love, be afraid

9teen

[nardsbabee]

RISA. °❀.ೃ࿔* 9teen. she/her. scorpio.

nsfw writing, dark fics °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ! mdni !

— mlists;

demon slayer

haikyū!!

others (so far):

flowers of the junkyard | Chrollo Lucilfer

a comet of ash | Uchiha Obito

no version of me | part 2 | Monkey D. Luffy

⋆⭒˚.⋆ que sera sera ⋆⭒˚.⋆

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[nardsbabee]

⤷ no version of me, money d. luffy (2)

— In which, his love has always been too big for you to escape.

darkish!monkey d. luffy x fem!reader

— cw; mdni, unhealthy relationship dynamics, established relationship, suggestive content, sexual tension, underlying possessiveness, talk abt g5, obsession, fear, big on emotional dependency, intimacy ♡

— a/n; this is so self-indulgent, couldn't help it (╹◡╹)

The first time Luffy touched you after Gear 5, you almost flinched, not because he was rough—Luffy had never been rough with you, not really, not in the way that left bruises you hadn't asked for and couldn't explain, but because he was gentle, and the gentleness felt wrong in a way you couldn't name, wrong in a way that made your skin prickle and your breath catch and your heart stutter against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

His fingers slid lazily beneath your jaw, calloused pads pressing against the soft hollow where your pulse lived, frantic and betraying everything you were trying to hide, and the touch was so light, so careful, so achingly deliberate that it made something deep in your stomach clench with a need you didn't want to acknowledge.

Moonlight spilled silver across the deck of the Thousand Sunny, painting everything in shades of blue and white and shadow, and somewhere below deck the crew slept peacefully, unaware that up here, in the quiet dark, their captain was tracing the line of your jaw like he was memorising the shape it. They had fallen asleep hours ago, their laughter and shouting and drunken celebration fading into the kind of quiet that only came after victory, the exhausted, satisfied silence of people who had survived something they probably shouldn't have. Below deck, you could hear the faint creak of hammocks, the distant murmur of Zoro's snoring, the soft shift of Nami turning in her sleep.

But up here, on the deck, with the stars scattered above you and the ocean stretching endlessly in every direction, there was only you and Luffy.

Only ever you and Luffy.

Even after transforming back, after the white hair darkened to black, after the red eyes softened to brown, after the clouds around his neck dissolved into nothing and the drums faded to a memory, traces of Gear 5 still clung to Luffy. The edges of him felt wrong somehow, uncontained, like his body had remembered something ancient during those hours and forgotten, in the hours since, how to fully become human again. His movements were looser than usual, his limbs stretching a fraction too far when he reached for things, his laugh echoing a beat too long in the quiet air. He looked like Luffy, same straw hat, same scarred chest, same stupid grin, but he felt different. Like looking at a familiar shoreline and realizing the tide had come in further than it should have.

"You're staring," he murmured, and his voice was lower than usual, rougher at the edges, like he'd been laughing for hours or screaming, and the sound of it sent a shiver down your spine that settled low in your belly and stayed there, warm and insistent.

Your throat tightened around words you couldn't find, couldn't form, couldn't force past the sudden dryness in your mouth. "I'm thinking," you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you wanted.

Luffy grinned, that slow, lazy grin that had always made your stomach flip and your thighs press together, the grin that had been devastating when he was twelve and was absolutely lethal now, now that you knew what those lips felt like against your skin, now that you knew how his hands could hold you, now that you knew the weight of him pressing you into the mattress on nights when the sea was rough and the crew was asleep and the only sounds were your breathing and his and the distant creak of the ship. "You do that too much," he pouted, and his thumb brushed slowly across your cheek.

You hated how your body softened beneath his touch automatically, the way your shoulders dropped and your breath slowed and your eyes fluttered half-closed before you could stop yourself. It was like your muscles had memorized him, learned to unclench at the feel of his skin against yours, learned to open and welcome and need in ways that embarrassed you when you thought about them later, in the cold light of morning, when his touch wasn't there to justify the reaction.

Luffy noticed, of course he noticed. Luffy noticed everything about you, had always noticed everything about you, even when you wished he wouldn't, even when you tried to hide, even when you turned your face away and pretended not to feel the weight of his gaze. The grin tugging at his mouth widened faintly, and something in his dark eyes flickered with satisfaction.

"There you are," he said, soft and certain, and the words settled heavily in your stomach, because he'd been waiting for you to stop resisting something, hadn't he? Watching you tense and relax and tense again, watching you fight against the pull of him, waiting patiently for the moment you gave up and let yourself be his, let yourself fall into the gravity that had been pulling at you since childhood.

You turned your face slightly, trying to escape the unbearable intensity of his gaze, but his hand followed, palm curving along your jaw, fingers threading into your hair, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth like he was testing whether you'd pull away or lean in, like he was giving you a choice even though you both knew what you'd choose.

"Don't do that," you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word, betraying you.

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that."

He tilted his head, genuinely curious, genuinely confused, and the moonlight caught his eyes and made them look darker than they should have been. "Like what?" he asked, and you could hear in his voice that he wasn't being difficult, he genuinely didn't understand what he was doing, didn't understand that the way he looked at you made your breath stutter, didn't understand that his attention felt like a physical thing, like hands on your skin, like something that could push you over the edge if he looked too long.

"Like you already know what I'm going to say before I say it," you managed to say.

Luffy's grin softened into something smaller, more private, a smile you were fairly certain he'd never given anyone else.

"That's 'cause I do," he said, and his thumb traced the shape of your lower lip as he spoke, feather-light, barely there, but you felt it everywhere, in your throat, in your stomach, in the place between your legs that ached suddenly and without permission.

You'd known Luffy your whole life, had grown up beside him, fought beside him, nearly died beside him, had held him while he bled and watched him rise when he should have stayed down and loved him through every stupid, impossible, glorious moment of his journey, but you'd never seen him like this, this quiet, this focused, this utterly absorbed in the act of touching you like you were something precious and terrifying and his, like the rest of the world had fallen away and left only the two of you.

"You got scared today," he said suddenly, and the words weren't accusatory or judgmental, just curious.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer, and the shame burned in your cheeks and your throat and your chest. "Yes," you whispered.

Luffy hummed quietly, a low sound that vibrated through his chest and into your hand where it rested against his shirt, and you could feel the heat of him through the fabric, the impossible warmth that had been there since Gear 5, since the drums had started beating, since he'd become something more than human and then come back to you. He wasn't upset, you could tell, could read him the way you'd always been able to read him, in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head and the way his thumb kept moving against your skin, but he was thinking, processing something behind those dark eyes that you couldn't quite read, something that made the air between you feel heavier, charged.

Then: "I didn't like that."

Something cold slid down your spine, slow and deliberate, and your pulse stumbled against his thumb where it still pressed against your jaw, and you felt it everywhere, a prickling at the back of your neck, a tightening in your chest, a clenching deep in your belly that was half fear and half something else, something hotter, something that made your skin burn and your breath come faster.

"Which part?" you asked, and your voice came out steadier than you felt, steadier than you had any right to be. "The part where I got scared, or the part where you scared me?"

"I didn't like that you were scared of me."

His grip tightened slightly beneath your jaw, not enough to hurt, not even enough to bruise, just enough to remind you that he could, that his hands were strong enough to break bones and bend steel and reshape the world according to his will, and that he was choosing, consciously or not, to hold you like you were made of glass, like you were the most fragile and precious thing he'd ever touched.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp inhale that made your chest press against his, and Luffy felt it, you could see him feel it, the way his eyes dropped to your parted lips, the way his tongue wet his own mouth unconsciously, the way his body shifted closer like he was following some primal instinct he didn't fully understand.

There it was again: that subtle shift in him, not anger or cruelty but something deeper, something territorial and hungry and patient in a way that Luffy had never been patient about anything except you. As if your fear itself offended him, not because he wanted you to be unafraid of everything, but because he wanted to be the reason you felt safe, even when he was the thing you were scared of, even when his eyes flickered red and the drums started playing and the whole world held its breath.

Luffy moved between your knees before you fully realized what he was doing, his thighs pressing against the inside of yours, the rough fabric of his shorts dragging against your bare legs, and his hands settled on the railing on either side of your hips. He wasn't holding you, he wasn't even touching you, not really, not where it mattered, not where you ached, but the position made your breath stutter anyway, made your heart hammer against your ribs, because his face was suddenly right there, close enough to kiss, close enough that you could count his eyelashes and see the scar underneath his eye and feel the warmth radiating off his skin in waves that made your own skin flush and your nipples tighten against your shirt.

The position should have felt innocent, he was just standing closer, just looking at you, just being Luffy in the way he'd always been Luffy, unaware of personal space, of boundaries, unaware of the way his presence made it hard to breathe, but it didn't feel innocent. Not with the way he was looking at you now, dark eyes tracing the shape of your mouth like he was memorizing it, like he was imagining all the ways he could make you moan his name, not with the way his breath was warm against your lips, not with the way his hands had settled on either side of you like unconscious restraint, not trapping, just making it obvious that you weren't going anywhere.

The distinction mattered less and less these days, you realized, the difference between a cage and gravity, between being held and being kept. One locked you in against your will, one simply made leaving feel impossible, but the end result was the same, wasn't it? You were here, between his knees, between his hands, between his heartbeats, and the idea of standing up and walking away had become so foreign that your body didn't even register it as an option anymore.

"You know I love you," Luffy said, and the words came easily from him, too easily, like breathing or laughing or reaching for meat without thinking. He'd never struggled to say it, had never been shy or hesitant or uncertain, had simply looked at you one day and said I love you the same way he'd said I'm going to be Pirate King, with absolute certainty and no awareness of how those words could shatter someone.

Your chest ached, a deep and familiar pain that lived somewhere behind your sternum and flared up whenever he looked at you like this. "I know," you whispered, and your voice cracked on the second word, and you hated how small you sounded, how vulnerable.

"I love you more than meat."

Despite everything, despite the fear curling in your stomach, despite the way your hands were trembling slightly where they rested on his chest, despite the drums you could still hear echoing in the back of your mind, a breathless, helpless laugh escaped you, because that was so Luffy, so perfectly and stupidly Luffy, that you couldn't help yourself.

As he watched you with those dark, bottomless eyes, his smile widened slowly, and he looked so happy that it made everything hurt worse.

But there was something else underneath the smile now, something that hadn't been there when you were children, a hunger, maybe, or just the weight of everything you'd survived together pressing down on both of you until the space between your bodies felt electric and dangerous and alive, humming with possibility, throbbing with need. His hands were still on the railing, still caging you in, but his body had shifted closer, had pressed against yours in ways that made your your hips shift and your thighs fall open wider, involuntarily, instinctively, making space for him, welcoming him, begging him without words.

The terrifying thing about Luffy's love, you'd learned over the years, was how completely it consumed him, his entire being, the whole of who he was. There was no part of him that held back, no corner of his heart that he kept reserved for himself, no wall or barrier or hesitation between what he felt and what he showed. When he loved you—and he did, he did, with every beat of his impossible heart—he loved you with his whole being, his whole attention, his whole self, in a way that left no room for anything else.

"You always come back to me," Luffy murmured, and the words weren't a question or a command or even a request, they were an observation.

Your breath caught instantly, your chest hitching against his palm where it still rested on your jaw, and your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on, needing something solid to anchor yourself to because the ground beneath you felt like it was shifting, like the world was tilting, like gravity itself was pulling you toward him and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The words weren't romantic tonight. They sounded inevitable, final.

"You say that like I belong to you," you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word, betraying you in a way you couldn't hide.

Luffy blinked slowly, his lashes brushing against his cheeks in the moonlight, dark fans against tan skin, and when his eyes opened again, they were still brown, still warm, still his, but there was something flickering beneath the surface now, something that made your pulse skip and your face flush, something that felt like heat and hunger and the kind of patience that only predators possessed.

Then he smiled. Soft and certain. It was devastating.

"You do," he said, and the world seemed to go still around you, everything pausing, everything waiting, watching to see what you would do next. Not because he sounded cruel or controlling, not because he was trying to claim ownership over you in the way that made your skin crawl and your instincts scream, but because he sounded like he was telling you that the sky was blue, that the ocean was wet, that the sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening.

A fact. An inevitability. Something so fundamental to the structure of reality itself that questioning it would be like questioning gravity, like questioning the drums that beat beneath his heart and, somewhere along the way, had started beating beneath yours too.

Your stomach twisted violently, a hot and painful clench that radiated outward through your thighs and up into your chest and down into your fingers where they curled against his shirt, and you could feel yourself growing wet between your legs, could feel the heat of it spreading through you, could feel your body responding to his words in ways you couldn't control, didn't want to control, didn't have the strength to fight anymore.

"That's—" you started, but the word died in your throat, because the truth of it hit you before you could stop it.

Because no matter how overwhelming Luffy became, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of rubber and laughter and impossible dreams, every path in your mind still curved back toward him eventually. Every decision, every thought, every breath you took, filtered through the lens of his existence. When you imagined the future, he was there. When you remembered the past, he was there too, a constant presence, a thread running through every memory, tying them together into something that looked, from a distance, like a life lived in his shadow.

And when you tried, when you really tried, when you sat alone in the dark and closed your eyes and attempted, with every fiber of your being, to imagine a version of yourself that existed separately from him, your brain went white and silent, because the image wouldn't form, couldn't form, as if your mind itself had accepted something that your heart was still fighting.

Luffy watched the realization cross your face—watched your eyes widen, watched your breath catch, watched your hands tremble against his chest—and his smile widened, slow and warm and happy, as though your inability to deny him made something bright and fierce unfurl inside his chest.

"You get it," he smiled, and his voice was softer now, like he was witnessing something sacred.

A chill raced down your spine, hot and cold at the same time, raising goosebumps on your arms. You hoped he couldn't see but you knew, with a certainty that made your stomach drop, that he could. He noticed everything. His awareness of you had expanded along with everything else, had become something almost supernatural in its intensity.

Luffy leaned down suddenly, pressing his forehead against yours, and the contact made your breath stutter and your eyes flutter half-closed because he was so close, warm and solid and real, his breath mingling with yours, his skin pressing against your skin, his presence filling every corner of your awareness until there was nothing else, just him and you and the space between you that was shrinking with every heartbeat.

"Tell me what you felt," he murmured, and his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, not a kiss, not quite, just the ghost of one, the promise of one, the threat of one hanging in the space between you. "When I changed. When I was the other me. Tell me what you felt."

Your voice barely worked, coming out as a whisper thin and shaky and raw. "I felt..scared."

He nodded slowly, his forehead still pressed against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek as he shifted. "And?" he pressed, and his voice was lower now, rougher, hungrier.

"And...I couldn't look away."

Luffy made a sound low in his throat, something pleased and hungry and barely restrained, something that vibrated through his chest and into yours and settled deep in your belly.

"What else?" he pressed, and his thumbs were moving now, tracing small circles against your hip bones through the fabric of your shorts, and your body was responding in ways you couldn't control, arching toward him without permission, thighs parting wider, hips lifting off the deck, hands gripping his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away entirely.

Your face burned with shame and want and the horrible, thrilling knowledge that he could see right through you, that he always had, that every secret you'd ever tried to keep from him had been an exercise in futility because Luffy had never needed you to tell him anything, he just knew, the way he knew which way the wind was blowing, the way he knew that you would always, always come back.

"I wanted—" you started, then stopped, because saying it out loud would make it real, and making it real felt like the point of no return.

Luffy pulled back just enough to look at you, just enough that his eyes could meet yours, and they were darker now, not red, not yet, but darker and deeper. "Wanted what?" he asked, and his voice was lower, more demanding, and his hands had stopped circling your hips and were simply holding now, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, pressing hard enough that you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, marks you could press your fingers into and remember this moment.

"Luffy."

"Tell me." His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you forward just slightly, just enough that you could feel the heat of him between your thighs, the solid press of his body against yours, the undeniable proof of how much he wanted this, wanted you, wanted to hear you say it. "I won't laugh, promise. Just tell me."

You closed your eyes, unable to look at him anymore, unable to bear the weight of his attention.

"I wanted you to devour me," you whispered, and the words came out broken, shameful, honest in a way that made your cheeks burn and your throat ache and your entire body flush with heat. "When your eyes were red and the drums were playing and you were laughing like nothing in the world could hurt you. I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at Kaidou. Like I was the only thing that mattered. Like you would destroy everything else just to keep me."

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes again, hot and embarrassing and impossible to stop.

"I wanted you to eat me alive," you continued, the words pouring out of you now, a confession you'd been holding onto for weeks, for months, for years, maybe, since the first time you'd seen him fight, since the first time you'd watched him refuse to stay down, since the first time you'd realized that there was something different about him, something that scared you and thrilled you and made you want in ways you didn't have words for.

The silence that followed stretched so long that you started to shake, started to regret, started to pull away and pretend you'd never said anything at all.

But Luffy's hands held you in place, steady and unyielding.

"Open your eyes," he said quietly.

You shook your head, squeezing them tighter.

"Open your eyes."

You opened them.

And Luffy was looking at you exactly the way you'd just described, like you were the only thing that mattered, like he would destroy everything else just to keep you, like the rest of the world had fallen away and left only the two of you.

His eyes were red.

Not flickering. Not flashing. Red. The same shape, the same expression, the same Luffy-ness that you'd known since childhood, but red, glowing faintly in the dark, reflecting the moon and the stars and something deeper, something that had been sleeping under his skin since the day he ate that fruit and was awake now, watching you with a hunger that made your entire body tremble.

Doddottotto.

The drums were back, soft and distant but unmistakable, a rhythm that matched your racing heart exactly, that pulsed through your veins and your bones and the warm, wet place between your thighs, that made everything feel louder and brighter and more real.

"There," Luffy murmured, and his voice had that layered quality again, two people speaking at once, the boy you loved and something other, something that had been waiting for this moment, for you to say the words, for you to stop pretending and let him have you the way he'd always wanted to have you. "There you are."

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, fingers spreading wide, palm pressing hot against the sensitive skin of your inner leg, and you gasped, the sound escaping before you could catch it, because his thumb was there, not where you needed it, not where you ached and throbbed and burned, but close enough that your whole body clenched in anticipation.

"You want me to devour you," he said, and the words weren't a question anymore, but a confirmation, a promise.

"Yes," you breathed, because lying was impossible now, because the truth was clawing its way out of your throat whether you wanted it to or not.

Luffy smiled, the smile that stretched too wide and showed too many teeth and made your stomach flip with fear and desire in equal measure, and his thumb pressed harder against your inner thigh, just once, just enough to make you whimper, a small broken sound.

"Not yet," he said.

Your heart stopped, then started again, faster, harder, pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

"When?" you asked, and your voice was wrecked, desperate, not yours, couldn't be yours, because the you from yesterday, from last week, from last month would never have sounded like this, would never have begged like this, would never have spread her thighs wider and arched her back and looked up at him with eyes that were asking for something she couldn't name.

"Soon." He leaned forward, and his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke. "I want to feel your heart match mine."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, just barely, just enough to make you shudder, to make your hips buck against his, to make a sound escape your throat that was almost a sob.

"Then I'll devour you," he grinned, and his hand slid higher up your thigh, his thumb brushing against the seam of your shorts, against the place where you were hottest, wettest, most desperate, and you whimpered, because he was so close, so close, and you could feel yourself soaking through the fabric, could feel how ready you were, how needy, how completely and utterly at his mercy. "And you won't remember what it felt like to be anywhere else."

The drums were loud now, drowning out the ocean, drowning out your thoughts, drowning out everything except the heat of his body and the press of his hands and the impossible, terrifying, beautiful certainty in his red eyes, and you could feel yourself trembling and shaking, coming apart at the seams.

"Luffy," you breathed his name, like the only word that mattered.

His smile widened, and his thumb pressed harder against the seam of your shorts, and you felt yourself clench around nothing, felt the wetness spread, felt your hips lift off the deck in search for more.

"See?" he murmured, and his voice was the drums and the ocean and the sound of the world holding its breath. "You've always been mine. And someday soon-"

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, just enough to let you see the hunger in his red eyes, the love in them, the terrible, overwhelming certainty.

"—you're going to beg me to prove it."

You should have been afraid. You were afraid.

But you wanted him anyway, needed him anyway, had been wanting and needing him for as long as you could remember, and as Luffy pulled back to look at you, smiling that joyful and hungry smile, his red eyes glowing in the moonlight, his hands still hot on your thighs, you realized that wanting him was the same as belonging to him, that belonging to him was the same as being free, that being free was the same as falling, and you had been falling for as long as you could remember, falling into his orbit, into his gravity, into the space between his heartbeat and his drums.

Doddottotto

Doddottotto

Doddottotto

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[nardsbabee]

⤷ no version of me, money d. luffy

— In which, you were always going to stay by his side.

darkish!monkey d. luffy x fem!reader

— cw; mdni, unhealthy relationship dynamics, emotional dependency, attachment issues, angst, established relationship, some allusions to g5????

— a/n; your girl is back :) with a change of perspective. which pov do you guys prefer?? also would you like a p2 where we see more of luffy and readers relationship?

The sea had always sounded different around Luffy.

You noticed it before you understood what the feeling meant.

Foosha Village slept to the rhythm of waves and wind and creaking docks, but whenever Luffy laughed too loudly near the shore, the ocean answered him somehow. The tides crashed harder. Seagulls shrieked and scattered into the sky. Storm clouds gathered too quickly overhead.

As a child, you called it coincidence. As you grew older, you stopped believing in coincidence entirely.

Especially where Monkey D. Luffy was concerned.

"Again!"

Luffy grinned at you through split lips and scraped cheeks, one sandal hanging half-off his foot as he launched himself at you for the fifth time that afternoon.

You dodged him easily.

"You're supposed to be practicing, idiot."

"I am practicing!"

You shook your head unconvinced. "You're trying to tackle me."

"That's fighting!" Luffy pouted.

"No, that's being annoying."

Luffy cackled loudly as you shoved him backward into the grass beside Makino's bar. He landed flat on his back and stared at the sky without a single complaint, smiling so hard his whole face looked too big for him.

He was always smiling like that. As if the world had been made specifically to delight him.

You sat beside him with a huff, knees pulled to your chest. The summer heat clung to everything. Cicadas sounded from the trees overhead.

Luffy turned his head toward you suddenly.

"You'll come with me, right?"

You blinked. "Where?"

"When I leave." He said it casually, naturally. Like it had already happened. Like it wasn't a question.

You stared at him for a moment.

The thing about Luffy was that he spoke about impossible things with such certainty that reality itself seemed embarrassed to deny him.

Pirate King. Grand Line. Adventure. Dreams.

He said them all like promises the world had no choice but to fulfill.

"You don't even have a ship," you muttered.

"I'll get one."

"You don't have a crew."

"I'll get one too."

"And if I say no?"

Luffy looked amused. Not angry. Not upset.

"Nah," he said easily. "You'll be there with me!"

You rolled your eyes and stood quickly before the strange tightness in your chest could grow worse.

"You're impossible, Lu."

Luffy laughed again.

And somehow the ocean sounded louder for it.

Luffy's certainty had always been concerning to some degree.

You've seen it a hundred times. The crew gets separated on an island. Hours pass. Everyone is frantic, searching. Luffy just...waits. He sits on the ship. He eats. He naps.

"Shouldn't we look for them?" Nami yells.

Luffy opens one eye. "They'll come back."

"But what if they're hurt? What if—"

"They'll come back."

And they always do. Zoro somehow finds his way. Usopp stumbles in at dawn. Even Robin, who's spent a lifetime running, always returns to the Thousand Sunny like a eternal pose pointing home.

The crew calls it luck. Or instinct. Or Luffy's insane confidence.

You call it what it is: gravity.

Luffy doesn't chase. He pulls. The world bends toward him. People bend toward him. You've watched it happen a dozen times, enemies becoming allies, strangers giving their lives, the sea itself seeming to part for his stupid, brilliant, unstoppable will.

And you?

You've been in his orbit since you were seven years old.

You were the same age when Shanks told you about the Pirate King. About fate. About how some people are born to shake the world.

You remembered looking at Luffy, who was picking his nose and staring at the ocean.

He'll do it, you thought. He'll be Pirate King.

Not because you believed dreams always came true. But because Luffy was different.

Shanks watched you watching him.

That should have unsettled you more than it did.

There was something deeply strange about Shanks. Not frightening exactly. But old in a way that had nothing to do with age. Like the sea itself had shaped him into something no ordinary person could fully understand anymore.

His gaze drifted from you to Luffy.

Then lingered, far too long.

You thought about that moment a lot. It terrified you.

Years later, Nami was the first person to say it out loud.

"You know what scares me about you two?"

The Sunny rocked gently beneath moonlight. Most of the crew slept below deck. Only Nami and you remained awake.

Luffy had passed out hours ago beside the mast after devouring nearly all of the ships food rations.

You looked at her. "What?"

Nami rested her chin against her knees.

"He trusts you more than himself."

You laughed quietly. "That's dramatic."

"It's true," Nami said immediately.

The seriousness in her voice made your smile fade.

Nami glanced toward the sleeping figure across the deck.

Moonlight painted Luffy silver and gold. He looked harmless asleep. He never truly was.

"I've seen kingdoms put their faith in him," Nami murmured. "I've seen people throw away their lives for him after knowing him for a day."

Her gaze shifted back to you.

"But you…"

The wind stirred softly around you two.

"You're the only thing he's never questioned."

Your chest tightened painfully.

Nami looked away first. "And the scary part is," she admitted quietly, "I don't think you'd survive losing each other."

The words hit too close.

Because you had wondered that yourself before.

Not in romantic ways. In frightening ones. Like missing organs. Like severed limbs.

Sometimes you thought if Luffy died, the world itself would simply stop making sense.

And wasn't that horrifying?

To love someone so much your reality reshaped itself around their existence?

You stared at the sea.

"You think that's unhealthy."

"I think," Nami said carefully, "that you're scared of him sometimes."

Your breath caught.

Nami didn't sound judgmental. Just observant, careful.

"Yes," you whispered eventually. Because lying would be pointless.

Nami nodded once like she'd expected the answer.

"Me too."

A chill slid down your spine.

"Not because he'd hurt us," Nami clarified softly. "But because when Luffy loves something…"

Her eyes drifted toward him again.

"…he does it with everything he is."

And that was true.

Luffy loved completely. Violently. Endlessly. There were no limits to him. No restraint. No halfway.

You had spent your entire life being the center of that love.

Sometimes it felt warm enough to live inside forever. Sometimes it felt like drowning.

And maybe the cruelest part was that you didn't know if you truly wanted to escape it.

Because every time you imagined a future without Luffy in it, the world felt fundamentally wrong.

Like imagining the sea without tides.

Nami watched you quietly. She watched the way your eyes followed Luffy even when you weren't looking at him. The way your body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun. The way you laughed at his jokes, not because they were funny (they rarely were), but because his joy was infectious and you'd stopped trying to resist it years ago.

She thought about the map she was drawing of a world she hadn't seen yet. All those blank spaces waiting to be filled.

She thought about you. And wondered if there was ever a version of your life that didn't end beside him.

Nami opened her mouth, closed it and opened it again.

"Do you ever wonder," she said slowly, "if he'd notice?"

You frowned, pulling your attention away from Luffy's sleeping form. "Notice what?"

"If you changed." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "If you woke up one day and didn't love him anymore. If you became someone else entirely."

The question landed like a stone in deep water.

You thought about it. Really thought.

About the girl you'd been at four, following him into the woods. About the girl at seven, listening to Shanks speak of fate. About the girl at seventeen, packing her bag before she'd even decided to leave.

About all the versions of yourself that had led to this moment.

"No," you whisper finally. "Because I don't think that version of me exists. Anywhere. In any world."

Nami looked at you for a long time.

The moon was high. The sea was quiet. Somewhere below deck, Chopper shifted in his sleep and made a small, contented noise.

Then Nami looked away. And you both pretended you weren't wiping your eyes.

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[skinnyangels-stuff]

[madeleineengland]

LMAO

[ginpachita]

I was rewatching JJK and they reminded me of each other so I thought "what if?" and drew them together.

[nardsbabee]

killua would not tolerate his bs hshshsh

[asiriyep]

Shiden.

[nardsbabee]

yummy

[nardsbabee]

hello, this is the same anon from before. i think i’ll go by 🦋 butterfly anon? if that’s okay? just so it’s easier to remember lol.

at first it was hard for me to picture rengoku in a dark context too, considering how righteous he is! but the way i envision him is as overbearing, just a huge presence in your life that you can never get away from. just think about it, he’s so big (in my heart he’s 6ft..) so strong, he could hurt you if he really wanted to! but he wouldn’t, because he’s just such a nice guy… (insert dreamy sigh)

i have more thoughts, but i’ll leave it there for now! i hope you are enjoying the new year!! 🩷

-🦋

okay, you've successfully painted a very compelling (and terrifying) picture. the "nice guy" overbearing presence can be way more chilling than outright malice sometimes.

you might have just planted a seed~ no promises doe (¬‿¬)

[nardsbabee]

⤷ sanctuary, kageyama tobio

— In which, leaving was never simple, and returning home changes nothing.

Kageyama Tobio x fem!reader

— cw; mdni, dark themes, obsessive and possessive behaviour, controlling behaviour, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dubcon, nsfw, rough smut, blow job, dry humping, lil bit size kink ♡, alcohol consumption

— a/n; finally wrote kags ahh!

As the car door was slammed shut, and she was buckled into the passenger seat, Y/N realised that the evening had been guaranteed to come down to this moment.

Her nerves had been frayed from the very start, from the second she stood before the izakaya, familiar voices and booming laughter reaching her ears from inside.

She was back in Miyagi, had flown all the way from New Zealand for this, interrupting her travels for her high school volleyball club reunion.

Being back home after two years felt strange. She'd left shortly after graduation, desperate to escape the sleepy prefecture and its complicated memories. And yet, for all the breathtaking sunsets and fleeting connections her travels had given her, nostalgia had followed her like a shadow.

She had truly missed Miyagi. And her friends even more. Sure, she had stayed in contact with most of them, but texting and face timing just didn't cut it.

Now, perched on a cushion between a chattering Yachi and a heavily pregnant Kiyoko, she couldn't help but smile softly. Couldn't help the giddy feeling in her belly as the guys joked around like back then.

And yet, yet the underlying urge to flee sat heavy in her gut.

She wouldn't dare glance in his direction, where he sat perched in front of his untouched beer, talking idly with Ennoshita and Suga. At 21, he was just a taller and broader version of the boy she had once known. Of the boy she had left behind.

She remembered the day she broke the news to him distinctly. It was a few weeks before they would graduate. Everybody seemed to have some sort of idea where the next stop would be. Hinata had plans for leaving to Brazil, Yamaguchi, Tsukishima and Yachi were all off to college, Kageyama had been offered a professional contract from a team in Japans Devision 1 volleyball league and would head to Tokyo soon after graduation.

And Y/N had dreams of traveling, of seeing the world like Nishinoya had, of finding a purpose that was wholly her own.

Kageyama's stone cold expression upon hearing the news was carved into her memory forever.

"You're leaving me for a backpacking trip?"

He hadn't stayed composed for long. When it sank in that she was serious, he reverted to the setter she'd met in their first year, the king who demanded loyalty, who expected everyone to stay exactly where he needed them.

He'd known about her desire of seeing new places but Tobio's world was a straight line—from point A (Karasuno) to point B (the top)—and he could not conceive of Y/N existing outside of that trajectory.

And now they were back here. Back home, in Miyagi, where it had all started.

In their first year, Y/N felt out of place in the unfamiliar, sweat-filled gym. She was patient and kind, always ready with water bottles and encouragement. He was the opposite, impatient, intense, and demanding perfection from his teammates.

Hinata learned to weather his tempers with fiery retorts. Y/N simply…flinched. And something in the way she did it, the subtle retreat into her own gentle soul, hooked itself deep in him. He noticed he served harder when she was watching, his sets turning sharper under her gaze. Her softness wasn't something he looked down on, it was what kept him grounded while he pushed himself forward.

She became his anchor. A whispered "You can do it, Tobio" before a match point was more effective than any pep talk from the coach. The team joked about it, exchanged knowing looks. They celebrated how the king learned to be a teammate.

What they didn't see was how the leash tightened.

By their second year, she was his girlfriend. It was never easy. His love wasn't gentle, it was possessive. A hand on the small of her back that guided a little too firmly. A frown if she laughed too hard with Tanaka or Nishinoya. He was learning control on the court, but off it, he was applying that same, relentless focus to her. She was his sanctuary, and sanctuaries were meant to be kept closed off.

And Kageyama had always taken that to heart.

She remembered her friends worrying. Remembered how people outside the club hesitated around her. She hadn't been blind, but only now did she understand just how tightly his affection had wrapped around her.

So tightly that even years later, she hadn't dared to date anyone else. Terrified he'd somehow get a whiff of it.

She shivered, reaching for her bottle of chu-hi. She'd promised herself one drink to take the edge off. It was now her third. The alcohol was a warm, fuzzy blanket, smothering her nerves, making the memories fuzzier at the edges.

"So, Y/N!" Tsukishima's dry voice cut through her thoughts. "Still gallivanting around the world? Must be nice not being tied down."

She felt Kageyama's stare intensify.

"Something like that," she murmured.

He had never understood. Never understood why she would want to be anywhere other than beside him. And judging by the way he was looking at her now, he still didn't.

A while later the reunion began to wind down. Coats were fetched, goodbyes were shouted. YIN stood, her head swimming pleasantly. A mistake, she realized distantly. The room tilted.

A large, warm hand settled on the small of her back, steadying her. A jolt, like a live wire, shot up her spine.

"I'll take her home," Kageyama's voice was low, leaving no room for argument.

Before she could form a coherent protest, he was guiding her out, his grip firm. The cool night air did little to sober her. He didn't call a taxi. He walked her to a sleek, dark car and bundled her into the passenger seat.

"N-No…Kage—"

His head snapped up, his eyes a dark, turbulent blue, in the dim overhead light, as he was buckling her in.

"It's Tobio," he corrected, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the confined space.

She managed to swallow the lump in her throat and nod, averting her eyes. The weight of his gaze on her had always been a bit heavy to bear, but tonight it felt burning.

He didn't drive her to her parents house, but to the familiar, quiet streets towards the house he'd grown up in, the one that was now empty. The key turned in the lock with a definitive click that echoed in the silent night.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to cut through the alcohol. This was a colossal mistake.

The moment the door closed, the silence was deafening. He left the main lights off. One lamp stretched dark shadows across the room. He pinned her against the door, his body blocking any chance of escape. He felt different, bigger, stronger. The boyish slimness was gone, replaced by the solid build of a professional athlete. When he leaned his forehead against hers, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

"You left me," he murmured, the words a rough caress in the dark. His scent, clean soap, faint sweat, and something uniquely, wholly him, assaulted her senses, unleashing a torrent of memories she'd worked so hard to bury.

"Tobio, please..."

"Do you know what it was like?" he continued, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, forehead resting against hers. "Playing in Tokyo? In Italy? Standing on that Olympic podium? All I could think was that you should have been there. That you were mine to share it with."

His mouth crashed down on hers, before she could reply. It wasn't a kiss, but a punishment. A reclamation. His tongue forced its way into her mouth, demanding and possessive. One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back at a painful angle, while the other slid down to grip her hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

A whimper escaped her throat, a confusing mix of fear and a treacherous, long-dormant heat.

"H-Hah.."

When he broke the kiss, he didn't ask, he simply lifted her. The ease of it was shocking, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, carrying her up the stairs as if she weighed nothing.

His old bedroom was almost exactly as she remembered, the volleyball posters, the simple furniture, the bed where they'd spent so many stolen afternoons.

He didn't bother with pleasantries. He pushed her onto the bed, his movements efficient and demanding. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, before settling on her breasts with a famished groan. He suckled and bit through the fabric of her dress, the material growing damp and slick with his saliva. His hands hiked up her skirt, bunching it around her waist.

"Missed these..." His grip was unforgiving. "This is what you came back for."

He unzipped his pants, freeing his erection, thick and heavy and already leaking. He didn't enter her yet. Instead, he rolled them over so she was straddling him, his hand fisting in her hair, guiding her head down.

"You remember how," he commanded, his eyes glinting in the dark.

She did. With trembling hands and a heart pounding in her throat, she took him into her mouth. He was thick and heavy on her tongue, the taste and smell of him overwhelmingly familiar. He didn't let her set the pace, his hips moving shallowly, controlling the rhythm, his groans of "Yes, just like that" both a praise and a demand. He was rough, hitting the back of her throat until tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the spit and pre-cum smearing her chin.

Before he could finish, he pulled her off with a wet pop, flipping her onto her hands and knees with a single, powerful motion. He pushed her dress up around her waist and yanked her panties down. He ground against her from behind, the rough fabric of his pants a harsh friction against her bare skin, his cock, slick from her mouth, rubbing between her cheeks with a feverish, desperate rhythm. A low, continuous groan rumbled in his chest. The friction was rough, almost painful, a stark reminder of his raw, unchecked need.

Once shed of his pants and boxers, he positioned himself at her entrance. There was no condom. The thought was a spike of pure terror.

"Tobio, n-no-"

He drove into her in one brutal, searing thrust. She cried out, a ragged sound swallowed by the pillow. He felt bigger than she remembered, stretching her impossibly, rearranging her from the inside out. His pace was punishing from the first, each slam of his hips a jolt that shook her entire frame. The sound was obscene, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged, open-mouthed breaths by her ear.

His hands locked hard around her hips. "Never...leaving again," he rasped, the grip on her hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm frantic. He leaned over her, one hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back, his mouth on her ear. "This is where you belong, Y/N. Right here."

The rough way he claimed her drove her pleasure higher, winding it tight. She came with a broken sob, her body convulsing around him. The sensation pushed him over the edge. With a guttural roar, he pulled out of her, his hot release striping across her lower back and the swell of her butt before he turned her over.

Kageyama wasn't done. His hand working over his still-spurting length, pumping it over her stomach, her breasts, the final, possessive drops landing on her chin and cheek with a sticky warmth. He watched her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a triumphant, obsessive fire.

He collapsed beside her, his arm thrown heavily over her waist, pinning her to the sweat-slicked sheets. In the heavy, silence that followed, he nuzzled into her hair, his voice a low, final vow.

"Won't let you get away..."

And as Y/N lay there, coated in him, sticky, sore, and utterly claimed, she knew with a terrifying certainty that he meant it. The boy who needed control had become the man who took it. And there was no escaping him twice.

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[nardsbabee]

hello :) this is the same anon from before (not sure if i should name myself for your convenience). im glad to hear you like writing dark fic for the slayers, they're my favorite to read. i know you mentioned giyu and sanemi as your favorites to write for, but i am curious how you may characterize kyojuro (he's my fav lol) in dark fic. but overall, i hope you're doing well and happy new year!! i hope to read more of your work in the upcoming year :3

happy new year, first off! and thank you so much for the kind words, i'm really excited to write more this year <3

and rengoku, honestly, i like him a lot, but he's never been a character i've felt super inspired to write for in dark fics? that said, i'd love to hear what you enjoy about him in darker settings, maybe you'll change my mind :))

hope you're having a lovely start to the year, and thank you again for chatting with me <3<3<3

[nardsbabee]

….just thinking abt how I never paid much attention to Shinobu until her fight against Douma. then it all hit me.

yeah, we knew her smile was an act and that she was angry underneath. but hearing her voice change, seeing that rage finally surface…that's when I got her.

she contained a lifetime of pure rage in a world that tells women not to be angry. she wasn't just strong, she was also so strategic to a horrifying degree. poisoning herself for months in advance. planning her own death so perfectly that she had to be eaten alive to win. (which she did, ultimately, don't fight me on that)

in her final moments, she stopped smiling. she finally let herself scream and be furious. she showed the fury she'd been repressing since her sisters death. a rage society told her, as a woman, to never show outright.

and even then, after sacrificing everything, it still wasn't enough.

I think abt her a lot. not my favorite, but undoubtedly the best written fem character in kny.

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[nardsbabee]

hi!! this is the anon from before. i was so excited to see you tease demon slayer, and then you posted the douma fic and 😍😍 it was so good!!!! if you don't mind me asking, what are other demon slayer characters do you enjoy to write for (do you prefer writing for demon characters or the slayers)? i hope you don't mind me in your inbox :)

ahh, thank you so much!! <333 honestly, I was a little iffy about how the fic turned out in the end, but that's pretty normal for me lol

and as for your question, I absolutely love writing for Akaza since he's my fav demon. Muzan's up there too, but his character is a bit harder to capture :( other than that, Gyutaro could be fun~

for the slayers, definitely Giyuu and Sanemi <3 I think writing the slayers is actually a little more fun, honestly, especially when it's a dark!fic

and you're always welcome in my inbox!! ty for chatting with me (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[nardsbabee]

⤷ alexithymia, dōma

— In which, someone who feels nothing finds someone who feels everything.

Douma x fem!reader

— cw; mdni, dark!fic, noncon, graphic violence, gore, blood, body horror, dehumanisation kinda, he eats someone in front of her, emotional abuse, power imbalance, overstimulation, dacryphilia ♡, size kink

— a/n; tried writing something horror-like, ik still very tame

The polished wood floor felt like ice beneath her bare feet. Each frantic step echoed a treacherous tap tap tap in the dead silence of the temple's hallways, a sound that seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

The silence swallowed everything else. No chanting. No footsteps. Just the smell of incense soaked into old wood and the weight of a place that did not want her to leave.

Her heart was a trapped bird, beating its wings bloody against her ribs. The kimono she'd been dressed in—a garish offering of peach and gold—whispered around her legs, a constant, mocking reminder of her fate. She was an offering for a god. A gift for a monster.

She hated it.

She'd slipped away in the hushed, reverent chaos just before the presentation, when the acolytes were lighting the final banks of candles and her captures were boasting with smugness. Now, she was driven by a single, primal directive: out.

The corridors twisted endlessly, every turn leading to another painted screen, another false promise of peace. Serene mountains. Quiet rivers. Lies. This wasn't a temple. It was a cage made beautiful so prey wouldn't panic too soon.

Tears of frustration blurred her vision. She was so focused on the empty space behind her, on listening for pursuing footsteps, that she rounded a corner without looking.

And ran face-first into a wall of ice-cold, unyielding muscle.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs in a soft oof. She stumbled back, the world a dizzy swirl of gold and shadow. Instinct, that stupid, human instinct for politeness, kicked in before terror could.

"I—I'm so sorry! Please, I have to—" The words tumbled out as she tried to sidestep the obstacle, her head down, already moving.

A hand clamped onto her waist.

It wasn't a restraining grip. It was an absolute cessation of movement. The fingers were long, elegant, and cold, yet they held her with effortless, immovable strength. The shock of that touch, its frigid certainty, froze her more completely than any shout could have.

Her gaze traveled up, slowly, dread pooling like lead in her stomach.

Dark robes. Hair the color of pale straw. And a face too beautiful to be kind. He was smiling down at her, a friendly, welcoming smile. Almost delighted. But his eyes…they were the color of broken glass, and they held nothing at all. Just a bright, empty cheer.

She knew him. From the tapestries, from the hushed, feverish prayers. Douma.

All the blood drained from her face. Her breath hitched, a tiny, broken sound. The fear she'd been running from wasn't just present now, it consumed her. It widened her eyes, parted her lips in a silent 'O', made her entire body begin to tremble violently in his grasp.

His smile didn't change, but his eyes grew brighter, more focused. The vacant cheer in them sharpened into something like fascination. He'd seen fear before, the reverent, delicious fear of his followers. But this was different. This was raw, untamed, and impossible to hide on her face.

"Well, well," he chimed, his voice a warm, pleasant hum. It was wrong. All of this was wrong. "What do we have here? A little lost dove fluttering away?"

She couldn't speak. Her throat had sealed shut.

His grip tightened just a fraction.

Pain flared sharp and sudden at her waist. A small, broken sound escaped her before she could stop it. Her body arched away instinctively, breath hitching, tears spilling freely now.

His eyes flickered down to where his hand spanned her side, then back to her face, watching the tears that welled up in reaction to the pain. A new layer of intrigue.

"Oh," he murmured, sounding genuinely surprised. "That's interesting."

His thumb pressed deliberately into the sensitive bone beneath the fabric, not crushing, testing. Her breath stuttered again, a helpless, breathless sound pulled from her chest.

"You're a delicate one, aren't you? ," he mused. "I can feel your little bones. So easy to snap."

He leaned down, bringing his beautiful, horrifying face closer to hers. She could see the faint, unnatural purple tint of his long nails against the white of her kimono. "You were my gift, huh? The one from the merchant and his weepy wife. And you were trying to…leave? Before I even got to see you?" He tutted, a sound of mock disappointment. "That's very rude."

His other hand came up, and she flinched, expecting a blow. But he only traced the line of her jaw with the back of one cold knuckle, following the trail of a single, escaped tear.

"Don't cry," he said, his tone sweet, advising. "Well…actually, do. It's quite fascinating. I can see every thought." He murmured, his smile never fading. "You're so…loud, without making a sound."

He straightened, still holding her fast.

"You know," Douma went on, conversational, "I eat women all the time. They scream. They beg. They promise things." He shrugged. "It all sounds the same."

He looked back down at her, gaze sharp with delight.

"But you…" His grip adjusted again, just enough to make her gasp, body reacting before thought. "…you react before you decide to."

Her breath came in short, uneven pulls. She couldn't stop trembling.

He began to walk, effortlessly pulling her along with him, her feet scrambling to keep up, her body arching away from the painful pressure of his hand. He wasn't taking her back to the ceremonial hall. He was steering her down a darker, more secluded corridor, towards his private quarters.

"I don't think I'll eat you," he announced pleasantly.

Her hope flared and died immediately at the look in his eyes.

"No," he continued. "You'd be wasted. You're not food."

He smiled wider, glancing down at her, drinking in the panorama of her dread, the way her chest heaved, the helpless tremble of her lip, the sheer, shining terror in her eyes. It was a feast for his starvation.

"You're responsive."

He stopped before a heavy door and pushed it open, pulling her inside. His rooms were opulent and cold. He shut the door with a soft click that felt final.

"I think," he hummed thoughtfully, "I'll keep you."

For a week, she lived in a room next to his. It was beautiful. It was a cage.

She was dressed in fine silks that felt like spiders' webs, fed delicate meals that tasted of ash.

Her only purpose was to be observed.

Douma appeared whenever he pleased. Sometimes she would look up and find him already there, leaning in the doorway, watching her try to eat, try to sleep, try not to scream. He watched her reactions as if she were a rare, skittish animal

"You frown in your sleep," he noted one morning, his voice bright with discovery. "What do you dream of, I wonder? Running? Or is it of me?"

On the third day, he brought someone else.

A servant girl, young, trembling and familiar. The one who used to avert her eyes but sometimes offered a tight, pitying smile. Now her face was swollen from crying, her breathing ragged.

"See?" Douma said cheerfully, his hands heavy on Y/N's shoulders, forcing her to watch. "She's afraid. But it's a boring fear. It's all words and snot."

The servant sobbed, words tumbling over each other, apologies, prayers. It was loud, messy.

He sighed. "It's dull."

Then he moved, fast. There was a wet, tearing sound. It wasn't a snap, it was worse. The servant girl didn't scream. She just made a choked gurgle as Douma's head bent, as he took a single, deliberate bite from her shoulder.

Blood sprayed warm and vivid, splattering across the pristine mats. The red was shocking. Too bright. The girl sagged, her scream dying into a choking, animal sound.

Douma chewed. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

Y/N gagged.

A wave of nausea, hot and immediate, slammed into her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was useless. She barely managed to turn before retching, her empty stomach spasming uselessly. Tears streamed down her face as her body betrayed her completely.

When she looked up again, the servant girl lay crumpled and twitching.

He wasn't looking at her anymore.

He was looking at her.

His smile got wider, realer in its emptiness. "Oh," he breathed. "Look at that. Tears from physical distress rather than emotional fear. The way your body convulses." He tilted his head. "That's new."

After that, it became routine.

He brought people in front of her, not to kill quickly, but to demonstrate. A follower who had stolen was forced to kneel. Douma broke his fingers one by one, slow and deliberate, pausing between each snap to watch her face.

"Ah—there," he'd say. "That flinch. Do it again."

He ate others in front of her, always calmly, always narrating. He watched the way her breath hitched when teeth met flesh, the way her eyes darted away and then snapped back against her will.

The sight of her tears never failed to delight him. One night, she cried silently, tears slipping down her face despite her efforts to stay still.

Douma noticed immediately.

He reached out, catching one with the pad of his finger before it could fall. Then he brought it to his lips. His tongue brushed it away.

"Salty," he said. Then his eyes followed the tear's path down her neck, over the thin silk of her sleep robe, down to her chest. "I've always wondered... what it would be to feel something so strongly it leaks from your eyes."

A single, sharp, purple-nailed finger hooked into the collar of her robe. A soft snick of tearing silk. She flinched, a fresh, wet sob catching in her throat.

His eyes lit up. Not with feeling. With an idea.

His hand, so big it could span her waist, came up and covered her breast through the fabric. He squeezed, not hard, but enough to make her yelp.

"Let's see what else we can make leak, shall we?"

He didn't rip her clothes off. That would be too hasty, too human in its impatience. He used those sharp purple nails to slice the silks away, strand by strand, while she stood shaking. He looked at her naked body like it was a map he was learning.

"You're so small," he chuckled. He pushed her back onto the futon and just looked, his head tilted, smiling. "All of you. Little wrists I could snap with a twitch. A little throat I could silence forever." His hand wrapped around her thigh, his fingers almost meeting. It was terrifying. He could break her without trying. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, the width of his shoulders blocking out the light, the lean muscle of his torso, the impossible length of his legs tangling with hers. It was more terrifying than any threat. He wasn't trying to be intimidating. He simply was.

His touch, when it came, was all wrong. His hands were freezing, a corpse's touch on living skin. He touched her between her legs not with desire, but with a clinical, rapt curiosity. A rough, exploring stroke that made her whole body jolt.

"Ah?" he prompted, watching the way her face twisted. He did it again, a cruel, dry friction. When she cried out, his smile deepened. "There. That one." He pushed a finger inside, his gaze locked on her eyes. "Tell me, does that hurt? Or is it something else?"

She couldn't stop the tears. They streamed down her temples, into her hair. He was enthralled. He bend down, his pale hair falling around them like a curtain, and licked the salt from her skin with his cold, flat tongue. "More," he whispered against her damp cheek, a gentle command. "Give me more."

When he finally positioned himself and pushed into her, it was a blunt, brutal invasion. There was no preparation, only a dry, tearing stretch that forced a raw, ragged scream from her lungs, a sound of pure, raw violation. He sighed above her, a sound of profound, empty satisfaction.

He didn't move at first. He was watching her face, watching her mouth hang open, her eyes screw shut. "There it is," he murmured. "That's the one. Let's see how long you can hold it."

He withdrew slowly, then slammed back in, setting a relentless, punishing rhythm from the first thrust. He was huge, an unforgiving presence that stretched her to a burning ache with every drive of his hips. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was obscenely loud.

He adjusted his angle minutely, and on the next thrust, she made a different sound, a shocked, sharp gasp that was punched out of her.

Douma's breath hitched. Not in pleasure, but in fascination. His rainbow eyes were fixed on her face, wide and absorbing. "Oh," he breathed, delighted. "What was that?" He pulled out almost completely and thrust again, aiming for that same spot. Another gasp, followed by a broken whimper. "N-Ngh.."

A slow, terrible smile spread across his face. "Interesting," he panted, his smile never slipping. "Your body is tightening." He drove into her harder. "It looks like it hurts and feels good at the same time. How confusing for you."

He began to piston into her, each thrust now a targeted assault on that sensitive point, a brutal, overstimulating rhythm that had tears of a different kind, of overwhelmed, unwilling sensation, springing to her eyes.

"You're so messy," he cooed, watching the slick, mixed evidence of her torment and his possession coat her thighs. "So messy and warm. I can feel it all. Your sweet cunt, your tight little flutters of protest...and now, this." He slammed into that sweet-spot again, and her vision whited out.

She came, suddenly and violently, a shockwave of sensation that was half-pleasure, half-agony. She sobbed through it, hating herself.

He didn't stop. He didn't even slow. He pinned her hips with bruising force and kept going, even as she writhed beneath him, even as she begged him to stop, her voice hoarse.

"No, no, please, it's too much—"

"But your sounds are getting better," he argued sweetly, grinding deep, his pace never faltering. "Listen to that. A broken little moan. How delightful."

He was teasing her, not with words, but with her own body. Denying, then granting, then denying again, tracing every point of her sensitivity. He collected her tears with his tongue, murmured about the lovely shade of pink her skin turned when bruised, praised the pretty, wrecked sounds she made when she once again, shamefully, tipped over into a crushing climax.

He went on until she was just a shuddering, over-sensitive mess, until her cries were weak and thin. He spilled his cold release inside her with a final, deep grind, holding himself there as he watched the last few tears seep from the corners of her eyes.

He finally pulled out, looking down at the wreckage, the tear-streaked face, the bruised skin, the trembling limbs. He gathered her against his cold chest, his chin resting on her head. She cried silently, the sobs wracking her sore body. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his touch almost tender.

"Shhh," he cooed, stroking her hair, the gesture of a devoted lover. "That was wonderful. But we have so many more emotions to explore! Your sadness, your despair, your fragile hope before I crush it again." He sighed, a sound of genuine, empty contentment.

"It's almost enough to make one feel something."

ⓒ nardsbabee ! all rights reserved

[nardsbabee]

hi, i saw your post about wanting people in your inbox, so i hope you don't mind me coming in here and saying that i love your content!! i i really enjoyed your latest osamu fic, too. do you have any upcoming fics or things you're thinking of writing about? and if you don't mind me asking, what are some of your favorite things to write about in dark content?

hii!! thank you so much, that's so kind of you to say <33 and i'm really glad you enjoyed the osamu fic!

honestly, i never really plan what i'm gonna write next, it kinda just comes to me, or i get inspired by other fics. as for my favorite things in dark content, if it isn't obvious, i love a good predator/prey dynamic (although that's kinda a given in dark fics, lmao).

the next fic is a demon slayer one, but i'll keep the character a secret for now~

thanks again for asking (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

[nardsbabee]

chat how do I get people to use my inbox?? :(

[mayskalih]

[nardsbabee]

they are so frkn cool (ᗒ⩊ᗕ)

[yushiro-yamamoto]

forever thinking about an au where tamayo is the demon queen and yushiro is her upper one ….. walk with me

[nardsbabee]

would eat that UPPPPP