it down again. After playing with your clit for a couple of ïżŒ seconds he pull away. ïżŒ
âMhmâ thatâs all he says, but itâs different. Itâs a little higher pitched. Heâs pleased.
âLookâ the first actual word he says, itâs not a comment, Itâs not a question, Itâs a command. Slowly you move your head to look up, to your surprise. Heâs carrying a plastic bag. Itâs kind of see-through, the kind of bags you get from a grocery store. Thatâs the first thing you notice. The second thing is that heâs wearing his working outfit. (the regular outfit he wears in the show, the bandanna, his long plastic coat, yâall know) but you donât comment on it, He usually wears it when he goes out. He mustâve went out to get whateverâs in the bag.
ïżŒ he just stares at you as you stare at the bag in his hand, ââŠ..yoursâŠ.â is the only thing that comes out of his mouth. He doesnât elaborate, but you know what he means, whateverâs in that bag itâs for you. With that he letâs go of the bag . It lands on the floor with a soft thumb and ruffling sound. Youâre now just staring at his empty hand, you stop staring when he drops his hand back to his side, you can feel his eyes roaming your body.
ââŠgoodâŠâŠvery ..goodâŠ.â he sounds pleased. He must be pleased, you can feel his eyes roaming on your body. You can feel them. It feel like heâs touching you like heâs running his finger softly through your skin, from your shoulders to your chest, to your hips, between your thighs, down your legs. He always does it. It doesnât matter how many times heâs taken you.
You donât know what to do, should you keep looking at him? Should you stop? Did he tell you to look at him or did he tell you to look at the bag? You feel the best option is to look back at the ceiling.
ââŠ.said..lookâŠâ with that a soft smack smacks your pussy, you jerk your hips up a little it was a small surprise. He hit you right on your clit, it wasnât hard, as a matter fact, it was pleasurable. With that you lift up your head again and look at him, You donât need to be told twice. But with the looks of it, it looks like heâs in a good mood, as good as his mood could get.
â..goodâŠwatch..â you do as you are told, you watch him. You watch him play with your pussy however he sees fit. Youâre not only watching him. You feel him, you feel as he pushes a finger in your pussy. You feel him curly his finger up, you feel him thrusting his finger in and out of you. youâre grateful heâs preparing you, he usually goes in dry. he doesnât care about what you feel. He only cares about what he can get from you and thatâs how it should be. You should be grateful to even be in his presence. You watch his hand that is missing a finger cause itâs inside of you. You watch the thumb start rubbing your clit. Heâs always been good with his hands, and he knows it. He knows how to get you to fall apart before him.
â..wetâŠgoodâŠ.bitch..â you whimper as the words fall from his lips. does he even know your name? youâre not sure, heâs never called you by your name. Itâs always been bitch, slut, whore, cumdumb, and on very rare occasions âprettyâ.
You feel him remove his hand from your pussy. he begins to rub his wet hand on his cock that is standing up by itself, itâs pretty pale, his mushroom tip is a beautiful shade of pink, he has veins going around his cock, heâs not all that well groomed with a little patch of black pubic hair around him, for a man his size heâs surprisinglyïżŒ big. when did he take it out? You didnât even notice. Heâs incredibly fast, he mustâve been unzipping his pants with his other hand as he played with you. Heâs holding his long coat with his other hand as he rubs your pussy juices over his cock. with one fell swoop, He takes off his coat, heâs beautifully built, his skin is pale like it hasnât seen daylight in years, but that just adds to his beauty. He lets go of his cock and bring his hands behind his neck to uncle clip his bandanna. while doing so he make sure youâre still looking at him.
After finally removing his bandanna, he stares at you as you lay there spread open for him. He looks down at where he had his fingers in just a second ago. He sees how gloss and wet you are. He sees how your pussy is clenching around nothing begging to be filled up with anything. Itâs surprising that heâs letting you see him shirtless, and without anything covering his face. But that doesnât last long, he leans forward, and ties his bandanna around your eyes, like a blindfold. All you have left now is your ability hear and feel.
âNo..movingâŠstay..openâ with that he pulls your legs towards him and bands your knees. pushes your thighs farther apart, your wide open. With the ability of seeing taken away from you, all you can do is feel and hear, and you feel warm air against your clitoris. His face was so close you can feel his breath against your clit, that doesnât last long though all he does is spit on your pussy. This is the first time heâs really ever prepared you, and you are very grateful.
What you feel next youâve felt too many times, but not like this. This is the first time youâve ever felt his cock head rubbing itself against your pussy, going up and down, not entering, just rubbing, heâs not just rubbing it. Heâs pushing it against you clit. Heâs pushing it up and down, his motions donât stop. He just keeps it going, thank God it feels good. You can feel his veins you can feel his Mushroom tip rubbing against your clit every time it goes up. Heâs teasing.
What felt like forever he finally slipped his tip in, before pulling it out again, and with one fast and rough thrust, he put it all the way in, you archïżŒ your back,you were not prepared, your pussy wasnât used to it still after so many times. You donât think you ever be used to his size. Luckily he does not move. He stays inside of you. He likes feeling you clench, he likes feeling your pussy throb against him. He takes it all in. He likes being inside of you. Itâs warm, itâs safe, he could live inside of you forever, but he will never tell you that. He leans forward and starts gripping, squishing, and fidgeting around with your titties. One of his hands works with the left, his mouth works with the right sucking nibbling, not enough to break skin, but enough to scare you that he will use his teeth. All you do is lay there and not moving a muscle, afraid that it will upset him. You donât make sound afraid that he might not like it.
After messing around with the right side of your chest, he moves onto the left, determined to show the same attention to the other side. But he had other plants. after messing around with the left side. He decided to sink his teeth. It was like he was trying to make you make sound. like he wanted to hear you. Did he want to hear you? Youâre not sure. But he did bite you, it hurt. Gripping the sheets your fist turn white . Did he want to hear you? Should you let the pain out? You decided to taste the waters. Letting out a soft sound of pain.
Next thing you feel was Feitan straightening his back, heâs still inside of you. You can feel him throbbing. Then you feel it, a harsh slap, not to your face, but to your chest, it was unexpected and painful â.loud..er..â he demands, he doesnât move. He doesnât thrust, he just demands, so he did want to hear you.
You know better than disobey him so you let out a small moan you were holding back. You can feel him his throbbing, he wants release. But you know Feitan has incredible control over his body. Then with no warning, your face is pulled forward harshly you can feel his breath on your face. Heâs incredibly close. Your noses are touching. He grabs your face, harshly squishing his cheek together, âopen.. mouth.â You do as told just for him to spit inside your mouth. â..swallow.â With a big gulp, you follow his command. After swallowing you open your mouth again to show him that you have completed his command.
â..mhm..â he sounded pleased, just as you thought you were in the clear, you get pushed roughly down he brings you hips up, bending you into a meeting press. And starts thrusting hard. His speed is inhuman, luckily, he prepped you before starting, even with his abuse towards your pussy, his thrust, his thick cock felt amazing.
The room is filled with the sound of skin Slapping skin and soft occasionally loud, moaning, of course the moaning came from you, Feitan has never made a single noise. You donât even know if heâs really enjoying himself. After what felt like hours you feel it, Feitan is starting to lose rhythm. Heâs about to cum inside of you. After all his abuses towards your pussy, it felt like it was on fire, Feitan just driving himself in and out repeatedly. When he finally did cum, he threw his head back and completely buried himself inside your pussy,ïżŒit was such a relief. His cum was like water being poured on a burn.
He didnât pull out, he stayed there with his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours occasionally, thrusting his hips toward. Give you time to catch your breath as you lay there, staring at the ceiling as well. Until finally, he made the first move, pulling out his soften cock. He moved away from your spread legs before opening them farther and watching his cum pour out of you. Everything was quiet you didnât dare breathe too loud. ïżŒ
ââŠ.good..slutâŠ.veryâŠâŠâŠgood..â he said softly before pulling the black lace underwear to cover your pussy letting the underwear absorbed the rest of his cum. Reaching up towards your face, he unclips his bandanna and throws it to the side.ïżŒ With that, he climbs into the bed and sits down, leading his back against the headboard, he spread his legs, his cock once again hard, standing up by itself, angry pink tip throbbing. â..CleanâŠit..â he give another command. Staring at you, his dick is standing up waiting for you to obey. You lay there before it finally registers in your mind that Feitan does not like to waste his time, heâs waiting. ïżŒïżŒ
You close your legs and stand up before beginning to crawl on the bed towards him, towards his spread legs, towards his cock, waiting for you. You look up at him to confirm with him, for him to just glare at you. With that, you look away and focus on his cock, grabbing the base of it you start stroking it. Opening your mouth, you take the tip in, wrapping your tongue around his cock,ïżŒyou start sucking it, making sure to get it as clean as possible, licking and sucking babbling your head up and down, trying to fit as much of his cock inside your mouth as possible.
Suddenly, he pulls you hair back roughly, grabbing your face, keeping it in place before starting to jerk his cock, before finally busting a nut on your face, he kept stroking it a couple of times making sure every last drop got on your face. He smeared it on your hair, and your lips.
â..open..â he wants you to open your mouth one last time. As you open your mouth,he sticks his tip inside your mouth. â suck..â you keep it a nice soft suck. He Finally letâs go of your face and leans back on the headboard, your full with cum and smeared with cum as well.
â..bagâŠyoursâŠ..open itâŠâ with that, you slide off the bed and walk towards the bag on the ground, pulling it open you see black, dark red, baby blue, white, and pink underwear sets that barely covered anything. but at the very bottom of the bag, thereâs a key.
Hi! Could you write a Feitan x reader; where he has like a mission to go under cover and get information about her, but falls in love with her in the process?
Feitan [x Reader]
In which the curator for a vast collection of Nen-infused items is known for being evasive, but Feitan never loses a challenge.
Reader is ââ Female
Story is ââ Romantic | Headcanons
Warnings ââ Mentions of torture & murder
⊠ââ Torture was Feitan's preferred method of procuring intel. He did not care who you were, how much you begged, or how insignificant the information was, because he enjoyed the process.
⊠ââ But he was asked not to make a scene this time. His target was the only one with access to a secret collection of artifacts and items that struck the boss' fancy. This meant he needed them alive until he gained access.
⊠ââ Tch. What a pain. Not only did he have to hold off, but he also had to find you. Normally that wasn't an issue, but it was as if you expected to be taken advantage of.
⊠ââ It took not one, not two, but three weeks to finally locate you. Another week to see you face-to-face, and surprisingly only a day to convince you to meet him in private.
⊠ââ Convince was a lie. You had asked him on a date. You'd managed to completely throw off a Phantom Troupe member with one simple request for dinner.
The gala was lively, filled with artists and collectors of all varieties. It was the second evening, and despite having just arrived, Feitan was already trying to find you in the crowd.
"Ah, there you are. I was hoping you would come back." You had found him first, offering a flute of sparkling wine.
He had introduced himself the day before. With all the people around you it was impossible for him to make any progress. Today his mission was to get you alone, but you had beat him to it.
"I know it's a bit sudden, but I would like to get to know you better. Are you free tomorrow?" The only thing Feitan felt was pure disbelief.
⊠ââ A date was decided; you'd meet the next evening for dinner. He was almost frustrated. This had been way too easy for how important this mission was. No way you let people around you that easily.
⊠ââ So why had you invited him for dinner? Did you figure him out already? Was the mission in jeopardy? Was this some kind of trap? Feitan considered every possibility but decided it didn't matter. If it was a trap, he'd escape anyhow.
⊠ââ He only has the one tux he stole for the gala, so he ends up wearing the same thing the next evening. When he arrives, you're already sat waiting, reading a book he could have sworn he read a few months ago.
⊠ââ Feitan Portor is a cold, heartless killer. So why is this task so hard? You don't make him talk more than he usually does, but he feels pressured to say more regardless. He doesn't accept drinks from strangers, and yet he's halfway through the bottle of wine you're sharing.
"You know who I am, don't you?" You spoke up when the waiter left after taking your order, and Feitan had nothing to hide. He nodded.
"So you want access to my collection, hm?" You had a tinge of disappointment in your voice. For some reason that bothered him.
All things considered, he enjoyed the chase you'd taken him on, and you had surprised him at nearly every corner. His game was coming to a close, and he didn't like that it was ending so soon.
"Not me. Someone else. Here for you." Feitan didn't care about your collection; he was here to get close to you because that was his job.
Your slight smile returned, seemingly satisfied with his answer. It wasn't the romantic nonsense any man might give you, but you liked the truth.
⊠ââ You don't talk about the mission until after dinner, instead taking the time to ask him about how he had found you. He tells you because there's no reason not to and because he had pride in his abilities.
⊠ââ You're weird. You don't correct his bad manners or try to force him to fit in with the formal nature of the restaurant. You seem solely interested in him.
"I have a proposal for you." That piqued his interest; you could see his eyes gleam.
"Dangerous. Proposal?" It was something of a warning that doing dealings with him was putting yourself in danger, but you persisted.
"My collection, in its entirety, I will give you and your 'boss' complete and utter access to it..." You gave pause, holding up a key he could tell had been summoned with aura. "If you take me on another date."
The corner of his lips twitched into a smile.
"Deal."
⊠ââ When your table is cleared and you've handled the bill, Feitan finds he isn't in a rush to leave. Instead, he sits with you long into the evening.
Author's Note ââ GAHHH YES <3 FEITAN MY ABSOLUTE AND UTTER BELOVED!!! Doing me a damn favour requesting him.
12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS MASTERLISTÂ | 2025.
@12daysofchristmas
[A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]
Spider Bells (2.2k words)
Feitan Portor x Reader
summary: Itâs a Meteor City Christmas lockdown, and the only thing colder than the troupeâs hideout is Feitan himself. With a little coaxingâand a lot of tongueâyou discover Feitanâs got a sweet spot for cozy comforts and even sweeter reactions when he finally melts.
warnings/themes:Â Reader Insert, Phantom Troupe Member!Reader, Mentioned!Chrollo, Mentioned!Phinks, Mentioned!Shizuku, Mentioned!Frankin, Blowjob/Oral Sex, Semi-Public, Risk of Getting Caught, Teasing, Minor Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Mutual Pining, Established Relationship, Sexual Tension, Awkward Flirting, Cuddling, Found Family, Intimacy, Aftercare, Canon Compliant.
The city outside is winter-sharpâicy air biting through concrete, junkyards silvered by Christmas frost. Inside, the Troupeâs hideout feels like purgatory. The heater barely works, half the windows are cracked, and someoneâs strung a set of cheap red lights over a plastic black tree jammed with silver spider ornaments and bent safety pins.
Chrolloâs orders:Â nobody leaves, nobody draws attention.
âMerry fuckinâ Christmas,â Phinks says, voice flat, flipping a coin. âNext year, weâre robbing a ski resort.â
Nobody laughs.
You bring Feitan the hoodie because you know he wonât ask. Itâs black, oversized, and stitched on the back is a leering, gothic-looking spider tangled up in a wreath of barbed wire. Skull-shaped jingle bells dangle from the stringsâa limited-edition âMeteor City Christmasâ disaster you bought as a joke. But itâs warm, and right now heâs pale and shivering, his coat cut open at the ribs, blood soaking through bandages heâs too stubborn to change.
He eyes you from his corner, face shadowed beneath a mess of black hair. âWant something?â His words are razor-edgedâhis usual voice, bored, and bored of you.
You toss him the hoodie. âPut it on. That coatâs gonna freeze to your skin.â
He snorts, but you catch a flicker of something in his eyesârelief, maybe, or just exhaustion he wonât admit. He pushes off the wall with a wince, slips off his ripped coat and drags the hoodie over his head instead, hiding the injury and most of his scowl. Heâs not much smaller than you, but the fitâs looseâhood falling low, sleeves too long for his hands. The spider design slouches over his shoulder blades. For a second, he looks less like a blade and more like a shadow in winter, though still sharp as ever around the edges.
âYou look...festive,â you murmur, leaning on the crate beside him. âVery murder-in-a-winter-wonderland.â
He clicks his tongue. âPhinks touch this?â He examines the sleeves, lips thin.
âJust me. Washed. Relax, Fei.â You keep your voice low, gentle, but never sweet. Feitan doesnât do sweet.
He leans back, letting his head hit the wall with a soft thump. âShould go check perimeter.â
âChrolloâs orders.â You tap your foot. âWe donât disobey those. Not even you.â
He doesnât answer, jaw set. The little black tree glints in the corner, its red lights flickering. The room smells of burnt coffee and metalâoutside, snow falls against the glass in silent, shivering sheets.
Across the room, the others are betting in low voices how long youâll last babysitting Feitan. Shizuku gives it half an hour. Franklin, already dozing, waves a hand. No one dares come closerânot when Feitanâs this agitated, bored, and injured. Even the bravest Troupe members know better than to push their luck when heâs cornered.
No one except you, of course.
You and Feitan have an odd kind of truce, a mutual tolerance forged in the cracks between violence and boredom. He lets you stick around longer than anyone else, puts up with your company when heâd have gutted another for breathing wrong. Maybe itâs familiarity. Maybe itâs the kind of thing that loses power once spoken.
So, after gauging the temperatureâwaiting out the worst of his prickly silence, letting him get used to your presenceâyou settle beside him, stretching your legs out so your knee bumps his thigh. âIf youâre going to sulk, at least now you can do it in comfort.â
He glances towards you, face unreadable as always. A small scar above his brow shifts when he frowns, but heâs not angryânot really. Heâs worn down. Still coiled tight as a garrote.
You nudge him, just a brush of your elbow against his. âItâs Christmas, Fei. Arenât you supposed to hibernate until spring?â
âNot an animal,â he mutters, but his voice is quieter. He watches you sidelong, almost wary. Like he expects you to bite.
You grin. âCouldâve fooled me. You never come out of your corner unless thereâs blood on the floor.â
He turns his head, jaw tight. âBored now. You done?â
âNot even close.â You lean closer, lowering your voice to a hush. âYou know, youâre not nearly as scary in that hoodie. I think itâs the jingle bells. Makes you lookâŠapproachable.â
He shoots you a lookâsharp, dangerous. âTry. See what happens.â
You reach up, feeling bolder now, and run your fingers along the edge of the hood, tugging it gently down so you can see his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the thin press of his mouth. He doesnât move, but his breathing shiftsâjust a shade shallower, careful in a way youâd never catch if you didnât know him this well.
You let your hand trail down, slow, nails just grazing his jaw. âScare me, then.â
He holds your gaze, grey eyes glittering.
âCareful,â he says, barely above a whisper.
âI am.â You slide closer, your leg pressing against his, your palm cupping the side of his neck, feeling his pulse jump, fast and frantic under your touch.
His eyes narrow. âDonâtââ
You cut him off with a kissâlight, lingering, just enough pressure to taste the surprise on his tongue. He lets out a sound, low and raw, maybe a warning. But when you pull away, his handsâhidden in the too-long sleevesâdonât shove you off.
You let him sit with it. You keep your voice easy, teasing. âYouâre so tense. I can help.â
He huffs, annoyed, but his head tips back against the wall, lips parting, breath fogging in the cold. âDo not act so bold.â
You donât push furtherâyet. Instead, you stay tucked up beside him, watching the room as the hours crawl by. Across the hideout, the rest of the Troupe fades one by one into sleep: Franklinâs snores rattle the walls, Shizuku curls tighter under her scarf, and even Phinks finally gives up on his betting pool, slumping sideways with his hat pulled over his eyes. Outside, snow piles higher, muffling the city until itâs nothing but shadow and distant sirens.
When the last light flickers and silence settles in, you shift a little closer, hand drifting up Feitanâs thigh, your voice a whisper meant only for him.
âStill tense?â you murmur, letting your smile show in the dark.
You take your time. When you lean in and kiss him again, itâs deeperâslow, searching, your tongue slipping past his lips. This time, Feitan meets you halfway. His hand slides up, fingers weaving into your hair, tugging you closer with a grip just shy of desperate. His mouth is hot, greedy, careful at first but growing rougher with every breath.
When your palm settles on his thigh and begins to drift upward, he goes rigid beneath your touch. You feel itâa taut, shivering tension running all the way through him, echoing in the way he kisses you harder, then tries to control it, tries not to give too much away. But the tremor in his leg says everything you need to know, and you swallow the sound he makes as you press in closer, mouth still moving over his, your hand inching higher.
When you break the kiss, you notice his hands are clenched in the too-long sleeves, knuckles white. His eyes are fixed on you, dark and wild, not quite trusting but hungry, all the same. You drop to your knees in front of him, the red glow from the fake tree slanting across the floor, those stupid little skull-shaped bells on the hoodie chiming faintly when you shift. You see him swallow hard, jaw locked tight, yet refusing to look away.
If youâre going to tease him, heâll meet it head-on.
You make a show of licking your lips, slow and intent, never breaking eye contact. He rolls his eyes, but a tiny twitch in his cheek betrays him.
âYou sure you donât need my help with all that tension, Fei?â you murmur.
Heâs silent for a beat. Then, grudgingly: âTry, then.â
You grin and slide your hand up the inside of his thigh, over his trousers. His hips jump, barely, but he doesnât moveâwonât beg. You palm him through the fabric, feeling the hard line of him under your touch. He gives nothing awayâno sound, no shift in his expressionâjust keeps staring at you, eyes grey and unblinking, daring you to try harder, to do your worst.
When you finally undo his fly and ease him out, you keep your gaze on his, until heâs hard in your palm and shaking with restraint. He tries to frown, to keep that mask up, but you can see the cracks forming, heat rising in the tightness of his face.
You break eye contact for the first time, letting your eyes drop between you. Heâs not intimidating by sheer sizeâhe fits his own body perfectly: every inch taut and demandingâbut heâs hard to the point of ache, flushed dark, a bead of slick gathering at the tip and betraying every lie of indifference. His cock twitches in your hand, hot under your palm, and you can feel the stubbornness in every rigid line of his bodyâa man desperate not to give himself away, even as he does.
You lean in, tongue tracing the head, dragging it out just to watch him struggle. The taste of him hits your tongueâsharp, salty, nothing shy about it. His breath stutters, lashes lowering.
âNot funny,â he grits out, teeth bared, but his hips are already tilting forward, the mask slipping further with every trembling exhale.
âMake me stop, then.â Your lips curve against his skin.
He lets out a soft, bitten-off moan when you finally take him deeperâmessily letting your tongue work him over. You stroke him with your hands and your mouth, relentless and gentle all at once, watching him unravel by degrees. His hands fumble for purchase, hoodie sleeves slipping down to let his fingers dig into your shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises.
Heâs silent, but his body gives him awayâhips rolling, breath breaking apart in your hands, the smallest desperate noises scraping from his throat. When you look up, his eyes are glazed, his bottom lip bitten red, his mask all but gone.
Pleased with yourself, you take your time. He keeps trying to hold himself togetherâface angled away, lips pressed in a hard line, jaw clenched against any soundâeven as your mouth slides down to the base, applying hot, wet suction. You feel his thighs trembling beneath your palms, his muscles pulled tight as wire. Itâs a fightâhim refusing to give in, you determined to break him open.
When you glance up, his gaze catches yoursâa flash of pride, a silent dare. Thereâs something wild simmering under the surface, his stubbornness turning frantic. He brings a fist to his mouth, bites his own knuckles to keep quiet, but the whimpers slip out anyway, ragged and guttural, half-formed curses tangled in his native tongue. You press the flat of your tongue just beneath the head, and he shudders, a full-body quake he can no longer hide.
You don't stop, donât let up, even when he tries to twist away, to warn you off with a sharp breath, a glare that falters on his face. Heâs quivering, hips jerking despite himself, your name torn from him in strangled gasps.
It takes some timeâlong minutes where he fights for every scrap of control, only to lose it piece by piece. Finally, his hand threads through your hair, yanking you deeper, pushing into your throat and anchoring himself against the rush. Heâs muttering broken phrases, threats, pleas, knuckles pale as he clings to you. When he comes, itâs with a violent convulsion that rocks him to the bone, his whole body rigid before he finally melts, collapsing against the crates with a groan that sounds like defeat and relief in one.
You donât let go until the last pulse empties into your throat. You swallow him down, sweet and sticky, and look up to find him bonelessâyour hoodie bunched around his slender hips, sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow, chest heaving as he tries to put himself back together in the hush.
Afterwards, you wipe your mouth and crawl up beside him, tugging the hoodie back down to cover him. When your fingers slip into his hair, he bristlesâshoulders tensing, jaw locked. Offering to release his tension was one thing, but this level of intimacy is something else entirely. You know Feitan doesnât do sweet, not willingly. But after a heartbeat, when you keep stroking softly, the tension bleeds out of him. He slumps against you, laboured breath warming your collar, and lets you hold himâawkward, reluctant, like heâs never been held before.
The wind continues to howl against the glass. The fake tree flickers, the skull bells jingle, and Feitanâdangerous, silent, untouchable Feitanâlets you keep him warm while the Troupe sleep, just this once.
You press a kiss to his temple. âMerry Christmas, Fei.â
He grumbles something that might be âShut upââbut his hand finds yours beneath the hoodie, tangled up tight, holding on until morning.
about your ugly and broke yandere post, i have this daydream of being months/a year into feitan kidnapping you and the first time he truly gifts u something (that isnât like.. giving you ur clothes back) itâs ridiculously expensive, smth stolen from a group heist. and you involuntarily laugh cause youâve been living in grime this whole time and the first clean/new thing u get is worth more than the entire abandoned house youâre in. he gets insecure about you laughing tho :/. no more gifts or food for a while :/
It was becoming a semi-regular occurrence that Feitan would give you something. Once a week or so, "new" clothes would be left in the small cabinet of your room, and books would be left on the top shelf. Once, he'd even slid you a parfait cup across the dinner table. All of the icing was gone... But it was the thought that counted.
Rarely did he ever place anything in your hands.
So, when he enters your room and has you stand in front of him, you're nervous. Had you broken one of the arbitrary rules he'd set in his head? (You're beginning to suspect that he doesn't actually care if you go downstairs into the living room without his express approval; he just wants to see you squirm when he puts you on the spot). He has you put your hands out, yes, both of them. There's an awkward pause, and he finally gives whatever he's got to you.
A necklace. A shiny gemstone and a pretty chain. Itâs beautiful; maybe you can wear it on your next outing in the city.
Itâs so ridiculous that you want to laugh.
And you are, you realize. Dry and disbelieving. What good is a shiny necklace if itâs going to sit around in a murky old house collecting dust? It was out of place between the two of you. You, in old clothes that belonged to the original owners of this house (God knows what Feitan did with them; you lucked out that one of the women who lived here was a similar-ish size to you) and messy hair. Feitan, clad in darkness, and his hair weighed down with grease, and a pricey necklace between you two.
He'd given you jewelry once. An old charm bracelet; it was plastic and looked like a fair prize. You wonder whose vanity he stole that out of. You make a habit of wearing it these days; he'd kept taking looks at your bare wrist when you didn't. This was a little more extreme a gift than a charm bracelet or a parfait cup, though.
Feitan stiffly adjusts the cowl around his neck, lips twitching underneath it. âYou donât like it.â Heâs not asking you. You arenât sure what to tell him, and it hits you that laughing wasn't the right move (albeit awkwardly, and to be fair, it is a ridiculous situation). Who gifts their hostage something like this?
âNo, no, itâs⊠itâs nice.â Youâre making it worse. âI really like it.â Feitan looks at you like he wants to call you every name under the sun. Idiot. Ungrateful. Bitch. He doesnât say anything. He isn't sure exactly what reaction he was hoping for, but you should've been wearing it by now. Maybe even asking him to help you with the clasp.
Oh, sure, the emerald will really make your bruises and chapped lips pop. You canât remember the last time you even wore any gemstone jewelry that resembled an emerald. This thing didn't look cheap, though. It didn't look second-hand either. You're scared to ask how much it costs. Knowing him, you doubt any money exchanged hands.
In any other situation, you might have been thrilled to receive an expensive piece of jewelry. Might've even jumped into the arms of your suitor with delight.
Is that what Feitan thought he was? A suitor?
...You aren't sure what your relationship to him was. No ransom ever seemed to be paid out to him, so this was more than just a hostage situation. He never had you put out or anything of the sort, most days you felt like a pet or a maid. A Roomba, more like. Clean up, make dinner when permitted, and scurry back to your room. He's still staring at you, and it makes you shift awkwardly on your feet, another nervous noise escaping you. Fuck, is he actually getting annoyed?
"This... this is really nice." You barely manage to get the words out. You want to ask why, but it seems that each time you open your mouth, he becomes more irate. "I-" Before you can finish, Feitan takes the necklace back, swiping it out of your hands. He's quick to turn on his heel and leave, slamming the door behind him and leaving you in an uncomfortable silence.
You suppose you won't be getting a parfait cup tonight, assuming you even get dinner.
Hi there! I love all your stuff so much! Could I request some bondage with Feitan please? Including fingering, degradation, forced orgasm and whatever else you feel like! Tysm!!
Summary:Â You try to pickpocket a quiet man in a black suit at the Yorknew auction. He catches your wrist without looking. By the time you wake, youâre tied to a chair in the ruins beneath the city. Feitan decides youâre not worth killing. Unfortunately, he also decides youâre worth keeping.
Warnings/Themes:Â Reader Insert, Dubious Consent, BDSM, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Face-Fucking, Fingering, Edging, Chair Bondage, Orgasm Control, Forced Orgasms, Humiliation, Degradation, Multiple Orgasms, Facial, Overstimulation, Crying During Sex, Threats of Violence, Light Knifeplay, Forced Submission, Captive/Captor, Angst, Fear Play, Hurt No Comfort, Dark, Canon Compliant.
Notes: You can see the list of characters I will take requests for here.
The auction house is a meat grinderâtoo many people, too much money, all jammed into a hall that smells of sweat and ambition. Gold and glass flicker under chandelier light, pulses of voices rising in urgency and falling in disappointment. You slip between suits and gowns, practised as a shadow, your heart thumping in your throat. One hand glides over an unattended purse, the other eyes pockets for a bigger score.
A small man in a sharp, black suitâpale skin, shoulders hunched, hair so dark it swallows the lightâcatches your eye, not for his size but for the way he moves. He glides, not walks, sidestepping guards with an animal grace. Easy target, you think. Expensive, out of place, distracted. You ghost behind him, fingers poised for the silk-lined pocket of his jacket.
You almost have itâbrushed velvet, a bulge that might be cash or something even more interestingâwhen an ice-cold hand clamps your wrist. Too quick. Almost inhuman.
Your breath vanishes. The man turns, face impassive, eyes narrow slits behind a curtain of hair.
He speaks, his accent clipped and halting. âStupid thief. Try someone easier.â
Heâs beautiful, in a viperish, unsettling way. You get half a heartbeat to process that before heâs yanking you through the crowd. Too strong for his size. Too silent. Nobody sees. Nobody would care if they did.
You try to twist away, but his grip is iron, crushing your bones together. He doesn't speak. He drags you through a service door, down a stairwell of rot and wet stone, and then darkness, rich and red, rushes up to meet you.
**********
You come back in pieces: cold. Naked. Your wrists and ankles burnâbound tight with wire to the arms and legs of a ruined wooden chair. Mouth taped shut. Legs forced wide, everything on display. Somewhere behind you, water drips, echoing in the cavernous dark. A circle of candles throws warped shadows on the broken floor. Every muscle aches.
The room is a ruin, all jagged shadows and scorched wood. Above, moonlight limps through shattered windows, striping the marble with graveyard blue. Around the edge of the spaceâshapes: a ring of stone seats, cracked and splintered. Someone had tried to make this place holy, once. Now it feels more like a tomb.
Heâs there. Seated on a block of stone in his black suit, rolling a knife over in his hands, grey eyes pale and hard as old steel. Not even looking at you at first. Just watching the candle shiver with flat amusement.
You struggle against your restraints, and he looks up, lips quirking.
âAwake. Good. Less boring now.â His voice is fractured, almost childlike, but deadly calm. He stands, paces around you, eyes tracing every line of your bodyâclinical, precise, lingering only to measure your panic, not to savour your shape. His nose wrinkles, the barest flicker of distaste at your vulnerability, as if the whole process is beneath him. âTry to steal from me? Stupid. Thief with bad skills.â He rips the tape from your mouthâfast enough to sting. You gasp, mouth raw, tears welling.
He crouches in front of you, gaze lingering on your face, then lower. âLook like you know something. About spiders. Should I cut you open and find out?â His head tilts, considering.
The word hangs in the airâSpidersâand you freeze, the terror coiling inside you sharpening into clarity.
You know that name. The Phantom Troupe. But that would make himâ
Your breath falters as his lips curl in a faint, mocking smile, eyes fixed on your panic.
Feitan.
You cough, words tumbling out before sense can catch them. âPleaseâIâm justâIâm no one, I donât know anythingââ
He interrupts with a snort. âLiar. Fool or spy. Both die easily.â
You shake your head, heart thundering. âIÂ swearâcheck my pockets, I just neededââ
The bite of his knife stops you in your tracks. It traces a slow, whisperâthin line along your thigh, raising goosebumps in its wake.
âYou talk too much.â His voice is soft as dust, bored. âNot good at it. Donât waste time.â
Feitan straightens, head tilting as if studying a specimen that disappoints him and turns from you without another word, shoes whispering over the cracked stone. He walks toward the pile of your discarded clothesâtossed carelessly in a dark corner of the ruined hideout.
He crouches, fingers sifting through the fabric. No wasted movements. No curiosity. Only quiet assessment.
One by one, he pulls items from your pockets:
A walletâheavy, expensive, bulging with crisp bills.
Anotherâblack leather, embossed, money still folded neatly inside.
A thirdâgaudy, jewelled clasp, unmistakably taken from someone who wouldnât miss the loss until the night was long over.
He turns the stack over in his hands, counting without counting.
âHmm. I see.â His gaze drags over you, unhurried, dissecting. âYes⊠Youâre nothing special. Not worth it.â
He doesnât smile, but something changes in the airâa faint hum of satisfaction, or maybe amusement. Only then does he flick a look back to you, eyes halfâlidded, unreadable.
âPetty thief,â he says simply. âVery petty. But busy today.â
He flicks the wallets aside with a shrug, then rises, dusting his hands as though touching your belongings has soiled them.
âThat confirms it.â Feitan walks back toward you, shadow stretching long behind him in the candlelight. âJust a little thief who chose the wrong pocket.â
He stops in front of you again â close enough that the scent of faint cologne ghosts over your skin. His expression doesnât soften; instead, it sharpens, narrows, focuses.
âThat means I decide what happens next,â he says quietly, his breath brushing your cheek. A faint curl of satisfaction tugs at his mouth, so brief you might have imagined it. You look into his eyes, begging them to tell you somethingâanything. But they remain dark and quiet, like a pit you could fall into and never stop.
âPretty,â he murmurs. âPretty can still learn a lesson.â
He doesnât waste time. Cold, unhurried fingers slip between your legs, parting you without preamble. There's no warmth, no kindness, just clinical interest.
You gasp, buck in the chair, but your restraints hold you open, helpless. His expression doesn't change. If anything, he looks bored.
âSquirm more than dying men. Shameful.â His voice is low, casual, but his eyes are alive with a predatorâs joy.
His hand starts to move between your legs, precise and impersonal. He presses two fingers inside you, starting slowâmore an examination than a caressâhis touch utterly indifferent to your comfort or fear. Each movement is measured, almost scientific; heâs not searching for pleasure, only weakness.
He works you open, slow at first, then suddenly rough, fingers curling deep and without warning. The slick sound of your own body fills the space between you, mortifying in the heavy, candlelit silence. You jerk against the wire, the pressure biting into your flesh, your breath catching in humiliation and startled pleasure. The chair creaks, wood scraping your bare skin, every nerve ending raw.
He watches every twitch, every sharp intake of breath, every flood of wetness coating his fingers, cataloguing your reactions with the detached focus of a surgeon.
âYou embarrass yourself,â Feitan murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. âNot even a challenge.â
He twists his hand, forcing another wave of heat through you, and when you try to shuffle away, his free hand clamps your thigh in place, the grip bruising.
âDonât move,â he says. âYouâll only make it worse.â
You try, try to swallow the moans, try to close your legs, try to be anywhere but here. But the friction builds, spiralling higher, the sensation too muchâpleasure knotted tight with shame and fear, every muscle quivering as he pumps his fingers harder, circling your clit with his thumb until youâre gasping, moaning, legs shaking.
Feitan stops abruptly, withdrawing his hand with a look of disgust. He leans in, his hair falling in a black curtain between you. âPathetic. Messy already. Didnât say you can come.â
You bite your lip, tears threatening. He works you closerâpushing, circling, never giving enough. Every time your hips tremble, every time you whimper, he pauses.
âNot enough. Cry more.â
Feitan's fingers move to the buckle of his belt, unclasping it with deft, small hands. âMe first. Mouth, now. Or I hurt you for real.â
Before you can form a thought, Feitan grips the back of the chair and tips it. Just enough that your face is level with him, spine grinding against splintered wood as your head drops to a lower angle. Your restraints strain, wire biting deeper. The world tilts with you.
Panic hits firstâyour breath snatching short, the room swimmingâbut then thereâs heat under it, sharp and unwelcome, mortifying in its persistence.
Feitan steps into the new angle heâs created, testing it. Satisfied, he grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing your head to the side. The position is degrading, helpless; your cheek presses against the inside of your own shoulder, neck bared.
âBetter,â he murmurs. âUseful.â
Your pulse hammers violently. You can smell his skin. His clothes. Every sense is too sharp, too aware. He pulls you forward by the hair, forcing your face toward him. Your lips part instinctively on a panicked breath you donât realise youâve taken.
The nearness alone makes your throat tighten.
You can sense how hard he is from the movement aloneâsee the shape of him straining against his trousers as he drags your face into position. He smirks at the way your breath hitches, at the flush creeping up your neck.
âAlready nervous,â he says softly, almost amused. âGood.â
Your body betrays youâheat pooling low, shame tangled in the terrorâbut you canât look away. Feitanâs expression is unreadable, except for the faint, vicious satisfaction playing at the corner of his mouth. He watches every stutter of your breath, every instinctive tremor.
He pulls himself free, and heâs solid, already leaking. Then his hand tightens in your hair, angling your head exactly the way he wants itâno wasted motion, no chance for protest. His cock presses against your lips, salty and flushed and utterly out of place on his small, elegant frame. For a moment, the room goes silent but for your breath and the low scrape of his shoes on crumbling stone.
Feitanâs grip doesnât loosen. He waits, gaze blank and expectant, as if daring you to disobey. âOpen,â he says, voice flat, almost bored. The command leaves no room for hesitation.
What follows isnât gentle. The taste is sharp, bitter, unfamiliarâevery sense of yours forced to reckon with the undeniable, humiliating reality of his control. He uses you exactly the way you thought he wouldârough, inconsiderate, every movement forcing you to take what he gives and nothing else. Your tears blur the candlelight, your breath catches in frantic bursts, and somewhere between fear and helplessness, your body shudders with something hotter, darker, impossible to deny.
He fucks your mouth with ruthless efficiencyâsomething to be used, tested, broken and discarded. Each thrust rocks the chair beneath you, hard enough to rattle the wire biting into your skin. You can feel the edge in him risingâhear it in the way his breath sharpens, see it in the way his eyes narrow, fixed on you like you're prey pinned in his trap. Thereâs no space to pull back, no mercy in the angle of his hand or the chill in his eyes.
Your panic spikes at the realisation of whatâs coming, your humiliation cresting with it, but Feitan doesnât pause. You try to flinch, to turn, to protect even a shred of dignity, but his hold is unbreakable. Inevitable. You are simply kept thereâgagging, open, helpless, and forced to accept everything he chooses to take from you.
The moment crashes over you in a blur of sound and heat.
You canât do anything but feel the force of his body, the harshness of his breathing, the uncompromising way he uses you.
When he comes, it's sudden and silentâa rush of salt, spattering your face, smearing across your chin. He doesn't bother wiping it away.
He lets the last few drops settle in your hair, then his hand finally releases your head, and the chair tilts forward again. âA thief who knows when to obey.â
Your lungs drag in ragged air. Feitan watches you with cool disinterest, as though assessing whether youâve learned anything at all.
Then, before you've even caught your breath, his fingers are inside you againâfaster this time, crueller, relentless. He drives you forward with merciless precision, no patience for pleading, every motion designed to wring the worst from you. The shame is molten and inescapable; your body rocks against the restraints, thighs trembling, the chair groaning beneath your hips.
Your vision blurs at the edges. The slick sounds of your own arousal are deafening in the dark. You beg, incoherent, but Feitan doesnât even flinchâhis free hand clamping your mouth, forcing you to stay quiet for him, for this.
The sensation crests and breaksâyour orgasm tearing through you like wildfire, heat and ruin in its wake. Pleasure crashes into pain, shame tangled with want until you sob, gasping, boneless in the chair.
He doesnât stop, not even then. Not even when you beg, not even when your body convulses, and your juices pool on the wood. His fingers keep working, merciless, dragging you up again and again, refusing you even a moment to breathe. One orgasm slams into the next, until youâre incoherent, sobbing, mind wiped clean by sensation and shame.
âBeg for mercy,â he commands, tone flat. âBeg pretty, maybe I'll stop.â When you finally do, voice wrecked and desperate, he just smiles, fingers curling around your neck and squeezing hard enough to bruise.
âLesson learned. Maybe.â Feitanâs voice slips out low and unimpressed â then his hand snaps up, fingers clamping around your jaw with force. He twists your face toward him, giving you no choice, no place to hide.
He leans in enough that the heat of his breath drifts across your trembling lipsâreminding you just how close he is, how helpless you are, how easily he can take your air, your voice, your will.
âYou belong to me now. My plaything. Until I find a better toy.â His eyes are inches from yours, sharp and unblinking, reading every flicker of panic, every involuntary shiver. âMight use you again. Maybe the other spiders want to try. If not, you rot.â
He straightens, candlelight flickering over his sharp, impassive face, and wipes his fingers off on your thigh. âTry to escape, I'll kill you.â
He turns and walks away, disappearing into the darkness. The stone circle watches in silence. And you're left trembling, spent, and utterly at his mercy, the cityâs night pressing close all around. You are a relic in a ruin, catalogued and discarded, only to be picked up again when boredom or appetite strikes.
You close your eyes. The fear remains, bitter on your tongue.
But underneath it, coiled deep in the wreckage of your body, a dangerous wish flickersâsoft, impossible, and already burning.
for halloween, what couples costumes would the troupe members do with fem reader? they prolly wouldnt celebrate halloween but like wtv đ
Hi!!! sorry for this delay, it was even over, but I have been very busy, but I still want to answer. đ€
Postscript: we will not talk about Hisoka, Illumi, Bonolenov and Franklin, not because I do not like them, but because it does not let me put more images in. đ°
Halloween costumes that the Phantom Troupe would wear đđââŹ!!!
Woman
Pakunoda: (You are Wally)
Machi: (Machi will play Marceline even though she has pink hair)
Shizuku:
Man
Uvogin:
Nobunaga:
Phinks:
Feitan:
Chrollo:
Shalnark: (I will not discuss this, he is my husband and I know him better than all of you!)
Okay, so imagine a reader with a really powerful nen ability, but they have the fattest crush on Feitan. And they are so infatuated with him that they find out Feitanâsâprofessionsâ, and decide to kidnap him. Not wanting him to die from his âdangerous and unrulyâ lifestyle. They actually successfully detain him inside their home, and make him dress up and play along with their fantasies. And overtime Feitan starts to develop Stockholm syndrome, and slowly starts to let his guard down with readerâŠ
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