…but remember: ☠️ once you step inside, there’s no turning back.
- ABOUT ME -
꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦
°. . vawratt • she/her • 22 y.o. • isfp-t
[⛓]𓂃⸸𓆪🔪
Why am I so hooked on twisted content?
≻ 🩸Dark content is my “dark” side that needs freedom. It’s the outlet I go back to when things get too bad. I’m into writing stuff that can make you nauseous, that brings fear, shame, forbidden excitement, triggers — the kind that makes you shudder inside. There’s a special kind of freedom in the forbidden. Everything else is just literature.
Some people might want to lock me up in a psych ward, but most likely they just don’t have their own dark room inside. To me, it feels way more dangerous to hide your shadows than to let them breathe in the text.☁️
From time to time, I write light, cozy fluff.💗☁️
- FANDOMS -
✶.○ I write original fiction
.○ League of legends
.○ Love and deepspace (I'm Sylus kitten)(Caleb)(Zayne)
.○ Genshin Impact
.○ Attack on Titan
Fandoms may be updated.
- DISCLAIMERS -
⚠️ For ages 18 and up only.
🚨 CW: violence, suicide, blood, depression, dismemberment, and more.
All characters and events are fictional. I do not endorse the actions described and do not provide medical or psychological advice.
I bear no responsibility for the state of your mind after reading.
Read at your own risk.
Copying, translating, or uploading to AI is STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
👻
- RULES -
🔪 To avoid getting hurt — read carefully:
1. Insults, toxicity, or rudeness toward the author or other subscribers — 🚫 instant ban. No warnings.
2. 🤫 Respect other people’s feelings, even if they differ from yours.
3. Don’t impose your opinion or judge others' tastes.
4. 🗑 No flooding or spamming — it doesn’t liven things up it just tires everyone out.
5. 18+ content — your conscious choice to read. Everything written is fictional.
Original fic
CW: death, illusion, delirium, weapon, blood
320 words
He came back.
Through the police tape, the rotting air of the abandoned house — straight into the past. Rain slid down his hair; something else slid down his cheeks. Something warm. Old. Not real anymore. His hands shook as he touched the doorknob, as if he was afraid there’d be nothing on the other side.
But she was there. Like always.
A white dress. A cut on her cheek. Drops of blood, like rubies scattered on snow. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, lips slightly parted, as if she was about to speak. He didn’t even breathe — just watched, as if for the first time.
“Sweetheart…” His voice broke. “Am I too late?”
Laughter in his head — hers, his own, someone else’s — drowned out the crash of broken glass. Someone was already yelling behind him, “He’s inside! He’s armed!” But all he could hear was her heartbeat. Or was it just the pounding in his temples? Did it matter anymore?
He pulled her close. She was warm. Maybe just because he needed her to be.
“I’ll save you, do you hear me? This time — for sure. No one’s taking you away. No one. I fired, yeah, but I didn’t know it was you. Why didn’t you say something?... Why…”
He whispered into her hair, kissed her forehead, her lips. They tasted salty, metallic. Just like before.
When blood dripped on white. When he held her body as it grew cold.
“We’re almost there. Just a little more. The wedding — I bought the rings. You’ll see them, just… don’t close your eyes, okay?”
He drew his gun. Not for her. For the ones in the hallway. For the world crashing into his happiness.
The light above flickered. A picture frame rattled with the footsteps. Voices, closer now. Sharper. But he held her — dead, beautiful, eternal.
Dottore x rider
CW: NSFL, blood, medical fetish
459 words
You’re screaming.
So hard the air slices your throat, your voice breaking, your neck seizing up. But even in this howl, there’s nothing alive.
He doesn’t react.
Just sits there. Covered in blood. The bathtub isn’t just red anymore — it’s thick. It’s everywhere: in your nostrils, in your mouth, under your nails.
You’re curled up in the corner, hands shaking, teeth chattering, fingers sticky with blood — maybe yours, maybe not. You have no idea.
He stands up.
One sudden splash and you choke on your own scream. He’s right there.
“Loud,” he says quietly. “Perfect.”
He grabs your hair. Yanks you forward. Forehead to forehead. The mask presses in — you can’t see his eyes, and that’s somehow worse.
He shoves something in your mouth — a piece of fabric, soaked in blood.
You gag. He says nothing.
Then — metal.
You shriek, but it’s all muffled by cotton.
He slices into your stomach. Narrow, careful. He isn’t rushing.
“I’m studying your response to pain. Level three. Almost four. Resistance unstable. Beautiful.”
He rubs the blood into the cut with his fingers. Slow, circular motions.
Touches your face. Gentle. Careful. Pulls the fabric out of your mouth.
“Look at me.”
You choke on spit, your throat raw with pain — and then his fingers are in your mouth, rough, not to hurt you, just to shut you up. Just to feel you struggle. To feel your throat tighten.
Dottore hums, pulls his fingers out, smears blood across your lips.
You barely get a breath before he grabs your arm, twists you into some awkward position — your stomach pressed to the floor, your cheek sinking into something soft, sticky, warm, like you’re lying right on a piece of flesh.
He climbs on top, pinning you down.
“Don’t run. I still need you.”
He whispers into the back of your head, like a lover.
Every rib in your chest feels like it might crack under him, but he isn’t rushing.
He finds the vein in the crook of your elbow. Clicks his tongue.
“Shame. So thin, but it’ll do. Don’t move. Or I’ll go deeper.”
He pushes the needle in by hand. No catheter. No cleaning.
Quick, at an angle. You yelp — and he just exhales, warm against the back of your head.
Blood fills the tube. One. Two. Three.
“Mmm… so warm. You make more than I expected. Little factory.”
He presses the hot tube to your cheek.
“Want to taste yourself?” — and he tips it, smearing a few drops across your lips.
You cough, gag, thrash, and he just sits there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even twitch a leg.
Just keeps you pinned under him.
“Hush, Little girl. I still need to finish my spreadsheet.”
Dragon!Sylus x rider
CW: death, blood, self-destruction, unhappy ending
837 words
I.
Darkness was closing in every day — not around him, but inside him. Sylus had changed: tense fingers tipped with sharpened claws tangle in my hair when he thinks I don’t notice. His eyes grow heavier, his gaze slipping more often to the horizon, to some distant trouble only he can sense.
I sing to him, a whisper on the wind, lying on a prickly field of wildflowers, just to hush my own fear. He answers with brief kisses — rare, dry, as if he’s not kissing me, but the hope that happiness might still be possible.
Last night, we sat side by side. His shoulder, stronger than usual, trembled when I laid my hand on his horn.
“Don’t come near me if you feel—” he broke off, lips pressed to a thin line. “I can’t control it, my love.”
I run my fingers through his hair.
“Even if you become a monster, I’ll still stay.”
In that moment, he seems fragile. His voice is muffled:
“I’m afraid of myself. Afraid I’ll lose you before I can steal even a single day from fate.”
II.
Night caught us off guard.
He begs me to leave — his eyes no longer Sylus’s, but someone else’s: deep, dark, hungry. His hand grips mine, claws digging into my skin.
“Run. Please.”
But I don’t.
Everything inside him is breaking apart. His body shudders—dark plates rising beneath his skin, scales creeping up his arms, tail growing heavy, horns sparking like lightning. Sylus lets out a roar, the kind that carries centuries of fury.
I breathe in, my lips trembling:
“You’re stronger than this! I’m with you… I love you, do you hear me?”
I sing. I try to reach him with my voice, humming a requiem — like I did once, long ago.
For a moment, pain flashes in his eyes. His hands tremble; he fights — and loses.
III.
A flash. A roar. He becomes massive — a towering dragon, wings blotting out the sky, heavy breaths spilling from his jaws. I barely recognize him, but I don’t back away.
In his rage, in a blind frenzy, he tears into me with his claws, drives them through my chest — the pain is sharp, but not the worst part. The worst part is seeing his face (that dragon’s mouth) for one last moment before everything goes dark.
I’m thrown back — my body breaking in the air, the ground meeting me with brutal force. There’s no air. My scream catches in my throat.
A heavy paw slams down, pinning me to the earth. I feel my ribs crack, my chest burning. I want to cry, to scream, but I can’t — just tremble, small and helpless, crushed beneath the weight of him.
The world fades, but a voice echoes inside:
“I remember how you once promised to show me the sky. I never learned how to fly, but with you, I always believed I could.”
I smile through the blood. He’s still there — somewhere inside the monster. He hears me.
I whisper, my voice slipping away:
“I love you… Don’t cry, my dragon.”
IV.
Silence.
He freezes — huge, broken. His heavy breaths turn into a moan. The dragon falls to its knees, a roar tearing through the air, only to break into rough, strangled sobs.
Sylus is human again: horns, tail, patches of scales, and… blood smeared across his face, his hands, his chest. He pulls the dead girl into his arms, shaking her, calling out:
“My love… no… wake up… please…”
Trembling fingers brush over her face, desperate to wipe away the blood. Magic sparks from his hands, but it only burns—no one returns from the ashes.
“You promised you’d stay… you couldn’t have left like this…”
“Why are you the only one who knows how to love me…?”
“I wish I’d never met you…”
Sylus breaks down — a sound somewhere between a sob and a growl — clutching her body, his face buried in her hair. He feels her growing lighter, shining dust slipping through his fingers.
He tries to catch every last speck, pressing emptiness to his chest as if he could hold on to her soul.
And all that’s left is hatred for himself. A silent scream, stripped of strength, stripped of forgiveness.
V.
The world goes silent. The sky darkens, even the wind forgets to breathe.
He sits among the ashes and blood, digging his claws into the earth, carving deep grooves in the ground.
For the first time in centuries, he sobs — broken, voice ragged, blood and tears mingling on his lips.
“Forgive me… please… wait for me… somewhere, anywhere…”
A storm of magic bursts from him — destroying everything it touches, but never bringing her back.
When it’s over, Sylus is left alone. Among the ruins—surrounded by cold, glittering dust.
He never tries to love again.
He becomes a living legend — a curse, the dragon who killed his love and buried his heart in the cooling ashes.
