Yandere prompt no.46 with diavolo pretty please?
“It’s okay to love me. Please love me.”
warnings!: nsfw. non-con. dub-con. yandere. afab reader and fem pronouns. gaslighting. bondage. doppio. (he’s a warning)
Vinegar Doppio is everything you could ever want in a boyfriend.
He’s charming and kind and devoted. He holds your hand and brings you surprise gifts and remembers everything about you, kissing the top of your head and blushing and grinning a little shyly whenever you catch him looking at you. The skin beneath his sprinkling of freckles burns warms as he says, his voice earnest;
“I’m just so lucky to have you, amore.”
“I’m the lucky one,” you always tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him softly, waiting with bated breath for his own arms to curl around you in return. Both of your eyelids fluttering closed, Doppio always gets a little tighter with his embrace. Something, you think about the darkness and the fact you’re not looking at him and wonder if perhaps it’s this which makes him feel able to give in to his darkest urges and treat you with more roughness than he ordinarily would.
He has his quirks, of course.
There’s his boss - the way he rushes to answer his phone, fingers trembling with anticipation. The laugh and the strange shadow that passes over his face when you crack a weak joke about how he must love his boss even more than he loves you. There’s the mystery surrounding his work, too - though you’ve come to your own conclusions about that from flecks of blood on his shirt collars and bruises and scars that he waves away as if they’re not important.
Doppio has a dark side, and you know that this knowledge should drive you out of his arms. The fears of what his career is should make you move out of the shabby apartment you two share. The way that his gaze sometimes turns stony and a look that chills you to the bone settles on his mouth, shoulders tensing - all of those things should make you less likely to want to kiss Vinegar Doppio and wrap your thighs around his hips and listen to the creak of the springs and the mumbling stream of soft words that spill from his full mouth.
You ignore all of it, in favour of that.
You ignore when Doppio begs you to close his eyes as he fucks you, and you do it, aware that the snap of his hips becomes a little meaner and deeper as your fingers clench in the bedsheets below you and broken moans tear themselves from your throat. You ignore when he rolls you onto your back and the kisses that are lathed across your shoulders are bites instead, one of his hands keeping your head still as your body rocks with each slam of his cock inside you. You ignore the blindfold when he slips it over your head and he buries his head between your thighs, the growls of pleasure coming from his mouth a little darker and grittier than the ones he usually emits--
Until you don’t.
It’s not a conscious decision you make, to go against Doppio’s wishes. You would never deliberately upset him - it’s, perhaps, neither of your faults that the secret is revealed and your life as you know it is stripped away from you for a gilded cage to be erected in its place. It’s Doppio’s shaking hands because he’s so eager to strip you from every scrap of silk that your new lingerie is made of, perhaps. Maybe it’s the laugh when he pulls out the dark silk tie you’ve never seen him wear, but that is the exact shade of the padded cups of your bra, and the way your head moves with your mirth. Perhaps it’s his eagerness to have you in ropes bound below him, making him sloppy in other thing. Perhaps it’s just a tie-blindfold tied too loosely, or your head moving too much against the pillow with the slow luxurious stretch of Doppio’s cock as your tight wetness engulfs him--
Whichever it is, your hands are tied to the bedpost and far above your head when it happens.
The man above you - the man with his length buried inside you, his body scarred and muscled above you, his arms intricately tattooed and his hair unbound where Doppio’s almost never is - is not your boyfriend. The man you are staring at now - with wide eyes where the blindfold has come loose - has you beneath him, at his mercy, tied up and helpless . . . and you have never seen him before in your life.
One of his hands slaps over your mouth before you can scream, panic wildly flashing in his own gaze (a gaze that refracts light in a strange way and makes your stomach roll in discomfort, even as your body begins to convulse beneath him in an attempt to get him away from you.
“Be still,” he growls, and a dim part of your brain registers that the growl is familiar but does not want to admit to why it’s so familiar. “You’re still for him--”
You move your hips in the wrong way and his cock strokes against you inside, a rough spot on your walls that has you seeing stars and has a low guttural groan of pleasure coming from the man who is not Doppio’s mouth. He moves inside you - and though you hate it, though you have no idea what’s going on, though fear has clouded your mind and robbed any real thoughts from your brain, the slick drag of his cock is familiar more than anything else.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, as almost instinctively your hips buck up against his in search of delicious friction. “Good. Good girl,” and then, softer, he whispers your name, and your entire body is utterly frozen.
The fact that this is not Doppio does not bring an end to the fact you were soaking wet before there was a cock inside you, or the fact that your entire body is singing out with need, or the hot tight ball of want that Doppio’s lust-darkened gaze and reverent touches had awakened within you. And it doesn’t change, either, the fact that this man with the speckled pink hair and the tattoos and the muscles seems to know how to play you in a way that has your face burning.
You always thought that only Doppio knew how to make you feel like that.
“Just look at you,” he whispers. The hand not over your mouth wanders over you, drinking you in, cupping your breasts and grazing your stomach with a practised touch, gripping your hip even as he drives himself in and out of you, the slick sounds of his cock and your strained breathing against him the only noises in the quiet room. “You’re beautiful. Tu sei mia.”
His words send a shiver of fear through you, even as his hand pulls back from your mouth, allowing you to gulp in a great gasp of air even as the back of his hand caresses your cheek in an echo of a loving embrace. He’s looking down at you as he fucks you like he’s known you for years. Your heart pounds in time with the needy ache in your lower body that he’s satiating with every thrust.
“Wh-who are you?” You try and whimper out, your words issuing forth half-moan and half-incoherent. He still manages to understand you, though - and that hand trails down, pinching your nipples and scratching thin lines over sensitive skin until you’re a useless puddle, whimpering with each fierce drag of his cock inside you. Though the way he looks at you is tender, the way he fucks you is anything but.
“I’m your everything, tesoro,” he says, his voice smooth and sure. “I’m the one who’s keeping you safe. The one giving you everything. The one who loves you--”
“Please--” you gasp out, even as his fingers have found where your thighs are parted, as they circle your clit with a practised touch and the exact right amount of pressure to have jolts of pleasure sparking through every inch of you. “Please--”
“Diavolo,” he whispers, like he’s giving you a prayer to recite, and you realise with a whip-fire frack of even more visceral fear that this is his name. This is who he thinks he is, this demon in your bed who has spirited away your Doppio only to make you feel things that have you on the verge of tears.
“Don’t--” You try and say, but his fingers are too clever and too fast and your peak is fast approaching despite that you do not want it. You want to be anywhere but here. “I don’t want this--”
“You do,” he insists. “You always come for me so beautifully, bella--”
He kisses you, and it is raw and primal and hungry and you feel something in the back of your mind break as you realise he kisses you exactly like Doppio kisses you when you close your eyes. All of the fight inside you, fizzing with promise, resigns itself to being a part of the way your body is singing out in need. Your back arches below him as he bites into the soft flesh of your lower lip and you yield as you feel blankness ebbing at the edges of your vision. He whispers, against your mouth;
“Say you love me.”
You are only dimly inside your own body. You feel soft and numb and tingling all at once, and you mumble something against him in return that might be Doppio’s name. His eyes flash. His grip tightens. There’s a desperation in his voice and in the tilt of his hips and the way his body drives into yours that says you have gotten something wrong, and his voice is a desperate clenched teeth plea as his own hips begin to stutter.
“It’s okay to love me,” Diavolo whispers, his voice breaking and pitching as he reaches his peak and you feel the twitch of him inside you, the way his cock pumps a few wild, final times and fills you hot and needy. “You can love me. You can love me too.”
Your own peak comes moments afterwards, eyes squeezing shut as a ragged moan is torn from your throat and white fireworks explode behind your vision, the entire world a riot of colour and blank space at once, your breath short and your body arching as you clench around his spent cock.
There’s a brief whisper, so quiet against your lips it might not have been there at all.
“You will love me.”
The aftershocks weakly ripple through you as you lie there, breath heaving and eyes closed, wondering if you just cheated on your boyfriend as a hundred other thoughts chase through your head in a raging whirlpool. And then, a familiar voice and familiar hands as your eyes blink open.
“Huh? Oh, I guess the blindfold came off--”
