stxrborne

[stxrborne]

“My precious babies” and it’s grown ass men that have fucked MC from the back and front I need everyone to be so fr

[stxrborne]

You gave your virginity to them

[stxrborne]

Soft And Plush — (DOL) Whitney [VALENTINES EVENT]

— ✧ warnings: name calling (whore slut pet mutt pup puppy), Name-Calling, pillow humping (its a bear), pillow humping, Pet Play, Cigarette Smoking, Praise, non consensual photo taking, blowjob, I use the word fap because it’s sexy to me, Bullying, Degradation, Oral Fixation, Dacryphilia — ✧ word count: 5,435

— ✧ A/N: reposting from my old account since i was asked to! formatting might be off, but it's still readable.

rritation settles thick in his arms, most present in how they flex under rolled up sleeves, how his veins pop from the crossed over position he’s got them in at just the mere sight of his favourite slut. Where he’s still mostly dressed save for an unbutton shirt, he’s got you completely naked, barking orders at you to strip the moment he allowed you entry into his room.  So obedient , aren’t you? Even if a little shy, your attempts at coyness only make this game much more fun for him. Got him aching to knock you down a peg or two, remind you of who you belong to. So small compared to him too, yeah? Just a weak little pet, cowering at his feet like you  should be . He’s annoyed in part due to how you’ve completely ruined   his valentines plans for you today, and also from how downright  adorable  you look sitting on his floor with a new stuffed teddy hiding your pretty private parts out of sight, a reminder of his failure today. How unfair it is for you to have put him in this position, perched at the edge of his bed looking down at you as if he were holier than thou;  and right now he is.

“Fuckin’ slut, wanted the bear so bad, the fuck are you complaining for?” He scowls down at you with jealousy, unable to hide the impish smirk from spreading to his cheeks that your stupid sobs causes him to make. Really, it’s your own damn fault that you’re sitting naked in his bedroom right onw, shivering against the hardwood floor as his harsh tone threatens tears to well in your pretty doe eyes.  Good , he thinks to himself.  You’re pretty when you cry . It’s why he so often has you in these embarrassing positions, intimidating you to submit with his bullying tactics day in and day out. It’s because you’re so  cute , too adorable for your own good.  It’s your fault  he repeats to himself, some effort to justify his rude actions.

He tuts down at you when all you do is clutch the teddy tighter, keeping it pinned to your pretty body in an effort to remain hidden from his lecherous gaze, so he leans forward. You didn’t think you’d get to escape his torment for long, did you? His dominating presence causing you to quiver, a similar shiver of pleasure rolling down his spine as his tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek in impatience.  You’re so cute it’s becoming a fucking issue,  obliviously provoking him into petting at the overt bulge in his pants like you were any form of innocent. Of course he knows you better than that, but even the faux purity you display before him has him acting up, pants tighter than ever just from looking at you.  Honestly , the things he wants to do to you are criminal. And all because you’re just  too cute,  shaking and shiver and panting against the soft fur of the oversized bear that you stole out of his hands at the store.

Or, well, stole is a gross exaggeration of what really happened. He knows he shouldn’t have left buying a valentines gift this late, and he should have known better than to go to the same store you frequent so often. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing him for being such a shitty boyfriend,  or , as he’d rather think; this is his reward for showing you a sliver of kindness. Even just recalling the moment his head lifted and he was greeted by your meek expression causes his eye to twitch, his lips curling in sheer displeasure for not only getting caught slacking; but also from having his gift  stolen . It’s a cute bear,  fuck , he wants it for himself—he even has the perfect spot in his collection for it!—yet there you stood attempting to buy  him  it. How annoying. How fucking aggravating it is to have you know him so well, a familiar heat rising to his cheeks that he so often endures when you’re around him; only he can’t tell if it’s from upset or affection. They feel all too similar to him, especially when his cock is concerned.

“It’s  my  gift, pet.” He reminds you oh so kindly, clicking his tongue for emphasis. And it’s true, he’d  allowed  you to buy the bear yourself since you clearly wanted to gift him with it. “So  I  get to decide what to do with it, right?”

“Um, yeah… I guess so…” You trail off stupidly, and all he wants to do in response is pin you where you sit due to an overwhelming urge to  remind you . Force you to accept who’s really in charge, to praise you for picking such a good gift for him, to punish you for ruining his valentines plans;  fuck — he’s so agitated. It’s embarrassing, really, just how much you affect him. How easy you’ve got it, dumb tone going straight to his perverted cock, causing it to pulse under his idle touch as he stares you down, biting down on his bottom lip to refrain from praising you too much; can’t let you know so easily just how badly he wants to fuck you stupid. But that’s what good pets get, right? He just has to work you up to it, see if you really deserve some more kindness.

But first, punishment. Can’t forget about the way you stole his thunder from right under him, no matter how hard his cock throbs for your pitiful excuses and pretty face. No good owner lets bad actions go unpunished, right? Hand tugging lightly at his pants, right over the obvious wet spot he’s sporting, he leans back to show exactly what you do to him, to  tease you  under the guise of offering more than punishment, cursing under his breath when your expression switches to one of awe. That dumb look you always adopt when it comes to him, he wants for nothing more than to wipe it off your face again and again, deriving great pleasure from putting you down. Perhaps a little too much if he’s honest with himself, but when you offer your compliance on a silver platter, what’s a guy to do? After all, he  is  just a man. A dirty, mean, perverted man.

“Right.” He confirms your earlier ‘guess’, offering you a much more gentle smile now as his hand reaches out toward you, suppressing the urge to laugh at how pathetic you look when tentatively placing your hand in his own like an unsure animal; he’s sure if you had a tail it’d be curled between your legs right now. And for good reason, “I wanna see you ride it.” He huffs, forcefully tugging you forward so that you fall tummy side down on the big bear, your ass sticking up in the air for him to immediately admire; cock twitching in response to the cute little  oof  you let out after falling down. That’s what you get for trusting him, he muses to himself. “You’re a good girl, right?” He coos down at you, tone faux sweet and  sickening , mismatching his sleazy lopsided grin knowing that he’s embarrassing you right now, tricked you into giving him exactly what he wants in spite of your endeavour to remain modest.  It’s what you get for being such a meddling whore .

He doesn’t exactly hear you agree, but that’s never stopped him before. A soft  mmph  is enough for him, cock pressing persistently against his underwear when he catches sight of the dip in your back, how despite your obvious humiliation he just  knows  your pretty pet cunt must be leaking all over the teddy bear by now, having endured his gaze and taunts until now. “Good girl,” he praises your acceptance, voice barely above a whisper to hide just how much he loves it when you give in to him, tapping his toes under your chin to prompt you into looking up at him pawing at his cock. “Wanna ride my gift? Bet it’d feel  soooo  good, perfect for puppies.” He sneers down at you, hiding his affection behind a low laugh until you slowly start to rock against the teddy, just like he’d asked. It’s a barely there movement, but he catches it nonetheless, glued to your ass while you focus on his face. Actively ignoring your whimpers of discomfort in favour of gawking, tugging at his cock more intently now that you’re playing into his palm. He didn’t think it’d be so easy to convince you to objectify yourself like this, but maybe all the dirty talk he whispered down your ear as he dragged you to his home was enough to set the mood. Talking about  you’re mine, my fucking girl, my little play slut, wanna have a playdate, pup?  He doesn’t really care about the specifics right now anyway, sucking his teeth to the sight of your hips shifting back and forth, the way your mouth hangs open  just a little , pink tongue peeking behind your teeth as you pant below him. Yeah, he’s got more important matters to attend to right now, like his raging hard on that stains his pants sheer, and how he wants to shove it against your cheeks.

So fucking cute, fuck — he wants to praise you some more, grab your stupid fucking face and press kisses all over it, tug at your hair so he has access to your neck, bite and suck on the soft skin there to properly mark his pup up. A permanent collar to signal ownership, keep all those other creeps off of you. But all he feels able to do is  swallow . Gulp down the admiration that rests behind at the tip of his tongue in favour of putting you in your rightful place: under his feet.

He tries to commit your dumb look to memory, cock twitching with want to be buried balls deep down your slutty throat already, especially given the way you so expertly showcase your mouth to him, his feet glued to either side of the teddy to better watch you hump yourself against it—and he’s got the perfect view too. Eyes trailing all the way from your pouty lips, past your arched back, to finally settle on the swell of your ass. “ Pretty… ” he accidentally whispers, instantly flushing at how soft his tone has gotten around you.

Habit begs him to light a cigarette for distraction, swiftly procuring one from his pocket with his free hand to mouth at lazily before lighting it and taking a deep inhale. Time and time again you prove to be difficult around for him; not because you’re inherently stressful or anything, but because his heart physically  aches  to be with you, even as your humping his valentines gift right in front of him under his instruction. An instinctive need to watch over you, to both protect and bully you from his position as your boyfriend. It’s annoying, honestly, how deeply he yearns for you. So much so that even as you’re doing everything his mean words ask for, he still craves more from his perfect little pet. It’s unfair of him to expect, he knows, but you can hardly blame him when you’re being so pliant and sweet for him. He hears you say  something  over his heavy breathing, but he’s much more interested in talking to your tits, rubbing his cock to the way they push up nicely against the plush teddy with the rest of your body as you seek his attention.

“Whitney…” You whine all pretty and shit, and  oh  how gratifying it is to hear you sound so needy for him, so desperate for his rough treatment over the soft fur under you. “This is… really embarrassing…”

He takes another inhale, a greedy one full of lust. “Duh, that’s the point.” He huffs after a second to exhale, puffing away at his cigarette far too quickly, ash dropping to the ground that he’ll have you clean up later. “Keep movin’.” He sniffs, impulsively throwing the cigarette to the ground to stamp on, far too hypnotised by the easy back and forth of your hips to fully enjoy the smoke filling his lungs, cock leaking far too much  not  to pull it out of his pants. Convinced by the muted  squelch  of your cunt every time your hips rise, he stands up briefly to tug his bottoms down just below his knees, swiftly sitting down again and immediately spreading his legs with a satisfied sigh. Feels good to finally be free, hard cock on full display for your pitiful whines, fat beads of precum already rolling down his length for his fist to collect.  Such a good girl, making him feel so good;  and you don’t even have to be touching him! He’d tell you but the words are choked in his throat when your speed increases, assumedly from his now exposed cock, his head tilting to the side when you crane your neck up further in an attempt to reach his wet tip, puffy lips just  begging  to be fucked raw—

“Uh-uh, get back down.” He reprimands you even as it pains him to do so, placing a foot on your shoulder to pin you back to the floor, laughing darkly when you squirm in place on the bear.  Dumb dog , he thinks to himself. “Pets aren’t allowed on the bed.”

“But  Whitney —“

His eyes roll automatically, fist casually pumping up and down his fat cock to the sight of you whinging so sweetly for him. And  God , he almost gives in.  Wants  to fuck your stupid mutt throat all sore, soothe it with a load in your tummy. There’s a flicker of greed in his core, fist tightening around his swollen cock for a moment before he sighs, deep and heady. The things you do to him; you’ve  got to know . “But  nothin’ ” he bites back, baring his teeth in a show of dominance, hips bucking into his closed fist when you immediately surrender by dropping your head—hidden praise. “Said I wanted to watch you, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

At least that seems to shut you up for now, cock happy to watch you return to humping, sweaty palm gliding easily over his wet tip from how downright desperate you act for his cock, heart full of affection at the way you vie for his attention, his approval. To call what he’s experiencing  love  rests uncomfortably in his chest, instead focusing intently on the mess of your hair, pressing his thumb against his slit to coax more pre out. You have him so hard, cock throbbing in his quickly tightening grip as he jerks off to the sight of you,  just out of reach  of your cute face, teasing you with tell tale slick sounds and soon hushed gasps of enjoyment.

“ That’s it — fuck, good girl.” He half laughs in the space left between, gaze drawn to your open mouth and the way your tongue threatens to loll out.  Fuck , he hopes it does. Leaking all over himself at just the thought of your tongue, wishing that you’d drool all over the teddy bear you’re currently humping so that he can drag his tongue over it when he kicks you out tonight. “Feels good, right?” He asks, but it’s barely a question. He can hear how much you’re enjoying yourself, can  smell  how turned on you are from getting bullied. Honestly, he feels a bit dizzy with desire for you too. Struggling just as much as you seem to be right now, fisting his fat cock in time with your speedy humps;  punishment.  This is supposed to be punishment for you, and yet still he feels like he’s the one gasping for air when you moan so nicely for him, his muscles burning with insatiable thirst.

With every stroke his legs open wider too, pants dropping lower with his thrusts until they hit the floor and the resulting  thud  barely hides the obvious rhythmic wet slap of fist on cock. You just look so  good  like this, pressing your puffy little clit into the soft teddy bear, head tilted up to stare right between his legs, panting lewdly for his cock— it’s a bit too much even for him. An uncharacteristic stutter in his voice when he  tries to tell you off , but his words end up sounding more like a plead than anything else, which is wholly unacceptable, except for when he’s alone with you.

“Don’t… Uh,  fuck — don’t fucking look at me.” He warns you, squeezing at the base of his cock to hold off on cumming so he doesn’t embarrass himself in front of his pet. And to make sure you follow his instructions, he lifts a foot only to drop it on your head, forcing you to bury your face into the chest of the bear below you, immediately relaxing his expression as he leans into his fist now that his love is hidden from view. One hand supporting his weight behind, the other fucking himself stupid to the sight of your perfect ass pretending to be riding his cock— he knows you all too well. Instinctively, his hips start to follow after his fist faster, timing his thrusts into his closed palm with your humps forward, in turn simulating sex with you too. And  fuck it feels good , to be in complete control of your actions and still making you wait, pushing you closer to the edge as you start to shake with your frantic movements, the muffles sobs you sound against the bear only prompting his hips to fuck faster into the air, his bed squeaking under the weight of his greedy thrusts  all for you . Can’t let you see him get this hopeless for you, hiding his affections with choked gasps and muted sighs, refusing even with your face hidden to give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much he  needs you . How he wants even though he has you quite literally under his foot, wants you so bad even as his cock drools to the floor for your pretty little ass and the sweet sounds you make for him, a puddle forming under him thanks to you and your body.

It’s how he knows you’re so close, you know. The way you  tremble . He’s felt it enough times on his cock to pick up on it, a sinister smile making its way to his lips as he selfishly removes his foot from your head, though it quickly transitions into a fond scowl when you remain buried; it seems his training is finally paying off with you, working against him when he’d really rather see your cumming face. “Dumb pup— does that feel good on your puppy parts?” he encourages you, tone sugary and soft due to how much pride he feels swell in his chest when you do exactly as you’re told, awaiting his command to look at him again. Watching his pretty pet hump herself silly on  his gift , pumping away at his cock with sloppy strokes while he stares intensely at your nape; fingers itching to grab you by the scruff of the neck and shove his cock so far down your throat—

This is love, he suddenly thinks. Pretty puppy at his feet, getting yourself off for  his  enjoyment.  This , fist wrapped tight around his pulsing cock, jaw taut and hips bucking up off the bed for better friction, is love. The barely audible moans of his name falling from your pretty lips and the soft shuffle of your cunt against the bears fur is love. And maybe it’s time for him to admit on valentines day that he himself is very much in love with you.

Or maybe that’s just his cock talking for him, trembling in his death-grip hold, fisting only his tip to stave off your reward as you surprisingly sit up despite his previous private praise, hands firmly planted on the bears face to support your weight; but most importantly, your hips don’t stop. No, all you do is offer him a best seat in the house view of your bouncing tits while you ride the bear, prompting him to suck in some air as his eyes narrow in on your nipples, throat suddenly dry as he pines to mouth at them. He can reprimand you properly for acting out later. “Filthy  bitch .” He scolds you for now, but it’s a halfhearted attempt at best, teeth bearing to accentuate his adoration filled threat. “Just a dumb bitch in heat, yeah? Need cock so bad, huh?” He taunts you, but it’s all bark and no bite. Really, he’s just admitting to what  he  wants you to want, hoping that you’ll give in to his lust fuelled upset with broken sobs and eager nods.

Which of course you do, because he’s a good owner that’s trained his perfect pet well. A coo escapes him when you frantically nod up at him, doggy tongue sticking out while you pant for more. And he’s more than happy to give you just that, now that you’ve endured partial punishment; he’s just as much a desperate dog as you are right now. Only difference is, he has the (swiftly declining) composure to keep his true intentions hidden enough— and you’re just a  dumb dog . If you want his cock so bad, he’ll give it to you. After such a good performance too, it only makes sense to reward your good behaviour with some cock; that and it’ll replace the gift you stole from him and are currently grinding into the ground like a good girl.

God you’re so cute like this, holding yourself up while circling your hips, stroking that pretty little clit hard against the big round heart the bear is holding. He bets it’s  soaked  with your slick, his throat closing at the mere thought of sucking it all up later tonight. His lips part in awe, infatuated at the sight of you so desperate for release, keening loudly with a repeat of his name, rocking yourself  forward  with every thrust because of how much you need him. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.” Slips out of his open lips, though he does little to correct himself. Instead, he leans into the soft nature of his words and finds his phone, immediately opening the camera to snap a few pictures of you in your time of great need.  Jerk off material for later , his friends can fuck off if they think he’ll send them such prime material. Only he gets to see you this sloppy and messy, so fraught with need for more and all for him. He doubts you even realise he’s captured your degeneracy with photographic evidence given how you paw at his knees anyway, head hung low as you hold on for some sense of stability; of which he cruelly takes away from you the moment he realises what you’re doing.

“Tryin’ t’climb on top?” He questions, but his voice is breathy and gives away just how much he needs you to do exactly that. “ C’mon , you should know better than—  fuck— ” your hand brushes his cock, right over his slick with precum tip, a string of shine keeping your palm connected to him even when he forcefully retracts your hand. He immediately wants to lick it when he spots it, clean his pretty puppy up and treat her well. But the pit in his stomach demands otherwise, tapping on your shoulder to grab your attention and tugging you as close as possible between his legs.

Prime blowjob position.

“Should know better than that, slut…” Able to finish his previous sentence, he takes a rough fistful of your hair now that you’re prone and yanks it back, cock twitching to attention when you yelp in surprise. Always so pretty for him, so eager to have his mean hands bully your body, he doesn’t miss the way your thighs squeeze around the bears heart with his unfair grip. Your constant stream of  pleaseplease Whtiney please!  causes him to release an egregious moan of his own, pulling your head further back as payment for coaxing such a needy sound out of him.

He’s not all mean though. Ever the gentleman, he thrusts his cock against your face, smearing precum all over your blushing cheeks and tapping the leaking tip on your lips.  God  he could cum just like this, tugging at his cock once or twice against your lips before you automatically open, like you understand what you’re made for, that you belong to him.  So cute , so completely and utterly disgusting that you already know what he wants before he even asks for it. The perfect valentine.

He makes tutting sounds at you with a wide grin, doting on you from above until your tongue makes contact with his tip and it’s all over for him. Grin wiped and replaced by a frown, brows furrowed in concentration to fully feel the way your slippery tongue sucks all the precum off his tip, how your lips tighten and glide up and down his cock  just a little , his hand still buried deep in your hair to control the pace. Still,  good girl  and  so pretty  continues to drip from his tongue, drool pooling in his mouth when he’s unable to look away from where your lips kiss his tip, how you worship his cock in an effort to gain his affections.

"Want me to pound that pretty throat?" He questions, but it’s rhetorical. Of course you do, right? Why else would you be inviting him inside so eagerly.

But he’s not so kind as to give you exactly what you want, no! He never has been, has he? Instead of fucking your throat like he wants to, he merely keeps your head pinned in place, tip and then some engulfed by your warm mouth for you to suckle on, to have a small taste and no more. And to make matters worse for you, he starts fisting his cock again. Warming his tip while jacking off into your mouth, not even allowing you the pleasure of getting him off yourself. The cruelty of his actions causes you to whine and vibrate down his length, proving only to turn him on further as his grip tightens in your hair. A warning of sorts, to shut up and take what he’s giving you because it’s better than the alternative of nothing at all. He knows he’s being a bastard,  fuck , but it feels too good to stop; pumping his length with precision into your greedy little maw, feeling your tongue squirm and beg to be used, attempting to convince his hips to buck and fuck your face, but it feels  too fucking good to stop bullying you .

It’s your fault for being so cute, he reminds himself.  Your fucking fault, slut , he wants to lecture you with, but every suck and lick you offer him leaves him breathless. Staring down at your watery eyes with a mimicked pout of his own, which would have be paired with mockery over how slutty you’re being right now, but the way his balls grow tight and taut otherwise distracts him, leaves him gasping for air due to your kitten licks against his tip, rendering him only to moan roughly and roll his eyes back in sheer satisfaction over your resentment. “Keep—  ah, shit — keep movin’, mutt.” He reminds you through clenched teeth, lightly kicking your cunt as a reminder to get yourself off too; he’s not mean enough to leave you without feeling good too.

Or rather, he’s more selfish than you might think. Wanting only for you to cum too so that  he  can enjoy his orgasm more, knowing that even after all his mistreatment of you, you still require him to make you feel good. And after squeezing his eyes shut briefly to focus on anything other than cumming on your soft kitten tongue, he opens them to see you humping feverishly, as if you didn’t know how to do anything else in that moment. Upset immediately fills his chest, though he’s not sure why. Something about feeling so frustrated over how much he feels for you, how strongly he wants for you. But he’s not of the right head-space to properly think about it right now, too busy fucking his fist to have an honest discussion with himself. Whatever, you’re fucking hot and that’s all that matters,  fuck , he’s so close.  Needs  you to cum too, an act of reassurance, of security. If you cum then surely he’s doing something right, treating you the way you want to be treated, right? “That’s it,” he motivates you through moans, grunting into the harsh way he fists his cock, a stark contrast to how politely your tongue wraps around his cock head. Precum beads onto it, surely dipping down your throat from how you ‘ sneakily ’ bob your head with some humping movements, but he’s concerned enough to correct you. Not when you have him feeling so fucking good, fapping furiously against your lips because you offer him no other alternative.

An urgent  mmph!  is sent down his cock when he tugs on your hair again, followed by a string of  something , he can’t fucking hear you with a fat cock stuffing your mouth full, but he can probably guess what you’re moaning.

“Yeah?  Fuck , babe…” He trails off, holding your chin to drag it open in a selfish need to hear you whine properly for him as you cum on the teddy bear, and also because he wants to watch his cum splatter your tongue possessively. It’s when you’re at your cutest, he thinks, waiting for his seed. Fisting his cock obsessively for you as his orgasm quickly follows suit and washes over him, wrist refusing to let up even as he’s shooting a fat load down your throat, catching you by surprise as you’re clearly not done grinding yourself to completion yet either. Not that he cares,  fuck , eyes involuntarily shut tight as he shoves his cock as deep as possible down your throat despite his previous wants, he simply can’t stop himself; and you can't blame him either, cause that whore mouth of yours is too good at taking cock to stop and think for even just a second. Forcing him to act out of pure instinct as he humps your face roughly. Buried as deep as possible down your throat, balls resting against your chin with a soft  plap! b ecause his hips keep fucking forward through his orgasm until your tongue fully milks him empty—and even then he keeps fucking, shoving his cock just a little further down your throat, smiling to himself as you start to choke around him, pulling out only to watch you swallow.

You know exactly how he likes it too, and it’s infuriating. Soft and pliable, submissive under his foot, watching as you gulp a few times before opening your mouth wide for inspection just like he’d taught you, his fingers pressing gently on your tongue to flatten it before hooking your cheek. A lazy  thanks  escapes him as he collects his breath, bending over to reach your lips with a soft kiss as soon as he’s able to. It’s not often he feels this soft after sex, but he likes to indulge you every now and again; and Valentines day seems perfect for it. He lets his tongue poke out against yours, mingling with your own for only a brief moment to get a taste of himself before sighing down your throat and pulling away, resting back on his hands as clarity hits him after such an intense good feeling.

He regards you for a second or two more, noticing just how fucked out you look. Really has his heart thumping, y’know? Which is why he promptly looks away. Maybe the best gift you could have given him was stealing his gift, especially if it means he gets to see you all roughed up with tear stained cheeks like this, yet  still  you beam up at him so sweetly, as if his bullying made you the happiest girl in the world.

Gross . Not that he’s any better, his heart skipping a beat as he realises with upset just how much he really likes having you around, and how he doesn’t want anyone else to be around you. That can only mean one thing, right?

[stxrborne]

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ𝙞’𝙢 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 — !!

my hiatus is overrrr and i am ready to get back to providing smut for all of you :3 but my hiatus has left my muse low. so, to hype my muse up, i reblogged a list of prompts to do little blurbs about and opened requests for them. the list is right here & below are the links to all of the prompts i’ve written / am writing for this event. i will not be writing duplicates ( the one exception being # four ) so the numbers listed below cannot be requested again. please reblog the blurbs if you like them. muah !!

** i did change prompt # 18 to something different because i didn’t really have muse for a/b/o at this time !!

# one // mammon + mirror sex

# two // alucard + having sex in front of a window

# three // guts + fully clothed & stark naked

# four // ( nanami ) ( griffith ) + having sex while injured

# five // kanade yoisaki + body worship

# six // sylus + maranthon sex

# seven // jason todd + finding a secluded area to have sex with

# eight // amon + having sex in a closet

# nine // sekido + revenge sex

# ten // baji keisuke + finding your sex toys & making you use them in front of him

# eleven // levi ackerman + clothed quickie

# twelve // toya aoyagi + having sex while one tries to concentrate on a game they’re playing

# thirteen // hatsumi sen + getting too handsy on the dance floor

# fourteen // luke valentine + library sex

# fifteen // rafayel + jealous sex in an alley behind a bar

# sixteen // griffith + accidental i love yous during sex

# seventeen // akira fudo + seeing marks he left on you & getting horny again

# eighteen // hyakunosuke ogata + sex in an onsen

# nineteen // sugimoto saichi + uniform & roleplaying ( prompt altered slightly )

# twenty // portgas d. ace + sleepy domestic sex

[stxrborne]

˚₊‧꒰ა UR DROOL, WHITE SHIRT ! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

─── kinktober 7: dumbification

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ — PAIRING. skylar price (yandere!teammate) x sub fem!reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ — CONTENTS. DUMBIFICATION. overstimulation, hand restraints, sex toys, edging, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, praise/degradation, use of petnames like baby, love, good girl, slut

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ — NOTES. 2.1k words. was originally day 7 of my kinktober prompt list. SORRY this one got released a lil late !!! i forgot to queue it up

꒰ ⋆ .⺌ kinktober catchup masterlist ! ⺌. ⋆ ꒱

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skylar wouldn't call himself a sadist, and maybe that's something the two of you will just have to disagree on. not that you necessarily have a huge problem with it— or that he would believe you if you tried to say that you did. the nonchalant little smirk he manages to have, even when he’s actively breaking you into tiny, overstimulated pieces… it's the sort of thing that haunts your nightmares and populates your naughty dreams.

it sort of sneaks up on you, too. one minute, you’re just enjoying each other, touching and kissing and getting lost— and the next, he’s somehow got you pinned down, using all the things he’s learned about your body to make you cry with need, whether it was the need to cum or the need to stop cumming.

today was no exception.

honestly, it was kind of a blur— you weren't even sure how you ended up in this position. one minute you had been on the bed, under him, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers sink into his wavy hair as he kissed you breathless. now, though, you were flipped onto your stomach across Skylar’s lap, your wrists caught in a pair of lined leather cuffs that held them against the iron bars at the foot of the bed. your legs stretched out behind you, one of his arms wrapped snugly around your waist to keep you pinned… while his other hand held the wand between your thighs.

it was becoming impossible to think. the only sounds in the room were you barely coherent whining and begging, floating just above the loud, relentless buzzing of the vibrator pressed snuggly against your aching cunt. it buzzes against your clit, too much and so perfect all at once, making wet, slick sounds as he moves it in slow, torturous circles.

you buck and whine, fingers wrapped around the chain of your cuffs, knuckles white. inside your head, you’re screaming, but all that comes out are babbling stutters and moans, pleading incoherently for mercy as he brings you right back to the edge. his hand is steady, even as your legs tremble and try to squeeze, to force his hand to stay trapped between your thighs, a tingly warmth spreading through you as you pant and mewl—

but, just like he has over and over again for the last god knows how long, skylar yanks his hand out from between your thighs, leaving your pussy clenching and pulsing right on the edge with no satisfaction.

“no!” you cry, squirming in his lap as you kick your legs, feeling indignant, desperate tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. you feel so hot, skin slick with a thin sheen of sweat, and the orgasm he’s been keeping at bay for probably over an hour now still burning inside you.

“shh, baby,” skylar cooed at you, a mixture of adoring and condescending that makes your insides twist up. his arm tightens around you, keeping you from thrashing too hard. “it's not so bad. it's not even turned all the way up yet,” he teases, and you just sniffle and whine in response.

with only a few seconds of cooldown time, skylar cruelly presses the wand against you again, taking your breath away as he rubs it back and forth against your clit. you choke on a high pitched moan, practically squealing as he pushes you right back to the edge. you can feel it, so close, can practically taste it, and it almost hurts— it’s too much, too fast—

and then it's gone again, your sore, tense muscles releasing as he leaves you dangling right on the cusp.

“please, please, sky— can’t take it anymore,” you babble and cry, your breath coming in shallow, shaky pants as he denies you once again.

“actually baby, you’re taking it very well for me,” skylar corrects, his free hand roaming over your back, soothing the way your muscles twitch and tremble. he watched you carefully, making sure you were on the edge of insanity in a good way, not in a way that was going to make you safeword. but that mischievous glint was still in his eyes, always ready to push you harder.

you make a choked sound, your breath catching in your throat as you desperately shake your head. “no, no, please— need to cum so bad,” you cry,

“you really wanna cum that bad, baby?” skylar asks, and before you know it, he’s pushing the wand back between your thighs, grinning at the way your thighs twitch apart and your hips buck when it makes contact. he guides the head of the toy, pressing it right against your clit once again, watching as you throw your head back and jerk. “you know i’m not gonna stop after you cum, pretty girl. i’m gonna hold this right here, turn it up ‘til you’re screaming, make you cum for me until there's not a thought left in that pretty head of yours.”

you can barely register what he’s saying, too busy desperately trying to grind your hips against the toy he’s pressing against you, the muscles in your abdomen tightening.

“you sure that's what you want?” skylar prompts, moving the wand in slow, small circles around your clit. “you wanna be my dumb little orgasm doll?”

you nod your head quickly, squeezing your eyes shut, incapable of thinking about the consequences of your actions when you’re just so fucking desperate for a reprieve from the constant edging and denial. you can’t see the way skylar’s face practically lights up, that cool, sadistic grin stretching across his face as you fall so perfectly, so beautifully, into his trap.

he says nothing. but this time, he doesn't pull the wand away when you start to tremble, the heat building up and zinging up your spine. it makes your whole body feel floaty and tingly, waves of electric pleasure lapping at you until you reach the edge, and you half expect him to pull away at the last second, but finally—

your eyes roll back and your hips stutter, release finally washing over you. your dripping, aching cunt clenches and flutters around nothing, and skylar holds the vibrator right where you need it most, keeping the head buzzing right against your sensitive clit. you gasp and moan, your head dropping down until your forehead hits the blankets under you, your arms trembling as the cuffs hold your wrists tight.

“aww, baby,” skylar coos, chuckling to himself as he watches the muscles in your back flex as you writhe in his lap, “that feels good, doesn't it? that's it, let it all out for me.”

you whine against the blanket, the orgasm turning into powerful aftershocks that have your legs twitching, but he doesn't let up. he keeps the wand pressed tightly against you, and begins moving it in slow circles again, drawing figure eights over your sensitive, swollen clit. you nearly choke on your own breath, your chest heaving as he plants his hand flat on the small of your back to keep you from bucking too hard.

“s-skylar—” you cry, the pleasure never ending, feeling trapped in a loop of sensations that have only just begun. every shift or squirm or twitch only had you rocking and inadvertently grinding your clit against the wand even harder, your vision already going a little fuzzy around the edges. you’re so sensitive from all the buildup, the countless denials and edges, and it shocks even you how quickly you can feel your body working its way to the next orgasm.

“i told you, didn't i? said if you wanted to cum, i’d keep it right here, right on that pretty clit of yours, and you said yes,” skylar told you, tone dripping with condescension. “now you gotta take what i give you, love.”

you tried to squeeze your thighs together, but that did nothing to shield you. there's barely any time to breathe, the vibrations so intense on your slick, pulsing cunt that all you can do is let your mouth fall open in a silent ‘o’ and let your eyes roll back as the second orgasm creeps up on you, so quickly that you don't know how to react.

your body jerks as it hits you, waves of white-hot pleasure washing over you, your muscles tense, your entire body wound tight.

and still, he doesn't stop. you feel his hand shift, and then he’s messing with the buttons on the handle of the wand, and suddenly, the vibrator is being turned up. the intensity takes your breath away, dragging a raw shriek from your sore throat as you tug at the chain of your cuffs, trying to pull your hips away.

skylar wraps his arm back around your waist. “no, baby, you’re gonna take it. i wanna see you cum your little brains out,” he says, oddly soothing as he holds you still for more of this torment.

“‘s too much,” you cry, tears welling up in your eyes and sliding down your cheeks, the salty liquid burning the skin of your cheeks.

“i know, baby, you’re gettin’ so sensitive for me, aren’t you?” he coos, leaning over you to place a kiss on the top of your head. but despite the condescending sweetness of his words and the softness of his kiss, he doesn't relent. he glides the vibrator up and down your slick cunt, coating the head in your arousal, making slick, wet noises as he rubs it back and forth. “can you hear how wet and sloppy you are, baby?”

you can’t answer him, lungs seizing as he slides the vibrator back down, holding it against your clit. it burns, but it also still feels so good— too good. you moan, high pitched and broken, panting as your hips twitch and rock uncontrollably, movements uneven and uncoordinated.

“can’t answer me already? you’ve only cum twice,” skylar teases. “i didn't think it would be so easy to get you all pliant and dumb for me, but you always manage to surprise me. maybe you were just born to be my stupid, needy slut, hm?”

it's those words that push you over the edge for the third time. you shudder and shake, legs spasming as your knees push down into the bed, but even when you try to lift your hips away, his hand follows you. your vision whites out when you cum this time, and you feel like your brain is turning into a pink mush inside your head, melting out your ears. it just never ends— the previous orgasm barely melts away before the next one is looming on the horizon.

you push your hips back, now raised up on your knees with your face pushed into the bed, fingers trembling as you tug uselessly at the restraints above your head.

“you’re so cute like this,” skylar teases, his hand moving over the plane of your back and then over your ass, fingers dipping between your thighs and towards your exposed cunt. his fingers spread you apart, and he chuckles at the way you hiccup and cry when he circles the tip of his finger around your empty, dripping cunt.

his words echo around in your head, but you can't focus on them. all you can think about is the feeling of the wand on your clit, and the feeling of his fingers beginning to push into you, sinking in slowly and giving you something to clench around. your world is slowly narrowing down, going fuzzy and hazy at the edges, your vision blurry with tears.

“mmh—!” you whine, barely aware of the drool dripping out of your open mouth, wetting the duvet below you. your hips push back against his fingers, thighs tensing up and trembling as he slowly stretches you out.

skylar grins. “yeah, baby? can’t speak? did all those big girl words drip out of this pretty pussy of yours already?” he chuckles, working his fingers in and out of you, watching the way you jerk and shudder. his thumb moves over the buttons on the wand, and he clicks it again, cycling through the settings to find the one that vibrates in a pulsing pattern. your answering mewl sends a shiver of pleasure up his spine.

“a few more like this, love,” skylar coos, “and then, when you can’t take anymore, i’ll fuck you stupid on my cock. and you’ll take it, won’t you? like a good little brainless girl.”

all you can do in response is twitch and whine, and feel your cunt pulse around his fingers as he makes you cum— again.

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[stxrborne]

YUUTA X OLDER READER ! HIM JUST TELLING YOU HOW SHAMELESS YOURE TO BE GETTING [REDCATED] BY HIM… “guys your age dont treat you rite…”

*I DISAPPEAR LIKE HIS [REDACTED] IN ME*

I’m a firm believer of Yuta being an older ladies fucker! He loves the desperation in your touches and your voice when you call out his name. Even when you try to hide it because you wanna seem mature for your age.

Yuta knows that you are a successful, mature person who is capable of having everything you want, yet you never seem to get a good guy of your age.

You can control your emotions and you can act accordingly with everyone else. But you’re just different with Yuta. He knows it and he loves it. Yuta would die for how you are just so fucking needy for him, it’s still a mystery to him how your pussy instantly drools at every one of his touches. Not that he’s complaining though.

He may call you shameless for allowing him, some young guy who likes you for some reason, to fuck your stress and frustrations out. Work, plus personal life, plus whatever the hell!! Everything is just too much these days, so you let him stay around—you even find yourself unabashedly clinging to the younger man and begging for his attention.

You throw yourself at him, whine and cry about how horrible these men around you are—they just wanna use you for your money and your body. They don’t want to love you or anything. So you stick to Yuta for long enough that people begin talking.

Yuta says that you can’t leave him, no matter what happens or what people say. It pisses him off when you try to initiate an end to whatever the hell is happening between you and him. So he fucks you good. He fucks the stupid thoughts and all the insecurities out of you, but he is a bit condescending with it.

His cock is balls deep and touching every sensitive corner inside of you. It is long, very thick too. The guy is hung and knows how to use it to fuck you better than all the people you’ve banged. Fuck, how could you even think about leaving such a good deal behind just because of a stupid little age gap.

“You wanna leave me just like that?” he huffs heavily into your sweaty nape, his hips brutally slamming into you, “Tell you what dear, you’ll never find anyone better than me. Never in a million years will any man of your age be able to make you moan like that.”

His hand wraps around your throat and he forces you to rise until your back touches his hard chest. “Shit—you really think you can find someone else if you try hard enough? As if you weren’t the one who clung to me all this damn time. Damn, it really pisses me off when you say you’re worried about people’s opinions,” he growls, his hips violently pounding yours, “You were so shameless, telling me all about the stupid old guys who could never fuck you good or treat you right.”

You yelp when he drops you, grabbing your hair and pushing your face into the mattress with his hand. The angry twitch of his cock is felt against your sloppy walls.

“And so much more fucking shameless to enjoy a younger guy have his way with you even though you were just yapping about the bad mouthing from others. Ain’t it funny how people say things they don’t mean? Shit—don’t squeeze me like that.”

—

Ik you said it’s not a request but where tf was I even going with this

[stxrborne]

rafayel's nsfw alphabet

➵ pairing: rafayel x female!reader

➵ word count: 3.3k

➵ genre: nsfw

➵ warnings: minors dni. this post is pure smut, no plot here. slight exhibitionism, sex toys, edging, blindfolding, handcuffs, overstimulation, somnophilia, praise kink, bondage.

➵ summary: pretty self explanatory, the nsfw alphabet on your favourite boy.

➵ masterlist  (requests are open)

The following content is protected under copyright laws. do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own.

© 2024 horrorhot-line

notes: this one's for you @jaiden-zhou, i was gonna take a break and post these later, but your reblog asking for rafayel and zayne's version meant i got to work right away. hope you enjoy <3333

credit to @multi-fandom-imagine for the template

➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵       ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵

➵ a for aftercare (what is he like after sex?) he loves talking after sex. most would get tired after the extracurricular activities, you included, but not rafayel. he loves picking your brain about anything and everything. still semi inside you, lazily thrusting into you as he empties the last of his cum inside you, trailing kisses across your face as he asks you where you'd want to go if the two of you went travelling. he won't admit it, ever- but he does it because he's realised it's when you're the most honest, spent and cheeks still flushed after your orgasms, still delirious after he's fucked the living daylights out of you. he will also never admit, he doesn't want to fall asleep and running his mouth makes sure of that, he doesn't want to risk you leaving him again. "what do you think about the city of love? i'd love to fuck you in paris."

➵ b for body part (his favourite body part of his and also his partner's) he adores your body, you know this, but his absolute favourite part of you is your eyes. no matter how many lifetimes he's spent waiting for you, your eyes are always the same, soft, shining and focused only on him. he loves fucking you, starting off slow as his pelvis collides with your clit and has you seeing stars, he loves the way your gaze focuses on him when he's thrusting into you, pulling out ever so slightly only to snap his hips back into yours. and fuck, does he love the way he gets to watch your eyes roll back. his favourite part about himself is his dick, pretty self-explanatory. he loves the way you tell him his cock is perfect as he fucks into you, pressing the rough of his thumb against your clit as you throw your head back. "you look so pretty like this, drooling all cause of my cock."

➵ c for cum (anything to do with cum, basically) he may have asked if he could use your cum as paint once, promising he'll never let anyone else see his creation apart from you. rafayel loves shoving his cum back inside you when it leaks out, plugging you up with his fingers as he makes sure you don't waste a single drop, ignoring the way you look like absolute sin with tears of overstimulation in your eyes. though, he can't ignore the way his dick hardens again at the way you glow after you've orgasmed, thighs wet with slick and looking so inviting, "one more round? come on, i know you can cum again- do it for me."

➵ d for dirty secret (self-explanatory, a dirty secret of his) if you hadn't guessed it already, rafayel lives for validation- your validation. he'll never admit it; he doesn't want to bruise his ego by telling you how much he likes hearing you whimper and moan. he loves when he first puts his dick inside you, grabbing the hand that reaches out to place itself on his stomach as you struggle to take him in, and he raises that same hand above your head so he can plug your slick pussy with his cock. "ah, ah, ah- you wanted this, can't back out now. instead of trying to stop, why don't you tell me how good my dick feels, hm?"

➵ e for experience (how experienced is he? does he know what he's doing?) he knows his way around, he's watched enough porn when he was researching for an art project of his. the real thing is different though, and he realises that when you're under him, spreading your legs for him, and he finds no matter how hard he tries, you're pussy is just too good. the first round is always quick, but he knows how to work his fingers and his tongue, making sure you cum more times than he can count before he's ready to go again, forcing your legs apart as he raises his top and bites down on it, watching how his dick enters you. "lost for words? why don't you start off by telling me how good i feel?"

➵ f for favourite position (this goes without saying. will probably include a visual) this is a hard one for him, but if he had to choose it would definitely be cow girl. the sight of you riding his dick so well, struggling to take him in, sweat lining your bodies as he grips your tit and watches the other one bounce. he loves the way you lower your chest to his after a few minutes, legs aching, letting him know he can take over. he manages to hit all your sweet spots in this position too, and there's no escape for you as he wraps his arms around you, angling his hips to fuck into you, making sure you feel his tip against your cervix. "tired already? if you wanted me to take over, my love- all you had to do was ask."

➵ g for goofy (is he more serious in the moment, or is he humorous, etc) he knows how to be serious, but if there's a queef, he'll laugh. how can you expect him not to? that, and he likes catching you off gaurd, because when you join him, giggling at his antics, he snaps his hips into yours, setting a brutal pace that has you struggling to catch your breath. "what? you not gonna laugh, anymore? no? didn't think so."

➵ h for hair (how well groomed is he, does the carpet match the drapes) he's always well-groomed. always clean-shaven and there's never a stubble that gives you carpet burn, because he likes to stay on top of it. he wants you to focus on the feel of his dick inside you and nothing else when he's pounding your wet cunt. he treats his body like a temple, basically. "i wanna look good for myself. it has nothing to do with you." (it does.)

➵ i for intimacy (how is he during the moment, romantic aspect…) rafayel acts like he doesn't care about being romantic, but he does. when he's not salty about how you make him wait, he gives you the best treatment, always eating you out first, fingering you until you can't take anymore, begging for him to fill you up with his cock, which he does, rubbing your clit as he rolls his hips into yours, making sure you remember the way his dick feels buried deep inside you. he always makes sure you finish, and he likes to admire the artwork in front of him one he's done, you laying flushed beneath him, lips parted, breathing heavily and still twitching. "you look so pretty when i'm through with you. hey, can i draw you like this? no? just one quick sketch, please…"

➵ j for jacking off (masturbation headcanon) you make him horny 24/7, even when you're not around. he'll be in his studio, casually painting and lounging when you pop into his head, and his mind will drift to all the times you've been underneath him. by the time you've come home to him, he's a needy mess, flushed, dick in his hand already leaking precum as he begs you to help him out because he's been edging himself for hours, waiting for you. "please, my love. i need you."

➵ k for kink (one or more of their kinks) what kinks does he not have? he has a huge praise kink, that's for sure. loves it when you get vocal and tell him how good he feels, how he's too deep and that it's too much, he loves watching you struggle to take him all in, slamming the last few inches in just so he can hear you sob. he's also a huge fan of overstimulation; he loves pushing you past your limits, watching you become a mess as he squeezes out another orgasm with his fingers. he's into bondage too, something about the idea of you being all tied up, looking pretty for him, helpless to what he has in store for you. he's a bit of a switch, too- he loves you taking control when you've had enough of his teasing just so he can roll you over and force you to take his dick. he also adores watching you use him, making yourself feel good with his cock. "you gonna cum, baby? feel good? who knew you'd love my dick this much?"

➵ l for location (favourite places to do the do) he's a bit of an exhibitionist, reckons it comes with the job description of being an artist. so, he likes it anywhere as long as it's you. he has a list of places he'd love to dick you down at, but his favourite would be his art studio. you're his muse, what gives his paintings colour and life, and he loves spreading you across his desk, raising your hips off the table so he can snap his hips into you only to imagine the same scenario as he starts his new piece. he also loves the beach; something about being close to home, the waves around your feet and hands as he bends you over, lifting you by the arm so you're body's flush against his, calloused fingers reaching for your clit. he loves the way he can feel the water against his thighs as you throw your head back against his shoulder, and he can watch your lovely fucked out expression. "told you the sea was warm during the summer. having fun, baby?"

➵ m for motivation (what turns him on, gets him going) just thinking about it gets him horny; you know this already. it doesn't matter where the two of you are, he will borrow your hole to empty his load, whining and teasing you until you give in, finding the nearest secluded place before pulling his pants down and sliding your panties to the side. you have this effect on him, he can't control himself, and he blames you for it, something he lets you know often as he fucks you from behind, grabbing your tit in one hand, arm under your shoulder and across your chest to lock you in place so you can't run, "it's all your fault for turning me on. that means it's your responsibility to help me out."

➵ n for nicknames (what are his favourite pet names for you? what does he call you when you're both alone?) he calls you 'my love.' a lot- something about your heart being his. he likes calling you his, repeating the words "mine, mine, mine." as he's fucking into you before his lips latch onto yours, swallowing your moans and desperate cries. he does like to use babe when he's teasing you or being mean as payback for you making him wait, rubbing your swollen clit, grabbing the wrist that reaches out to stop him as he rolls his hips into yours, "come on babe, i know you have more left in you. cum one more time for me- yeah?"

➵ o for oral (preference in giving or receiving, skills, etc) he loves receiving but will never pester you for it. he'll ask, but if you say no, then so be it. when you do agree, though, he'll shove himself as deep as he can go, hissing as his tip kisses the back of your throat, running his fingers through your hair before wiping away the stray tear going down the side of your temple, smiling down at you as he reaches over to plug his fingers in your pussy, stretching you out as you choke on his dick. "don't cry, my love. save your tears for when i fill you up. not long now, i know you can do it."

➵ p for pace (is he fast or rough? slow or sensual?) he's not slow, but he is sensual. setting a brutal pace that has you falling off the edge and clenching your thighs as your orgasm hits you, before slowing down his thrusts and taking his time, letting you ride out your high before he's fucking into you again, squeezing your ass and moving you up and down his dick so his cock reaches the deepest it can inside you. "you're mine, yeah? fuck, you're so tight. 'm gonna cum inside you."

➵ q for quickie (his opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc) yes, the answer is yes anytime that word is used in a sentence. he'll wait for you to initiate unless you make him horny, which is more often than not- he loves subtly teasing you, hands finding their way into your panties underneath tables, fingers tracing your hips, feather-light touches across your thighs to let you know he needs you, leading you to wherever's semi-decent before he's shoving your clothes aside, bending you over and kicking your legs apart so he can fuck you until he's satisfied. "you're gonna have to cover again with thomas for me, babe. this is all you, you know? wearing those thigh highs- thinking i wouldn't react."

➵ r for risk (is he game to experiment, does he take risks, etc) definitely game to experiment, he adores finding new ways to pull reactions out of you. the first time he tried fluffy handcuffs and a blindfold on you, he swore it was the hardest he'd ever been. he was in awe, starstruck, watching you twitch at the slightest touch, looking all pretty and helpless. you were at his mercy, and it made his cock twitch. the wait was worth it, though- after he was done using his fingers to push you over the edge enough times, he lined himself up with your pussy, and hissed at the way he slid right in. buried completely inside you, he held your hips up as he started fucking you, realising you were louder when your sight was covered. "who knew you'd like being used? since you enjoy it so much, why don't we do this more often?"

➵ s for stamina (how many rounds can he go for, how long does he last) you usually lose track after the 7th to 8th round, mind blank after he's pulled another orgasm from you, towering over your spent body, a smug smile on his face as he pulls his dick out of you, slapping it against your slick pussy a few times, before shoving it back in completely, with no warning. he will quite literally fuck you until you pass out. "come on, babe. keep your eyes open, and on me- i know you can go one more round."

➵ t for toy (does he own toys? does he use them? partner or himself?) he owns quite a few, most are in the first drawer of his bedside table, the others are scattered across his mansion. he likes buying them to see how you react, keeping the ones you enjoy the most. his favourites are the ones that focus on your clit, he loves fucking you when he uses them, feeling your pussy spasm around him as you cum again. he does own a pussy pocket and uses it often when you're away. also, he's definitely asked if he can have one moulded to the shape of your cunt specifically.

➵ u for unfair (how much does he like to tease) he's very unfair, often teasing you as payback for all the years you've made him wait for you, thumb hovering over your clit as he stops you from orgasming, halting his thrusts as he watches you try and grind against his dick. he turns your head to him and kisses you, mouth swallowing your complaints and sobs as he watches you twitch from overstimulation. he breaks the kiss only to fuck into you nice and slow, building up the pace before he's slamming into you from behind, arms wrapping around you when you try to crawl away from him with how sensitive you are. "what now, my love? you can't move, poor thing. try and escape me this time."

➵ v for volume (how loud is he? what sounds does he make?) he loves being vocal, letting you know just how good you feel as he manages to stuff his dick in your tight cunt, tip kissing your cervix as you double over at the feeling of being so full. he'll pull you right back up against his chest, not letting you catch your breath as he starts fucking into you, fingers flicking your hardened nipples, hands squeezing your tits as he moans in your ear. doesn't help that he sounds like pure sin, and his moans alone have you tightening around his cock. "fuuuck, you have no idea how good you feel. you're so wet, baby… feeling good? yeah? i know i am."

➵ w for wildcard (random headcanon for him) you agree to it after he gives you the pros and cons, and find that he uses it every chance he gets. you didn't expect this out of him, but this man really wants to fuck you in your sleep. just something about the idea of having his way with you when you're not conscious. that, and he gets horny during the night and doesn't wanna wake you just to fuck you. he'd much rather finger you until you're ready to take him, stirring in your sleep but not fully awake as he rubs his dick along your pussy, using your slick to lube himself up before he's lining himself up and shoving his dick in, inch by inch. he'll rolls his hips experimentally, and moan softly in your ear. he waits for you to wake up, dazed and disoriented as your brain catches up, before he slams his dick completely into you, not giving your confused mind the chance to register your arousal as he starts rubbing your clit, teasing an orgasm out of you the minute you're up. "there she is. how'd you like your wake-up call, babe?"

➵ x for x-ray (what's going on in those pants of his) his dick is perfect, no, really. it is the most gorgeous dick you have ever seen, not a hair in sight, and his tip is the prettiest pink colour, all flushed from how turned on he gets because of you. he's circumcised, hates the idea of his penis ever getting dirty or smelling, that- and he reckons it makes it easier for you to suck him off. he has length and girth, not too big that it hurts but enough that you can feel him in your gut when he's inside you.

➵ y for yearning (how high is his sex drive) very high, no matter how many times he fucks you, he can never get enough. rafayel loves the feel of your pussy, maybe more than the feel of a paintbrush in his hand when he has newfound motivation to finish a project, and he enjoys having his way with you whenever he wants. if he's ready to go, it means you'll soon follow. you can't refuse him when his touch trails across your bare skin, hands down your panties and fingers shoved two digits deep inside you, teasing and edging you until you give in to his need to fuck. "you can't blame me- it's your fault for looking so pretty, all fucked up like this. 'm gonna mark you up, let everyone know you're mine."

➵ z for zzz (how quickly does he fall asleep afterwards) he wants to fall asleep right after he's done with you, having spent most of his energy fucking you until you're leaking his cum all over the bed sheets, but he likes staying awake until you pass out, idle talk lulling you to slumber as he brushes your hair out your face and behind your ear, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest before he pulls you into his arms and rests his cheek against your tits. "you're asleep already? …i love you."

➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵       ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵ ➵

The following content is protected under copyright laws. do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own.

© 2024 horrorhot-line

[stxrborne]

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆?

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : fluff, angst if you squint, crying (reader feels a rush of emotions), implications of reincarnation, first time, kissing and making out, slight dry humping, softdom!xavier, fingering, nipple play, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slight cockwarming, soft sex, slight teasing, slight cursing, dirty talk, praise, use of pet name "angel", lmk if i missed any tags!!

sneaky link : pretty much a visual of what Goes On in this fic (for the most part) 🤭

wc : 4.2k+

There's no one else who knows you more than Xavier does, and he would prove it to you as many times as he needed to.

"Mmh..."

A soft sigh fell from your lips, shifting down to a pout as a he pulled away from you. "Why'd you stop?" You almost whined, and Xavier chuckled as he shook his head. In response, he only trailed his lips down your jawline; soft, fluttering, barely-there kisses all over your face if only to soothe you for the time being.

"It's late, you know..." He mumbled against your skin, feeling you shudder under his touch.

"But, Xavier...!"

You could feel the grin fighting its way onto his lips at your little complaints, and he moved back up, level with your eyes. But contrary to the tease in his actions, his eyes remained gentle. Soft, like every fibre of his being, and full of so, so much love and adoration. Feelings, you knew, that were only ever reserved for you.

"You're really not sleepy yet?" He ran his fingers through your hair, watching the way your locks would fall gently from his hands, almost as if soothed by the very sight. The contrast in his actions now compared to the way he'd kissed you moments prior only messed with your head, but as always, you found it hard to resist the almost puppy-like gaze he would give you in times like this.

This time it was you who shook your head, a failed attempt to hide the smile that was threatening to peek through. "Are you? I wanna stay up with you a bit longer."

"Well... You've already stayed awake with me the whole night," he chuckled, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose as he pressed his forehead against yours. There was a hint of playfulness in the twinkle of his eyes, and you huffed—

"But not with you," you protested. "Fighting Wanderers with you hardly counts. And then you'll go off again somewhere in the morning..."

Your voice trailed off, and something in your words made his expression change in the slightest.

"Okay," he said, after a moment. Another kiss on your nose, arm moving back over your waist to pull you close. "But, are you... Having those thoughts again?"

"...No, I just..." His gaze never left yours, but you turned your eyes downwards, instead snuggling into his embrace. The way you couldn't complete your sentence spoke volumes, and it was almost as if you weren't bothering to hide it in the slightest.

"Sometimes, you're not very good at lying."

With a sigh, Xavier shifted to guide your chin upwards as if to get you to look at him. "I'm sorry, angel."

You would never tire of how expressive his eyes were.

The way they would widen, ever so slightly, in an almost pleading manner when he knew you were upset— The way they would dance with yours in a fondness so pure, and so loving. You had always thought he never quite knew how to express himself with you, having never been the type to say so many words at once. But by now, you knew, his eyes communicated far more than you'd have ever needed.

"You always say it won't happen again, Xavier, but... You always leave..."

"...I know."

His voice became barely a whisper, and you didn't miss the way his eyes dropped momentarily to your lips.

"...And when you get back, sometimes you're still injured..."

"I know."

You let out a breath, reaching out this time to brush the hair out of his face. "So... Won't you kiss me more?"

You watched as a smile slowly made its way to his features, and he moved closer, closer, lips just barely ghosting yours as his voice seemed to drop an octave lower. "Will that make it up to you?"

"Maybe. If you do it enough times to make up for your absence."

His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips, taking in every bit of you as your lips parted for him, expectant and wanting. Then, he took it rightfully as your invitation for a little more, and his lips were back on yours immediately, captured in the most tender of kisses that had you melting in his arms.

Elsewhere, his hand trailed over the curve of your back in a sweet, loving caress that had you leaning into him for more, and the shift of the corners of his mouth made it known to you that he knew. You caught the slightest taste of cherry as he moved his lips against yours, as soft as velvet, perfectly in sync as if he'd always known exactly how they would move in the first place.

There was no one else who knew you better than Xavier did, and this was no exception. Not with the way he was keen on getting you all worked up like this, deep, and slow, and barely giving you the chance to breathe before diving back in.

In seconds, his bright blue eyes had yours enraptured, swirling with barely contained mirth as he sucked at your bottom lip, tongue lapping over the swollen flesh before gently biting down.

Oh, he drove you insane.

Unrelenting, your whimpers remained swallowed into his movements, and the tease in his eyes became more evident. Soft, quiet smacking noises resounded in the room as the kisses became more passionate, your arms wrapping around his neck, slipping out a moan as he gently pushed his tongue inside to meet yours.

Your legs moved to entangle with his, nearly wrapping around his waist—

And then he stopped.

Panting, he pulled away from you yet again, a delicate thread of saliva connecting your parted lips.

"Xavier..." You whined, leaning forward as if to chase the same feeling.

But he placed a finger to your temple and shook his head. "We... Should stop."

"But—! You can't just—"

"Angel."

His tone was one of warning; one he would barely ever use with you if not to keep you in place.

Were you crossing a line...?

You fell silent within moments, but the indignance in your gaze lingered longer than you should have let it. Your disappointment could not have been more evident, and he sighed, taking your hand and guiding it downwards—

Oh.

"I have my limits, too, you know? Any further than this, and I can't promise I'll still be acting with your best interests in mind." With a small smile, he shifted just a bit closer to place another chaste kiss on the tip of your nose, as if in reconciliation. "Won't you be gentle with me?"

You couldn't understand him.

How he was so kind yet teasing; so considerate yet so infuriating... It sent an instant jolt of warmth down to your very core, and even you were not oblivious to the wetness that had pooled between your thighs.

A test; a dare—you wrapped your legs around him and shifted, brushing against his erection and relishing in the quiet groan that fell from his lips.

Xavier's hand gripped yours tightly, and he shook his head once more. "Angel, please," he whispered. "We should only be doing this when you're ready..."

"...And if I am?"

Another roll of your hips, pressing closer against him, and he dipped his head down, grip on your hand tightening as he tried desperately to exercise what little restraint he had left. His gaze moved upwards, pleading. He wouldn't dare to speak, not when he couldn't trust the noises that would fall from his mouth if he did—

But as always, his eyes would speak volumes.

Your gaze softened, this time being your turn to cup his cheeks into a quick peck. "Can I have you?" You mumbled, quietly, searching his eyes. "Here. Now."

You watched as his breath caught in his throat, recognition passing in his eyes as he realized the weight of your words, and the tenderness in your touch. "Is this what you really want?" He was breathless when he spoke, inching closer to you once more, almost as if in disbelief of your words.

And perhaps you, too, were at a momentary loss for words.

Xavier—sweet, loving, patient Xavier... How he would never force you into doing things you wouldn't want, how he would never failingly wait to hear your consent before daring to breach another boundary. This had always been the furthest you both had gone—still scared to take the next step, it was always you who would withdraw, never testing the line that was drawn yourself.

But, somehow, now was different.

Be it the desperation you had to keep him by your side, or the want that had bore itself in front of you from all that you had been doing just now—the fact, then, was that you'd never felt more safe, and loved, and cherished, than in his arms.

Tonight, you would let him know that.

So your heart thrummed loudly in your chest... And you nodded.

Shyly, your gaze moved away from him, hands drifting to play with the fabric of his hoodie. "I'm... Not being too greedy tonight, am I?" You mumbled softly. "I just... Why does it feel like this, Xavier? Like I've known you my whole life."

He remained silent as you spoke, only stroking the side of your arm in reassurance.

"All this time, I think... I've only been scared. Of diving in headfirst; of giving you my everything when I feel that there's still so much of you that I don't know, so much of you that you won't... tell me." You looked up, noting the reflection of your figure in his eyes. "And yet, you know me so well. Every little action, every little word... I could trust you with my life, by now. And I have no choice but to melt into you like I have this entire time, like all I've ever known is to be... loved by you. Have we met before, Xavier? It feels like... Maybe, in another life, I've had you there with me, too."

His eyes softened, momentarily flashing with an inexplicable yearning. And then he laced his hands with yours, gently shifting your positions to have you lying beneath him. "Yeah," he whispered, "that sounds like something I'd do." Tears sprung at your eyes with his words, and he traced them away, thumb rubbing against your cheek in the most tender of motions. "I would love you in every lifetime. And if you want me to prove it to you, then... Maybe you'll find out that it's me who's the greedy one."

With that, his lips were on your neck, hands roaming your body and relishing your soft gasps against the crown of his head. Lower, lower—in careful, deliberate motions, his fingers worked the buttons of your blouse to have you open and bare for him, teeth grazing the skin of your nape as you tilted your head with a quiet moan.

He let out a slow breath as he took in the sight of you, leaning back and trailing his hands from your stomach up to your breasts. Your breath hitched as you watched, hands kneading your tits and his own eyes transfixed in the way they would mold into his hands, soft, supple, his.

"Xavier..." A quiet mumble of his name before he leaned in to take your nipple in his mouth, eyes wandering back up to meet yours. He didn't respond, but his lips almost seemed to twitch up into a smile.

The way he looked at you sent waves of pleasure to your core. Soft, innocent Xavier... Now, he held within him unbridled desire, his mouth wrapped around your sensitive nub, pulling and sucking, flicking and swirling his tongue against it before taking it back in. His pupils darkened in a way you've never seen them do before, a certain kind of lustful warmth shimmering in their depths, easily replacing the almost sleepy gaze you were so used to.

Then there was a soft "mmm" against your skin before he pulled back with a pop, reaching to roll your other nub between the pads of his fingers, allowing a smile to form on his features. A sharp intake of breath was all you could do to keep from melting underneath him.

"You're so pretty like this, angel," he leaned up to nuzzle against your neck, savoring your warmth. His actions eminated only a shred of lingering restraint, replaced instead a brimming sense of urgency as he rut slowly up between your thighs, eliciting a whimper from your lips that he caught back into his own.

It was familiar; his lips against yours, already swollen from how much you had kissed just moments prior. But there was something in the way he kissed you now that had you shuddering under the weight of his want, an honest and open display of desperation for you, conveyed with each and every kiss.

Slowly, slowly, his hand edged downwards, slipping past the waistband of your loungewear to gently palm at your clothed cunt—he sighed at the sound of your moans, leaning back once more as his eyes roamed over your body, nothing less than pleased.

"Beautiful, beautiful," he mumbled, seemingly mostly to himself as he dragged down the only restricting articles of clothing you had left. The cool air hitting the heat of your core made you shiver, and you immediately reached out for him in the face of the sudden exposure.

"Xavier..." You whined, feeling almost like prey under his gaze, gripping tightly onto his hoodie. But he held you close, arms now on either side of your head as he leaned in, placing soft, fluttering kisses all over your jawline.

"It's alright," he murmured. "I've got you."

His shifted as his fingers ghosted lightly over your knee, slowly sliding up before snaking downwards in a repeated motion. Though meant to lull you into comfort, his touch left a trail of heat in its wake, and you whimpered, reaching out to place your hand on his cheek.

"Am I going too fast? Do you want to stop...?"

You were silent for a moment before shaking your head, hand falling back to rest on your side. "N-no, just... Nervous..."

Xavier softened at your honesty. "We'll go slowly. One step at a time. Do you trust me, angel?"

"Always, Xavier."

"Okay. I'll take care of you, warm you up. It'll feel so good, angel, I promise." His voice was low as he nibbled at your ear, shaky breaths hitting in warm exhales that rendered you speechless.

You trusted him; you meant it.

Even as you felt yourself jolt when he snaked his hand ever-so-close to your core; even as he swiped over your slit to gather your slick onto his finger, wet sounds reaching your ears and almost making you want to bury yourself alive. With your eyes locked desperately onto him, you couldn't see what he was doing, but the pleasure that raked through your body at even the slightest of his touches had you reeling—it felt embarrassing, almost, to have unfurled so easily beneath him.

But Xavier only chuckled.

"Good girl," he whispered, and a gasp fell from your lips that made him smile. "So wet for me. So easy for me to just... Slowly..."

You felt an almost alien intrusion into your cunt, long and slender, your mouth falling open in a frozen gasp.

"Feel good, angel?" He was attentive to you, watching your every reaction, making sure he kept his promise well. And when he glided his finger out only to press back in, he got the answer he needed—a louder moan of his name, your hands immediately gripping the sheets beneath you. His eyes relaxed, the tips of his mouth curling up yet again with satisfaction, and he repeated the same motions: slow, gentle, delighting in the warmth of your walls around his finger.

"One more, angel. I'll need to stretch you out a little. Okay?"

Soft, soothing words against your ear guided you into his rhythm as he slipped in a second digit, fingers pumping in and out of you, curling ever so slightly to brush against a certain spot as if he knew exactly where it was from the start.

"Xavier— Xavier—" His actions drew out soft chants of his name, and he dipped his head down to suck on your neck, the sting from his bruising swirling in tandem with the feeling of his fingers stretching you out so deliciously.

"That's it, angel. What a good girl for me."

His thumb pressed on your clit, circling it a few times before moving back to rub against it, fingers still working inside of you pleasurably. Xavier hummed, mumbles of how wet you were and how tight you clenched around just his fingers—and then when you arched your back as if to ask for more, he pulled away with an incriminating schick that made you flush.

Slowly, he brought his fingers up to his mouth, closing his eyes with a moan as he sucked on them, savouring your taste. Your body burned at the sight, his words once again eliciting a soft whimper as he looked back at you with half-lidded eyes: "Mmh, next time," he murmured, "I'll definitely taste you properly."

Swallowing thickly under his gaze, you barely even processed his words, only allowing him to guide you in sliding down his clothing, a low groan resounding as his cock sprung free, swollen and leaking from all his attempts at self-control.

"Xavier..." you whispered, voice hushed, reaching out to touch him.

But he stopped you.

"No. If you touch me, I... won't be able to please you..." His mouth turned down into a little pout, the familiar, puppy-like gaze making a momentary return before he gently moved your legs apart, a hand on his base as he steadied himself above you. "Next time. There'll be plenty of opportunities like this in the future, I promise you can have your way with me then."

Next time.

The thought of repeating another night of pleasure with him made you shiver with giddy excitement, even as he teased the tip of his cock at your entrance.

"It might hurt a little..." He reached over to stroke the side of your face, concern ridden in his eyes even though the flush of pleasure was evident at the tips of his ears. "So tell me if you need me to stop. Okay?"

Carefully, the head of his cock finally pushed its way in, slowly sheathing itself inside of you.

"Aa-ahh...!"

A broken cry left your lips before you could stop it, clenching immediately around his length, and Xavier gently thumbed at your cheeks.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay. I've got you."

Soft whispers over your lips as he gradually eased himself in, your walls sucking around him and taking him bit by bit. The sting of it was unimaginable; the burn against your walls foreign enough to bring tears to your eyes. But when he bottomed out inside of you, his entire body pressed against yours—immediately, Xavier was kissing all over your face, drawing soothing shapes into your skin if only to distract you, unable to hide the concern that lingered in his eyes. "Are you okay, angel? Is it bad? You're really tight around me right now..."

All you could do was nod as he kissed your tears away, whimpers falling from your lips as you tried to relax your breathing.

Yet, you could feel, it wasn't quite that it hurt—the pain would fade into numbness, a feeling of being full—but your tears rolled down your cheeks as you looked at him, knowing he was finally, finally, as close as he could be.

"Hey, hey... What's wrong, angel? You're doing so well... You take me so well, angel, why are you crying?" You could hear his concern melting into a twinge of sadness, pressing his forehead against yours and searching your eyes for an answer of his own. "Does it still hurt? I'm sorry, angel, just a few moments... I promise, I'll make you feel so, so good..."

But you shook your head. Sniffling, willing yourself to stop crying, you reached up to put your arms around his neck. "No, Xavier, I'm just... Happy."

His expression changed, eyes widening slightly.

"How else can I say it...? It's always felt like there's no other place I could be safer than with you. And now, I... I have you. I..."

You buried your face into his neck, taking several deep breaths. "I love you. So much. More than you could think, more than you could know. A-and, I'm just—happy. To give myself to you. Like... like this..."

You felt him swallow thickly at your words, his cock twitching inside of you as you felt the brunt of the effects you truly had on him. Gently, he lifted up your head, warmth, and love, and longing in his eyes that swallowed you whole. "I love you, too," he whispered. "I always have. I always will."

Wiping the rest of your tears away with a soft smile, he placed another quick kiss on your lips. "May I?"

And you nodded.

Slowly, you felt his cock slide out of your wetness, the feeling of his length rubbing against your walls having you draw out a shaky breath. And then he thrust all the way back in—again. And again. And again.

Soon, his cock was thrusting in and out of your sopping wet pussy at a soft pace, hips moving against yours as he pressed against you, his lips at your shoulder dropping out soft, hushed moans of your name.

"Fuck," he cursed, shifting to bury his head into your chest as he shuddered, hot breath fanning over the curve of your breasts. "I've wanted this... For so long—"

“X-Xavie— ah—hn—”

You moaned in tandem, feeling completely at his mercy. In all that he was, he was gentle with you—soft, sultry rolls of his hips against yours, fingers laced together as he brought them up to the side of your head, holding you in place enough to steady himself.

And yet, all you could do was melt.

When he raised his head to hover above you once more, his hair fell over his face, silvery strands wet and sticky with sweat. You caved under his gaze—so vulnerable and exposed, yet the safest you had ever been, here in the warmth radiating off of your bodies as he claimed you. "So good, angel," he breathed, angling perfectly for his tip to brush against the spongy spot on your walls, just as if he had your pussy completely memorized.

In response, breathless pants fell from your lips, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You could relish the way his moans tangled with yours, his thrusts deep and filling, the slight, rhythmic creaking of your bed a testament to your passionate intimacy.

"Xavier," you whispered, "Xavier, Xavier, Xavier—"

He chuckled, lightly, and then when he kissed you next, releasing your hands in favor for cupping your face, entangling his fingers in your hair—the both of you were far too caught up in each other to bother. The plush fabric of his hoodie pressed warmly against your exposed chest. Tongue met tongue in a sloppy exchange of excess saliva, hushed moans barely escaping when you'd pull back for air. The squelch of your cunt and the soft pap, pap, pap of his skin against yours filled the room—You could barely bring yourself to conjure any thoughts that weren't just Xavier, Xavier, Xavier.

"...Tight," he gasped, parting from your lips as his eyes trailed down your body, lingering over where the two of you were connected, a white ring around the base of his cock as he watched it disappear, time and time again, into the greedy walls of your pussy. "You're squeezing me... Tighter, and tighter— Fuck—"

You watched as his eyes closed, as if willing to control himself despite his length snugly wrapped into your heat. His breathing molded into sharp huffs, and you clawed at his back in raw pleasure, fisting into the soft clothing, desperate to pull him closer than close—as close as you possibly could be.

"I-I think..." You struggled to find words as you buried your head into his hair, taking in the scent of his sweat, his shampoo, and him.

"Mmh... Close?" Xavier thrust into you deeply, and the whimper you emitted served as enough proof. "It's alright. Cum for me, angel."

His words and the way he held you flush against his body sent you spiraling, vision blanking as you froze, legs in the air, a long, drawn-out moan of his name the last on your lips before all else was reduced to rapid breaths.

Immediately, your pussy clenched tight around him as he continued to pump inside of you, his own soft, rhythmic strokes becoming more erratic, more harsh. The sensitivity had you whining, but before you could dare to speak, he pulled you in and kissed you deeply, moaning loudly into your mouth.

You could feel it—your insides painted white, hot spurts of his cum hitting your walls, movements gradually stilling to a stop.

For a moment, the two of you stayed still, your legs relaxing enough to fall back over his waist, keeping him warm inside of you as you caught your breaths in silence.

You felt soft sighs into your hair as he tucked you under his chin—"...I love you," he murmured.

He nuzzled into your locks.

"And I'm... Sorry. That I disappear a lot. That I go places without telling you. I... don't want to disappoint you, so..."

You shifted, looking at him with a pout. "Please don't promise me something you won't keep..."

"...I know. But I'm saying... I'll do my best. Not to make you worry. And I'll return home safe and sound, and you'll... You'll have me. You'll always have me. Okay, angel?"

A smile played at your lips. "Okay."

"For now, let's... get you cleaned up."

『 Have we met before? Maybe in another time I loved you; maybe you're the one that I would run to, don't know why it's all a blur. I think I know you... 』

⁺₊ / an: happy valentines !!!!!! the basis of this is that if xavier waited for us throughout multiple timelines... then him knowing us like the back of his hand should also apply to this context, no? i think it can't be more obvious than this just how much love i have for xavier... little pookie... he deserves the world...

++requests are open! ask away, lovelies 💕

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[stxrborne]

I’m still alive just realizing I might have a vitamin deficiency

[stxrborne]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!human!reader, from behind, rough sex, use of sex toys ( cockrings ), don’t ever wear or allow someone to wear a ring for longer than 30 minutes pls, noncon ( reader asks to stop, satan doesn’t ), all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗹’𝘀 𝗯𝗮𝗱𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗯𝘀 ∣ poll winner [ satan + cockrings ]

this had been a terrible idea.

but you’d only started to realize it now, when Satan wouldn’t slow down or ease up. it was the same, loud PLAP, PLAP, PLAP! over and over. heavy balls slapping against your swollen clit as he fucks you relentlessly.

“I— need—“ you were panting, trying to clench your fists, but the devil king had a tight grip on both of your elbows, keeping your arms jerked back towards him, using them like levers to wrench your body back into his rough thrusting of hips. “B—break!!”

a low growl vibrates from deep within his chest, the muscles in his arms tightening, veins bulging. he holds you in a vice as soon as you utter the word, as if solidifying the fact that he’s not going to let you go anywhere until he’s done. “Not so fast, hng, you’re the one that wanted me to wear this fucking thing in the first place, weren’t you?”

it was almost a taunt.

but it was the truth. you’d talked him into securing the tight, shiny gold ring around the thick base of his cock. watching in awe when he hissed through his teeth as the sensation of being forced to stay hard, even when he wanted so desperately to cum. the pressure of the ring, squeezing him, didn’t allow him to.

and this was your punishment for denying him.

“And now you’re bitching about it?”

your eyes cross as his pounding seems to find a new speed and velocity, and you choke out a pleading cry. “It’s b—been hours—! You can take it o—off!!”

Satan chuckles, and releases your arms. “Oh, no, I don’t think so.” he grunts, watching you collapse forward against the bed and slump into the mattress, but the second you reach your arms forward, as if to pull yourself out from under him, he presses all of his weight down on your back, his knees jabbing into the backs of yours, pinning you in place and keeping your trembling legs spread open so you have nowhere to go. you feel the solid ring like a hard bumper, hitting your cunt as he buries himself as deep as he could possibly go. “You see, I like this. Tenderizing your poor, little pussy. Making sure you walk funny after this. And now that I can do it for hours with this little toy of yours?” a raspy, breathy chuckle tickles the shell of your ear that you can hear even your own, loud cries that it’s too much, before he nips at your lobe roughly with his teeth. “I’m not done yet. Not even close,” he hisses the threat through grit teeth, his pace settling back into the usual quick-fire pounding that turns your mind to mush. his moans and growls that would usually lead to his climax hypnotizes you, and before long your whimpers of protest had melted back into moans for him to keep going. to fuck you stupid and break your fragile, human body with his cock. “That’s more like it,” he groans, grasping your hips to hold you down so he could plow, “I’m fucking you senseless, little girl. Gonna break ya, and it’s all your fault for showing me this handy, little toy.”

[stxrborne]

Semesters almost finished soooo

[stxrborne]

Thank you all so so so much on my first work!! I hope to do better!!! :3

[stxrborne]

PRECISION

|| Feitan x neutral! Reader ||

|| dt to @after-witch @ddarker-dreams @depravitycentral for inspiring me to finally get off my ass and write, and also for their amazing works ofc! check them out! ||

It’s ironic, Feitan thinks, to sew up the wounds of his victims. But they can’t die just yet.

His thin, long fingers push the needle through the victims skin of their inner thigh, and he gives out a light scoff in mockery when they whimper. Little rich boy can’t handle a little pain? He hates these rich types that think they can pull one over on the troupe. They were fun to interrogate, they always worked up his temper where taking it out on them was something he looked forward to. Due punishment, not only for their bratty, pretentious attitude, but their lucky pull in birth circumstances. Feitan acts as their comeuppance.

He’ll give it to this victim, however, still holding on to the information despite it all. Usually his male victims would start spilling whatever they knew when Feitan picked up a hammer and pushed their thighs apart. But here his victim was, crying and whimpering, and now a eunuch, and still not speaking.

Feitan finishes his stitches with a clean knot, and sets the needle and thread aside on his medical tool tables. He likes to pride himself in his efficiency and perfection. After all, torture required just as much knowledge of the human body as a surgeon. The image of Feitan as a doctor, in a different life, flashed in his mind and he laughed aloud. Maybe. Maybe if he was born lucky. Maybe if he didn’t have to learn surgery and amputations from the cruelty of his home.

After all, doctors can’t save everyone. And he didn’t see the point in willingly putting that responsibility and burden on yourself. Especially for ungrateful rich brats.

No, it was much easier to take life than to protect it. Much more fulfilling too. Other people aren’t your responsibility.

How funny though, Feitan thought. To now have something to willingly burden yourself with.

His ears pricked up to his victim shuffling in his chains, and he turned to them. The man wasn’t remarkable, only one person really was in Feitan’s eyes. The only thing noticeable now was the man’s family crest Feitan had carved on the skin above his heart.

How can you claim to belong to something, if you can’t even mark yourself with it? When you die, how will people know where you belonged to?

Feitan takes the man’s face in between his hand, and moves his head around to inspect his work. He debated between leaving the cut next to eye, dropping a few drops of an infectious bacteria into it so the eye would eventually eat itself. It’d take about a week, and then another for the infection to spread to the rest of the body.

Feitan couldn’t help but smile at the image. He gripped his victims face with his nails, and told him so.

“It’d be funny to see you swell up with blood and pus. I wonder if you’d get fat like an ugly cyst, but you already don’t look all that different from one.”

He let him go unceremoniously, and watched as his head fell forward. Feitan will grant him the mercy of sleep. After all, a dog will still endure abuse if you feed it often enough.

“Feitan?”

He heard you before you reached the basement door of course. He knew where you were in the house at all times after all.

You knew you weren’t allowed to open the door. If you needed him, just knock or call his name. You think it’s because he’d have to kill you if you saw what he was doing.

He knows that, and thinks you’re silly. He wipes his bloodied hands with a clean cloth as he walks to the door. His eyes meet yours when he opens the door, and his gaze doesn’t leave yours as he closes it. You don’t even know what color the walls of the basement are.

Feitan looks you over, with the same precision he gives to everything. You’ve been picking at your hangnails again and for some reason you didn’t bother bandaging your thumb, where you had ripped and tore at the skin enough for it to bleed. Another thing is that you’re wearing nothing but a towel, which means one thing.

“I want to take a bath,” you say, your clasped hands nervously squeezing themselves. It was another thing you weren’t allowed to do on your own. You didn’t understand why, and you didn’t understand why he did the things he did. He’d set the water the way you like it, even though you don’t remember telling him. He scents it with fragrances and oils that you can tell are expensive, in your favorite scents too. He helps you in and then holds out your towel so he doesn’t see your naked body, and he swiftly turns and closes the curtain. He does the same when you’re ready to come out.

He has a chair he sits on, quietly and unmoving as he watches your silhouette. Maybe it’s a kink or fetish of some kind, you think. It had taken you a while to get use to. But something tells you it wasn’t that exactly. One time you had slipped when washing your body, and before you could fully gasp out in surprise, you were in his arms with his face to the side.

He didn’t act the way you expected a kidnapper would. But it still didn’t explain why you were here at all.

Feitan nods at you, and you lead the way. You’ve learned he preferred to be your second shadow than to be your leading light.

Your large bathroom was attached to your equally large room. Funny how you’ve started to refer to them as ‘yours’. It’s difficult not to, when he is somehow able to let you decorate it the way you want. Feitan does that often, you’ve found. No matter how expensive your request, and you have tested that, he will get it for you. You’re scared to ask how.

He begins his routine when you both step into the bathroom. He gets the water to the temperature you like and let the bath tub fill. The sound of the tub jets fill the air, and you watch as he drips expensive oils into the water. His movements are methodical, and somehow he’s figured out the ratio of water to oil that’s right for your skin.

Feitan doesn’t dare mix the water with his hand.

Your nose is soon filled with the scent, and you feel your tense shoulders slowly let go and relax. He’s watching you, you know that. He stops the faucet when the tub fills up, and you walk up the small steps and stand in front of him.

A part of you is always tempted to touch. His pale skin is smooth and such a contrast to his dark hair. This close, you can see just a hint of green in his black eyes, the way they don’t seem to blink. You wonder if he is even human.

You nod softly and he moves behind you. You can’t even feel his presence, hear his breath, and you slightly jump when he reaches to gently clasp the small fold that holds your towel up.

Feitan waits until you calm again to continue. He never touches you directly, not even a stray touch from any finger. He takes off your towel and spreads it as a barrier between you and him.

But then you do something that has his heart beating and stopping erratically. His breath catches in his throat, your gaze turning to him and he feels trapped beneath it. How do you not know how much power you have over him?

His eyes instantly move to the way you nervously bite at your lip. Somehow he can know everything about you, how you think, how you word those thoughts, and yet now, he can’t believe what he thinks you’re going to say.

“…help me?” You say slowly, so quietly that a normal person wouldn’t have heard you.

But you know he did. And you don’t drop your eyes from him.

Feitan, in return, lets the towel drop.

[stxrborne]

Yandere! Feitan Portor General Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, murder, mentions of torture, mentions of Feitan carving his initial into you, mentions of masturbation, stalking, jealousy, threats, Feitan tortures a man in front of you, I stand by the (semi) soft creepy yandere Feitan agenda and I will not be swayed otherwise, this got super long I'm so sorry, I'm also delirious as I'm writing it so hopefully it makes coherent sense/is consistent, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

DARLING PROFILE:

Empathetic

In general, Feitan finds his attention drawn by a darling who is almost the complete opposite of himself.

He wants someone sweet and caring, all soft and squishy and warm. He’s never found this particularly attractive before meeting his darling, but there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re always trying to help those around them, fruitlessly asking them to vent about their feelings, to use them as a supportive shoulder. 

It makes him scoff, rolling his eyes and wondering at how impossibly naive his darling can be, but even he can’t deny how nice it is to have someone by his side, a human presence that’s steady and calm and understanding. It makes him feel good, a warm sensation bottling up in his chest and threatening to explode out, and although he’ll never really come clean with how he feels for you (at least, he never will verbally), a darling who can kind of read his rather emotionless face would be a very, very big attraction for him. 

He just wants a darling who can understand him, even if his rational brain loathes the idea. An empathetic darling is sure to draw his attention, if only because he’ll be mildly revolted and intrigued by how they can be so selfless and so foolish. 

Submissive 

Feitan doesn’t want a feisty darling. 

He doesn’t enjoy having to tame his lovers, and although he’s never really had a lover, he gravitates towards someone who is more naturally submissive and willing to follow direction. 

He already feels powerless enough in the situation, frustrated that he doesn’t really have any say in how he feels. It scares him, quite honestly, if only because he doesn’t like how easily and quickly he’s jumping to conclusions where his darling is concerned, more than willing to jump through any hoop necessary in order to get what he wants, in order to make sure his darling is safe and isolated from every other man on Earth. 

He likes knowing that his darling will do what he tells them to; it builds a layer of trust that makes Feitan go feral, and for every ounce of trust his darling gives him, he’ll try to return it as full heartedly as he can. He likes that he’s fully in control of his darling, and particularly if they were to be submissive in more… intimate aspects of the relationship, he’d be absolutely smitten.

He just wants his darling to revere him and believe his word as the word of God, and the moment that happens? 

He’s only falling deeper into obsession, his desperation for them growing with every beat of his heart, getting harder and harder to swallow until he gives up, jumping head first into every swirling, dark, lecherous desire he harbors. 

Soft

Of course, Feitan’s darling doesn’t have to have a softer body, but he can’t deny that there’s something enticing about a darling who is physically quite soft. Whether that’s rounder features, a plumper figure, or even a soft, demure voice, it all entrances Feitan. 

His darling is something of a dream to him, because he’s never really believed that someone that stereotypically weak could ever really survive in this world. He likes how his darling feels, the touches he sneaks late at night when they’re sleeping sending sparks up his spine and serving as fuel for when he’s unbearably horny, his hand around his cock not nearly enough. 

He’s prone to fantasizing about his darling, slipping into daydreams of his they’d feel in his lap, how they’d look with their ass up and face pressed into the mattress, how they’d feel so good wrapped around him. He just thinks it’s oddly endearing, and a darling who fits these characteristics would help initially draw his eye - he just thinks they’re pretty, a polar opposite to him, even going so far as to playing into some of his more protective traits. 

Of course, he’d rather die than admit any of it, but he’s interally a bit soft for his darling - they’re just alluring in an almost primal way he can’t describe, but he can’t fight it. He can’t fight anything when it comes to his darling, as it turns out, and soon Feitan will decide that he doesn’t care. 

After all, once his darling steps into his life and stays there, nothing at all matters - how can it, when he’s decided that they’re his, his woman to keep and admire and touch and fuck? 

(It will take him a very, very long time to get comfortable with either of the last two options, but the desire and sentiment is still there, if the frequent raging erections he gets as a result of his darling is any indicator.)

Talkative 

This trait is one of the things Feitan loves and hates most about his darling. 

He enjoys listening to them talk; he himself isn’t particularly fond of conversation, nor is he particularly talkative towards his darling in general. And so, a partner who is capable of filling the silence between them sometimes is something that makes Feitan grateful, if only because hearing the sound of their voice makes his breath hitch. 

And when they talk to him, all their attention aimed solely at him? 

Well, how can Feitan not be flattered, not feel a bit prideful that they’re spending their time directing all their focus and thoughts around whatever small question he prompted them with? He just likes listening to his darling go on and on, even if the topic doesn’t interest him much. However, the downside of this trait is that it creates a rather ugly combination with his tendency to grow jealous. 

If his darling is talkative with everyone, it’s sure to extend towards the men they meet, who just stare at them like they’re a slab of meat waiting to be devoured, all of them eager to get their hands on them and destroy what Feitan has claimed as his own. It’s infuriating, if only because it means that they’re interacting with others, putting themselves into a position where they could develop feelings for another man or be put into harm’s way or overhead something they shouldn’t have or any number of things. 

It becomes a massive liability, and one that Feitan is so, so very aware of. It irritates him, and as much as he loves when his darling is chatting with him, he’s not so approving when they're with others.

And so, it’s really in his darling’s best interest to reign in the conversations with anyone else - unless they want to see their blood splattered all over the walls, hear their cries, feel Feitan’s red soaked fingers grasp onto their arms and force them to see the results of their chattiness. It’s in their best interest, and they’ll learn that soon enough. Hopefully. 

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Distant 

There’s a part of Feitan that genuinely hates you for making him feel the way he does. The constant pounding of his heart when you’re merely mentioned, the throb in his chest when he’s gone too long without seeing you, the nervous twitch of his fingers when he thinks about what you’re doing, what other man you’re thinking about… 

He hates how paranoid you’ve made him, how so much of his time and energy goes into you. It’s your fault that he’s always distracted, that he’s not able to fully focus on his work anymore because he’s only able to think of you you you. It’s frustrating, and honestly it initially wards Feitan off from getting any closer to you - he doesn’t like the way he feels around you (that’s not true, but he needs it to be), so he’ll stay away and ignore you. Maybe that’ll get you to stop smiling at him so kindly, to quit asking him how his day was, to stop looking so pretty while you hum and make yourself dinner. 

As time passes, slowly this hatred diminishes (or at least dulls), instead replaced with a desperate, pathetic need to be around you; he just can’t keep himself away from you, no matter how hard he tries. It’s demoralizing, embarrassing beyond belief that someone like you could get his emotions so twisted, but it’s reality. 

He tries to fight it at first, believing himself to be above such stupid human emotion – he doesn’t need you, he’s a criminal and has never needed love or anything of the sort. And yet, each and every time he tells himself to not trail behind you as you walk to the grocery store, his resolve holds out for roughly five minutes. By then, there’s unwelcome thoughts drifting through his mind about what you’re doing, whether you’re talking to anyone, if you’ve managed to trip like you always do and scrape your knee. 

(There’s even a small, very small part of him that wonders whether you’re buying foods that are nutritious for you, or whether you’re doing your usual junk food spree. A thought pops up in the back of his head: him beside you in the store, scoffing as you place chips into the cart. He’d replace them with fruit, mumbling something about you being so stupid, only to see you smile at him and thank him, telling him how grateful you are to have him watching over you. His cheeks feel hot at that, and he buries his face deeper into his jacket, grumbling under his breath.) 

He’ll try to stop himself from circling back to you, but each and every time he finds some excuse of why he should be watching you, of how you aren’t really capable of taking care of yourself without his watchful gaze. It’s patronizing, more than anything, but eventually he’ll stop trying to fight it, submitting entirely and allowing himself the concealed pleasure of watching your horribly mundane life. 

He’ll need to be around you, constantly, but he’s still not willing to let his emotional guard down. No, you’ve done enough damage just simply existing - you absolutely cannot know how deeply he feels for you, how wrapped around your pinky finger you have him. Not only would it eliminate any semblance of leverage he holds against you (in order to stay above you, that is), it also showcases just how far the extent of his feelings for you run. 

And frankly, the thought terrifies Feitan – he’s never felt so strongly for anyone before, not even in the context of hatred or pleasure at their suffering. He’s in over his head, wading through waters he's always scoffed at and dismissed, and suddenly he’s finding himself nearly drowning, head always buried just under the surface. 

So he steels himself, grabbing onto any shred of control and power he can against you – he grabs on and clutches on, strong fingers frantically staying attached so that he doesn’t get blown away and truly drown. And even in the beginning of your captivity, Feitan won’t change the way he’s so detached. He’s purposefully putting distance between the two of you so that he can remain in control of the situation, in control of you, and – most importantly, and most concerningly – in control of himself. 

Because frankly, Feitan doesn’t trust himself around you. He doesn’t trust the way his body just does things, how any rational thought leaves his brain the moment your eyes meet, how fingers are already lifting up a bit to reach out touch you, to brush away stray pieces of your hair when you’re within a few feet of him. 

The biggest way he maintains this control is by not giving you a whole lot of attention, aside from one stark, grave exception: his dark eyes are constantly watching you. He’s always just sort of staring, his expression blank as he observes you, motionless and still. It’s unnerving, terrifying you initially and only slightly calming down as time passes, but Feitan doesn’t care much. 

He doesn’t necessarily want to interact with you, but just watching you allows him to be in your space, to be beside you, to smell you and listen to your breathing. You’re kept in one large room most of the time, and he’ll often sit in the chair in the corner and just stare. He’s not talking much, not trying to touch you or hurt you, but you almost wish he would sometimes. 

He just doesn’t understand what about you it is that attracts him so deeply, that’s morphed him into this lovesick fool, and while he initially tries to understand, eventually Feitan gives up, because does it really matter? 

Does it really matter how he became obsessed with you when you’re locked up in his spare bedroom, duct tape covering your mouth and an expressionless, frozen Feitan watching you with his heart practically bursting out of his chest? Does it really matter if he pinpoints exactly when he developed his love for you when you’re looking at him with those pretty tears in your eyes, whispering out a thanks as he sets the tray of food down in front of you? 

It really doesn’t, now that his feelings for you are formed and solidified, now that they can’t be changed or reversed. So while he’ll never be the most accessible and sympathetic to your feelings, rest assured that Feitan really does love you in some fucked up way - he’s just unorthodox, incapable of properly expressing himself to you. 

But actions speak louder than words, right? He’s always thought so.

Obsessive 

Because Feitan is relatively quiet and secretive when it comes to his feelings towards you, it’s difficult for you to really pick up on this aspect of him. You’re unlikely to ever truly understand just how much he feels for you, the sheer depth of emotions you cause him. 

He won’t ever tell you what’s going on behind that expressionless facade of his. He doesn’t tell you how oddly adorable you are when you’re sleeping in the early mornings, curled up in the corner of your room with your eyes shut and lips slightly parted, looking so soft and sweet and weak.

 He’ll never make you aware of how his breath hitches ever so slightly when you make eye contact with him, even if it’s shaky and you look away too quickly, his spine tingling because fuck, your attention feels good. 

You’ll never know why his foot is tapping lightly when you’re eating in front of him, the way those annoying nerves eat away at his stomach while he subconsciously wonders if you think he looks attractive today. (He’d trimmed his hair a bit, feeling it was too long and interfering with his work - do you like it? Did you notice? He’d hesitated a bit with the scissors earlier, brows slightly furrowing, dark eyes glancing at your sleeping form.) 

He’s very cryptic, and this tendency to keep you out of the loop of his personal thoughts and feelings can cast a shadow on his more obsessive tendencies. That is, before he’s stolen you away from the world, Feitan did an extensive amount of research into you. He does nothing on a whim - he’s a calculating man, and once he’d finally come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you weren’t going to disappear, he was scouring every resource possible to garner your information. 

He’s got access to all kinds of personal knowledge about you - your search history, for example. It’s a bit unexpected, if Feitan’s being honest - you’re much darker than he’d expected, the things you read about making him quirk a brow, his interest in you only deepening because hmm, seems the little sheep may be a bit of a wolf inside. 

He’s getting Shalnark to hack into the camera of your phone and computer, the stream of footage easy to access as he cleans his tools, blood washing away as you smile and laugh at some comedy you’re watching. 

It’s stupid and at first he pretends to find your laugh annoying. But then he sees the way your cheeks get all full and round as you smile, your eyes crinkling up, even the way you wheeze slightly when it’s really funny. 

(Briefly, he wonders whether you’d find his dry sense of humor entertaining.)

He’s got photographs of you from his time spent trailing you, and though they’re a bit blurry and not as focused as he’d like, they’re still something nice to pin to his wall, keeping his favorites beside his bed. He’s never had trouble sleeping, but something about looking at you as he drifts into slumber makes him rest more soundly, wake up more refreshed. 

Once you’ve been trapped with him for long enough, however, Feitan’s front of careful indifference to you will slowly begin cracking. You’ll never see fully through him, but you’ll catch the way the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly when you snuggle into the blanket he gives you one day, noticing how you’ve been shivering incessantly at night. 

(He won’t tell you the blanket was freshly stolen, that he’d made sure to take one with the softest, thickest material he could find, and even in your favorite color. It’s just a coincidence, so don’t read into it.) 

You’ll realize he’s slowly inched closer to you the longer you watch the television program Feitan turned on earlier, your spot on the couch feeling smaller and smaller as Feitan’s hip eventually brushes yours, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening. 

(You’ll never know how badly he wants to reach out and touch you, to freely run his hand up and down your thigh, so trace your collarbones, to feel just how soft your body is.)

It all makes him feel weak, pathetic, disgusting, but Feitan can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about you, and he can’t pull himself away. His pride won’t allow him to fully succumb to the thoughts and desires about you that are constantly swirling through his mind, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, that they aren’t bothering him constantly. He’s secretive, and maybe it’s for the best that you don’t know how many nights he’s spent with his fingers wrapped around his cock, his pale cheeks rosy as he imagines the way you’d like tied up with hickeys he made spanning the insides of your thighs. 

Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know how often he’s (begrudgingly) held the extra pillow on his bed close to his chest, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tightens his arms around it.

(No, he wasn’t imagining it was you – he’s a touch starved man, and everyone has urges, right? It’s just coincidence that the pillow casing is one he stole from you, that he never washes it because it smells like you, that he nearly loses his mind when he almost gets a drop of blood from a victim on it.) 

It makes it much easier to scare you into what he wants when you don’t know - you’re much more complainant this way, malleable, willing, and Feitan likes it that way. Sure, having you fall in love would be ideal, getting your obedience through a genuine desire to please him, but at least this way he can keep a piece of his pride intact. 

This way, you’ll never realize the power you have over him - how he’d be willing to wipe out entire towns for you if you so much as mention it. You’ll never understand just how he needs to have you - to have you for what, you don’t know, but you can sense the odd sort of desperation coming off of him. 

You can feel it in the way his fingers grip you just a bit too tight, the way his eyes linger on you just a tad too long, the way the smallest, most embarrassing little whimper falls from his lips when your hand touches his. 

He’s good at hiding it, but everyone makes mistakes - just don’t pry too hard, because Feitan still needs to be the one in control, and you’ll quickly find yourself learning much, much more about the short man than you’ve ever wanted to know. Namely, that the only thing worse than him staring at you is him ignoring you.

Protective  

Although, it will take you a very long time to see this side of him. Initially, Feitan’s feelings towards you are that of mild interest, mild disgust, and mild indifference. 

Mild interest because he had, of course, noticed that you were pretty, what with your soft lips and doe eyes, your figure and the lilt of your voice. Indifference, because Fietan was sure there were a thousand other people just like you on Earth. And disgust, because you were so visibly weak and unable to fend for yourself, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

 And yet, the more time he spends around you (maybe a long job has him centered in the same city for a few weeks, and you work at the little store he gets his meals from, or some other service job that brings you in contact regularly), the more complex these feelings become. His interest becomes peaked because you’re not just pretty, but also entertaining to talk to, handling his dry jabs well and even daring to throw back some jokes of your own. (He never laughed, of course, but a wry smile sat underneath his jacket.) 

He’s still a bit indifferent, but not when you’re helping other customers or smiling down at your phone. (Were you texting someone? Your fingers were moving, implying typing – what were they saying that was making you giggle like that? What could he say that would make you giggle? Why does he care?) 

But the starkest, quickest change of heart that Fietan experiences in how he feels about your strength and abilities. Of course, you are weak. Even if you can use nen, even if you know the basics of self defense – Feitan is sure that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, cleanly, easily. (He’s sure because he’s thought of doing it before – never seriously, just a fleeting thought, something that only briefly passed through his mind when he was still resistant to his attraction towards you – it was promptly expelled after that familiar sinking, uncomfortable feeling started up in his gut, but still.) 

You’re embarrassingly weak, really, and as much as he tries to make himself ignore it or to simply stop caring about it, he can’t get it out of his head. He can’t seem to stop imagining you getting hurt, doing something stupid or careless and tarnishing that pretty skin of yours. 

He can’t seem to stop imagining the way you’d take a corner too fast and slip on your own feet, tumbling to the ground and ending up with a sprained ankle or a scrape across your knee. 

He’ll be sharpening a blade, blood stains caked onto the metal, and suddenly a flash of what your blood would look like staining the material makes him freeze for a moment, black eyes just a tad bit wider, the muscles in his arms and legs taut because there’s something sickening about the thought, something malicious and just carnally wrong. 

He can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against someone like his coworkers, whose strength is difficult to handle even for an experienced nen user. How would someone like you fare against someone like Uvogin? Someone like Shizuku? Hell, even someone like Kortopi? 

(Upon first meeting Hisoka, a very sudden and very intrusive image of the clown slicing a card clean through your throat flashed through his mind, and he’d nearly reached forward and ripped out the taller man’s heart at the thought, a purely instinctual response that left him more shell-shocked than he’d care to admit.) 

He knows you wouldn’t stand a chance, and while he doesn’t want it to bother him, it does. It does, as much as he tries to forget the mental images or assure himself that you deserve getting injured for being so weak and helpless. But he can’t just sit still and let it pass by, if it were to ever happen - and so, Feitan’s protective tendencies begin manifesting. 

They’re small, for the most part; making sure to keep his torture tools as far away from you as possible, just so that there’s no chance of you accidentally tripping or running into one or being stupid and getting any ideas. 

He’s making sure that you’re under his watch as often as possible, becoming your second shadow and stalking you every free moment he can spare, just in case someone unsavory crosses your path. 

He’s making sure that all your locks are working every night, compulsively checking them even though he knows they’re still good. 

He keeps his protective tendencies under wraps, making sure that they’re subtle and just ambiguous enough that you won’t pick up on his intentions. Because while there’s something appealing about you knowing that he wants you to be safe, he would rather you not find out just how extensively he watches you, just how much he cares about your wellbeing, deciding that it’s yet another potential opportunity for you to manipulate him. 

And of course, he’s embarrassed - he briefly considers requesting help watching you from a Troupe member or two, only for when he’s aware for long periods of times on individual jobs, but eventually he chickens out, too scared to have to explain why he wants Pakunoda to keep an eye on you.

 He’s not embarrassed of you, per se, but rather the extent to which you affect him. And even once he’s stolen you away (an action which has roots in his paranoia for your safety), those protective tendencies are still firmly in place. He’s not a good cook, but he still tries to provide you with somewhat healthy foods, even if they’re undercooked and limp, bland and just overall unappealing. 

He’s by no means an interior designer, but he’s getting you a somewhat soft, thick blanket, making sure the one pillow you have isn’t covered in stains or lumpy. It’s all subtle, nearly unnoticeable things that you’d have to be very perceptive to catch onto - but to Feitan it’s all important, because while he may still resent you for turning him into a lovesick fool, he’ll be damned if he lets you starve or be uncomfortable.

It’s stupid and he knows it, grumbling to himself the entire time he’s doing something to prevent hurting you, but it’ll always get done - and if you were to ever notice it, to thank him? Feitan would deny your allegations, telling you to shut up and eat your food, all the while the tips of his ears turn pink and his heart flutters because you noticed. 

You noticed the way he takes extra precautions for you, the way he thinks of you and your wellbeing, even having the gall to thank him for it… 

Don’t bring it up again or he’ll grow angry, but the pride sitting in his chest at your words is enough for him. It’s enough for him to know you see him, that you’re paying attention to him, that you appreciate all he does for you - it’s enough for now, at least. 

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Feitan is, unfortunately, a bit prone to jealousy – as someone who is aware that he isn’t the best option out there for you, the acknowledgement that there is a multitude of other men that deserve you more and could likely land you never fails to get past him. 

He’s so, so aware of the fact that you likely don’t like him, that stalking you and planning to kidnap you likely doesn’t earn him any favors. He knows he’s fairly quiet, and while it’s mostly a fear of mildly embarrassing himself that bars him from actually interacting with you, it only pushes Feitan to worry that you only see him as a strange, unfamiliar man. 

It’s likely that you think of him as nothing more than an acquaintance, a man who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you. And so, the minute that another person tries to flirt with you, to look at you and think of you and speak with you, the insecurities over how you perceive him are blooming in his chest, growing and blossoming into full blown panic, because what if you fall for another man? 

Of course, Feitan has absolutely no problem eliminating the threat, even enjoying taking the life of such a worthless man, but he can’t help the way fear grips his heart, cold and stabbing and brutal, because while he may be icy and difficult to approach, a stone face that leaves little emotion o be seen, Feitan wants you so fucking badly, to the point that it genuinely hurts. 

And while he isn’t all that soft towards the beginning of his obsession (and really, even once you’ve been ‘living’ with him for a while as well), he does honestly want for you to return the feelings, to love him and care for him, to want to be with him and enjoy your new life by his side. Ideally, he wants you to fall for him, to see him and smile, to have your soft skin pressed against his rougher, more callused skin, your hands cupped in a firm embrace, a soft hug, a kiss against the lips and short, whispered words of trust and acceptance. 

Of course, it’s makes him feel so damn pathetic each time he gets caught in a daydream where you’re smiling and laughing with him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and telling him he’s handsome, but try as he may, he just can’t allow another man to steal the opportunity to make you theirs. 

He wants to be the only one in your life, the only man you see and think of and talk to, and quite honestly Feitan will succeed – his profession is death after all, and he’s a master at stalking his prey, locating their weaknesses, seamlessly killing and annihilating his target before they even have a chance to fight back. 

And so, once his jealousy is triggered, the poor man’s fate has already been decided. Feitan’s never been particularly merciful, and where you’re concerned, this trait only grows - it feels good to kill whoever dared to speak with you, like some sort of cathartic release of all the emotions he’s been bottling up, all the anger and desperation and self-loathing and yearning trapped in his chest. 

It feels good, euphoric in a way he can’t describe, and so he’s quick to jump on any man posing a potential threat to your status as single and ripe for Feitan to claim. He’s a trained killer, after all, and who is he to waste away a perfectly good target? 

When the man in the black dress shirt approaches you in the grocery store, Feitan’s eyes narrow. The shorter man had been trailing you all day, watching you go about your weekly errands, and the tri-annual trip to the grocery store had been your last stop. You’d managed to evade any male attention today, a fact that had Feitan simultaneously sighing in relief and growling in anger. 

And yet, here you are, dressed in a rather provocative set of leggings that have Feitan’s eyes absolutely glued to your supple ass, matched with a slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. You’re cute, he begrudgingly admits, and it seems the stranger agrees. 

Feitan’s standing in the next aisle over, staring through the holes in the shelving to see the way you tap your chin and scan the aisles of bread, searching for the perfect loaf. You don’t seem to have noticed the man slowly walking up to you, his eyes visibly scanning up and down your body. Feitan scowls, black brows drawing tightly together as he debates what to do. 

On the one hand, there’s not much he can do - you’re in a public grocery store, and he doesn’t particularly want you to notice his presence. And yet, he can’t just let this man approach you, speak to you, look at you, now can he? He grits his teeth, steeling himself to just watch for now, and jump in if the time is right, if he feels the man goes too far. The man clears his throat, making you jump and look over at him, the suave smile he sends you making your own smile falter a bit. 

Which bread’s best? He’s asking you, and you answer quickly, naming your favorite brand and which style you like best - Feitan’s scowl only deepens when he realizes you’re telling him the truth. 

The man nods along, before his smirk turns smarmy, one eyebrow cocked up as he asks which rolls are best then? I’m thinking they’re yours. 

You blanch at that, disgust written across your face as you awkwardly laugh and inch away, but Feitan sees none of that - how can he, when he’s already moving, already grabbing the man by the neck and sprinting down the aisle and around the corner, all too fast for you to see with the naked eye? 

You’re confused, unsure of how the man just suddenly disappeared, but his comment left you shellshocked and lost at what to do, so you quickly grab a random loaf and anxiously push your cart away, trying to put distance between you and wherever the man had ended up. 

Meanwhile, Feitan’s got the man held against the back wall of the grocery store, fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, menacing look in his eye. 

Bastard, he grits out, tightening his grip and feeling the way the man panics and scratches at his fingers, trying to rip them away. 

Disgusting, she is mine, didn’t your mother teach don’t touch what’s not yours? Feitan’s shocked he hasn’t just slaughtered the man yet, but there’s something in his heart telling him to prolong this out, to let the man suffer, to make this as slow and torturous as possible. He wants the man to bleed, to scream and sob and beg for his mercy, for being stupid enough to even try to seduce you. 

Feitan’s angry enough that his breathing is uneven, his muscles occasionally flexing without his permission, the rage simmering in his veins nearly potent. He can’t stop replaying the sight of your disgusted and uncomfortable look, the fact that this scum caused you to feel such an emotion making his skin feel hot, his fingers eager to steal the man’s life. 

He smiles as the man wheezes, the lack of oxygen making his face slowly take on a purple hue. What’s wrong? Can’t breath? 

He squeezes once, harshly, roughly, and the man splutters, spit dribbling down his chin and getting onto Feitan’s wrist. He scoffs. Filthy, disgusting. Die. 

And then the man is being stabbed with his sword, not once, not twice, but again and again and again, until holes and wounds decorate the planes of his chest, blood flowing down in rivers onto the dirty concrete floor. 

The man is dead within a matter of seconds, but it’s not enough for Feitan. He’s quick to throw the body to the ground, kicking and stomping and mutilating the body until its unrecognizable. He’s still breathing hard, his fingers shaking, and he finishes it off with a spit at what was once the man’s face, a scowl thrown his way. 

Pathetic, he says, dark eyes closing for a few moments as he looks to sense your familiar presence, already on your walk back towards your apartment. Feitan gives one last, firm kick, before taking off, the urge to have his eyes on you once more making him rush even quicker than normal. He’ll spend the rest of the evening watching you, like always, but this time he’ll pay more attention to your face. 

You’ve never looked at him the way you looked at that man, all scared and revolted. 

You’ve never tried to get away from Feitan, never ran or panicked or anything of the sort. Pride swells in his chest at the knowledge that you like the dark haired man more than that mangled corpse; you’d choose Fietan over him, he’s sure. 

And as you slip under your covers, a soft look on your face as you drift to sleep, Feitan can’t help but slide open the window, slipping into the bedroom and coming up to stand beside your unconscious form. 

Would you choose him over other men? 

If given the choice, would you want him? 

He’d always choose you, his heart always coming back to you no matter what he does or how he hates it - and one day, he’s hopeful you’ll feel the same. One day, you’ll be just as stupidly, pathetically, frantically in love as he is. 

He sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Someday, you’ll be all his. 

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It takes Feitan a long time to resort to kidnapping you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but rather that it’s never been a priority for him. He’s reclusive, and because it takes him so long to sort out his feelings for you, stealing you away was certainly not at the forefront of his mind. 

It takes him so long to even admit to himself that he cares for you, and that process alone takes anywhere from a month to three months, and only then does the stalking begin. Only then is he allowing the feelings for really grow, to fester and brew in his chest until he’s insatiable, desperate to see you and be in your presence. It takes him so long to warm up to you that he just simply doesn’t have the time or forethought to consider taking you for himself - that is, until his protective tendencies begin coming into play. Once he starts actively caring about your safety and wellbeing, little thoughts begin springing up in the back of his mind. He’s chastising you mentally for staying up late, the hands on the clock moving past hours he’s comfortable with. 

He doesn’t like when you lay in your bed scrolling through that damn phone of yours, the bright light bad for your eyes and making you delay sleeping for as long as possible. It makes him angry (if not hypocritical, seeing as he himself only gets roughly four hours of sleep per night), and before he can even stop himself he’s thinking of how he’d make you fall asleep if he was with you, prying that phone out of your hands and telling you to sleep now. 

He doesn’t like when you walk home alone at night, as if you’re practically asking to be mugged or assaulted or killed, which is why he has to follow you, begrudgingly hiding in the shadows and trailing you as you meander back to your apartment. 

You’re stupid, is what you are, and as time passes, Feitan becomes more and more shocked at how lightly you take your own life - how can one single person be so careless? How can you be willing to eat food so close to the expiration date, or look both ways at the sidewalk just once? You’re helpless, truly, and it pisses Feitan off. 

It makes him mad, if only because he’s trying so much harder than you are to keep you safe, and isn’t it unfair to him? Isn’t it awfully inconsiderate of you to make him spend so much time looking after you, doing everything for you because you’re so damn incapable? It’s a negative view and Feitan doesn’t really blame you, only convincing himself he does in order to make him feel better. It’s an excuse to help him feel like he isn’t as attached as he really is, a way to help alleviate some of the embarrassment he has regarding his feelings for you. 

It’s pathetic, he thinks, but then something happens - something bad, something Fietan had hoped never would. Somehow, an enemy of the Troupe had discovered you. Maybe he was too preoccupied by keeping his eyes on you that he missed the stranger’s presence, unknowingly leading them directly to you. 

Sweet, weak, defenseless you. 

Time is frozen for Feitan as he returns from Troupe work, slinking to your apartment and letting himself in the front door, knowing that although it’s horribly late, you’re surely freshly asleep - except, the door is already ajar, and Feitan feels his blood run cold. There’s someone here. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend or enemy to you - why the fuck is there another person in your home at such an ungodly hour? 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and for a moment Feitan feels pure, absolute panic - you’re incapable of warding someone off, especially if you’re asleep, and although he feel sense your presence, there’s a distinct aura coming from your bedroom that isn’t yours. He’s quick to rush in, dark eyes narrowing when he sees the figure over your bed, a man hunched over and about to touch you - 

His sword is slicing through the man’s neck before he can even blink, head dropping to the ground with a dull thud and blood pooling where it lands. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, brows pinched together and his grip on the sword hilt tight. 

His gaze flicks to where you’re still sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware of the man standing beside your bed and the lifeless corpse bleeding out onto your floor. He’s got no choice, really - there’s something ugly stirring in his chest, something big and bad and painful, and he’s reaching out and scooping you into his arms all too quickly. 

The man surely was after Feitan - he’d looked at him with recognition, and Feitan can only swallow and tighten his grip on you ever so tightly, hopping out your window and taking off into the night, the makeshift home he’d been residing in lately eventually coming upon the horizon. 

The whole event spurs Feitan to believe that relocation is really the best option - his enemies are aware of you now, and who’s to say more won’t come knocking? How does he know you won’t be targeted again, those with vendettas against the Troupe knowing that someone weak and such an Achilles Heel like you would be the perfect revenge? 

He doesn’t, and so although he’s grimacing and slightly worried to have you under the same roof, he sets you down on the hard mattress, giving you a few glances before closing the door, sighing to himself and hoping you wake up soon. 

Feitan, once you’ve been stolen away, is mostly just an enigma to you. 

He’s so painfully unexpressive, so difficult to interact with that you’ll be left to wonder just why he stole you away, why he even bothered to take you when he seems so utterly disinterested in you. He doesn’t talk to you - outside of a few clipped, short commands, he’ll hardly ever let you hear his voice. 

Particularly in the beginning of your captivity, he would listen to your crying and begging to be released silently, his eyes slightly narrowed before a small, curt stop filled the room. 

He’s never given you any sort of an explanation for why you woke up in his home one day, even when you ask him over and over again. He’ll only look at you, dark eyes fixed on your face, before telling you to go to sleep, you need sleep and promptly shutting and locking the bedroom door. He’s entirely unwilling to really interact with you in any meaningful way - except, it’s not because he hates you, or because he’s simply biding his time to kill you. 

You may think that, fear swimming through your veins every time you see him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth - he’s not interacting with you much because there’s a part of Feitan that’s honestly afraid to. It makes him feel stupid and pitiful, but every time he tries to ask you a question or tell you something, the words just sort of die in his throat, his tongue frozen in his mouth even as he tries to move, tries to interact and get you to just look at him, dammit. 

Honestly, he’s embarrassed to speak to you - he’s been watching you for so long, acting as your shadow and seeing you so natural and perfect and raw, and he’s grown used to having a front row seat without having to do anything. He’s not used to you being able to see him or hear him or even know he’s there at all. It’s scary to have you be aware of him, placing him in an uncomfortable position where he can no longer simply watch you or long for you from afar - no, now, as much as he hates to admit it, he cares about your opinion. 

He cares about how you view him, how you perceive him, what you think about him. He wants you to think he’s funny when he tells cutting jokes, and generous when he gives you bowls of semi-cold soup. He wants you to find him attractive, catching your eyes settling on his body or your fingers running through his ebony locks. 

He wants your opinion to be favorable, but despite how strong this desire is, the fear that you’ll find him weird outweighs it. He knows it’s stupid, but he’s terrified that you’ll think he’s strange, a freak, some sort of monster if he talks with you. He’s scared he’ll say something wrong, something to scare you or offend you, and while he may be a mass murderer and an atrocious man, there’s something about the way your eyes would get all glassy and teary, face contorting into disgust as you physically recoil from him that makes his gut wrench, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He’s too awkward and nervous to speak with you - and so, he resorts instead to the staring, to the watching, to the observing. It’s what he knows best, after all, considering that was how most of his time was spent before kidnapping you. This is better; he has control in this situation, and he won’t accidentally slip and say something that bears too much truth, that lets you in on too much of what’s going on in his head. 

There’s less room for error if he relegates himself to minimal verbal and physical interaction, and while he aches to reach out and touch you, to feel the softness of your cheeks or the texture of your hair, he’s restraining himself. Just the mere thought of your skin against his gets him shivering, but it’s quite easy to overwhelm him; he’s not used to being the recipient of your attention, and while it feels good to have you looking at him and attempting to start conversations, it can get to be too much for him very quickly. 

It’s easy enough to answer trivial questions; things like what the food is that he placed in front of you (doesn’t matter, it’s good is all he’ll answer with) or inquiries into why he wears that same massive coat all the time (warm and my favorite color). 

Those are easy enough, not breaching too close to anything personal or anything that you could use against him. But the more complex questions, or - once the Stockholm Syndrome eventually kicks in and you’re so lonely you’ll happily converse with your kidnapper - compliments? 

As soon as the words slip from your lips, a simple your eyes are pretty or a I hope you sleep well makes him stiffen up a bit, lips parting ever so slightly under that cowl of his, before he’s quickly darting out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He has to take a few moments to collect himself, his ears and cheeks feeling hot because god, you were looking right at him, and you’d even said his name. 

(He spends the rest of the night in the basement, compulsively cleaning and recleaning his torture tools over and over, trying to distract himself from replaying your compliments over and over in his head, ingraining the sound of your voice and the tingling warmth he felt into his brain. Everything is sparkling clean by the time he’s done, a few hours having passed, and yet he’s spent the whole time thinking of you, letting you plague his thoughts like you always do.) 

He just can’t handle having all of your attention on him like that, and although he gets better at it and more used to it as time goes on, he’ll still be very skittish. He’s like a feral cat; he’ll stalk and watch, staring at you with beady eyes from the corner of the room while you try and act natural, only to scamper away when you try to reach out and pet. 

You’ll be starved for human contact as his captee, but aside from the lack of any sort of touch, you’ll find that being stuck with him is actually not too bad - he feeds you a decent diet, and lets you live in the spare bedroom of his home. He’d even cleaned everything up before you arrived, a preemptive measure he underwent one night when he couldn’t sleep, both his dreams and thoughts revolving around you. 

(There’s still bits of dust and a spider or two in the corner of the ceiling, but everything smells not terribly musty, and you don’t notice any mysterious stains on the sheets, so it could be worse, right?) 

He leaves you to your own devices more often than not, just on the condition that he can be present, whether you’re reading a book or sleeping or doodling with some art supplies he stole for you a while back. He’s not too demanding, but eventually the Stockholm Syndrome will get to you - you will eventually start wishing he’d do more than just look, even when he comes home with blood speckling his jacket.

You’ll grow to wish he would sit just a bit closer to you, so that you could feel his body warmth or a brush of his skin against your own. You’ll hate yourself for endearing your captor, but you don’t have much of a choice - Feitan, while terrifying and absolutely capable of killing you in more ways than you can count, is strangely sweet in his own way, even if it takes you a while to notice it. 

He’s not buying you flowers or declaring his undying love to you, but he is leaving small, insignificant gifts on your nightstand, maybe a small pastry that you love, or even a small, pretty little jewel he managed to snatch away from the goods Chrollo said were communal among the Troupe from the latest heist. He won’t ever say anything about them, and if you bring it up to him he’ll either ignore you or deny their existence, but he likes leaving them there as a token, as some way of quelling the intense desire to please you that wells in his chest.

It’s the only route he can allow himself to take, because that way he doesn’t have to confront you, only looking at your sleeping face. You always look so peaceful and pretty this way, all the lines of stress and worry smoothing away - you look how you used to, before he stole you away, back when his infatuation first started. 

And as he gently, carefully, hesitantly sits down beside your sleeping form on the mattress, he can’t help but gulp harshly and slowly, ever so slowly, reach out and rest his palm on your leg, the sheets separating your skin. He’ll keep his hand there for a while, dark eyes appraising your form under the covers, before exhaling shakily and standing back up, making sure the jade he’d brought back for you was securely on the bedside table, right in your view when you wake up. He’s not a bad captor by any means; he just has trouble expressing himself, walls built up too highly and too thickly to ever really knock them down. 

And you’ll get close - as close as you can, at least, as time passes. Feitan will eventually warm up to you, but he’ll never be particularly loving, particularly obvious with his feelings for you - he’ll always be a lovesick fool, but he’ll be damned if he lets another soul know that. 

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Feitan doesn’t particularly like hurting you. Of course, his career rides on his ability to harm, torture, mutilate and extract information out of even the worst criminals and agents, and for the most part he enjoys it. 

There’s something about the way he can elicit screams and tears out of others that gets him giddy, the smile stretching across the part of his face covered by his jacket as wide as can be. And yet, for all the enjoyment he derives out of hurting others, seeing you harmed, bruised, crying and begging isn’t nearly as fun as Feitan had expected. 

He’s not really sure why, but for some reason seeing you looking at him with so much fear dancing in your pretty eyes makes his gut wrench, an uncomfortable feeling sitting at the base of his throat while he mutters something demanding you to stop looking at him like that. It makes him feel weak, frankly, that you have this effect on him, but he can’t help it – early on into your captivity with him, he tried to settle your disobedience by physically harming you, but he got as far as leaving a rather large carved ‘F’ right over your heart before your crying got to him. 

He couldn’t lift his hand as you sobbed below him that day, your wrists bound by leather cording stained with his previous victims’ blood. Your eyes were puffy and glassy, snot dripping from your nose and pathetic little cries and begs for him to stop tumbling past your quivering lips. 

Frankly, Feitan was embarrassed for you. But more than anything, he was pissed – his hands were trembling, the switch knife grasped between his fingers frozen, his dark eyes wide as they stared down at you, guilt flashing through them the longer you sniffled and shook, the sight of you in pain with your pretty red blood dribbling down your collarbone simply too much. 

That day, he cleaned your wound, packed up his torture gear and locked you into your designated bedroom, all without a single word, mostly because his tongue didn’t seem to be working. But the shaky gasps stumbling from his lips as he stared at his own two hands later that night were enough to make him realize he hates to see you in pain, particularly when he’s the cause.

It’s confusing, irritating, scary, even, that you have this effect on him, but try as he might, any thought of physically harming you from that point on makes his stomach twist, bile rising up his throat and nausea hitting him square in the chest. 

But trouble, of course, arises; he refuses to physically harm you in most cases, but he still will only tolerate absolute obedience from you. You can’t simply walk all over him, he won’t let you – you need to listen to his instructions, follow his rules, eat the food he gives you, smile at him all pretty and warm, and let him sneak into your room and hold you when you’re fast asleep in the middle of the night, just as he starts craving. 

Feitan needs you to be obedient and submissive to him, and so how can he mold you into the perfect, obedient partner without laying harm to you?

The solution, as it turns out, lies in making you absolutely believe that he will hurt you, despite it not being true. 

You don’t need to know that the thought of making you wince or scrunch up your face in pain makes him physically hurl; no, you’re much better off thinking that he’s simply playing nice, waiting for the right moment to strike and leave you broken and bleeding. He’ll allow you to believe that he’s constantly ready to punish you, because then you’ll have some incentive to follow his words and rules, and to do what he believes you should do. 

And why wouldn’t you believe it? 

You know what Feitan does – he makes no effort to hide the torture tools scattered across his basement, and while you’ve only been down there once (the initial carving of the F), your imagination can conjure up plenty of scenarios of what goes on in that damp, dark basement. 

The fact that he has hurt you leads to you staying mostly in line – you’re more than aware of what he’s capable of, and although it slightly pains Feitan that you think of him as a monster, it’s for the best. It’s better for everyone when you’re well behaved – when you simply follow his orders and do what he wants you to, no matter how strange it makes you feel. 

You probably aren’t particularly fond of eating in front of him, but he’ll be sitting at the other end of the table as you carefully, hesitantly, twist the strands of pasta around your fork, your gaze flickering from the slightly undercooked noodles to your captor and back again. 

You probably don’t really like sleeping while he sits in the corner of the room, that stupid jacket pulled up over his mouth, making the only part of him visible to your drowsy self those damn eyes – and his hands, of course, with just the slightest touch of dried blood under his nails. You’re probably not particularly a fan of any aspect of being his captive – and Feitan carefully controls this. 

However, on the off chance that you do act up, that liquid courage flows through your veins and you cross him, you’ll quickly grow to regret it. Feitan still won’t hurt you – not physically, at least. 

But others? 

Well, it’s not hard to get Chrollo to give him someone who needs to give up some information, to set up the basement and make sure you get a front row seat as he makes the knots tight around the man’s wrist. It hurts him, really, to see the way your face contorts into horror as you watch him break bone after bone in the man’s body, but Feitan can’t stop looking at you. He needs you to be watching – you have to see what he’s capable of, even if he doesn’t really want you to know. 

You have to know that he’s serious when he tells you that you can’t leave, that there’s nowhere in the world you can run to where he won’t find you. He rips the man’s nails off, a finger at a time, just to make sure you understand that his touch can hurt – but maybe, some part of him hopes, you’ll realize that when he touches you, his touch is only ever gentle. Or at least as gentle as he can be. 

It’s all to make sure you understand that he’s utterly, absolutely in charge – his word is law, and while he craves for you to love him, he’s willing to compromise with just your respect and undivided attention. 

It’s not ideal, but as he watches the way tears stream down your cheeks and your body heaves and shudders with your sobs, he can’t help but slice the knife into the man’s thigh deeper, send the punch to his jaw harder. 

He has to keep you in line – this complicated, doomed relationship he’s forced you into is the only thing that makes him feel that strange, fluttering feeling in his chest, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go. He’ll be damned if he lets you go – even if you think of him as a monstrous, sadistic freak. 

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; it doesn’t matter, because you’re never getting away.

OVERALL DANGER:

8/10

The danger that lies with being Feitan’s darling is much more mental than physical. By all means, he’s not the ideal captor – he’s a criminal and mass murderer, torturing people for a living and liking it. And yet, there’s something about you that tones down the more deranged, violent aspects of his personality - he’s by no means soft, but he’s rounder at the edges, less rough and bitter and cold. 

He hates himself for falling in love with you, for having allowed you to worm your way into his heart and settle there, plaguing his every thought and dream with your face, your voice and laugh and smile and god, your body - 

He blames you, initially, but as time goes on and his feelings only grow stronger, harder to suppress, he finds that it doesn’t matter. You’ve already staked your claim on his heart, and there’s simply nothing he can do to stop what’s inevitable. 

Kidnapping is imminent with him, but it really does take him a long while to actually go through with it; you’ll have a long period of freedom from his clutches where you’re living your own life, with him only controlling it from the shadows rather than blatantly, like when he’s stolen you away. He’s not particularly needy, only demanding that you stay in his line of sight, but there’s something more terrifying about the way he’s always watching you like a hawk watches its prey than simple touching would be. 

You’re thankful he hasn’t forced himself on you or even forced any kind of affection, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that you miss human touch, that you almost wish he would reach out and hold your hand, press a kiss to your lips, slip the ratty old t-shirt he’d given you over your chest.

You’ll find yourself growing stir crazy under Feitan’s rule, growing desperate but still too scared to confront him, because his intentions with you will remain ambiguous at best - he hasn’t killed you yet, so you must be important to him somehow. You’re not sure, but the longer you spend with him, the less you’ll care until eventually you’re actively dreaming of the day when he finally, finally touches you with those cold fingers and lets you out of that bedroom you’re locked up in. 

Feitan loves you, in his own sick, twisted way, and the sooner you realize that the better - maybe you never will, but Feitan will always, always be there waiting, his gaze never faltering once from your figure. 

You’re just too mesmerizing, after all - and Feitan’s never been particularly good at denying himself what’s his. 

[stxrborne]

Trepidation. Yan Feitan x Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mentions of minor character death.  Word count: 1k.

Feitan wonders if you know he can sense your presence even when you tiptoe gingerly down the stairs.

Your aura is distinct and a quality of yours he’s intimately familiar with. Walking amongst bustling crowds did nothing to dilute it — he’d hone in and continue his pursuit — observing how you’d occasionally glance over your shoulder for a person your gut told you was there. You’ve remained much the same in that regard. Doing everything you can to minimize yourself, so that the viper in waiting couldn’t strike.

Keep reading

[stxrborne]

Horrorfest: Damned Stairs [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Title: Damned Stairs [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Synopsis: Miracles weren't real and the stairs were shitty but at least you escaped Feitan, right?

For Horrorfest request:

Ooooh what about Feitan + old house with very creaky floorboards?

Word count: 864

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of violence

It was a miracle that you escaped the house Feitan had brought you two more than a year ago. 

It was a miracle that cutting through the woods on weak, shaky legs led you to houses in no more than a few hours. They were large, old homes, spread out so the presumably wealthy owners didn’t have to deal with such mundane things like neighbors within sight or hearing distance.

It was a miracle that the first house you stumbled on had an unlocked door, meaning you didn’t have to wait for someone to answer your desperate knocks to get out of view. 

But miracles weren’t real, were they?

Because as soon as you’d burst into that miraculous house, you realized that it was abandoned. Empty. Dusty and musty and no one there but your echoing, aching voice, crying out: “Hello? Hello! I need help! I need--”

You needed to rest, that’s what you needed. So you could regain some energy and keep running until you found actual civilization. So you’d headed into the dusty kitchen and began opening cupboards, looking for something edible, for water, anything that might get you through the night.

That’s when you heard the front door begin to open. 

You didn’t need to be told that it was Feitan. 

That’s when your body had moved almost of its own accord, throwing open the first door you could find near the kitchen and shutting it behind you, heart pounding. Only it wasn’t a room you’d found, but an enclosed staircase, kept out of view. It was dark with nothing but a thin crack of light underneath the door behind you and some dim light at the top from the room above, letting in the cloudy afternoon light from the windows. 

It was a servant’s staircase, you realized, the kind that let servants get up and about without bothering the household.

There was nothing to do but go up it and oh, did the goddamn stairs creak. 

But you went fast, and the kitchen was at the back of the house, and after a moment, several moments, a long stretch of time, the fear that Feitan had heard receded into the more general horror that he’d find you eventually.

That was… an hour ago? You don’t know, you don’t have a watch and there wasn’t exactly a clock on the wall in a dusty attic that must have been the servants’ bedchamber back when the house was bustling and not covered in a layer of dust. 

You need to go back down the stairs. You have to. He’ll come up here eventually, and then you’ll be trapped. You have to get out. 

Your hands grip the bannister for everything you’ve got and you start going down slowly, carefully. Not just because it’s dark and you can barely see in front of you, but because of the damn creaking. 

Creak. 

You hate these stairs.

Creak. 

Would it be quieter to go down on your butt? 

Creak.

You feel like you might have a heart attack at any moment. 

But despite the traitorous noise of the stairs, you don’t hear the sound of Feitan’s footsteps approaching the door, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it? And… maybe you even heard the sound of the front door shutting. Or was it the wind? Or your imagination?

You wish the staircase had some light. All you could see was darkness, and that thin, wavering band at the bottom of the door leading back into the house. Where Feitan might be--or might not be; where freedom might be, or at least the first step towards it.

But was he gone?

If you went back up into the attic room, you might be able to look out the window and see if Feitan was leaving. You’d have to peer carefully (the image of him looking up at the attic window and seeing you made your chest twist) but it was an option.

Maybe you could--

Creak.

Oh. You hadn’t moved.

Creak.

A whimper bubbles past your lips and you fall backward on the staircase, a splinter sliding into your finger.

Creak.

Feitan.

Feitan had been at the bottom of the stairs the entire time. 

“Very stupid, aren’t you?

The stairs creak until he’s close enough to see, until he leans down in the gloom and gets close enough that his nose almost touches your own.

“Well?”

You nod--can he even see you properly, in the dark?--and let the tears fall. They might as well, for all the good they’ll do you.

“Stupid,” he repeats. “But mine.”

The enclosed staircase feels oppressively hot and oppressively dark. Or maybe that was Feitan, and the moment he crossed the threshold, it would go back to being some musty space that didn’t feel like anything at all. 

You feel his hand before you can really see it. He caresses your cheek in uncharacteristic softness, before his nails dig in and drag down enough to sting.

“Tell me,” he says, and there is a strange thoughtfulness in his tone, “Should I break your legs before or after we go down the stairs?

The damned stairs creak when your body instinctively leans away from him.  

[stxrborne]

Yandere! Idol group ideas go BRRRRR