#&. the horror you have committed is not who you are — interactions. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theoxenfree · 1 month ago

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vampire x crime scene cleaner!reader | 16.1k

you're a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it's close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner's beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you're tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; explicit non-con, extreme dubon, sadomasochism, blood play, overstimulation, choking, cigarette burns, smoking, hypnotism, theological themes, exploration of morality, gunshot wounds, extreme & graphic depictions of body horror + gore + grotesque details, graphic depictions of crime scene cleanup, possibly inaccurate depictions of crime scene cleanup (not looking for feedback on it), obsessive & possessive behaviors, heavy prose & details, the entire work is allegorical, murder, vampire is written as a monster bc that's what they are lmao, dividers are used between scenes

reposted from 2kmps; previously proofread by @ceruleansol

I shouldn't have to say it, but I will: nothing in this oneshot is indicative of my personal viewpoints. it is entirely fictitious.

this was a project that took me quite a bit of time to do, so I would be immensely appreciated if you'd please reblog + interact with it!! I'd love to hear your feedback!!

Another internet search bore fruit.

The image bouncing back at you from your phone had been hastily taken with a tremble in your hand, all the while launching a few too many cautious looks across your shoulder to either end of the dim, long hallway making up part of the second floor. There wasn't any particular rationale for your apprehension and busy eyes but the belief the mansion owner wouldn't be too pleased to see you taking pictures of his valuables rather than cleaning them.

That fear hadn't stopped you from reverse image searching a good couple of curiosities over the widening gap of time you had been living there.

Tonight was a Chalmette table vase displayed on a pedestal in the hall; brassy gold gilding cradled a somewhat drab white bloom that reached high and sprouted open to a hollow inside. Similar surviving articles went for thousands.

You totaled the prices of everything so far as enough to outright buy a house on the more modest side of town.

There was a daring thought that loomed in the back of your mind, an ugly little thing that told you one or two missing antiques wasn't any big deal. He wouldn't miss them, let alone even notice they were gone, because he was the strangest man you had ever met.

Four months ago, he had only ever introduced himself by the name Montague, letting an anticipatory stillness hang in the air while you waited for him to finish. He never did, handsome features lifting as his dark eyes thinned and smile inched higher. He had you in a tight handshake.

"I enjoyed reading the resume you sent in with your response to my advertisement." He had traces of an accent intact but had cleverly adapted to one more common to the area. "You're the first person I've come across wanting the room who's done that. It really stood out to me. A crime scene cleaner? Must be a difficult job."

"I know it was probably overkill, but I think this will be perfect for me." You were led to a suede armchair, his hand anchoring onto your shoulder to lower you into the seat. He sat across from you in something similar, one leg crossing. "I recently had to move out of my other place, and the university will be about an hour closer. My work won't be as far of a drive, either. I—I, uh, clean some gross stuff, so taking care of your house won't be anything."

Even after that spiel, Montague never let his smile slip. Rather, it seemed to widen as though delighted by your oversharing. He looked like a man basking in glee over a rare find, an offer he couldn't possibly turn away.

"All amenities in the house are yours." This was after he showed you to one of the rooms on the second floor: a capacious, well-dressed space behind a red door at the end of the hall. "As long as you listen to a few rules and keep things clean, we should have a very amicable... cohabitation."

You thought it was an odd choice of wording. "Okay. Well, what do I need to know?"

"No guests." It was immediate, his tone suddenly a touch edgy, razored, unyielding. "Not unless I give you explicit permission beforehand. I keep many important valuables; they're very dear to me. Also, do not invite anyone in unless I am there."

Again, odd, but it was his house.

"Sure," you said agreeably, having half the thought to write down these peculiarities of his. "What next?"

He was set on your shoulder, reaching out to pull a thin, frayed thread off of your jumper. "The downstairs—as in, the basement—is my personal space. If I need you down there, I will ask you for you to go down. You can go anywhere else in the house, on the property. None of it concerns me."

"Why the basement, though?" It felt damaging to press a question like that so early on, but you figured it was innocent enough. "This house is so big that we could be on the same floor and hardly see each other."

The muscles around his mouth twitched slightly, only once. You still noticed it. Noted: he didn't like to be questioned. "Sorry, I'm not trying to-"

"It's cold downstairs." he injected, shifting to look around the room as though taking in the newness of it as well. "I make sure it stays comfortable all year, all throughout the house, but the cold suits me best."

With how downright frosty his skin felt in that handshake earlier—on a mild day in mid-spring—you thought that explanation checked out. He must have only just come up to greet you at the front entrance.

You tried to forget the feeling. "Alright. Next?"

"Oh," he restrained an unseemly laugh, using one hand to crowd into a pocket on his dark blazer, "there is nothing else, at least nothing pertinent. It's my understanding that we're both quite busy, so this would be the current arrangement unless something changes."

What changes? You wanted to ask, thwarted to silence when he revealed some sort of silver thing pinched between his fingers with a thick handkerchief. It was a dainty-seeming contraption with chains linking several old skeleton keys at the end. The fabric he used to hold the clip concealed all of the elegant tracery that made up its shape.

"Traditionally, this is called a chatelaine. It’s something I’ve modified for you to get around the house. It’ll be easier to clean." Montague said, fast to force the mess of cold silver and chains into your palm, rubbing down his fingers with the handkerchief afterward. "The smallest key is to your room. The largest one opens the doors to go outside, so don't lose that. One of them is meant for doors in the basement—can't recall which."

He could see the wariness behind your eyes, a worrying crease forming in your brow. "This house has been around for a long time. I've just never gotten around to modernizing the locks."

Other questions came to you, but he hardly acted interested in entertaining them. You let him swivel on black soles, stopping him just as he reached the doorway.

"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"

Montague let his fingers rest on glazed woodwork framing the threshold, drumming out a soothing rhythm while considering an answer for all of two seconds. "In short? They couldn't follow the rules. Now, let me show you to the yard."

Afterward, the so-called cohabitation had become a seamless blend for you both. You had learned right away that Montague wasn't one for idle chatter and niceties without purpose. He had deviated from it once, on move-in day, to reassure you that the mysterious nature of your life schedule and odd hours you were called to a clean scene wouldn’t be a source of concern.

Shortly after settling your things around the house, the reason for his amenable attitude was a little more apparent. Several times a month, you would be pulled from your forensics projects to the landing at the end of the hall, piqued by fresh voices always indistinguishable at first, and folded your waist over the railing to see down.

The top of his head, hair short, impeccably styled, and ash-brown, was the first thing you noticed, followed by someone on his arm. Sometimes a woman, sometimes a man—always conventionally attractive, always utterly enraptured by him. It struck a nerve with you once or twice, finding your thoughts swimming bitterly: Of course a man who looked like him would go for types like that!

Why did he act so much differently with them than you?

He wasn't nearly as friendly and affable as he was making himself out to be.

You stopped peeking down on him after an instance where his eyes shot straight up, pinning you where you stood. He simpered at you before leading his companion away to the basement, and that was it. You never saw them leave and never bothered to ask.

Tonight was different, however, both in the way you nearly toppled the two-figure Chalmette vase off its pedestal with flighty fingers and a duster, and the echo of a scream piercing the hollow halls to you. It stayed in one spot on the first floor, luring you down the center staircase with your duster clutched to you like a sword. At that point, your heart bursting in your ears was louder than the agonized cries resonating around the corner.

You looked around, spine wrapped in dread as another scream, weak, garbled, and wet, came from the basement, and then nothing at all. It was soundless in the house. Distantly, one of the clocks mounted in the kitchen archway toned onward. You followed its beat with the shuffle of your feet.

Hello, hello? Those words clung tightly in your throat, yet you were too afraid to announce yourself like that. Still, nothing came as you slowly pulled at the basement doorknob, brass and freezing and unlocked. The stairway plunging down inside was filled with inky black, so dark you couldn't get your eyes to adjust to it.

Is everything okay down there? Hello? Hello? You ran the imaginary chatter through your mind, lips sealed but trembling during your slow descent, the path now illuminated by white glow from your phone. At the bottom, the stone stairs turned into seamless gray marble and red wetness crawling toward the soles of your slippers.

"What–" You gasped, taking a step back while flicking the flashlight higher, deeper into the basement. The vivid red puddle glistened in your light, widening around a motionless figure with pale skin—a blonde woman you didn't know. Her face pointed up at the ceiling, twisted in terror, black tracks of mascara curving along her cheeks.

She was naked on the floor, surrounded by her own blood, something you didn't have to look at twice. Your breaths grew harsh, taking in the sight of her neck, or lack thereof; there wasn't much left of it. Only a few stringy bits of sinew and muscle kept it from a full decapitation, and blood still pulsed out in spurts from mangled arteries and veins.

A motion nearby made your nape prickle. It was like feet padding across wet pavement after a fresh rain, except this smell carried the malodor of rust and something sour under your nose.

You settled a pillar of light on the source, capturing the view of Montague standing amid the bloodbath, sickly skin bare and saturated in rich crimson.

Something was wrong with him, came an instantaneous, instinctual reaction the moment his head spun toward you, catching pale eyeshine in the white light.

The bones in his jaw cracked as the length of it began to recede into the semblance of something more man to you, rows of jagged teeth retracting into the depths of his throat until only a pair of long incisors remained.

Montague skimmed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, smiling at you affectedly, saying as though it were some trife thing, "She started screaming."

You were gone and out of the basement after that, clearing the woman's body and kicking away the slippers on your feet when they squelched with blood. Montague said something after you when shrieks ripped out of your lungs and reverberated through the house. You winced as the basement door let out a hollow rattle when he collided with it, heart matching the rhythm of the skin on your feet slapping against old marble, thoughts disarrayed, frantic the closer you got to the front door.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! You were panting in unison with the vicious chants.

The doorknob was in your hand. The door was open—and it was thrown shut with the force of your body thrust against it, fingers wrenched off of the handle and enveloped in Montague's cold fingers as he pushed himself flush into you.

You felt his palm clamp around your mouth, whittling your screams into panicked whimpers, nostrils flaring with your ragged breaths.

"Ah, no, no." He had to stoop his neck to talk into your ears. "Shh, shh, shhh. Far too loud. I don't like screaming. Shh, shh, shhhh."

Tears seared red behind your eyes, making you think you could follow the warmth down your face as they filled the crevices in his hand. "It's really, truly a pity. She was a pretty one but far too smart. I'm usually decent at picking out the ones who wouldn't suspect anything or, at least, catching them before they try to scream.

"You'll have to forgive me. I swear to you I'm not ordinarily that messy. I prefer to keep everything tidy, especially so you don't have to go down there. After all, you're already so busy. You're already doing so much. I can't recall when I last saw you relax."

The weight of his palm softened, a wordless agreement that you honored with continued silence as he used that arm to lean against the door. His voice shifted around your head to your other ear. "That's it. Just wonderful. There's no need for screaming, is there? It's only the two of us."

"Are—are..." You couldn't get it out, lips and throat suddenly sucked dry. "Don't kill me, please. Please. Please."

His chest quaked while a subdued, eerily delighted laugh hissed through his lips. "Kill you? Oh, no, no, no. Never. How could I ever kill you when you're so remarkable? My home has never looked so beautiful and lived in. I'm enjoying how it looks with you in it."

You wilted away from his lips sinking to a spot below your ear, now taking far too much notice of his erection curving up along your lower back. It felt disgustingly wrong to wonder whether the violence and blood turned him on, or it was you and your fear. The man wasn't even human; that much was clear.

"What are you?" There was no shortage of daring questions in your arsenal. Montague was beginning to find the charm in them.

"That's quite difficult for me to answer." He let his chin lay on your shoulder. "I've been called many things over the centuries. I suppose the closest anyone has ever gotten is vampire, but even that's not quite right. You're free to guess as much as you'd like, though."

He was satisfied when you didn't, freeing the weight off of his arm to slide his hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips still slick with that woman's blood as he explored your navel. You were too aware of the roundness of his fingernails stepping across your flesh, sometimes pressing deep, and other times a light touch you needed to scratch. His throat vibrated against your shoulder.

"What are you thinking? I'd love to hear it." He wanted to devour your fear in more ways than just feeling you wince. "Well? Tell me."

"I want to go." Go? Where could you possibly go that he couldn’t find you? If he ripped out the side of a woman's neck, he could track you down.

He leaned his cheek into your ear again, relishing the warmth that spread into him. "Where would you go? Who would you tell? Humor me, where is the first place you'd go?"

"The police," you said.

Montague let out a pleased hum. "Of course. It only makes sense to report a terrible scene such as that to them. Forensics and the police play together often, don't they?"

Your nod was weak.

"I know how hard you've been studying, how much stress you're under to commit to your degree, your work—to me." His hand crept along to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the protective layer of skin and fat. "Let's say they were to find something I left behind. Who becomes a suspect in their eyes when they learn that I have someone who tidies up after me? Who knows the dirty insides of cleaning up anything and everything?"

You were starting to panic, fitfully struggling against his body. It's like he was made of stone. "They wouldn't accuse me of murdering anyone."

"Haven't you seen the news lately? Are you so sure?" he said derisively. "No, perhaps you're right. Maybe you'd be fortunate, and they wouldn't have your head for murder, but they would certainly try to peg you with something else. As an accomplice, maybe? And that's assuming that I don't disappear and let rip you apart.

"Can you imagine it? Can you feel your heart break at the very thought of losing it all? Your degree? Your job? Safety? The world is cruel, darling. You'd never have another moment of peace or anonymity. Anywhere you'd go, you'd be found, every alias sullied with your sins. All because you decided to speak up about it."

You knew he meant to send you downstairs to do something about the mess, spend hours scrubbing and mopping until what had once been there was a secret that thickened your tongue and made it hard to swallow. No one would ever find out, but you would carry it in every waking thought until, one morning, the cute barista on Market Street had an eerie semblance to that dead woman, and the light roast in your hand suddenly looked so red.

"Thump. Thump. Thump." Montague mocked the heavy thrum of your heart behind your ribs, his cold fingers skimming your nipples before resting over your sternum. "You can go if you'd like, but I'll find you. I'll hear your little heart until it bursts and drag you right back here. You're mine."

The push of his body gradually faded away, giving your chest the room to expand, leaving you to gulp quivering, greedy breaths that didn't stop even as the pads of his feet grew distant.

He called back to you, "Give me ten minutes or so, and then come down."

You were already partway through the front door with your car keys to pop the trunk when, floating like a spectre's moans in still night air, his voice reached out once more, "You may want to clean up yourself first. You have blood all over your face."

༺ ♰ ༻

A damp towel came before your descent back into the basement. In tow on your shoulders were three bags of absorbent, the fancy stuff hospitals liked to use to throw on puke and piss and anything else they just lazily wanted to sweep around. It worked for blood in smaller quantities, blood that was still wet, anyway.

The woman hadn't been dead long enough for her body fluids to dry, so you didn't anticipate needing anything except the basics stowed in your car trunk.

You weren't sure what you expected to see down there, noticing the lights were turned on high, fully illuminating the gray marble, the furthest reaches of the blood puddle with your slippers saturated dark red and ruined. What came as a shock was the woman's dead eyes and shredded neck being nowhere in sight. Montague had moved her body but to where?

For some reason, you were drawn to ridiculous spots like the walls, ceiling, and tiny cramped corners that he could have feasibly stuffed her in. There was no sickly trail of blood leading any which way, droplets only reaching as far as the stairs and first landing where you had been pursued—nothing else.

Where did he take her? Part of you was ready to turn a blind eye to all of this because you knew you would have to in order to keep everything. If you kept your head low and groveled a little bit, maybe he'd get bored and leave you alone, biding you the time you needed to finish your degree. But, that'd be two years of this.

You weren't sure you could stomach it.

As you moved granules of absorbent through blood with coarse bristles from the kitchen broomstick—shifting the puddle more than the actual absorbent—you wondered if he could hear your heart now from wherever he was.

You thought about a lot of things while letting your eyes roam the space. It was enormous, taking up the entire underside of the house, outfitted impressively with mahogany accents, sprawling bookshelves, armchairs, and loveseats pulled tight in leather and velvet. Across the room was a disheveled bed, creamy sateen sheets in a luscious heap but otherwise undisturbed.

To the adjacent end of this expanse were two doors you didn't notice at first, one a little taller than yourself in height, about as wide as any normal arm span, and looked old, so old that everything else was too new. Even from where you stood, you knew it'd take a skeleton key. The other door was more coherent with the rest of the basement, cleaner but certainly still part of the house's original construction.

By the time Montague had returned, you already had much of the ordeal pitched into a biohazard bag with some trace remnants putting you on your knees to scrub away. You hadn't realized he was even there until the tips of his shoes—brown leather loafers with a scalloped tassel near the toes—appeared in your peripheral, sending you launching back onto your hocks.

"This work is spectacular. I knew I had a good feeling giving that room to you." he said with a beguiling smile. All of the blood was gone; he was clean in a dark dressing robe with black trousers, a look you hated that you saw as alluring. "Don't forget to clean the floors upstairs. We made quite a mess there as well."

"What happened to that woman?" You were asking your pesky questions again. Montague wasn't so sure he found them as charming now, but you were still a prize.

You leaned away as he crouched in front of you, nearly risking the soles of his shoes in the blood and hydrogen peroxide. For the first time since meeting, you kept eye contact and saw that his reached a depth you didn't think could be possible for a human. He wasn't touching you, yet it felt like he had you caged, trapped in a vise that held you tight.

He did touch you then, grazing the side of your face with a thumb. Suddenly, he brought it to his lips and licked it as he rose to full height.

"You still had some blood just there on your cheek." There was an armchair a few feet away that he dropped into, withdrawing a gold compact from a chest pocket on his way down. "Don't worry. I wouldn't ask you to carry away the bodies. I'm not that Roman."

"That's not what I asked." you rejoined.

Montague tucked a cigarette between his lips, igniting it with a match he kept inside the compact. His first few puffs looked like they calmed him as he crossed a leg and settled deeper into the leather. "You shouldn’t expect answers to things you don’t need to know—or want to.”

But he humored you with a slight lean of his head towards the old door far away. "The original owner of this house was ingenious and built tunnels that were used to shuffle people in and out. Mistresses. Servants. More unsavory things—you must remember the era. At any rate, it stretches beyond the house and some ways off. I do not recommend ever going inside."

You understood now why you never saw any of the dates he brought home leave. And you believed every bit of his warning.

It inspired you to move away from the grim reality dwelling beyond that old door. You hovered over the same spot, drenching the floor with more of the disinfectant, grasping for a distraction. "I didn't know vampires could smoke. Isn't blood enough for you?”

Montague flicked his cigarette over an ashtray beside his chair. "Well, we all have our vices. Mine just happens to be five or six of these a day. Keeps enough of the edge off so you get to sleep at night."

Something about that comment made the entire stretch of the basement feel so confining—claustrophobic, even. Your back was wide open to it, to his ravening gaze and leather toe turning fluid circles as though to pace himself before lunging.

"I have class in six hours." You finished the job by tying off the bag. "I'd like to get the upstairs done and take a shower."

"Of course. Try to get some sleep, you've had quite a night." He didn't move to see you out. "Oh, and leave the bag. I'll dispose of it."

༺ ♰ ༻

Meredith Nimu died approximately twenty-three days ago after a stroke left her immobilized in her favorite armchair. Her body wasn't peeled away from the murky-green polyester until day twenty-four, following enough neighbor complaints about a bunch of rats dying in the vents.

Getting rid of the chair was half the battle in this case, something that Meredith's overzealous, recently divorced daughter spouted off as sacrilegious. She insisted that the carpet cleaner she used for her obese dogs with raw patches on their legs could do it all. Your supervisor had been inflectionless when telling her it didn't work like that.

One of your teammates, a middle-aged black man affectionately nicknamed “Hoss” had unceremoniously slammed the apartment door shut and flipped the lock so the daughter's rancorous eruptions were somewhat contained outside. The other half of the duo responsible for pitching the chair, T.J., a white man who could never tan, wheezed out a laugh as he labored a hard bristle brush through the gunk left behind from Meredith's decay.

"Boss ain't gonna be happy about that." T.J. couldn't commit to the act of a brownnoser even if he wanted to. A couple more chortles rattled through his respirator. They were infectious, ridiculous sounds that coaxed similar from Hoss when he rejoined the effort to get the job done and over with.

You could still hear the daughter on the other side of the door, never once allowing your supervisor a word in edgewise. A part of you wanted to pity her, perhaps conjure up a shred of empathy for someone so completely enmeshed in the throes of grief and anger. She was clearly spiraling, her entire life yanked out from under her—and she was free-falling with nothing to catch her, no thin wire she could snag in the bend of her fingers and watch as the velocity of that cruelly, cleanly severed white tendon and bone.

Where would she fall after that? You didn't know. You didn't care. She could regain control over her life even without fingers, but what about you? No one understood how disconcerting it was to know that your survival depended on a vampire's good mood. An old woman was meant to expire, but you were young and had aspirations—yet that could be stolen from you just as quickly as a clot could kill the brain.

It wasn't fucking fair.

Hoss had called out to you repeatedly until the hard brushes stopped scratching the floor, and he and T.J. were settled back on their heels, staring at you. You were used to leveraging your commitments in life as a means to get them off your case, but even they could tell this was different.

"You've been real spacey lately." It was enough to gently reel you back to the moment, eyes unstuck from remnants of putrid matter hidden under a deluge of chemicals and soap. Now you were thinking that the landlord would probably have to replace this entire spot in the flooring. It would be an expensive fix.

"Everything okay at home?" Hoss tried again, emulating fatherly concern in his tone and sidelong stare. It was something he couldn't help since you were so similar in age to his adult kids. "I don't think I've seen you eat today. We oughta finish up here up and grab somethin' quick on the way back.”

"Sorry, yeah, it's just the usual things." They didn't know what that meant to you, but readily accepted with dour expressions masked by their respirators. "I think I saw a gyro truck down the street."

As many times as you had regurgitated the same thing when they pried into your well-being, you were surprised they still asked at all. That made it hard to wave after them as you pulled the lever to the trunk, waiting to be left alone once the job was done to stack half your weight in absorbent until the back bowed to it.

It was just past two in the morning when you were locking the front door of Montague's sprawling estate behind you. Every time you did, a part of you hesitated to seal it the whole way, as though if you did, your final traces of freedom would be stripped away entirely.

"Welcome home!" Montague came out from prowling somewhere in the shadows, seeming to materialize from the darkest parts your eyes couldn't adapt to. He was in a dressing robe again, this one forest green with gold embroidery and a burgundy handkerchief tucked away nicely in his breast pocket.

He already had a cigarette lit between his knuckles, fussing with the little stick as he went to an open window, sucked in, and expelled pungent gray smoke. "I apologize. There's a bit of a mess for you tonight. It's unlike me to be so untidy, but it shouldn't take you too long—oh, darling, don't make that face."

"Why can't you get blood from other sources, like a blood bank?" It's been on your mind for a while, but Montague had a habit of turning petulant if you asked him too much.

He was in good shape tonight, though, despite still puffing away antsily. "Where's the satisfaction in simply being given what I want? Blood banks are a finite supply, but out there"—he gestured through the open window—"there is an infinite supply from any walk of life that I so choose. Did you know that not all blood is equal?"

You sensed him at your back, awash with that same vulnerability as the night on your knees in the basement. He strolled along with you while you collected your things, examined his leftovers, which fortunately wasn't as sensational as before. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot almost, purple-red and pristine, obviously untouched for some time.

Just like that dead blonde woman, there was nothing left behind of the victim except what Montague was too careless to handle himself.

"The worst blood is what you find in hospitals or on the streets. It doesn't matter their type; it all tastes like shit." he continued, even while you worked. Just like before, he sat himself nearby and observed your process with gross fascination. "In a pinch, though, I do what I must. It doesn't matter if a man is homeless or a woman is looking for a night out. When I hear their hearts dance, that thump, thump, thump—oh, I have to have it. I can taste them through their skin, even before I sink my teeth in.

"The fear in their eyes. The ragged breaths I see in their chests, watching their bellies pulse. I like to think in those moments they know exactly what's going to happen, like little flies in a spider's web."

Montague let more smoke slither out from his lips in skinny, swirling wisps that dissipated once it touched the air. The haze of it remained, just traceable to your eye. "I always find it interesting that they all struggle, even as they're writhing in their own blood. Sometimes I'll count how long it takes for them to die."

These weren't confessions of a madman because that would imply he was human. He was treating you akin to the way an old man recounted the fondness of his flawed, flickering memories. There were sensations of joy and affection in the work he did, a true love and visceral desire for carnage and suffering that made it hard for you to stomach. A few times throughout his soliloquy, you needed to bear your weight on the kitchen broom to keep yourself from toppling from nausea.

You shouldn't have been curious. "Has anyone ever survived?"

The surrounding space grew darker, not from loss of light but from the way his lower face sunk behind the hand wielding the cigarette. You saw his smile widen through sickly appendages and faint smoke.

His response pierced straight through you. "I'm looking right at it."

Suddenly, the urge to run rushed forefront in your mind, an instinctual reaction that you had trouble wrestling over with logic. The broomstick was easily pulled from your fingers and discarded onto the floor with a reverberating clatter that made your spine race with cold needles as Montague stepped into your proximity.

You shivered against the hands slowly climbing your neck to the underside of your jaw, cradling your face as he lifted it to meet his eyes. Something was so wrong with how black they were; you didn't see a pupil, nor did your reflection stare back at you in them. It's almost as though there was nothing there at all, the dark of them growing into an abysmal chasm that made your vision cross and blur, eyelids weighing like lead when you felt him kiss you.

His lips were the same kind of cold as the rest of him but full and unrelenting, never granting you the chance to mold the kiss in any other way. Surprisingly, the taste of stale smoke on his breath was just slight, a mediocre vexation you overlooked the moment his hands started groping you under your clothes.

And you didn't think much of it when your back settled into the clean linens on your bed, skin flushed with the crisp evening air and lips mapping their way south across your stomach and navel, delving lower to your core. It was too dark in your room to see down your body at the top of Montague's head, but you felt him with your fingers, coiling pieces of his ash-brown hair to your knuckles while he pushed your thighs wide open for him.

An anxious patter swelled in your chest, a vague understanding that something was horrible about this, but you were too wrapped up in a dreamy fog to think about it. More than the resounding boom of your heart, you heard your own breaths dissolve into lewd moans and slurred pleas for him to do more, more, more.

It didn't sound like you. It didn't feel like you despite knowing that build-up in your abdomen better than most things in your body. The hands in his hair, the back bending off of the mattress like an archway, the shaking limbs, and the cries begging for more were someone else entirely up until the very moment rapture fluttered behind your eyes in searing white, body deluged in hot release that left your scalp tingling and toes curling and spend on your sheets.

"Give me more." You tasted him again, his tongue pushing hard into your mouth where those salty notes of yourself lingered on your cheeks. His silhouette melded with the rest of the room, tangible only in the way he roamed every surface of you.

Montague had shucked the clothes from both your bodies earlier, preferring to lean into the flush of heat you radiated. Everything was only skin-deep away from him; he could feel your pulse throb on his lips when he teased himself against your carotid, your radial, trailing all the way to the powerful beat of your femoral nestled there in your groin.

His teeth came close many times to piercing you, allowing him a sliver of a taste like a parched king waiting for a drop of golden wine. But half the thrill of having you around was denying himself of you, knowing well that if he were to start, then he'd never be able to stop, and he'd fully hamper your dreams of escaping.

The air smelled like you now, heavy and like damp skin and your fluids soaking into the linens. He watched your face bunch and fall apart when he split you open with his cock, hips colliding, your skin sure to bruise as his thrusts turned savage. There wasn't much left in his heart anymore. Most of it had atrophied over the centuries, and yet the sound of yours spurred him on.

He could follow the path of your blood through your body, an extensive subject he had studied and dissected at length in his lifetime. The most vulnerable spots were gorged and worked the hardest, almost glowing red through your skin for him. When he thrust a little bit harder, a little bit faster, and felt your fingertips pushing against his chest, he heard your heart be the loudest it ever had been.

"That's it. That's it. That's it." His own breaths were ragged now. The sheer exhilaration of pushing his lips deeper, hot sweat leaving a slick layer on them, and that one big artery in your neck pounding out was doing everything for him.

Your frantic pants were a close second. He could feel you unraveling, tightening around his cock until you were soundlessly writhing on the mattress, clutching anything you could bunch together. The final few thrusts he made were purposeful; they were forceful and jolted your body, a show to make sure you wouldn't forget the feeling of him inside of you.

The clean linens were sodden with cum, some still dripping out of you while you lay there, legs splayed enough so you wouldn't feel it stick to your thighs. Whatever haze had been hanging over your eyes before lifted away, leaving you ruined and exhausted on the sheets but not alone.

"You've got class in a few hours, don't you?" Montague said from above, shoulders nestled in your headboard while one leg hung off the side of the bed. He was smoking again, acting the calmest you had witnessed him. "I don't really think you're in any shape for that. Why don't you stay home today?"

You were too spent to respond to him, somehow using the occasional breaths he blew out into the vast room to lull you into a dreamless sleep.

༺ ♰ ༻

Shin Nakamura had been a selfish man in life. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, and twice divorced from women who knew better—his tenants did not. He had built a reputation on the north side of town for hidden costs and faulty appliances that were never fixed. Once or twice in the past four years you had cleaned up scenes, they came out of Nakamura's buildings in the summertime, stuck to the floor and infested with maggots and flies in different orifices.

Everyone had asked at one point, yourself included, how he was able to get away with that level of blatant cruelty and disregard—and the answer was as simultaneously simple, complex, and terrible as poverty. The north end was an area notorious for local crime and violence, but more than that, it was forgotten in favor of gentrifying other areas of the city—pretty little boutiques that'd make a splash on social media and a couple of upscale dining spots, all of those meant to change the online scales deeming an area's walkability, and therefore, profitability.

The blind eye most city commissioners turned to the north end made it an easy life for Shin to do as he pleased without many consequences despite living in the area himself. Most of everyone found it an odd sort of justice when he was discovered in his office, unrecognizable from how badly the dozens of stab wounds had disfigured his face and body. One look was enough to know that it was personal, a tenant who had received their condemnation via a neon-pink eviction letter hastily taped to an off-white door.

Only, this time, Shin chose a person backed into a corner at their breaking point. There wasn't much left to lose, yet Shin had ultimately lost it all. Rumor had it that no one sold out the tenant who committed the crime, something even the more moralistic part of yourself could fathom. These were the cases that painted a grim picture of your future in forensics and often speared to the front of your mind at the worst of times—could you really be part of the reason why a person shattered by the powers of society goes to jail?

Shin Nakamura was a terrible man, but were his crimes punishable by that sort of torture? What about the tenants who probably heard Shin screaming for help, crying in agony—were they any better than murderers themselves?

What did that mean for you? An accomplice who quietly scrubbed clean murders at a monster's behest, you allowed those people to be swallowed up by Montague under a guise of fear, or was it selfishness?

That discomfort lasted you your entire shift, like an incredibly nauseating pill with a bad smell that sat in your nose for hours. You couldn't wipe away the thoughts like you could dried blood on smoke-stained walls or lumps of serrated flesh and fat wedged between slabs of wood on the floor.

"Man, he coulda been cleaner about this." T.J. had his feet planted solidly on the middle step of a ladder, well at work with a long-handled brush pushed flat to the ceiling. The splatter had gone that far, earning a few awestruck coos from him and Hoss earlier. "It would've made our lives easier."

It was a normal joke. You'd laughed at the exact same one many times before, even finessed your own commentary in there on occasion because the dead can't sue, and a murderer had no rights—but now, you thought it'd taste bad on your tongue.

The two hulking men noticed, far sharper than you gave them credit for. Or maybe you were just worse at hiding things than you thought. They didn't allude to anything until everyone was packed up in the van, dried from the sweaty protective suits and summer heat by the AC.

"Listen, it ain't my business, and I swear I've been trying my best not to ask." There was a furtive look linked between Hoss and T.J.; it was something they had talked about when you weren't around. "That guy you're living with. He isn't doing anything to you, right? You used to talk about him all the time in the beginning. Haven’t heard a peep about him in ages. God, you're not living in your car, are you?"

From the outside in, you weren't doing much to try to embellish fancy stories and reasons onto your drastic change over the months. You simply let it be and navigated every day with the hope you'd remember where you were going with your head down. It probably didn't look too good to a paternal man like Hoss, and to T.J., who had several younger siblings.

"No, it's not him—" But, of course, it really was and everything surrounding his cruelty, everything he made you do, and what you never refuted. "I'm just perpetually exhausted. I'm sure you've heard that from Sylvie and Deshaun while they've been in uni."

"All the damn time." Hoss beamed, chest perked a little higher with the mention of his children. It wasn't enough to diffuse the tension lingering in the van, however. "Just know, I'd do for you what I'd do for my babies—put the fear of God in that man. If he puts a finger on you, you let me know."

T.J. gave an agreeable hum, fingers sticking to the steering wheel as he moved them around, making a turn down some street. "We'll catch him by surprise and everything. I'll call in a couple favors, grab a few shovels and bags of cement from my dad's place. It's all good."

For some reason, their entire spiel only spiked your uneasiness, and suddenly you were far too aware of your bladder. It was enough initiative for T.J. to floor the gas and get back to headquarters, giving you the chance to break away and race the remnants of daylight all the way home.

༺ ♰ ༻

It had never happened before, but you managed to catch Montague by surprise when he walked through the front door to find you standing there in the foyer. The kitchen broom wrapped in your hands was a nasty ploy, along with the look you cast between him and a young man not any older than yourself. Again, just like all the others, you didn't recognize him. Montague's victims were fast, fleeting fixations for him, none worthy of names or an identity in his eyes. You suspected this guy was much the same.

Montague's bewilderment was swept away by a smile and laxing posture. He had settled back into his element. "You're home early today. I didn't expect to see you until much later. Not much to the scene, I assume?"

"It was pretty bad." A certain stiffness trailed on the end of your words, letting them echo through the hall and hang in the cool evening air. The young man was fast to perceive that tension: the tightness in your shoulders, fingers subtly wringing against the cracked wooden broom. Montague's anticipative smile climbed higher the longer he looked at you.

Would it be such a bad thing to turn around and pretend you had never seen him come home with that other man? You considered doing it, hiding upstairs and using your headphones until everything seeping through turned into an amalgamation of ambient noise that meant nothing to you, and you willed away the guilt like you'd always done.

In that moment, you thought about Meredith Nimu's apoplectic daughter, a woman so embittered by her own suffering that she was foul and relentless to anyone she crossed paths with. You thought about Shin Nakamura, a greedy, pitiless man who'd rather let coroners scrape up his tenant's remains rather than grant them mercy while they were alive and had been left in pieces because of it.

You thought of them and all their wickedness and edged your gaze towards the young man still standing in the doorway with his hand holding it ajar, clean fingernails picking at chipping paint, just steps from outside. "I think you should leave."

Run! Run! You'd better run away as fast as you can! Nothing would stop Montague from keeping his prey there, if that's what he chose to do. He did the opposite of that, and that was, simply, nothing at all. No pretty blandishments, nor a mouthful of teeth. Rather, now, he was particularly piqued by what you were trying to do.

To the young man, he had meddled into something rather egregious, probably convinced it was extramarital. You battled a surge of pride blooming inside you, shifting your chest a little higher, anchoring your spine back into your body.

"Don't come back here." You didn't need to say anything else. He was gone after pinching out a look of disgust towards Montague, tutting at him with his upper teeth showing through a curled lip.

Nothing happened for a while, not until the front door was secured after his departure. You were left to that responsibility, triple-checking the lock, while Montague ambled deeper into the house, but not too far away as you could follow the leisurely path by his heel strike. There was a rhythm in how he moved. It was deliberate, as though mimicking something.

It took you five paces to figure out he was miming your heartbeat, and he only stopped once it quickened in your chest. He appeared from around the corner, still taking his time reaching you, toying with some trinkets displayed on shelves built into alcoves throughout the lower floor.

You couldn't explain what you were feeling at that moment. Of the thousands—maybe millions—of victims Montague had taken in the previous times, you had just deprived him of one. That man would continue living, and he would tell his friends tomorrow about the weird night he had, and he would never have to be grateful that you saved him from a hellish death.

Yes, oh yes. Even as Montague approached you, carried by his deft gait with both halves of his gold compact open in his palm, you couldn't help but be in complete awe of yourself. A life continued outside of this mausoleum, and it was all because of you. You were entirely different from Meredith Nimu's daughter and Shin Nakamura, and, for once, your hands weren't sullied by bleach, blood, and body matter.

All that heaviness you had been carrying was suddenly so much lighter, and you felt like your chest could open up as wide as the room where you stood. The breaths you took were dry and cold in your throat, yet fresh as though you were walking outside in wintertime.

Montague must've seen something he didn't like on your face because he sucked down on his cigarette for a while, winding his wrist with it at his side once he was adequately calm.

"Did it feel good? I've only seen you this happy while I was fucking your brains out." It was jarring to hear him talk like that. He took another quick drag and let it out slowly as he rounded you. "Truthfully, darling, I didn't think you were the type to break the rules—on purpose, anyway. But I suppose we all get a little wound up every now and then, right? I've already forgiven you."

And then, you watched him drop the cigarette to the marble and snuff it underfoot until the weak ember was turned to soot. A black smear was left behind when he took his foot away. His stare into you was unwavering. "Clean it up."

You figured this was how a frightened animal felt when it wanted something within reach of an observant predator because you were trying to think of all the ways to get close without getting too close. It was a pitiful, humorous sight to him, seeing your steps forward so light and on the verge of bolting. But he showed no intention of doing anything more.

Still with the broom in hand, your knuckles turned stark around the handle while sweeping the remains towards you. It would take more elbow grease to get up that smudge, and he knew that just as well.

He reached for the broom and snapped it to a halt, making you jump, jaw clenching. A noiseless gasp lurched in your throat, his fingers wound tight into the hair at your crown as he yanked your head back to show all the fleshiness of your neck.

"What will you do about it, darling?" His lips were already cold and flush to the artery dancing in the curvature built of skin, muscle, and tendon. Your teeth chattered as the wetness of his tongue followed that intricate, breathtaking network inside of you as far as the neckline of your shirt would let him. "A man has to eat. Have you ever seen it? A man near starvation and the sorts of things he'll do to survive? Why, I've heard stories of desperate, little men eating their own lovers—their children—themselves just to claw around for a little longer. It's inspiring, I think."

He dragged you away then, up the stairs and through the hallway on the second floor to your bedroom, fingers still nested your hair until the moment you were shoved down onto fresh linens. There wasn't anywhere for you to go once he joined you on the mattress, feeling it bend towards his weight.

"Don't be afraid." he said this with all the fond familiarity of a lover, blunt fingernails digging crescents into your thigh through your clothes. In the waning moonlight that filtered through the dusty window over your bed, his pale eyeshine snared you like roots bursting from somewhere within your busy sheets to keep you there—keep you tame. "That's right. Come to me. Come to me."

There was a new drowsiness behind your eyes, one you couldn't stave by blinking. Montague's face was closer now, and you were struck with just how beautiful he actually was. The longer your gaze lasted, tips of your fingers exploring every shape and edge of his exquisite features, the less you were convinced he was a threat to you—that he couldn't have possibly been all that you'd feared up until now.

"I want you." His lips inched up like he expected you to say it. He felt your hands rest on the sides of his face, guiding him down into a soft kiss that he returned, that he kept clean and let you command until he was bored with it. You chased after him, lower lip pulled between both of yours and eventually out of reach. "Don't you want me too?"

"I wish you could understand just how much I do." He rummaged his pocket for the gold compact, losing it somewhere in the sheets, and then busied himself with stripping himself and you of clothes. Each piece discarded showed a greater expanse of your skin, a delight in his eyes because he could see that gorgeous webbing of arteries and veins throughout you, even in the darkness, through every defense your body created to protect you from every bacteria, virus, infection—from him.

He didn't need the breath, but he took one and held it anyway. You withered against his touch, those freezing, lithe fingertips traveling down all the areas where he wished his teeth could be, clear down to your groin. His smile stretched, feeling you search eagerly for a fistful of his hair with his lips smoothing across your inner thigh and then going higher.

There was warmth between your legs, a colorless glisten that leaked out onto the thin sheets, darkening a spot on them that tempted his tongue out for a taste. He came close to entertaining the notion of giving you that glimpse of heaven, allured by your hips leaping off the mattress and against his face.

"You really do think this is all about you." Montague kept you still by pressing down into your abdomen as he rose onto his knees, erection fitting tight between your bodies in the moments before he guided himself lower and hitched up into you. The sharp motion knocked a startled gasp out of your throat, where it quickly dissolved into a slew of filth and breathy panting. Your nails clawed into your palms, a sight he thought to make worse by digging himself deeper into you.

Montague had no issues biding his time this way, looming over the sprawl of your body beneath him, manipulating parts of you until he saw your face flinch and the first moans of discomfort shake all the way from your chest, up, and through your teeth. They matched the pace of his hard thrusts, smothered by sharp slaps of skin that carried in the inky air.

Indeed, I can wait. That thought of his unsatiated hunger melted in the back of his mind with the precedence of arranging the course of blood in your body. The drum of your heartbeat was deafening to him, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't loud enough. He wanted to be able to envision the arteries and veins bursting in his teeth, saturating the sheets and walls and both your bodies in hot red. He wanted it to paint his skin while he fucked you to absolution.

"It really, truly, is all about you in the end, isn't it?" He could still speak clearly, despite you being unable to utter noise beyond the air being forced out of your lungs. "You really are magnificent. How could I ever think to let you go? Not after everything you've done for me, how beautiful you look next to all of my things."

His hand shifted away from your abdomen at last, tracking across the soft span of your stomach and the muscles spasming there under his fingertips. All he would have to do is dig through you a little bit, and he could bury himself in those twitching fibers and insides. But he continued on his path to your pert nipples that he rolled against his palm a few times, higher still to fold his fingers together against your sternum where he felt your heart thundering there against your ribs.

"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump," came his mocking chant that cracked into raspy moans as he lingered there. It had been a long time since something had made him feel this good. He had forgotten what bliss was truly like.

He reached your neck before long, trapping the underside of your jaw against his knuckles, forcing you to see him as his weight bore down on your throat. You both heard the cartilage and muscle in your neck shift, a subtle crack that sent your limbs flailing. You were thrown out of the rhythm of his thrusts in an attempt to grab at him.

"You really are despicable, aren't you?" He let out a gleeful laugh, letting your fingers turn ashen while you wrung his wrist. You weren't able to do much with your legs except use them to plant your heels into the mattress, vaulting your hips in the air to try to wrench yourself free. His cock slipped out of you, but he was hardly bothered by that. "Does it feel good that you chased off my guest? I could get him back, you know. You're aware of this. I know you are. But righteousness just feels so… rewarding, doesn't it? You couldn't resist. Desperation must've been eating you alive."

Strings of saliva glistened in your mouth, breaking apart the further your jaws spread. You were convinced, in that moment, that you would die like that in a silent scream. None of the words that Montague spoke truly reached you, not as your chest quivered and lungs burned as though swallowed in an inferno.

"Every misdeed in life vastly outweighs the good, you know? The scales have never been leaned in our favor—not I, and especially not for you. If that's the sort of thing you believe in. Isn't that what you're taught? Goodness for the sake of salvation at the end of a short life of inhibitions? How miserable." Montague took his hand off of you and let you breathe. You sucked in crisp air, gasping from your side through wet coughs and the sourness of vomit spat out on the floor.

Your respite was brief, weight on the mattress shifting as the hair on your scalp was used to lever you to your knees, body suspended upright only by his fingers tangled at your roots.

"This is all I can see." Montague loosened his hand from your head, moving south along your spine to your ass. He kneaded the bruised parts of your hips for a while after, lips ghosting their way along your neck up to the ear. "All I can see is what's right in front of me. And how it tastes. All that matters is that I have my fill—and that I feel good."

He smeared slick into the heel of his palm, rolling the head of his cock in that mess as he instructed you with every bit of lewdness how he wanted you to bend against the headboard, how far apart for you to spread your legs for him.

Every bit of it was humiliating for you, while he wished he could memorialize that moment of sinking back inside of you as your breaths broke into stifled sobs, face warped by anguish.

"Does it hurt? Tell me, I have to know, what does it feel like?" He enjoyed the suspense of not receiving an answer, listening as your fingernails dug tracks into the wood headboard and the dark room filled with obscene wetness that grew louder as his thrusts turned wild.

"Mmm—" He hinged forward, bracing his weight on top of your hands with his own. You shied from the surge of coolness that came with his cheek pressing yours. "You and I aren't so different. It makes me wonder if you actually like this. Isn't there something so freeing about it?"

"Mer—mercy, please." It was a coarse whisper from your dry throat, so much of your time having been spent with your mouth agape. The idea of having you that way was as tantalizing as all the others he thought up. "Montague, please—mercy."

Oh, now you were begging.

This was more than what he deserved. He managed a few more thrusts, spilling over into you by the third with a moan that he felt no shame to leave ringing in your ear. "Every part of you, every single part—I'll burn myself into your skin and your bones. You'll feel me in your veins, your blood. I'll make for certain that I'm all you remember—forever."

The vastness of your bedroom had grown warmer, permeated with the thickness of sweat and salt that left your palms slick against the headboard. You let your body slump against it, skin sticking to the wood. It didn't offer you the relief you wanted at that moment: a glass of ice water, all the tenderness of a soft bed to lull you into a blank dream—you just wanted to rest.

Montague knew this just as well, fishing his compact out from a muddled heap of linens and clothes. He checked inside to grab one of the two cigarettes left, making a mental note he'd need to replenish again tomorrow before lighting it and savoring it. At this rate, he anticipated he'd be empty before the end of the night.

For a while, he sat there cushioned on his haunches, admiring the way the smoke coiled towards the ceiling in dainty wisps and mingled with the stench of sex.

"It's not enough." he said, barely eliciting more than a glance from you. His current cigarette was already burnt to the filter, forcing him to pull the last and light that one too. "This is my last one. Such a shame."

You smelled the smoke strongly now, just seconds passing before you were yanked across the bed onto your back, the soreness in your scalp near excruciating as you yelped. Montague made a place for himself between your thighs again, leering down the length of his nose at you.

If he wanted to, he could trace the dread etched in your features with a finger, feeling all along your hot skin, into all the cavernous lines he wished he could preserve—right there, just like that. There had never been a more gorgeous visage than the one you wore right now. Only your gleaming, glowing, pink insides were more beautiful.

He watched your lips twitch while he teased a fistful of his hard cock against your sorest spot. You were swollen and bruised, and he could only imagine what it felt like when he bottomed out in you again.

The curve of your spine arched off the mattress, fingers frantically raking the air at him, reaching for any part you could sink into to get him out. Even your body seemed determined for the same, wonderfully stimulating walls squeezing around him.

It made a shiver roll all along his spine to his tailbone, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, with his first thrusts feeling positively divine. Especially when you jolted, an almost exaggerated response amplified by jagged cries and wet gasps you couldn't seem to swallow back down into your chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You sputtered around the mucus piled in your throat. "Montague, I'm sorry. Please, stop."

He had burned away half of his last cigarette when he leaned over you, his body eclipsing what poor light had managed to illuminate the room for you. You could only follow the dainty mesmerizing glow that worked away from his mouth—his exhale barely masking a moan that he blew away with the smoke—and towards you.

"Keep doing it." His other hand was crawling up your neck, forcing you to suck in a hard breath. "Beg me again. Keep doing it."

All sound but the steady pulse of the headboard striking the wall had deadened, lasting well until the moment the cigarette touched your skin—and you screamed. Your throat vibrated, suddenly stopping when his palm closed around you again, silencing all your noise, his thrusts sloppy and rough while you thrashed under him.

This time, he kept you pinned by his chest, letting your feet dig for traction and slip and slide on the sheets. The bright smolder turned dark as he twisted it into your neck, taking all the remnants of restraint he had not to drill into you as far as it could go. He curled his tongue behind his jaws, keeping them tight.

Montague let go of your throat to allow you the grace of a stifled wail before that same hand sealed your lips. "Ah, ah. You know better than to scream. Shh, shhh, shhh. It's such an ugly sound."

He rubbed the cigarette into your skin until it crumpled, leaving him to lament for a moment once flicking it away to the floor. For him, it left behind a beautiful burn: raw, mad, red, and enticing. As his hand fell off of your mouth, daring you to do more than whimper and cry, his tongue was already flat against your wound.

"Oh, God," you wheezed, voice hoarse and jarring with the force of his hips knocking into you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Stop, stop, stop! I swear I'll never do it again! I swear. I swear!"

Montague caught the wrist you swung at his head, giving the taste of your seared flesh time to settle on his palate before turning towards the pulse in your thumb. He tried to match how he was fucking you out to how it throbbed on his lips.

"Oh, I'm well aware that you won't do it again. That much is a given." His strokes into you were suddenly languid and intentional, so achingly deep that your eyes rolled back. "I've already said that you're forgiven, haven't I?"

You could barely speak over the depth he reached. It didn't feel right. "Th-then, why?"

A smile flourished across his face, but your eyes couldn't pierce that dark veil to see it. You could feel the damp path he left on your wrist, how the muscle writhed all around the sprawl of your veins, going as far as to wind your fingertips before it receded back behind his lips.

"Because I'm enjoying myself." There was a weight of finality to those words before his mouth engulfed the side of your wrist, away from your fragile network of bluish-purplish channels. And when he bit into you, it was the incisors that sank through.

You didn't know what it was. A clamp seized you by the neck like his fist, steeling itself there and robbing you of a scream. The pain was unlike anything else—paralyzing and deep, like a pair of sharpened, narrow skewers made of molten fire piercing you with such an agonizing ache that you could do nothing but lay there.

But you still felt everything he was doing. His thrusts had grown truly vicious, chasing a high that came as the warmth of your blood seeped from a pair of punctures he had created. The steady flow he fed from was something he lapped on at his leisure. Enough of it streaked the length of your arm and dripped onto your bedding, onto your naked, warm skin when he guided the fall over your neck and chest, south to your stomach and abdomen. He let it fill and pool the seams of his fingers while smearing it with the fluids between your bodies.

At last, breaking the trance to speak, feebly, in between intermittent pockets of pain and numbness rolling through you, you asked with some hopefulness, "Are you going to kill me?"

"You? Kill you?" Montague dropped your wrist. It felt like a limp, dead thing that didn't belong to you. He dove at your neck for those drops he teased himself with, nudging your chin high with his nose to reach it all. "Death would mean letting you go. You're all mine, darling. Whatever other existence waits beyond death will never have you."

His tongue wet a trail to your chin, collecting a watery essence of blood and spit that he pushed into your mouth. Your lips were sealed by his ravenous kiss, relenting to the thickness of his tongue swirling the taste into your cheeks and down your throat, a nauseating intermix of iron and stale smoke that lingered and made you pucker.

And then, you heard him back in your ear, craning his neck only as far as to aggravate the cigarette burn with his breath. It gave several angry throbs. The weight of his body was almost flush on you, spreading the blood around as though your skin together was a single canvas.

To his eyes, it bloomed breathtakingly, seeping into every crevice, pore, and scratch that made up your design, an impermanent stain that he could saturate you in again and again and again. The things he whispered in your ear were vile and wicked, all on unlabored breaths while his strokes turned sluggish and stayed seated deep inside you until the final hitch of his hips left you full of him.

"I don't think you should go to work today."

You were only scarcely coherent of him—or anything for that matter—eyes unmoving from the black void above and unfeeling of how he chose to manipulate your body, still, hours later. All you could think about was the flutter of your lashes weighing down heavily over your eyes and how this world only survived on suffering such as yours.

༺ ♰ ༻

A small pile of things was arranged fussily in a duffle bag Hoss had given the day you returned to work after an impromptu leave of absence. It had only lasted three days, just enough time to acclimate to the pain that seemed to synchronize to every part of your body, throbbing everywhere, all at once, and at times with sharpness so great it toppled you to the ground. You could only lay there—wherever you dropped, on whatever cold slab of marble or concrete until it dissipated, unfurling from your limbs and organs to a rapturous wave of relief that melted the tension out of you.

It had only happened once while at work on a scene amidst a balmy summer night and came out of nowhere like an electric shock surging to your fingertips and toes, a hammer landing on your bones and leveling you on the sidewalk leading back to the company van. And that was all it took to incur a ruinous sort of anger in the two hulking men.

"You're going to take this bag, pack some shit, and you're leaving. Tonight." Hoss had to shake out the dust on the old duffle bag he pulled from somewhere in his car. "You ain't gonna tell me the reason, but I know he did something to you. T.J.'s calling in a favor."

"No. Don't—don't do anything. Don't try to come to the house—" There was a bandage around your wrist that you couldn't stop fiddling with. "I don't know what'll happen if you do. Just fucking don't."

"Nah, not us." T.J. slapped his phone back into the clip on his belt loop, eyeing the motions of your fingers on your wrist uneasily. "One of my old buddies—name's Roscoe—said he wants to handle it. Apparently, he and your guy have a history of some kind. He says to be ready to go by three."

The meaning behind what he said was left nebulous and concerning to you, even after you returned home with the duffle bag and started pulling things from your closet. Some ways across your room, high up on the wall and out of your reach was a clock. Its monotonous ticking brought your eyes over to it.

It was just after one-thirty, still enough time to change your mind if you wanted to. There was something so effortlessly easy about following along to the whims of other people. It felt safe, reassuring—their confidence was infallible. Not once in four years had T.J. or Hoss given you a reason to doubt their intentions, but right now, it boiled over in your mind.

But where will I go? What am I going to do? He'll find me. He'll find me. Montague would find you, but he wouldn't stop you from leaving. You could see it with clarity—him perched on the armrest of a chair, watching you walk through the door. He'd give you a headstart, a few days, maybe a few weeks.

You weren't sure you knew what to do without him. There was nowhere else in the world you could go, no one you could confide in that wouldn't be destroyed. He would keep your heart beating all the while breaking you apart until he had his fill, reminding you that this was how it was meant to be. This was how he showed you how you belonged.

And you—silly little you with your consciousness floating on the fringes of inscrutable ecstasy and some personal purgatory built on agony in your bones and blood—would believe him.

"Going on a trip?" His voice drifted to you from the doorway, far sweeter than it usually was. "I wish you would've told me. I can't imagine what it'll be like without you here in this house. You breathe life into it."

He was lured over by your silence, fitting his fingers between your shoulder blades to push along your spine, easing away the discomfort that had settled there. It was hard not to lean into that relief, a misstep that shattered any lasting hold of willpower when he stooped his neck to sweep you into a kiss.

"Why don't you stay instead?" He knew you wouldn't be coming back, not without dragging you back himself. "Stay with me instead. Right here. In this bed."

"Montague, stop—" He pressed down harder on your lips so those words withered into guttural frustration in your throat.

The duffle bag was flung far away, opening space on your bed for him to lay you out and begin to unravel the bandages around your wrist. Once he had access, his mouth was already full against the two puncture sites.

"Stay." He wasn't playing coy now. "I'll take care of you. It wasn't enough before. I can see that now. What can I do? It'd be too easy to break your legs. What if I chained you to this bed? What if I locked you up in this room? I wouldn't mind keeping you downstairs with me, but it would be too cold for you, I think."

"I want to leave." you said, mustering your composure through tight lips while he teased the infected purple holes with his flatter teeth. "Let me go."

He smiled derisively. "I don't think you know what you want."

"I—" You balked at him, reiterating with a stumble, "I—I just want to leave. Get off."

"How will you ever survive without me?" You didn't know if you'd be able to. "You'll be all alone, all alone in a world that's just ready to tear you open and spit you back out. I've told you before: Society doesn't reward virtue over vice—only those who play along. You won't last, not after you've known and tasted me."

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, whereas he swelled like a man who had salvaged a victory, lying himself down to kiss you again—

And then, the doorbell rang with an immense melancholic echo that you could feel vibrate up your arms and legs. Nearly a year later, you were hearing it for the first time and grasping onto the lapels of his suit vest, keeping him still when you remembered T.J.'s promise.

"Ignore it." you said.

"We have a guest—" Something in his tone made your stomach clench. "It's not polite to leave them waiting, especially at this hour."

Montague had untangled himself from you and was gone before you could stop him. Another wave of pain put you on the floor when you moved. Drool piled from your mouth. An ache so unreal pounded in the wrist he had played with. The crawl to your duffle bag was far, arduous in that every inch felt like carrying stones on your back.

I'm going to die. I might as well already be dead. You didn't have any more time to wait, so you slung the strap over your shoulder and used the wall to guide you along the quiet hallway, bumping into every pedestal and display where Montague's most treasured things had stayed undisturbed.

You were one of them, something he could keep on the second floor with the rest of his stuff, but unlike brittle porcelain and fraying embroidery—he could break you as much as he wanted, again and again and again, and fit you back whole. He could do it forever while you wasted, longing for an end he would never give you.

But as you crept along the bleak wallpaper and all of his curios, you were so gentle with them, steadying any wobbling base or piece as you went. The central staircase was close, voices at the bottom of it faint and unintelligible, drifting alongside you as though part of the house—

The air exploded. Just once. A single gunshot brought back all the alertness to your body, neck and shoulders at full length, pain dulled to where you could shuffle faster and look off the bannister at the landing below.

Montague was staring back up at you from the floor, entirely still and soundless. His jaw was unhinged, askew, frozen in a position that should've been impossible. A black hole gaped between his eyes, but didn't bleed.

"If you're not ready, that's going to be bad news." Another man stood nearby sheathing a gun, unfamiliar and yet with sameness in the way his gaze felt hollow and reached through you. "I'm repaying my debts. I'd like to make good on this one."

You were slow descending the stairs, even slower while you rounded Montague's body and denied yourself the chance to stop. Something invisible wanted to pull you to him, plow your knees into hard marble and weep over his chest. However, your insides bending in disgust and twinges in your bones kept you onward.

This man, Roscoe, was just as sickly-seeming and gray as the other, every slot of space on his arms and neck filled with images of religious iconography and portraits of saints—Mary being the only one you recognized with just a glance. It was tempting to touch him, something he noticed and stepped out of your reach.

"Is there another way out of here?" He made a weak motion towards the front door just ajar, but his eyes were stuck on the wrist wounded and unusable to you now. "We need to go. Now."

You were racking your brain for an answer, turning half-circles in place before pointing to the archway with a clock. "There's a backdoor, but the yard is fenced in and there's nothing but forest for three miles. There's also—"

Roscoe waited expectantly, ushering you to continue when he went for the gun in its holster. "Start moving, we'll figure it out." He unloaded another round into Montague's head, a near indecipherable twitch in the fingers made the hair on your neck shoot straight out. "Silver only keeps him down. It won't kill him. Go!"

"Th—there's, there's the basement." You smacked your lips, trying to swallow around a bulge in your throat. "There's an old door. He said there are tunnels, but I don't know where they go. I don't know if he was telling the truth. I don't—"

He threw a hand into your back, thrusting you forward at least three feet. You almost didn't catch your footing. "Then that's where we're going."

"Not a friend of yours then, I assume, darling?" Montague's voice from the floor was as much of a relief as it was terrible. The silent gaps of air all around were disturbed by sharp snaps and cracking bones as his jaw moved back into place and he sat upright over his thighs. You were transfixed by the silver bullets being sucked into his skull, holes shrinking until they closed completely. "I'm not surprised you're still fraternizing with the wrong crowds, Roscoe. You and that entire Society have always been a fucking eyesore."

Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."

Montague laughed all the way to his feet, tugging at the edge of his vest to make it neat again. He opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue roll out, shards of silver bullets tinkling as they hit marble underfoot. "You can't take what's mine."

He looked to you, stepping closer every time Roscoe moved you back with his arm. "Come here. Come back to me, darling. This is where you belong. This is your home. You belong here with me, here with everything that you know."

"He doesn't mean that." Another gunshot snapped you to attention, blinking out of a stupor you hadn't realized you were in. The bullet landed in Montague's forehead, teetering his balance in such a way that his back curved towards the floor, arms hanging like useless instruments, yet he still somehow kept his soles planted. "Time to go. Get to the basement."

Roscoe didn't fail to reach you this time, running tight on your heels through the house to the basement floor. He stopped partway to the old door to help you scour the duffle bag for a key—one attached to the chatelaine Montague had given you the day you accepted to move in.

Your breaths were ragged, heart ablaze and beating against your ribs. In that moment, as you flipped through the assortment of keys with an unsteady, slippery grip, you wondered if Montague heard your blood racing in your veins, if he could follow the suffocating drumbeat your heart made in your ears.

Just above, fast approaching the locked basement door, came a thunderous roar so inhuman and reverberating that it scared the clip of keys out of your hands into a clattering heap on the floor. Time was up.

"Move!" Roscoe shoved you aside, illuminated by the hectic flare of your phone as he fit his fingers through a gap in the door and ripped the entire thing off its hinges. He pulled you by the scruff of your shirt and heaved you inside the tunnel. "Go! Go! Go!"

The first thing to hit you was a putrid smell intimately known but always through protective equipment and a respirator. And as you went deeper into the tunnel, led by a single route and the light off your phone, the dirt packed under your feet turned soft, sinking to the tops of your shoes.

And then, you saw bodies.

Numerous—countless corpses in varying stages of decay with twisted faces reflected your terror and pain right back at you. Most were intact with missing limbs or dark red chasms in their abdomens that had been scraped hollow and dry under the white light. A few had been fully decapitated, briefly reminding you of the dead blonde woman from that night, but most of what lay stacked against the tunnel walls were emaciated figures with skin pulled so taut to their bones you could still make out their faces.

You were doubled over your knees, sucking in fetid mouthfuls of air and retching them back out on the ground. It burned in your throat, in your nostrils, and behind your eyes, but stifled your sobs as Roscoe dragged you alongside him.

"What did he do? What did he do?" You were crying, wheezing out those words on every shallow breath you took all the way to an end just ahead. The more you thought about it, the more you smelled the rot, tasted the bitterness of your own vomit, the more came out. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

Roscoe had to let you rest in the grass once you both surfaced. One of the exits turned out to be near the house, less than half a mile. But the tunnels kept going and so did the bodies. You suspected that there wouldn't be any reach of that underground labyrinth that didn't have some form of decay along it.

The thought brought the tears back, but now you could relish the sticky summer night humidity and touch dewy tendrils of grass under your hands.

"Can you drive?" Roscoe had a pair of keys hanging from his index finger, giving you a long moment to take them. He saw confusion in your watery stare. "I'll tell you where to go, just drive."

That's how it had been for hours at this point. You kept your hands locked around the steering wheel, one stronger than the other, gnawing the inside of your cheek while ruminating everything—tonight, the night Montague had bitten you, every other night before that, and your decision to have ever trusted him.

"How long ago did he bite you?" Roscoe had the seat reclined, arms over his eyes to shield them from oncoming headlights. "It doesn't look good."

You tested your grip on the steering wheel, but you couldn't do much without a sharp sting in your wrist. "I don't know—a couple weeks ago? I've tried everything short of going to the emergency room."

"That won't help," he said. "Modern medicine can fix a dog bite, antibiotics can kill an infection, a vaccine can protect you from a virus. Those aren't going to do any good."

Solemnly, you asked, "Am I going to die?"

Roscoe didn't sit up but had your wrist in his hands, turning it in little ways that didn't aggravate you. Besides the occasional glare from passing vehicles, there was no light in the car, and the holes in your skin were hardly distinguishable, though they had gotten darker. You weren't able to move it with any ease now.

"What you need to know right now is that he's never going to stop following you." He put your hand back on the steering wheel, careful as he enclosed your fingers around it. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, what you do, where you go—a parasite finds a host, and it latches on. And it doesn't let go."

You glanced between him and the road several times, tongue wetting the dry parts of your lips. "He's a vampire—you're a vampire. There's got to be something—"

Roscoe finally sat up in his seat, now cramped sideways with his shoulders flat to the window. The car veered a bit into the other lane. "You need to understand something. What you're saying would imply he ever had any humanity. Vampires are created." He paused for a beat, waiting for the realization to strike you. "Montague was never created."

"What—what the hell is he, then?" A horn abruptly blared by, prompting you to yank the car back onto the correct side. "He drinks blood. He has teeth. He—he hunts. He doesn't like silver. His eyes are the same as yours."

Roscoe lowered his gaze, but remained in that uncomfortable position. "There's a story I heard about him once. I don't remember the details except for one: ‘If the devil exists, they're one in the same.’"

You kept your eyes on the road, counting every car that flitted on past. They were probably going to work at this hour—green numbers on the dashboard showed it just after four—and they'd be able to have a place to return to at the end of the day. Now, you didn't belong anywhere, and twenty-four hours from now you still wouldn't.

The town where you had lived with Montague for a year was long behind you, backtracking would take hours, and you wouldn't know how to get back from the direction that Roscoe had told you to go. Dim streetlamps and cozy houses with spruced yards had morphed into an endless network of concrete, signs, and off-ramps to places you'd never heard of.

It was scary how everything could change in one night, and how it did. The only semblance of normalcy to you right now were the aches throughout your body, which had returned the moment you fully comprehended that you had escaped that house.

"Why…" Roscoe looked up at you, seeing your lips shake and eyes turn red. "Why do I want to go back to him?"

He fixed himself right in the seat, tousling a hand through his hair while looking out through the windshield. "You shouldn't do that. But you'll never be able to stop running."

You never saw Roscoe again once the car ride ended several thousands of miles later, mentioning something about how he repaid his debt to T.J. and had disappeared from a restaurant you both walked into. When that happened, you sat paralyzed at your little table for most of the day with a soul-crushing realization that you were truly alone with nobody in the world—just like Montague said you would be. And, for the sake of others, you'd never be able to have anyone else in your world.

It stayed that way for close to two years. The hardest part hadn't been the homelessness or constant vigilance, not the door revolving each person to come into your life since, but the fact that you still yearned for what you once had. Everything so awful about what you experienced sometimes looked like heaven when you thought about it, like soft, cloudy nostalgia from a time where the throes of agony were all you had ever known.

You were capable of thinking soberly as well, and with that came the understanding that a part of you would always want that time back—want him back. He had left you with a permanent scar and neurological damage that could never be corrected. It was anticipated you'd lose that wrist at some point in the future, but for now, you could still hold a cup and brush your teeth with enough conscious effort.

The pain never went away either, but you refused to let it impede your work in the field. And your two roommates were a couple of engineering geniuses who'd managed to make the flat more accommodating to your needs. They'd been patient with you during every step of your transition into a new life, calling you an enigma because you had nothing to your name except a dusty duffle bag and a "strange-looking dog bite" on your wrist when you first met them.

Sometimes, especially on the weekends after clinking together enough shot glasses, they tried to probe your brain for some clue as to who you were, who you had been historically. You had decided it was better that they—that no one—knew about it or what actually existed out there in the world.

And when you returned home from the lab late that Saturday night, you were surprised to find the lights off and the flat immersed in the kind of soundlessness that made your ears feel clogged with cotton.

You were slow in lowering your backpack to the floor, keeping the front door slightly ajar so a slither of light from the residential corridor slipped inside. "Jordan? Felix?"

No answer. You didn't hear anything from their bedrooms upstairs either.

"Jordan?" The nearest light switch didn't work, neither did the one after that, or any others you hunted down with the diffused beam from your phone screen. "Jordan? Felix? Are you guys home?"

It was possible they had gone out somewhere for the night and just hadn't mentioned anything to you, as unsound as that logic actually was, considering it simply wasn't their personality. But as you wandered through different rooms checking the switches, you knew you were rationalizing to keep yourself in check.

The light from the hallway still piled inside like a narrow pillar, raising all the hairs on your neck and arms, knowing that it wasn't a building-wide outage. They had never left you in a situation like this before. Something was wrong.

"Jordan! Felix! Whe—" Your foot nearly shot out from under you when you slid through something slick on the laminate. After a moment to fix yourself, bracing the edge of the countertop with a clammy palm, you steadied the white glow of your phone at the floor.

There, glistening back at you, was the vast richness of blood in a tall puddle that spread like long winding tendrils through grout in the flooring. It looked almost black under your light at a certain angle, estimating it had been there for several hours—untouched.

You held in a breath and grit your jaws together as the more you moved, the more you saw. And when the top of a head came into view, silky hair shining like fine thread before clumping together at the base where the blood had pooled the most, it was everything you could to keep yourself from hitting the floor.

Both of them were there, perfectly out of sight of the front door and completely unrecognizable. Their bodies had been left in one piece, though where their faces had once been were cavernous holes with pale, pink ribbons of flesh and fat left behind. The roundness of their skulls let blood fill inside it like a vessel. What little pieces of brain matter remained had floated to the surface.

You staggered back from them, phone loosening from your weak hand and returning them to the maw of darkness, while groping the wall behind you as far as your arm could reach. This wasn't a result of crude knife work or even bludgeoning; no, it was a slow kill, one meant to steep someone in torment so immense that you prayed to whatever was out there that they succumbed immediately.

"Help…" Your voice was trapped in your throat, barely registering as a whisper even to yourself as you sidled along the wall. "Someone—anyone, please help."

The patter of your heartbeat was torturous. Your every step back to the entrance was leaden with fear. You couldn't get your legs to move fast enough, and the light reaching in through the gap seemed to stretch on forever—further, further, and further still.

You thought back to that day you met Montague and shook his hand, noting how unnaturally cold it had been despite it being a nice day in spring. You remembered the dead blonde woman with mascara tears, and the bodies he used to decorate the tunnels, and the young man who was able to walk away that night believing it was all some shallow quarrel—never knowing he had sealed your fate.

You regretted all of it.

The door was in your reach now, and you could get out, call for help, and go back to running. This time, you wouldn't be tricked into false satiety or let anyone too close. You would see mountains and forests and oceans a thousand times over before you stopped again.

Two years hadn't been enough time for you to accumulate many things, you thought. It wouldn't be hard to leave most of it behind, just like you had before. You would unpack that old duffle bag from the back of your closet, fill it to the brink, and that would be enough.

You had your hand over smooth metal, but that cold reached greater depths in you as the door was pushed shut from behind, light shrinking away through the slot until you were swallowed whole in the dark.

"Hello, darling. I've missed you." He sounded the same against your ear. For a split second, you felt relieved. "Don't worry about cleaning up. We're not staying long."

He clamped damp fingers over your mouth before you could scream.

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teefigotem · 2 months ago

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sorry i'm on a Murderbot Diaries kick again so y'all are getting meta. thinking about that one scene in Network Effect that everyone talks about. you know, the “who the fuck are you” “this is nonstandard communication” aka the one where Three discovers the concept of eldritch horror for the first time. beautiful scene 10/10 no notes.

that being said i’m also thinking about a take i’ve seen a few times saying that ART was way scarier to Three than it was to Murderbot and like. I don’t think that’s completely true. not to say that ART wasn’t mean or scary to Three — being told that someone might peel away your organic parts piece by piece will in fact be terrifying any way you spin in.

but like. okay. ART and Three come to an understanding very quickly in NE, arguably quicker than Murderbot and ART in AC. and some of that is due to the difference in Murderbot and Three’s personalities, but i think a lot of that is due to how ART approaches each situation.

(more under the cut)

so like okay. when ART and Murderbot first meet, Murderbot is entirely a wildcard coming aboard ART, and ART responds the way you would to an unknown, unpredictable threat, i.e. with a blatant but somewhat ambiguous show of force. by dropping its walls ART is doing the equivalent of like. brandishing a powerful weapon in your face. it doesn't explicitly tell Murderbot that it will hurt it. in fact, the only things it says to Murderbot are to tell it that it knows that it's a rogue SecUnit and to warn Murderbot not to hack it. this is the type of approach you'd take with someone who you aren't sure even has the capacity to be reasoned with - it demonstrates that it could crush Murderbot like a bug, because this is the only thing it's confident Murderbot will respond to.

the problem with this, from Murderbot's POV, is that, because the threat is implied rather than explicitly stated, there's no reassurance that if Murderbot doesn't try to hack ART then ART will leave it alone in turn. in fact, it spends the moments after this interaction spiraling about what ART wants with it and whether ART specifically let it on board to torture or kill it. i don't think that was ART's intention with the threat, i think it genuinely did not have the context to realize that Murderbot would take the show of force more as a threat of imminent violence than as a warning against attacking it. but, since it didn't have that context, it approached that interaction like one would approach someone with whom you don't see as an equal and don't have any interest in reasoning with.

contrast that to how ART interacts with Three. on the surface, what it says is scarier. its threats are certainly more violent. but they are also explicitly stated if/then statements: if you hurt these humans, then i will do xyz to you. i do know that in mathematical logic there's still no guarantee made in if/then statements that the then won't come to pass regardless, but the specificity of both the threat and the guidelines provides Three with parameters to follow, and implies that if it does then no harm will come to it.

this was notable to me because ART speaks to Three like a person to be negotiated with from the beginning, and that's. well. because it knows enough by now to know that Three is a person, in a way that i'm not sure it knew about Murderbot before seeing Murderbot's memory files of the governor module. it knows before speaking to them that both Murderbot and Three are rogue SecUnits, but its understanding of what a rogue SecUnit is, what it is capable of, and what it might do has profoundly changed between two interactions. even in their first interaction ART treats Three like a person who may be capable of being dangerous, rather than like a loose cannon who could mindlessly commit violence at any minute.

#it's been a “long-ass-meta about whatever fandom is on my mind” kind of week #sorry for anyone following me for one specific fandom or for no fandom at all #i was just possessed by the murderbot bug again. fanfic incoming probably #anyway i hope this makes sense i am just so endlessly fascinated by the way ART specifically interacts with the world around it #tmbd #the murderbot diaries #the murderbot diaries meta

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cafelattaes · 11 months ago

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beat you at your own game | hrj

summary: y/n has a crush on renjun, who's not that great with people. despite his standoffish nature, she makes an effort to be friendly. but things take a twist when she starts to ignore him.

pairing: renjun x fem!reader

genre: college au, fluff, angst

word count: 3.5k

huang renjun, how exactly would you describe him? well, for starters, he can be a bit cranky. he's all about having his own space, not a fan of dragging things out, and gets things done in a flash. he’s also straightforward and not afraid to speak his mind. people have mixed feelings about him because of it. but oddly enough, it only adds to his charm, making people naturally drawn to him, much to his 'i'd-rather-not' demeanor.

needless to say, you just had to develop a crush on someone who’s the total opposite of you. you’re a people-pleaser; you’d much rather say things that would please others than express your genuine thoughts. confrontations make you uncomfortable, and you lean towards making excuses for those who hurt you on purpose. you also always try to avoid conflicts as much as you can and resort to suffering in silence instead. you're trying to change these aspects of yourself, but since you grew up having these traits, breaking free can be a bit hard. still, you're working on it.

you never intended to let renjun know about your feelings, but your friends were determined to embarrass you whenever he was around, constantly teasing you. it didn't help that despite not being close to renjun and his group, some of them were friends with your close friends, so they eventually joined in poking fun at your crush. one day, you decided to dismiss their incessant teasing and initiated a friendly conversation with renjun. at first, he responded out of courtesy. you weren't stupid though; you could tell that renjun was clearly fed up with his friends and wanted nothing to do with their antics.

he began to dislike being associated with you, offering only short responses and not acknowledging your presence more than necessary. you didn’t pay it much mind, since getting close to him wasn't your original goal. your aim was to ease the awkwardness and shed the embarrassment that accompanied your interactions. you happened to share some classes with renjun, coincidentally, those were the ones where both your friends weren't around. sitting next to him became a default habit, as he was the only familiar face in those particular classes.

one morning, you found yourself running late for your 8am class, prompting you to dash before your professor arrived. you accidentally collided with renjun, who happened to be holding an iced coffee. to your horror, more than half of the drink ended up spilling onto his shirt.

“oh my god, renjun, i’m so sorry!” you looked at him in fear, and it took everything in him to remain calm.

“why are you running around a busy hallway?”

“i’m really, really sorry. i’m late for my first class and i didn’t think i’d bump into anyone.” renjun let out an annoyed sigh.

“whatever.”

“wait!” you started rummaging through your bag to bring out some alcohol and wipes. “do you need them?”

“no, thank you.” he tried to walk past you, but you caught his arm.

“what about the stain?”

“i have a spare shirt. can you let me go now? i thought you said you were late.”

“shoot, you’re right. i’m sorry again, i promise i’ll make it up to you!” you shouted as you ran.

“please don’t,” he grumbled.

later on, you found renjun at the library working on your assignments. you sat quietly next to him and began doing your own. he didn’t spare you a look and just carried on with his work. you spent a few hours completing them, and both of you got it done at the same time. as you got up to gather your things, you spoke to the boy beside you.

“renjun, do you have anything to do after this?”

“no.”

“there’s this new diner that just opened up nearby. do you want to check it out? my friends have prior commitments, and i wanted to make it up to you for spilling your coffee earlier.” you already knew he was going to refuse, but it wouldn’t hurt to still ask.

“sorry, i’ll have to pass. i need to get home quickly.” you nodded in understanding and smiled at him.

“no biggie. take care on your way home!”

“thanks,” he simply said before leaving.

“so, what's the deal with you and y/n?" jaemin asked in a teasing tone. "any progress? are you going out already?” renjun scowled.

“shut up. i want her to back off, honestly.”

“you want everyone to back off.” jaemin pointed out.

“yeah, but most especially y/n.”

jaemin's eyebrows knitted together. “uh, why do you sound so annoyed with her?”

“because she's annoying. i turned her down multiple times, but she can’t take a hint. nothing’s worse than someone who forces themselves on others.”

“relax, man. aren't you being a bit harsh? you’ll see that she’s nice if you give her a chance.”

“what exactly is nice about her being fixated on me? this is mostly your fault, you know. if you guys weren’t such busybodies, she wouldn’t be so pushy.”

you quietly slipped away, making sure they hadn't noticed you. a single tear rolled down your cheek before you could stop it. it wasn't every day you heard someone openly express their dislike for you, and coming from the person you were supposed to like, it stung even more. you never meant to force yourself into renjun's space or push for a connection that clearly wasn't there. maybe it was time to face reality and let go of your feelings for him. it would be better for both of you in the long run to avoid any more awkward moments and misunderstandings.

renjun had grown accustomed to spotting you in your regular seat during your shared class. however, he was met with surprise when he noticed you had moved to a vacant seat considerably distant from your usual spot next to him. he was a bit confused at first, but chose not to dwell on it. he also noted that you didn't notice his entrance into the room, as you were engrossed in some task.

you continued to maintain a distance in your next classes with renjun. he was uncertain if you were oblivious to his presence or deliberately avoiding acknowledgement, given the lack of glances his way. he found it a bit strange that you refrained from initiating any form of interaction, but he didn’t mind. he thought he felt better. at least, for now.

however, renjun was not expecting your odd behavior to persist. it brought another surprise when you ignored him again the following day. even when your eyes accidentally locked for a second, you quickly averted your gaze. renjun wasn’t sure if you really didn’t see him or were just pretending not to. you weren’t wearing your glasses, and your eyesight wasn't the best. but even if you did ignore him on purpose, he didn’t mind… or did he?

it’s been a while since you stopped talking to renjun. at first, he thought he felt a sense of relief, thinking it gave him some space. but after a week, he was confused about why you suddenly stopped. the following week, he could feel his stomach churning seeing you leave class, secretly hoping you’d look back. then, the week after that, he felt a wave of anger because there were more than a few times he bumped into you purposely to get you to talk to him, but you did not utter any word other than a quiet apology. now, nearly a month later, he started to feel dejected because no matter what he did, you always acted like he wasn't even there. renjun wasn’t sure what he did wrong to make you so determined in avoiding him completely.

“renjun’s going through 5 stages of grief,” jaemin said with a smirk.

“what are you talking about?” haechan looked at him in confusion.

“y/n’s been ignoring him for a month.”

“WHAT? WHY?” jaemin shrugged.

“no idea. we’re not close enough for me to ask.”

“what about jeno?”

“he doesn’t want to pry.”

“maybe she got tired of renjun’s grumpy attitude,” chenle piped up.

“could be,” jaemin turned to the boy in question. “look at him, he’s miserable.”

“shut up,” renjun muttered in discontent.

“stop provoking him. it’s his first heartbreak,” chenle taunted, making renjun roll his eyes at their ridiculousness.

“you know you could just talk to her right? ask what’s going on?”

“if she wanted to talk, she would’ve reached out to me by now,” renjun said flatly. his friends could only shake their heads in disapproval.

“don’t be stupid.”

“and i’m begging all of you to mind your own business.”

“if you keep this up, you’ll end up in a situation you can’t fix.”

haechan nodded vigorously. “yeah, don't say we didn't warn you!”

you kept quiet about what you had overheard from renjun in the last month, choosing not to share the details with your friends. you figured they would eventually notice renjun's absence from your life, and when they finally asked you about it, you dismissed their probing questions. you casually informed them that your crush on him had simply faded after getting to know him better. you were quite good at making believable lies, they were convinced by it and dropped the topic quickly.

unexpectedly, renjun sought you out in an empty classroom to confront you about your sudden disconnection. you looked like a deer caught in headlights when you realized who had just entered, walking in long and quick strides to your direction. in your mind, you were already conjuring up excuses to explain yourself.

“why are you ignoring me?” his question broke the silence, leaving you with no room to escape.

so much for attempting to evade this confrontation.

you took a moment to gather your thoughts, unsure how to respond. you tried to conceal your distress as renjun stared down at you while waiting for you to talk. it seemed like he was determined to stand his ground, expecting you to tell him the truth. with a frustrated sigh, you finally spoke up.

“i’m just staying out of your way,” you said after a moment of silence.

“yeah, so why?” his voice was demanding, it ticked you off a little.

you questioned why you were initially afraid of renjun confronting you and why you bothered coming up with excuses. after all, it wasn't his place to interrogate you when you were simply doing what he seemed to want from the start.

“i don’t know why you’re asking. isn’t that what you want? you should be happy.” you began to gather your things so you can leave, but you heard him speak again.

“i never told you to avoid me. if you have a problem with me, just say it.”

“you're right, you never told me directly. you just told other people.”

“what are you talking about?” you turned to face him.

“renjun, i don’t get you. you push me away, you're openly annoyed by me, and you tell everyone you want me gone. now that i’m doing exactly that, you’re still upset with me? what’s your problem?”

renjun ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what's going on."

“fine. last month, i was passing by the library and i overheard you talking to your friends. you were complaining about how i couldn't take a hint and how you wanted me to leave you alone.” renjun looked a bit puzzled at first. when you were about to walk away, his eyes widened in realization.

“no, y/n, i’m so sorry. i didn't really mean what i-“ you shook your head lightly.

“don’t be. you were completely right, and i’m not even angry about it. i just don’t want to do anything with you anymore.”

“please, listen," renjun said, his voice urgent. "i blurted out those things in the heat of the moment. i regret it, especially now that i know you heard what i said… it's just- it’s not how i really feel about you."

“it’s okay, renjun. i didn’t tell you all of this to get an apology. i’m only telling you why i’m doing what i’m doing, like you asked, and to make it clear that i’m done.” as you turned to leave, renjun stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

“hear me out, alright? i was being overly sensitive back then. my friends were pushing my buttons, and i didn't know how to handle it so i lashed out. i treated you unfairly and you didn’t deserve any of that. a month without you made me realize a few things. i had to confront what i really want and face some truths i'd been avoiding."

he paused, studying your face before continuing. “i miss spending time with you, y/n. and... well, i realized i've got feelings for you, more than i thought. it never crossed my mind that you'd actually distance yourself and it hit me hard. the idea of losing you if you choose to walk away made me lose my mind.”

your heart raced as he spoke, and his confession stirred up a mix of emotions. your confusion lingered, but you decided to reason through it, pushing aside the sincerity in his eyes as you gave him a skeptical look.

“are you… getting your feelings confused with something else? did you consider that maybe your mind is playing tricks on you and making you think you like me because you're used to others chasing after you?”

renjun winced, trying to ignore the implied criticism. it was a struggle for him to open up about his feelings, only for the girl he liked to question it and suggest that he couldn't understand his own emotions.

“i wouldn't be here asking why you've been avoiding me and opening up like this if i hadn't thought it through." he said quietly. "it might be hard to believe right now, but if you give me a chance, i can prove it to you."

“i don’t think this is a good idea,” you said, watching his face fall. he felt lost, trying to find the right words to convince you. taking a deep breath, he gently placed his hands on your shoulders, meeting your eyes.

“please, just give me a chance to make things right. i feel like i've wasted so much time.” the desperation in his voice was clear. still skeptical, you removed his hands as they fell down to your arms.

“i’ll think about it,” you said, turning to walk away, leaving a lingering sense of uncertainty in the air.

renjun’s friends had been observing him for a few days, and he’s become unusually quiet. they contemplated asking him what’s wrong, but they wanted to give him some space. it was glaringly obvious that something was bothering him, and he didn’t want to talk about it. jeno couldn't help but express his concern.

"renjun, you've been awfully quiet lately. everything alright?"

"yeah, i'm fine. just dealing with some stuff." jeno and jaemin exchanged knowing glances.

"we're here whenever you're ready to talk." jaemin assured, patting his back.

he had been feeling down since your conversation days ago. your words had been weighing on his mind and creating an internal turmoil. the fact that you continued to ignored him in all your classes didn't offer much comfort. renjun couldn't help but cast a longing look in your direction whenever he saw you. he wondered if there was a way to make things right, or if he had to live with the consequences of his past actions.

meanwhile, his confession has been replaying in your mind. the idea of him reciprocating your feelings caught you off guard; it was something you never saw coming. after some contemplation, it became apparent to you that renjun really felt apologetic and was filled with remorse. could it be that he genuinely likes you? even if that was the case, you're still unsure whether it's the right move to start something with him.

maybe i should stop overthinking this.

you took a deep breath before releasing a loud sigh, unaware that the boy who had been occupying your thoughts, stood right in front of you.

“y/n,” you looked up to see renjun. you waited for him to speak, but it seemed like he was having a mental struggle, debating whether to say what was on his mind. he mustered up the courage to ask if you were willing to give him a chance. staring at him with an unreadable expression, he didn't know how to interpret the situation. was it a bad time to talk?

“why?” you finally asked. although renjun was hesitant, he answered.

“i was wondering if you already thought about what i said? i mean… i can wait if you need more time.”

“if i say no, are you going to leave me alone?” your heart sank a little when his face fell.

he took a moment before responding. his voice barely above a whisper. “if that’s what you want... i guess i would have to."

“renjun,” you said, causing him to look up.

“yeah?”

“let’s give it a try.” his expression became hopeful.

“really?”

“yes," you nodded. "you said you liked me back, i'm choosing to believe that for now. just... don't let me down."

“i won’t," he promised, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

before you could react, renjun pulled you into a warm embrace. you found yourself returning the hug, allowing yourself to relax in his arms.

"thank you for giving me a chance," he murmured, his words muffled against your hair but filled with sincerity.

“i’m happy for them, really," giselle said, eyeing you and renjun across the room. "but watching those two make heart eyes at each other is sickening."

chenle snorted. "this is nothing. you should see renjun at the dorm."

the group's attention snapped to him. "oh?" karina prompted.

“let's just say personal space is not in his vocabulary anymore."

“huh… i would've expected y/n to be the clingy one."

“yeah, no. but i guess it makes sense, considering how he acted before."

giselle and karina exchanged amused glances, intrigued by the dynamic between you and renjun.

"amazing what a change of heart can do," jaemin mused.

karina nodded, a hint of approval in her voice. "guess he learned his lesson."

the group watched you and renjun for a moment longer, a mix of amusement and fondness in their expressions. it was clear that renjun had undergone a significant change in the way he acts toward you, transforming his initial aloofness to this new, affectionate version of himself.

“i have the dorm to myself this weekend.” renjun said, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

you raised an eyebrow. “and what exactly are you suggesting?”

“you know…” he trailed off, his look suggestive.

“i’m studying for finals," you replied flatly.

“exactly. i find myself more productive when i’m with you.”

“right. because we get so much done when we study together."

“don't you want my hugs and kisses?” he pouted.

“not when i’m trying to pass my classes.”

“i'll behave, i promise.”

“you always say that. i don’t believe you anymore.” renjun's pout deepened. cute.

“maybe i wouldn't be so clingy if you paid more attention to me. you’re always busy, you don’t have time for your boyfriend.”

“renjun, unlike you, i have to put in extra effort to get good grades. i’m not as smart as you are.”

“excuses.” he mumbled.

you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help smiling. “you’re so adorable,” you cooed, giving him a quick peck. “i never imagined you to be the clingy type.”

“baby, there's a lot of things you don’t know about me.” he said, his voice lowering.

“oh? like what?”

he leaned in close. “like how great i am with my hands."

your eyebrows shot up. "is that so?"

“yeah. apparently, i give one heck of a shoulder massage,” he finished with a grin.

you burst out laughing at his endearing silliness. the sound of your laughter made renjun pause. he watched you, a soft smile spreading across his face. suddenly, he felt an overwhelming surge of happiness. taking your hand gently in his, he pressed a kiss to your fingertips, capturing your attention and prompting you to look at him.

"you make me feel the happiest," he said softly. "i love you."

your heart skipped a beat, the euphoria of hearing those three words from him for the first time washing over you. it hit you then - this unexpected journey with renjun had led you somewhere you never imagined. he, too, held the key to your happiness.

“i love you too," you whispered back.

you closed the distance between you two and your lips met his. as he wrapped an arm around your waist, you let yourself fall to his embrace, deepening the kiss.

renjun was met with the realization that while you fell for him first, he descended later, but with an intensity that surpassed a thousand falls.

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wanted-game-if · 9 months ago

Text

Wanted Game is a cowboy fantasy with some lovecraftian horror interactive fiction game

You wake up in the middle of nowhere, the sun blistering hot

no food,

no water,

and probably the most concerning thing of all you don't remember anything not your name, not where you are and not what you look like

You are found by a gang of outlaws the leader (or who you assume the leader to be) takes you captive but then offers you a deal you can't possibly pass up but things smell fishy.. they are outlaws who are there for their selfish reasons how can you truly trust them;

especially when they all seem to know something about you even though you have a mask stuck to your face they aren’t willing to tell what they know about you

no matter how close you get or how many tricks you try

• A customizable Mc though physical customization is somwhat limited until later in the story.

• Paint/design the mask and thought out the story their will be some options that will affect your mask

• Romance 10 of the charaters 7 main ones and 3 youll just have to figure out, one of the secret romances is a poly route with Oscar, got commitment issues or just looking for fun theres a large aray of flings along the road so dont you worry

• Doom or help the jobs succeed with your choices

• Grow relationships with the rest of the gang {{and even the group of bounty hunters chasing after you and the gang}}

• When not doing jobs entertain your self with a hobby or work on your skills

Oscar || He/They || 24 || 5’3

Growing up in the gang most would probably assume Oscar is mean, greedy, selfish but if given the chance you would find a soft caring man with a love for literature almost always with a book when he is not scouting or helping his ma with sewing up clothes the gang tend to wreck

Emile || Xe/Xem || 27 || 5’10

Oscars older brother Emile is very protective of Xyrs little brother emile is known to sleep around and be a massive flirt but never actually letting anyone be anything to Xem then a pretty face Xe can fool around with. sometimes you catch Xem staring at you with a expression you don’t quite understand

Louis || He/Him || 30 || 6’2

A very quiet man always tending to the horses or making wood sculptures hes very quiet keeping to himself not because of anything distrustful or rude he seems to just like being alone he is always looking to help out with jobs as long as he can keep his distance with people

Boss || He/Him || 58.. || 6’0

{{ Attracted to anyone but must be close to them emotionally before he does anything sexual in nature }}

A very talkative older man with alot of elegance for a outlaw he always has plans brewing though his number one goal is keeping the gang safe. He tends to be overprotective of everyone and can be a very hotheaded man its very easy to press his buttons

Ares || he/they/she || 28 || 5’11

Growing up in high society Ares learnt to be a very charismatic and social fellow most people would call her a charming, gentle, kind person but if you peer close enough through their wall you will soon learn that she is not at all what she appears and she has a more nasty complex towards commoners, rich folk and especially outlaws

Clara || She/Her || 40 || 5’5

Clara a sweet older lady recently joined up with the gang temporarily to help get funds to get her home but something about her story doesn’t add up, she seems like she wouldn’t hurt a fly so many dismiss her but some ought remember she is still an outlaw no matter how sweet she seems

Adelaide || She/Her || 37 || 4’9

Adelaide is the best with all things traps, distractions and explosives she cant be a bit much always adding a flare to everything and talking so fast you only barely understand she isn’t very observant when it comes to body language and tone so don’t expect her you realize your emotions straight away. she is also Boss’s Niece

T} ??? || he/him || 30 || 6’0 || Poly route with Oscar

“They are so utterly perfect for him I’m jealous of them but i also want them aswell how selfish my heart is”

S} ??? || They/Them || 29 || 5’8

“In darkness she is the one stray ray of light that kisses my face”

J} ??? || they prefer just to be called by their name || 33 || 6’5

“Its against my job, my morals,my life so tell me why it feels so right”

||Demo:TBA || Pinterest || Art Acc || My boundaries and asks boundaries

Sorry for any misspellings or weird way i worded things

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m-ayo-o · 1 year ago

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seeingdouble ɘldυobϱniɘɘƨ

KINKTOBER IV: DRUGGED starring: f!reader, megumi [25+], toji [mid 40s] synopsis: megumi is led down a dark path by his assassin father. his moral compass askew, lacking any real social experience, he's left to his own devices with a cute girl. thankfully, toji shows up in time to take control. warnings: murder, violence, spiking, drug use: narcotics + psychedelics. stripper!reader [who sometimes offers sex work]. virgin!megumi. restraints. choking. unprotected sex. incest [pussy sharing, dp, anal] guidance. non-con; reader starts to enjoy it [she is drugged] wc: 4.5k

⋆⁺/ don't like it? block it / do not interact i do not condone taking drugs. spiking is illegal. this is fiction

18+ EXPLICIT SEX | DARK CONTENT | HORROR THEMES

When Toji’s wife passed he managed to sell off his daughter to the notorious Zenin clan for a pretty penny, but decided to keep the ten shadows boy for himself.

Without his wife, daughter and clan, Toji’s life spiralled out of control and he took Megumi down with him.

Toji left everything behind, so did Megumi.

Toji became invisible, so did Megumi.

He corrupted him and dragged him into a cursed life of killing for money.

Leaving his boy in cheap, dusty hotels, Toji would go out to commit murder– it was as simple as grocery shopping for him, only returning home with his shirt all bloody and ripped. Young Megumi would eye his clothing curiously, his gaze wide and innocent, but would be too scared to utter a word. He knows his father has a terrible temper.

This routine continued until Megumi got older, into his late teens, when Toji thought it would be appropriate to start telling the young man about what he did. Then in his early twenties he started taking him along on his sinister missions, hunting. Lacking any formal education or training, he doubted his son would be of any use.

But Megumi had become intelligent and strong in his solitude, reading for entertainment and experimenting with his powers, his shikigami the only life forms to keep him company.

Despite his independence, having Toji as his only guiding light led the younger man to have a somewhat twisted view on reality, and as far as sound moral judgement goes, he simply does not possess it.

As an assassin, Toji likes a quick kill; clean and efficient, usually with a gun or a knife. He can get paid faster that way, delivering the body swiftly and avoiding any trouble.

But he’s noticed his son taking a liking to finishing his victims more personally.

⁺⋆

Another murderous evening had drawn to a close, their hands stained red once again, when he carelessly took his eyes off his son and their victim.

A young, powerful sorceress who’d seemingly pissed off the wrong crowd. Still, a surprisingly easy target for the assassin in training.

“Megumi, s’time to go,” the older man wipes his knife and cautiously looks along the alleyway.

His son is unresponsive.

Toji gets closer, squinting in the dark to find his hands wrapped around her neck.

She’s still alive, barely, but clinging on nonetheless, fading in and out of consciousness.

“What are you doing? Just– just fucking–”

“Wait”

The younger man’s stern voice halts Toji from slitting her throat.

And he watches his son squeeze the life out of the young woman.

His lips twitch when her eyes roll back. But still, his hand remains over her windpipe, feeling her pulse die when the last breaths escape her body.

“Megumi. We need to go.”

His son finally pulls away, and they become invisible once more.

Despite his grisly methods, not only did Megumi prove useful, but their missions also provided for some much needed father-son bonding time.

So, with his son reaching 25 years old, they got into this gruesome habit together, becoming partners.

Another habit Megumi picked up from the older man was his tendency to visit strip clubs after their kill. They were great places to hide, especially if you knew the owners well enough. And Toji knew each and every member of staff in this place; the managers, the bar staff, the girls.

And he knew a certain pretty little girl very well indeed.

Despite his many visits he never made any inappropriate advances, only paid to watch you dance. Maybe a lap dance every now and again if he was feeling particularly self gratuitous.

You share few words, but seem to have a mutual understanding of one another. You know that he loves watching you, and you’ve come to like his stern demeanour and surprisingly respectful attitude, enjoying his ability to scare off creepy customers. He’s kind of like your personal bodyguard at work. You feel lucky to have met him.

Unlike some of the halfwit scumbags that frequent the club, he’s a real man. From his assertive, deep tones, those muscles, perfect for manhandling little girls like you, and those sharp eyes, staring as if he wants your body as much as you want his.

But you have no idea what he does for work– he almost seems nocturnal.

Then you notice that he starts bringing someone else to the club.

His younger brother? His son? You can’t tell. But you know for certain that they’re related as soon as they step in together– their hair is styled differently, but is the same absolute black. The strobe lighting illuminates different colours in the younger man’s eyes, but they have the same glare. Their faces are a slightly different shape, but they have the same wicked smile.

How could there be two of him? One was already enough.

“Meet my son.”

Oh. He might be the same age as me. You think, studying his features– bags under his eyes, more height than muscle, cheeks slightly sunken.

His exchanges are awkward. He looks uncomfortable.

You offer him a dance, not knowing what else to do. You’re here to work, after all.

Toji pays for a private dance and you walk with his son to a booth, the older man giving him a wink and a devilish smile.

You draw the curtains and pause, looking at the way he’s fidgeting.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No,” he replies tersely, narrowing his eyes.

You ask if he wants a lap dance, but he’s so hesitant that you just end up sitting next to him and chatting instead.

“So, do you enjoy working here?” he sounds less nervous now he’s gotten to know your name, at least.

“Yeah, nice customers for the most part, but the hours are pretty long.”

“Same with my job– the hours, I mean.”

“You don’t work with the public?”

“Sort of…” he trails off, dark eyes darting over your features.

You notice, despite your clothing revealing most of your body to him, that he’s focusing on your lips more than anything.

“You’re um,” he takes a long pause, dragging his gaze back to your eyes, “very pretty.”

How sweet. Your eyes widen slightly, a smile forming on your lips. You’re not used to sweet.

“Th-thank you.” you can’t help the stuttering– the way he’s looking at you with sudden intensity catches your tongue.

“Shall we–” you reach to open the curtain of the private booth, your arm caught in his strong grip, your body freezing.

“You– you can’t touch me–” does he not know that?

“Sorry” he retracts his hand, fiddling with his fingers.

“You change your mind or something?”

“No, I just wanted to… look at you, for a little longer,” you turn to face him again, “if that’s ok.”

So you nod and sit down.

He has a hungry look in his eyes now– he starts with your face, your eyes, in fact, making incredible, unwavering contact until you can’t take it, your pupils darting away to his amusement. Then he finds your mouth, and the way you’re chewing the inside of your cheek.

Then your neck, where he focuses intently on the slow thrum of your jugular. He licks his lips, making you squirm and wish he would’ve accepted the lap dance.

His gaze darts over the rest of your body and you watch the clock tick over to midnight, signalling fifteen minutes and the end of his private… whatever the fuck this was.

“Time’s up.” You stand and reach for the curtain, feeling his eyes remain over your figure as you step out and waltz back to the changing rooms.

You get off early tonight, having a final smoke with your colleagues when you see a text pop through from Toji. After exchanging numbers months ago, he barely contacts you, only asking where you are if you’re not at your regular shift.

[00:14] Toji

Come over?

You’re surprised he’s asking.

You’re tempted– after all, it is for Toji. You’ve been wanting him to reach out to you, thinking that he would’ve made his move much sooner. Every cell in your body is telling you not to do this, but you ignore the feeling, finding his hotel.

You enter the room– luckily for you, in a slightly nicer establishment than usual– still, one that is filled with the smell of alcohol and cannabis, the TV blaring on some late night gambling channel.

So they sit you down, welcoming you into their little games and bets, offering you hard liquor and joints till you’re tipsy.

After Toji’s multiple visits to your workplace, and seeing you at other clubs with your friends, he knows you’re into all kinds of drugs.

He caught you with white powder under your nose on one occasion, your pupils the size of the fucking moon another night, and with a blunt hanging out your mouth after work one evening.

He’s seen it all. He knows you’re a fiend. So… what’s the harm in pushing you a little further? Surely you can take it.

⁺⋆

Your eyelids are growing heavy, your body slumped on the floor against the coffee table while you stare at the TV in stupor. Their joints were just so packed it's nearly finished you off, and the last few drags tasted kinda funny.

“Can we tie her up now?”

You’re not sure if you heard that right, swivelling in the direction of the voice and blinking in disbelief.

You turn to find Toji with his legs spread wide, slouched back on the sofa where you left him, while the younger man stands holding some kind of cord in his hands.

Your eyes widen, your mind jolting awake when you see the way he pulls and grips it, stepping closer to you. Your body lags.

“Mm” Toji grunts, not taking his eyes off the TV.

Megumi takes this as permission to pull you up and drag you to the bedroom, your legs stumbling after your body, your mind succumbing to panic.

His hand tugs at your wrist, while you’re distracted by something strange in the edges of your vision. It’s subtle to start with, colours fading in where they weren’t before, shadows starting to move.

You try to ignore it, blaming the weed and flickering lights playing tricks on your mind.

You’re pulled from your daze when Megumi jerks your arms roughly, your vision readjusting to find yourself on the bed, your wrists forced to the frame in a tight knot of coarse, black rope.

“Mm– Megumi,” your voice comes out more slurred than you expected, confusion crossing your features, “w-what’re you doin’...”

“What does it look like?” He shoots back, his sharp tone making you recoil.

“I, I don’ know– jus’, w-where’s Toji?”

He watches your eyes dart about, enjoying your fearful expression.

You notice a sinister glint behind his indigo irises, his face looming closer and starting to cloud your vision.

You’re squirming now, pushing yourself up the bed, trying to distance yourself from him. But he keeps coming.

“Stay still…” he stops your motions with a single cool hand closing around your ankle, dark eyes trained on your throat again.

Time stops still when he leans in and places a single, chaste kiss over your neck.

He does it slowly. Gently. As if you’re the only one he’d kiss like this. His silent intensity makes you tremble.

He pulls away with a pleased hum, the feeling of your heartbeat making his lips tingle, his dark mess of hair illuminated with a dull halo.

He’s not too far gone. You could still go back.

“Y-you don’ have to do this,” you stumble, your voice cracking.

“I know,” he presses another kiss over your jaw, becoming ravenous now he can almost smell your fear, “but I want to…”

His voice disappears into the crook of your neck, where he starts sucking and tonguing.

He wants to taste you.

There’s a deep ache inside you now, gripping at your heart and filling your lungs, where it spreads to your throat– to where you can feel his mouth over you.

Nobody has ever kissed you like this before.

The way he sucks and bites is cruel, your body starting to flood with pain. If he does it any harder you’re sure he’s going to taste your blood. He’s going to puncture your neck and let it spill.

“M-megumi– please–” your whispered sobs only urge him on, till he’s dragging his canines over you and sinking them into the soft flesh.

His impassioned movements finally ebb as he switches to tending your marked skin with his tongue and lips, inhaling your scent deeply.

He sits up now, looking longingly into your tear stained eyes, his pupils drifting to where your lips are quivering with his name.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he lies, stroking your ankles gently.

Standing up, he watches you shake your head again, begging him not to go any further and that you’d anticipated being with Toji tonight, asking where he is again.

“He’s a little busy…” he cranes his neck to ensure his father is still transfixed by the TV.

“Plus, you should be grateful,” he tugs off his belt, “you get to take my virginity.”

Your eyes fly wide, your mouth dry and gulping for air stupidly.

Just the way he looks puts you on edge– and now you know he has no experience, you can’t begin to fathom what he’s going to do to you.

“Nn-no– thought, thought Toji w-w–”

His next movements are too swift for your idle, drug induced brain to comprehend.

He’s over you, your arms twisted uncomfortably above your head, his cock nudging at the sweet bud of your clit.

That’s the only ‘foreplay’ you’ll be treated to before he slots himself up against your tight, unprepped entrance, shoving your dress and panties aside.

“Toji!!!” you cry out for the older man, “Toji, god–” but your voice is interrupted, choked by his cock sinking into you, hard and deep.

The man before you has changed, his resting scowl paling in comparison to the now fierce arch of his eyebrows.

Why are you crying for his father when he has everything you need right here?

“Ah– haah—” you shake and squirm, struggling with his untamed, crude thrusting.

Your head flies back when he pushes deeper still, slowly working your raw pussy open to the shape of him, while he watches fresh tears trickling over your waterline and gathering beautifully in the corners of your wide, glassy eyes.

“Hm,” he lets a little laugh escape, enjoying your quiet sobbing and whimpering as he gets rougher and dirtier, grabbing and marking your skin.

Your arms start to jostle and tug in the bindings, your wrists aching from the pressure.

“Untie me…” you sniffle.

“Untie you? But I haven’t even got started yet…”

He wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, trailing his hand down your face and stroking the marks on your neck.

“Might untie you after I hear you scream,” he gives you an experimental squeeze, then leans closer, bringing his face down next to yours.

The way he’s talking has you wondering if he really is a virgin, your thought quickly dispelled by his hedonistic thrusting.

You can hear his shaky breath in your ear now, your legs lifting instinctively when you feel him haphazardly pressing on your g-spot.

“Yeah, open up f’me,” he whispers, sucking on your earlobe, his free arm encircling your head to cage you in closer.

You can feel his hips start to jolt unevenly. He’s close.

“D-don– don’ cum inside,” you beg, your eyes getting bleary as he constricts your windpipe.

You feel him smirking over your skin, speeding up his ragged motions, squeezing.

Your pained breaths consume him, urging him to crush your throat with a look in his eyes that makes you believe he’s going to take your life.

His pale, beautiful face hovers above yours, eyes enrapt by every miniscule expression of terror that passes your features.

“S-s—”

Your voice is gone, you can only fight for breath now, your body succumbing to a helpless fit.

You struggle. Kicking. Hips bucking.

He drinks it all in, thrusting mercilessly now.

“You can’t do that to her.”

You hear a sudden deep, booming voice, hands pulled from your neck, air flooding your lungs as you sputter and cough.

Toji takes his son’s arms and bends them behind his back, restraining him instantly and pulling him off you; out of you.

He lets the sight sink in for a moment, words failing him.

Toji’s affected by the drugs and booze, but he can still get some kind of hold on this fucked up situation.

“Look. Just let me show you… what you’re supposed to do,” he drawls into the younger man’s ear before releasing him.

Sure, he needs to take responsibility. But he can’t let you go. Not yet.

You shake your head again, watching the younger man struggling with his achy, hard boner after being denied his first raw dogging orgasm.

His father readjusts you on the bed to his own liking, leaving you tied up and taking your thighs in his beefy hands. He dips his head low, lips skimming over your neglected clit.

“‘M feelin’ hungry…” he mutters, proceeding to swirl his tongue through your heat, where his son’s cock was digging moments ago, humming while parting your labia and licking sensually at your little jewel.

However done you are with this situation, overcome with lightheadedness from your choking, you’re glad to at least be sent reeling through a few much needed orgasms.

And now you’ve had a chance to breathe and relax a little, you’re becoming aware of a shift in your consciousness.

Your body is right here, in this moment, experiencing every fleeting detail in high definition. But your mind is somewhere else, overcome with a feeling of simultaneous presence and dissociation.

The older man sits up, patting the bed for his son to join him.

“You ok, doll?”

He watches you look around curiously, taking in the room that’s now bending and changing before you.

“Think the lsd’s kickin’ in…” he mutters, “just lay back, promise we’re not gunna hurt ya.”

“The-the what?” you stutter, your hands starting to tense and grip in the restraints.

“Look, there were a few drops of acid in that last wrap, jus’ relax, ok?”

Fuck. You knew you shouldn’t have come here.

You let it sink in, taking a deep breath so you don’t lose your cool. You cannot let your mind spiral on this drug.

“That’s it,” he encourages you, “good girl. Jus’ let go.”

You give up trying to fight it, obeying his gentle tones, working past the nausea to find your mind and body entering a different headspace.

Reality fades in and out, feeling their tongues on you, one after the other, switching and exchanging till you’re unaware of what’s happening to you.

You can only sense their touch, submitting your body to the chemical pleasure.

Your clothes are torn off now, soft, deep words being exchanged until you feel them shifting around.

You feel the unmistakable nudging of a hardened cock at your entrance once more. Only this time, it slips through your folds easily, your slick hole welcoming the long, hard member.

You blink slowly, your vision wobbling as your mind enters a trance in sync with their rhythm.

“Megumi?” no, “Toji?” you honestly can’t tell, your faculties slowly dulling as the powerful drug takes over.

You reach out your arms hoping to discern who’s inside you, only for their body to move away as another frame enters your view.

You feel his cock sink in, hips rolling and stimulating your senses till you’re creaming and moaning around his girth.

“T-tojii–” you’re sure it must be the older man. He feels strong, manhandling you and pushing you wider.

But he pulls away too soon.

You focus hard, seeing both of them now, one figure in front of the other, one man guiding, the other following.

“...like this… take her… deep…” you can only make out a few words, wide eyes distracted by the scar on his lips.

But the way Megumi’s cock slides in is completely different than before– the feral jackhammering transformed into long drags, smooth and hard.

They exchange words, Megumi’s movements getting greedier until you feel his body consuming yours in a display of lust and passion so strong you let out a scream of his name.

The sound of your voice, combined with the grip of your pussy that’s drenched with the slick of a fresh orgasm, rips a groan from his depths.

You hear him panting and moaning, his thrusts getting sloppy, until he’s drawn out of you again.

That was close. You think, realising his father pulled him away before he could spill inside you.

Things are getting blurry now. They’re both over you, on you, in you.

With the surreal visuals taking over, your mind enters another realm while they kiss and fuck and share your body.

Spiky black hair, blue and green eyes flashing, hard muscles and sadistic smiles are all you can see.

Their images burn into your retina, becoming a blurred mirage of nightmarish beauty.

A sight that you will never forget.

Now that Toji’s brought his son up to speed and you’re all wet, you honestly can’t tell who is who.

So you sink into it, enjoying the spiralling visions behind your closed eyelids while they draw waves of orgasmic pleasure from your body.

They bend and move you, pinning your legs back, pushing deeper, then onto your knees. You’re getting so absorbed in the trip now, the euphoric energy taking over, that you’re only partly aware that you’re being lifted.

You’re off the bed, you know that much.

You’re in a pair of strong arms. It’s Toji. You smile, your eyes clearing to see his roguishly handsome face before you.

“Hey pretty girl,” he places tender kisses over your lips, and you accept them with pleasure, “gunna try somethin’ fun now…”

You giggle, liking the sound of that very much.

He holds you, his massive cock melting into your core so deep he’s going to become a part of you, then slides his fingers over your ass.

You feel another body behind you. Megumi.

You turn, feeling his lips over you as well, murmuring sweet praise in your ear the whole while.

You feel him sliding over your ass now, through the wet juice of your pussy, pushing into the tight ring.

“Oh, oh my– fuck–” he edges in, his father thrusting slowly while urging him to be gentle.

“Haahhh–” you breathe out, your head falling back onto Megumi’s hard shoulder where he caresses your skin with his lips.

“That’s– that’s fucking good,” he hums in your ear, pushing himself all the way back while grabbing your ass.

They cradle you, thrusting in tandem, as you reach a new level of bliss.

Hearing them, feeling them takes you higher, until you can only sense their deep moans vibrating through you, the drag of their cocks.

Your thoughts turn slippery, losing focus on the world around you, wondering how you ended up here in the first place, realising that you don’t care.

Right now, you care about the man in front of you, tall and broad, scarred lip between his teeth with dark green eyes fixed on yours.

His ever sombre stare resides behind those fiery irises.

It captivates you.

Your body is convulsing with dopamine once more, slurred thank yous leaving your lips, and all you can concentrate on is counting the shades of green in his eyes.

Flecks of amber shimmer within the emerald, his lashes blinking slowly, eyebrows quirking.

“Watcha lookin’ at?”

“Mm, pretty,” is all you can muster at this time, earning a snort of laughter.

He mutters under his breath and starts taking you harder till you feel him pulling you off his son and pushing you down on the bed.

Your legs spread, wide and obedient, holding yourself by the knees while he takes your nipples between his lips, between his teeth.

“How many times s’that now?” he feels you clenching and bucking again.

You just giggle and sigh, stroking his obsidian strands in a dreamy state.

He hums with pleasure; you feel his nose dipping into your neck, where he places soft, gentle kisses, in contrast to his now animalistic pace.

Letting off hot grunts and moans, he finally spills his hot, wet cum.

He pulls away, his son entering your vision once more.

Angling your ass up, he guides himself in again, enjoying the way your tight muscle spasms around him, but takes him all nonetheless.

His hips get nasty, drawing whimpers from you until he nears his release, growling and sinking his teeth into your marked skin.

“Fuck– fuck–” you tug at his jet black spikes, encouraging him to take all he needs until you feel his hot load shoot deep into you.

“Ugh, oh princess– fuck me–” he sighs, strong muscles overcome with exhaustion as he watches your beautiful features relax once more.

You feel peaceful, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair hangs over those dark eyes.

Your wavering vision absorbs his graceful figure in all his glory, your mouth opening before your brain catches up.

“Art” you poke at his hardened stomach, earning a slight smile, “artist.” You look up at his father now, appreciating the view as he stands before you.

You giggle, laying back and focusing on the ebb and flow of your breath, feeling your senses leave you, your eyes resting as you enter transcendental sleep.

⁺⋆

You wake to find your body bare, but clean.

There’s no longer white liquid oozing from you– just soft, warm sheets and the fresh smell of soap.

You climb out of the bed, stepping to the bathroom, eyes still half lidded and hazy.

You look in the mirror, finding kaleidoscopic visuals in the reflection, where the glass bends and trembles.

But you can see your face. Unscathed. Unharmed. You look down. It’s just a few bruises. You’re fine.

Despite their questionable methods, this has been a good trip… and you have to admit, a very good fuck.

So in your giddy state, you tiptoe out to the main room, watching their heads turn from the TV, grins emerging.

“Mornin’ honey,” Toji coos. It’s dark outside. You have no idea what time it is.

You step over to the sofa, sinking between the two men again, taking their lips and tongues while their hands roam and fondle your body.

You sit back, enjoying how they’re drawn to you magnetically, allowing their pleasure to fill your body once more while you ride out the most ethereal high of your life.

⋆⁺ [see you in hell]

toji | m.list

#magic.kinktober⋆⁺#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro smut #megumi fushiguro #megumi fushiguro smut #tw: murder #tw: violent death #tw: violence #tw: sex work #tw: inc*st #tw: drugs #tw: dubious consent #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon #tw: sex #tw: sex mention

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satoruwiki · 10 months ago

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feed us more naoya headcanons!!!

…more?? 🧍‍♀️ who am i to deny you

♡₊˚ Naoya is the type of man to…𓈒 ˚ ⟡ pt.2

content: jjk headcanons; half sfw/half nsfw; afab!reader; another glimpse of the horrors you’d be going through as his partner lol

n/a: i almost went bald from how hard i was scratching my head to come up with more hcs, but i think i made it?? lol

these are my hcs! feel free to agree or disagree :b any request/interaction supporting this post is very much appreciated <3

sfw ver! ୨ৎ

Naoya is the type of man to… be excessively controlling. From what you eat to what you wear, Naoya will strictly decide it for you, because he always knows what’s best for you, so don’t even try to object. Unless you want to put him in a bad mood.

Naoya is the type of man to… act like a loving husband in public but treat you like trash at home. Only the clansmen and whoever is close to you would actually know how your life is as Naoya’s spouse. Naoya cares about being the best at everything, therefore he’d pretend to be a good husband to you when going out.

Naoya is the type of man to… have a long lasting situationship. If it isn’t by an arranged marriage, don’t expect him to ever commit to you. He hates any type of commitment that isn’t with himself. He’ll make up excuses or will simply tell you that you are both fine just like you are. However if you ever try to distance yourself from him, that is something he won’t allow you. You guys aren’t nothing serious, but he still wants to keep you within reach.

Naoya is the type of man to… gaslight you and purposely guilt trip you so you never leave him. If you ever get sick of him and try to leave, Naoya will literally make everything your fault and/or harass so you end up feeling bad and comeback to him. And no, he won’t change for you.

Naoya is the type of man to… make everything about himself. Naoya doesn’t care about what you like or your thoughts, they aren’t important or relevant to him. But you should listen to him ramble about his cousin or his ideology though. Most of the conversations with Naoya would consist of: how great he is, he’s the only one who truly ‘understood’ Toji and everyone is weak except him.

nsfw ver! ୨ৎ

Naoya is the type of man to… choke you. Not to the point of killing you, of course. He still needs his little cockwhore alive and well for him to bury his cock into your warm walls whenever he pleases.

Naoya is the type of man to… have a huge dacryphilia kink. He won’t cum if he doesn’t see you cry.

Naoya is the type of man to… edge you. You would have to beg for mercy in order for him to even consider let you cum. He can go on for hours edging you and never get tired of your pleas. He finds pleasure in reducing you into a needy pathetic slut.

Naoya is the type of man to… be into shibari. He probably knows every knot in the damn book and will tie you up with ease and differently each time. You would look cute tied up though.

Naoya is the type of man to…. into knife and wax play. No big explanation here, he’s just really into bdsm and making you feel some sort of pain.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk headcanons #headcanon #jjk naoya #naoya x you #naoya zen'in x reader #zenin naoya #naoya x reader #naoya smut #naoya zenin #jjk zenin #zenin #zenin clan #jjk hcs

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depravitycentral · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere! Kyojuro Rengoku General Profile

Yandere! Kyojuro Rengoku x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, violence, he breaks your fingers, Kyo feeds you bird-style and it's pretty gross and gnarly, delusions/detachment from reality, Stockholm Syndrome, masturbation, slight misogyny/traditional gender roles, forced motherhood, allusions to non-con, you and Kyo share a toothbrush ugh, lots of references to death, 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!

WC: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Caring

Similarly to most other Hashira, Kyojuro is greatly attracted to honest, genuine kindness.

His world is so full of hatred, death, and pain, and having a darling who is softer, sweeter, more empathetic makes his heart swell.

(And, occasionally, other things will swell when he sees his darling smiling or complimenting or speaking with children - but Kyojuro pays it no mind. So you shouldn’t, either.)

There’s just something so alluring about a darling who genuinely cares for the people around them - he himself is quite positive, if not blunt, and a darling who can match his philosophy of protecting and caring for those who need it would be a perfect match.

He likes the idea of a darling who has the best intentions of others’ at heart; it’s refreshing to see and interact with someone who is so pure and wonderfully kind, because while his fellow slayers are certainly committed to a good cause, his darling is different.

They’re naturally sweet, utterly unaware of the horrors of this world and yet still striving to make others smile, still trying to help undo any wrongs those around them have experienced.

This aspect of his darling is one of the first things he notices about them, and while he’s not a selfish man by any means, he’ll grow to absolutely love when this caring nature is directed at him, particular after long, difficult missions where he’s both physically and emotionally exhausted, only desiring to hold something soft and sweet and warm.

Coincidentally, something exactly like his darling.

Passionate

The specific passion itself is inconsequential – it doesn’t matter what his darling loves, as long as they love something.

He himself is driven by internal motivation and a righteousness to help others, and while his darling doesn’t need to be quite this serious, he likes the idea of them having goals and aspirations.

The most likely way this manifests itself within his darling is through a creative platform – art, music, culinary arts, writing, or any sort of activity in which his darling can express themselves.

He likes that his darling has something they truly enjoy, and he’s the type to want to learn about and indulge in his darling’s passion.

He’ll eagerly listen to everything they have to say, absorbing the information with wide, glittering eyes and a smile, trying so very hard to listen to their words but getting repeatedly distracted by how utterly adorable they look when they’re concentrating.

He can’t stop admiring the way they look when they’re discussing their passion, how happy they become, radiating a sort of joy and glow that only makes him fall harder and deeper, his obsession solidifying with every smile they give him.

And he’ll fully foster this passion of theirs – he’s got access to any resources his darling can dream of, easily providing them and enjoying the way their face lights up, how they become so grateful.

His only caveat is that he has to watch them as they work at their passion, getting a front row seat to watch them enjoy themselves, his bright eyes fixed on them the entire time because god, how are they so utterly perfect?

It’s endearing to Kyojuro because in his mind, his darling looks at him that way, too, with a smile and undying love.

Ambitious

Now, his darling doesn’t need to be ambitious in the sense that they take huge risks, or even that they have high expectations and goals for themselves.

It can manifest this way, sure, but the main core of why he finds this personality trait attractive is because it shows drive.

He likes a darling who has a strong sense of self; he doesn’t want to change his beloved in any way; he wants to be their pillar of support, to offer unwavering help and encouragement for whatever pursuits they’re chasing after, no matter how big or small.

He thinks it’s a wonderful thing to have dreams for the future, just as he does – he dreams of Senjuro once again having a happy family (one he hopes his darling will help provide), and of all demons being eradicated so that the world can live peacefully.

He’ll cherish and respect any dreams his darling possesses, but only if they don’t interfere with what he believes should happen.

He prioritizes his relationship with his darling above many things, and this includes what his darling wants most.

He will be expecting them to dutifully become his loving partner and wife, to bear his children and help him raise them, to be a guiding, loving hand to teach them morality, charity, and all sorts of other things that his darling hardly believes he possesses.

So while he’ll likely crush the ambitions his darling possesses, the mere fact that they have ambitions is attractive to him.

Talkative

It’s not that Kyojuro can’t fall for a quieter darling, but rather that he wants someone who will match his chattiness.

He’s naturally quite loud, truly a boisterous man who loves to interact with others.

He’s constantly peppering his darling with questions, his voice a steady flow as he just talks and talks and talks, throwing compliments and them alongside grandiose declarations of love, all intermixed with small talk about the weather or the flowers on the sides of the village pathways, or even about the pretty birds flying in the sky.

He just likes interacting with his darling, and he needs someone that is willing to return his eagerness to talk.

He likes the way his darling’s attention stays on him when he’s speaking to them; how their eyes stay fixed on his form, how they nod along to his words, how they laugh at his outlandish, unbelievable claims and logic, how they just simply acknowledge him, making him feel comfortable and seen and wanted.

Kyojuro will want to spend hours talking with his darling, and he needs someone who can match this energy. He needs a darling who can pepper him with their own questions, who can keep the conversation flowing and keep the interaction alive.

Besides, Kyojuro has this unwavering, unsatiable curiosity for his beloved, one that can only be partially quelled when his darling is revealing more and more about themselves.

And he’ll eagerly listen, mentally storing away each new piece of information, remembering absolutely everything because everything about his darling is important, something that must be remembered and cherished and worshipped.

They’re just perfect, and if they’re naturally chatty, it only furthers his obsession.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Delusional

Generally speaking, from the moment that Kyojuro’s feelings for you fully form, he’s absolutely, utterly under the impression that every emotion, desire and draw he feels towards you is returned fully. He honestly believes that you’re just as in love as he is, that the connection he’s so acutely aware of between the both of you is mutual, that you’re just as desperate and eager to be his partner, his lover, his wife and the woman he’ll spend the rest of his life with.

He doesn’t have any real romantic experience - he’s been attracted to women before, sure, but he’s never courted someone before you simply because when he courts, he intends to wed.

And as a result, his only real reference for romance is his own parents’ relationship. And while it was loving, beautiful, healthy while his mother was still alive, time and his changing father have left Kyojuro with a bit of a warped view of love.

And this is where his delusions stem from - he’s confident, desperate for you to return the passionate feelings he holds for you, and he manages to convince himself of your growing love for him every day.

He’s so sure, in fact, that even as his obsession with you forms (slowly, as he’s a bit picky about partners and can be a bit oblivious even towards his own feelings), so do the beginnings of his detachment from reality. As he slowly begins realizing that he enjoys being in your presence more than most other people, your smiles and greetings of oh hello Rengoku, I didn’t know you’d be here will seem more and more like you expressing your glee at having him by your side rather than a simple, platonic welcome.

As he realizes that hearing you laugh makes his palms sweat and his heart race, he begins thinking your laugh is really for him, that your chuckles are stronger when they’re directed at him than compared to others.

He’s imagining your pretty face lighting up with that radiant smile behind closed eyes when he’s falling asleep at night, and slowly he begins concluding that your every quirk of the lip towards him must mean that you’re happy with him, that his presence alone fills you with a sort of joy that you simply can’t hide.

(And, perhaps you know that it’s you that fills his thoughts at night – maybe you’re purposefully plaguing his thoughts, trying to tell him something - perhaps you want him to think of you and your lovely mouth, the way your lips look when you say his name, how your tongue flicks out to wet them just so…)

It’s mostly innocent in the beginning; his delusions manifest more as simply misreading the signals you send him, honest mistakes that aren’t too uncommon – but, as the relationship (or, at least the one Kyojuro is trying so very hard cultivate) progresses, these slips in judgment become more and more profound, more and more difficult to ignore.

When he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest as he inhales deeply and enthusiastically greets you in a voice just a bit too breathy for your liking, Kyojuro sees your discreet attempts at ending the far-too-long hug as you merely trying to get comfortable.

Surely you just want to feel more of his body against your own, or want him to be closer so that there’s nothing separating you from him, from the love he’s oh so willing to give you.

When you bite your lip and avert your gaze as you politely ask him to stop staring at you so much and following you home, Kyojuro will simply smile, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving you a firm don’t worry, I don’t mind protecting you! It’s my place as a Hashira, after all, so don’t needlessly fret!

He honestly doesn’t understand why you’re not as happy as he is, and frankly he can’t even really fathom the idea that you aren’t happy – how can he, when he’s been searching for so many years for a partner to love and spoil?

How can he, when your body just seems to perfectly fit against his own, your voice like honey and your name a drug as it slips from his lips?

How can he, when he’s seen his father so harshly decline, when the memory of his mother is still so fresh, when he wants so badly to build a family of his own, to give Senjuro another family to call his?

How can he, when you become the sole reason he begins valuing his own life during missions, not being as reckless because he needs to come home to you - you need your lover and husband, of course.

(In more ways than one - who will protect you? Provide for you? Pleasure you?)

Kyojuro honestly latches onto you, his every thought and emotion revolving around you you you, to the point where even once he’s locked you away, deep inside the Rengoku residence with your shared bed and lovely, expensive new kimonos neatly folded in stacks upon stacks (all in shades of reds and golds, of course, to signify your status with him), he still won’t recognize that you’re always crying because you’re scared.

He won’t realizethat you flinch when he touches you because you don’t want him anywhere near you.

He won’t connect the dots that you spend each and every night curled up in a ball weeping because you just want to go home, please Kyojuro, please…

Try as he may, he just can’t fathom that you aren’t as madly, desperately in love – so don’t bother, really, because it’s much more hassle than it’s worth, and in the end he’ll get what he wants. He always will get what he wants, so why don’t you just give in?

He’ll never let you go, never believe any of your pleas to be freed from him, so why don’t you just accept his love?

Protective

Honestly, your personal combat abilities are irrelevant - in Kyojuro’s mind, you’re weak. Defenseless. Laughably unable to keep yourself safe and out of trouble - incapable, even, though it sounds a bit harsh.

He believes that you’re too fragile and sweet and wonderful to be anywhere near a demon, a human with bad intentions, or anything of the sort.

Your strengths lie not in battle, but in your charm and beauty - you’re so sweet, your words melting him like butter and leaving him as putty in your hands, his heart doing backflips in his chest as his fingers twitch to do anything and everything just to keep you smiling.

Your talents lie in the way you effortlessly intrigue him; your words ensnaring his attention no matter the topic, your touch sending electricity up his spine, even your most mundane actions making him stop and stare because every little thing you do is important.

You simply aren’t made for the battlefield, or for confrontation in general - he’s sure of it, and he’s arguably the most trustworthy source of judgment you could find. He’s a seasoned Hashira, seen more death than you can imagine, slaughtered more demons than you can count, so could he really be wrong in his assessment of your abilities?

He sees you as a bit of a baby, in all honesty, because while he’s more than aware of your womanly charms (the not so subtle way his eyes rake over your figure when he forces you to bathe with him is enough to convince you of that, if the way his hands ghost over the bulge of his trousers when you speak to him wasn’t enough), he still can’t shake the paranoia that you’ll one day be hurt.

He’s terrified that you can’t really take care of yourself as well as he can. And frankly, the paranoia isn’t unfounded – it’s difficult to fault him for his overprotectiveness when you think of his past, how often he sees death, and how often he’s the cause of it.

He’s too accustomed to seeing others’ lives lost, and he absolutely refuses to allow you the same fate, so long as he’s breathing and has enough finger strength to grip his sword and send air rushing through his lungs.

He’s determined to a disturbing degree to keep you safe; with every demon he decapitates, internally he’s sighing in relief because that’s one less monster that could potentially sink their claws into you - every demon dead is a step towards keeping you safe, healthy, alive, his.

He’s patronizing in an odd way, because while he doubts your capabilities, he doesn’t treat you like you’re a child. He’s just hovering, always, with his eyes glued to you and that same unnerving, wide smile on his lips that never seems to go away when you’re around him.

His gaze is wide and excited as he sees how you bring the bowl of soup to your lips to sip, the intensity of the way he watches making your hands tremble and a bit of the hot soup spill down to your chest.

He’ll let you feed yourself - for now - but as soon as you flinch, the heat and wetness making you cringe as you get up to clean yourself, he’s on you – a flash of yellow and red as he tut-tuts and uses the sleeve of his haori to wipe up the mess, a thumb against your lip and his face much too close to yours as he tells you to be careful, don’t hurt yourself, my flame.

He’s not letting you touch anything with sharp edges, for fear that you’ll trip and cut yourself, nor does he allow you permission to speak to anyone new that he hasn’t already extensively vetted in his own way.

(This comprises mostly of just simply observing someone, and the moment he sees something even slightly unfavorable - like a snarky comment or even having their hair be messy - he’s deciding that they’re not good enough to interact with you - you’re better than them, and speaking with them would only taint you, bringing you down from the pedestal he places you on.)

He’s controlling, not allowing anyone into your life that isn’t himself, to the point that he’ll simply show up the second another man or woman begins speaking with you, a strong arm around your waist with fingers digging in much harsher than they should, that familiar smile tight on his lips.

He’s terrified that he’ll one day lose you, and in a lot of ways keeping you safe is his own way of living up to the expectations of his mother.

You’re weak, so damn weak, and you need someone to care for you, to be there for you and take care of you in your time of need, and Kyojuro is more than happy to take on the role, to take responsibility of your life and safety.

It’s a bit overwhelming, how he’s always offering to do tasks for you, interrupting you halfway through to take over with that broad grin of his, that laugh and a rambunctious what kind of lover would I be if I didn’t carry your groceries for you making it difficult to stop him.

And really, eventually you’ll get to the point of relenting and letting him to do as he pleases, because as much as the man may intimidate you, scare you or disturb you, there’s just something about his desperation to please you that’ll get you feeling oddly flattered, flustered simply because of the lengths he’s willing to go.

Because really, while it may scare you how his hand always seems to find a place at your hip, don’t all the stories and movies have chivalrous male leads helping guide the girl through crowded areas, a steady hand to help keep them grounded, just as Kyojuro does?

Sure, it’s weird how he knows the order from every restaurant in town that you like, how he’s always able to show up at just the right time with a steaming bowl of udon or whatever you’re feeling, but doesn’t it feel nice to be cared for, that he thought of you and made the stop to buy you something?

It may be disturbing how he gulps and smiles wider every time he sees you bend over, but isn’t it flattering to know that he finds your body attractive?

He won’t allow you to place a finger on anything or anyone that could hurt you, so you’d better get used to the life of a pampered housewife – because while it will take him a long while to allow you to cook with any sort of heat, there’s something oddly therapeutic about being your big, strong partner that provides for you, while you keep his bed and heart warm, all with that natural charm he finds so alluring.

Clingy

Because Kyojuro’s perceptions of your relationship aren’t exactly realistic, he’ll come off as extremely, extremely needy to you. But it’s in a strange way – he’s not constantly clinging onto you, needing your reassurance and needing your eyes to stay focused entirely on him.

(He certainly won’t discourage this kind of behavior, of course, but he isn’t that outwardly desperate, and he isn’t the type to physically grasp your chin to keep you looking at him. He’ll perhaps grasp your hand or your waist to keep you at his hip, but he’s not quite that blatant.)

Instead, his clinginess manifests in how he’s simply always around you.

His presence will become a constant in your life – you’d be hard pressed to not see those familiar blond and red locks in your peripheral, or to hear that booming voice ringing in your ears. It would be difficult to find yourself in a public situation where Kyojuro isn’t standing diligently at your side, that blinding smile spread across his face, turning just a bit softer and a bit more earnest when it’s aimed at you.

Really, he simply hates being away from you. Not having you within his sight makes him nervous, anxiety itching at his stomach because where are you?

It’s not possessiveness, not a paranoia that you could be talking to other men, but rather an honest, genuine, horrible fear that you could be hurt, that someone could’ve taken you and injured you and touched you and possibly even have killed you.

And frankly, the fear isn’t too unfounded – you’ll understand why he's always rushing to you, literally running to catch up with you when you wander away from him, a steady hand pressing into your back as he pulls you into a hug, the faint smell of woodsmoke and musk filling your nose as the hard planes of his chest press against you.

It’s understandable, so you won’t really wonder why he’s always insisting on accompanying you every free moment he has, his presence acting as your shadow but much, much louder. It might make you uncomfortable, sure, because having someone always by your side is a little disorienting and overwhelming at times, but you’ll tolerate it – how can you tell Kyojuro no, anyway?

He’s so radiant when he’s giving you that smile, his eyes sparkling and his hands soft and gentle as he grasps onto yours, telling you that he’s so excited, we must try the new ramen shop down the street! I’ll order your favorite, you needn’t remind me what it is! I think we should share one, and perhaps a second or third…

(It’s probably not worth mentioning to him that you never even told him what your favorite is, he just seemed to know it, a fact that initially unnerved you, but you’ve found that guessing what you’ll like seems to be a talent of his. It’s not, of course, because he’s spent hours talking with any family members or friends of yours to learn every possible scrap of information about you that he can, introducing himself as your fiancé and charming them enough to get even the most sensitive secrets out of them, including your menstrual patterns, your bathing routine, even your temperament as a child because he’s convinced it will give him insight into the temperaments of your future – and inevitable – children together.)

You’ll disregard his penchant for always staying by your side in the beginning, but as time progresses it’ll become more difficult to let his behavior roll off your back.

Accompanying you to the market is fine, but you’ll bite your lip and find the courage to speak up when he ends up straying a good five feet behind you, his bright eyes burning holes into the back of your head as he keeps pace with you.

(When you turn around to ask him why he’s not walking with you, but rather trailing behind you like some sort of stalker, he’ll just laugh and tell you in that familiar, boisterous voice that he can protect you better this way! Besides, the view from this angle is excellent! Dissecting that last comment will only make you more uncomfortable, so you simply nod and keep walking, picking up your pace and desperately wishes you’d be arriving sooner.)

Him wanting to meet all your friends and acquaintances is fine, but when he’s pushing his way into the conversation and snaking an arm around your waist, you’ll feel just as awkward as your companions, disturbed by the casual manner with which Kyojuro handles you.

(This almost always leads to the assumption that the two of you are together, which you’ll frantically shake your head to, spouting some nonsense about being just friends that makes Kyojuro’s brows cock inwards, sending a glance at you with quizzical eyes. Just friends? You are certainly friends, but you’re more than that – friends don’t daydream about each other, and friends certainly don’t spend nights with ragged breaths, bucking hips, and the other’s name slipping from their lips like a prayer.)

He’s just a lot, and while you knew this from the beginning, time will only increase his behavior, pushing him more and more into spending time with you, into writing you letters while he’s away on a mission (they’re mostly detailing how much he misses you, telling you of each object and person that reminded him of you, and while it would be sweet, the sheer volume and frequency of these letters will make you loathed to open them), even into pushing past your boundaries and being much, much too familiar with you.

(You’ll bid him goodnight after he’s walked you home from the meal he insisted you share, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint and instead waltzes straight into your modest home, settling himself at your tableside and beaming at you, telling you to join me, my flame, I wish to hear about your deepest desires! He won’t insist on staying the night, as that would be too inappropriate for a not yet married couple – which he seems to be insinuating the two of you are – and will eventually take his leave, but not before gently grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss against your knuckles that’s much, much too wet, and far too long.)

His clinginess can be suffocating, of course, but once you’re stuck with him, forced to live in the Rengoku estate and call him your husband?

Well, if you thought he was needy before, it’s nothing compared to the way he treats you then – constantly wandering hands (concentrated mostly at your waist, hips, and squeezing your thighs), compliments that toe the line between heartfelt and disturbing (you are so very beautiful, particularly when you’re asleep – did you know that you smell a certain way when you’re unconscious? It’s sweet, like ripe fruit; I wish to smell it at all times), and those eyes always, always focused on you.

Every free moment he has goes into attending to you, whether you want it or not, so don’t even bother trying to get some distance from the Flame Pillar.

He will invade your space and he will not be regretful, his delusions most often barring him from even realizing that you’re uncomfortable.

He’s simply a man who ardently admires and desires you, and at the end of the day, you can’t even really blame him. Because, as they say, love makes one do crazy things, and he’s certainly, certainly in love with you.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

When it comes to jealousy, Kyojuro is surprisingly relatively unaffected, all things considered.

He’s not someone who’s biting at your heels the moment another man spares you a glance, and while he obviously doesn’t like the way other men interact with you, he’s not nearly as suffocating regarding his possessiveness as some of his fellow Hashira.

He tends to give others the benefit of the doubt, and while he’s still very protective over you and would immediately step in if another man posed a threat to your safety or comfort, he doesn’t automatically assume that any man who interacts with you has nefarious intent.

And so, he doesn’t immediately grow jealous and snarl at any man stupid enough to come within a few feet of you – he’s not as depraved, at least in that sense.

(In others, absolutely, but if Kyojuro has one redeeming quality, it’s his judgement of character.)

However, this isn’t because of some moral high ground the Pillar possesses, or a firm sense of lucidity – in fact, it’s quite the opposite, as his delusions drive most of his indifference regarding other men giving you attention.

He’s so, so confident in the idea that you’re meant for one another that he honestly doesn’t even register that you could interested in another man, that you could be stolen away from him willingly, that you could fall in love with anyone but the Flame Hashira himself.

He just doesn’t get it, and so he isn’t as suffocating as he could be in these situations – no, not by a long shot, something you’re admittedly equal parts lucky and unlucky for.

Because really, while you won’t have to deal with the isolation that comes with extreme levels of possessiveness, being Kyojuro’s darling is certainly not an easy ride – how can it be, when he’s so blatantly unaware of the signs in front of him that a man is coming on to you, that he’s smiling and flirting with you and reaching out to brush the hair away from your eyes while you bashfully grin and laugh at his lame jokes?

How can you not be unsettled with the way he’s so unaffected, always spouting nonsense about how in love you two are, how perfect of a match you are, how no man would ever dare take you away from me – how could anyone break such a real bond of love?

It’s disturbing, and as time passes slowly you’ll come to realize that while he won’t drag you kicking and screaming away from another man trying to get more than familiar with you, the alternative of watching him broadcast what he perceives to be your ‘relationship’ to every stranger who makes eye contact with you will get old very quickly, the feeling of him almost trying to show you off making your skin crawl and a cold sweat break out over your hairline.

Kyojuro isn’t subtle, not in the least, which is why the minute another man approaches you, you should be ready – the embarrassment will be thick, as will the discomfort of everyone involved (except the Hashira himself, of course).

So you might as well stop trying to converse with other people – after all, Kyojuro has no problem acting on his intuition, so won’t you just not give him a reason to be so extravagant?

The moment the man in the small market stall shoots you a shy smile and approaches you, there’s already a sinking feeling settling in your gut, the knowledge that your self-proclaimed ‘lover’ is only a few stalls down making you bite your lip in anxiety.

He’s polite, by all accounts – full lips a pleasant pink color ask you about your opinion on the newest shipment of melons, the fruit laid out in front of you in a pleasing display. There’s a respectful distance of a few feet between your bodies, and his voice is soft, calming, the complete opposite of the boisterous, loud slayer you’ve come to be so close with. It’s refreshing, and you shoot him a smile as well as you point to a certain melon on the display.

This one looks ripe – you can tell, you know, by the markings on the fruit. The more yellow spots, the better the texture will be.

The man’s still looking at you, but his gaze shifts to the fruit as he nods in agreement. He laughs a bit, then reaches out to pick up the melon. I’ll trust your advice, then.

The interaction is somewhat short, sweet and innocent, and though you get the feeling that the man finds you attractive (the light blush on his cheeks tells you as much), you don’t feel particularly uncomfortable.

But all too soon the peace of the moment is ending, and a familiar call of your name has your spine stiffening, your throat bobbing as you heavily swallow. The call comes again, and all too soon there’s an unfortunately familiar hand settling on your waist, Kyojuro’s muscular arm wrapping around your body and pulling you flush against his side.

Being so close in public would normally embarrass you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care when you know what’s coming.

My flame, who is this? A friend of yours? Kyojuro asks, and before you can open your mouth to answer, the stranger does.

Oh, um, I’m Takeru.

He’s visibly uncomfortable, and as you try to subtly squirm out of the slayer’s grasp, Kyojuro’s smile only widens.

He nods his head lightly, his smile growing even brighter. A pleasure to meet you, Takeru! I am Kyojuro Rengoku, thank you for helping keep her safe at this busy market place!

The man – Takeru – shifts awkwardly, unsure how to respond to such a strange comment, but it doesn’t seem to stop your unwanted companion.

You see, she has such a habit of wandering away in crowded places, and it makes it hard to keep an eye on her! You’d be amazed at how often I’ve seen her trip and fall in places like these!

He laughs at that, and you feel a new kind of embarrassment eat away at you. Does he really need to be sharing all this information?

Yes, it’s very crowded, Takeru agrees, and you silently send him a pleading look. He blinks at you, discomfort clearly swimming in the black depths of his dark eyes, and internally you beg Kyojuro to just drag you both away from the stranger.

She can be so forgetful, but that’s the wonderful thing about love! Despite her clumsiness, she is still graceful and elegant to me, and that’s a sign of true love, wouldn’t you agree?

Takeru nods, hesitantly, and you grit your teeth.

Kyojuro sighs dreamily from beside you, squeezing you even tighter against his side. And I do love her, of course! She is my soulmate, the future mother of my children, and every time I gaze at her, my devotion only grows deeper!

You’re visibly embarrassed now, trying to cover your face and desperately willing the interaction to just be over, but Kyojuro doesn’t seem to hear your silent prayers.

He grabs your wrist gently, his lips pressing kisses against the inside of your wrist, and immediately you’re eyes grow wide. Surely he wouldn’t, not in a public setting –

He cuts your thoughts off with a press of his lips against yours, the groan that he releases against you making you shiver in anything but pleasure. Your eyes are still open, and you see Takeru staring with a dropped jaw, evidently shocked at Kyojuro’s blatant display of affection.

Your brows furrow, and as he slips his tongue past your lips, you find yourself only able to focus on the way Kyojuro is growing louder, his groans getting more pronounced as the kiss grows hungrier, more desperate, feeling less like a tender, heartfelt sign of love.

After a good two minutes he finally pulls away, your lips feeling sticky and wet from his saliva. He stares down at you with heady eyes, his tongue licking his lips as he whispers your name under his breath.

You go to say his name, to ask him if you can just leave the market, but he cuts you off with a laugh.

Oh my flame, where did Takeru go? We must have scared him off with our display of passion! My sincere hopes that he’ll one day find a love like ours.

You very much don’t wish that, but as Kyojuro grasps your hand and guides you to the edge of the market place, passing through the spot Takeru had departed from during your sudden and overtly steamy kiss, you’ll find yourself sighing.

The blatant act of romance was unwarranted and unwanted, of course, but somehow your lips are tingling, your heart racing in shamefulness and something else – something that grows stronger and Kyojuro turns to look back at you, a grin stretching across his lips, his cheeks tinted pink as he gazes at you.

It’s wrong and you’ll hate it, every part of you screaming to not be fooled by the boyish look he’s giving you; he’s a slayer, a grown man who very clearly doesn’t understand that you are not future spouses, that you are not in love.

You’ll hate yourself for it, but even as he leads you back to your home, guiding you and not letting your hand go the whole way (even though you you’re very familiar with the route and don’t need his navigational help), you’ll find yourself almost, almost wishing he’d kiss you again – just not in front of a stranger this time.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because he’s on the more delusional side, Kyojuro’s view of your relationship is warped.

He’s already eager in the context of romantic relationships, but in yours, specifically, he’s rushing through all the steps, too excited to get that gold ring on your finger and his last name replacing yours to really take his time with you.

And this becomes problematic particularly because you will have no idea, at least at first, that the Flame Hashira believes you’re courting one another, that it’s simply a matter of time before you’re keeping his bed warm and nursing his children.

And because of this quick timeline of your relationship, Kyojuro is actually quite quick to propose living together. Of course, it’s a bit taboo to be living under the same roof before you’re wed, but he’s willing to bend the traditional rules a bit if you put up any sort of opposition.

If you decline his blatant requests to live with him, he won’t relent. Initially, he’ll bluntly ask you in the middle of a shared meal if you’d like to move your belongings into the Rengoku mansion - I can have a few servants come to assist in the moving process, if you’d like, and of course I’ll be there to help carry anything heavy!

When you stare at him like he’s grown two heads, he’ll be a little confused, and curiously asks you why you seem to be shocked.

When you honestly respond, at a loss as to why he’s asking you to live with him when you’re very, very firmly just friends, Kyojuro will only laugh in response, his hand coming down to slap his knee because oh, you’re so funny, you sweet, coy little thing.

He’ll drop the subject that day, moving on to ask you about your thoughts about the weather or your favorite color or anything at all, greedy to hear your voice and bask in your attention.

But the next day, when he suddenly pops out of nowhere and accompanies you on your walk into town to buy a few necessities, the question is prompted once more.

I only have two separate futons, but I’m sure we could push them together! Similarly, I only have two blankets, but I’m sure my body heat will keep you warm!

You’ll be confused, giving yourself just a hair more distance between your bodies (he’d gotten very close without you noticing), throwing him a glance and worryingly asking what are you talking about?

He’s so nonchalant when he answers our sleeping arrangements, of course that it makes you wonder if you’ve missed something, if you’re somehow not in the loop because when the fuck did you agree to sleep in the same room as him, much less in such a position where you could feel his body heat?

You’ll negate his questions and try to change the topic once more, but Kyojuro is relentless - everyday there will be a new question of when you’ll inevitably be living together, and with every day he gets more and more restless to finally have you in his arms as he sleeps, to come home to you after long missions, to relish in the sight of you peacefully reading or crafting in the morning sun, wearing his clothing and smelling like him.

He’s a patient man, yes, but even Kyojuro has his limits - and he finally reaches this limit when one day he can’t seem to find you anywhere.

It’s like you’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth - he’d wanted to spend some time with you (really, he’d just finished his allotted training for the day and had been idly daydreaming about holding your hand the whole time, and was now in desperate need of finding you to intertwine your fingers with his), but your home was empty and none of your neighbors seemed to remember seeing you leave.

Immediately worry is eating away at him, because his sole job as your future lover and husband is to keep tabs on you and protect you, and he’d been too busy focusing on himself and getting stronger to fulfill his duty.

He searches for you in all the common spots he knows you visit, and with each empty location his desperation gets a bit more extreme, his panic slowly engulfing him because where the fuck could you be?

Eventually he’s sprinting around the general area you reside in, running mile after mile as his smile slips away and his entire body grows sweaty, his heart racing and even a few tears threatening to well in his eyes because he can’t stomach the thought that you’ve been hurt somehow, that someone has stolen you, that you’re simply gone.

It’s not until the evening that he eventually stumbles upon you, your pretty kimono stained with a bit of dirt as the bottom hem and your shoulders a bit slumped from the heavy bag slung over them, your limbs aching from the long journey it’d taken to visit a friend a few villages over.

He happens to run by you along the path, and immediately he’s stopping and staring, his chest visibly heaving, his eyes wide and vulnerable as he blinks, pinching himself to make sure this is real, that you’re really standing in front of him, that you haven’t been devoured like he’d been imagining.

But all too soon he’s rushing forward, the wind knocked out of your lungs as he tackles you to the ground, clutching you against his chest as he bombards you with questions, slurred and rushed as he asks if you’re okay, are you hurt? Where were you? Why didn’t you tell me you’d be gone today? Did you speak to anyone? Did anyone touch you? Were you scared without me?

He’s speaking so quickly and loudly into your ear that you can’t even get a response in, his voice slightly uneven and betraying the influx of emotion swimming through his chest. He’ll pull back to gaze at you, thumbs brushing over your cheek, before smiling softly and pressing a soft, long kiss to your forehead, whispering to you that you’ll be safe now, my love, forever.

Then it all goes black, and you wake up dressed in a much too nice kimono, sleeping in an ornate room in a futon you don’t recognize, familiar eyes trained on your form as his seated figure watches you slowly wake up beside him.

As a captor, Kyojuro is mostly just suffocating.

Because he still heavily believes in the delusions he’s been nursing since the beginning of his infatuation with you, he doesn’t see anything wrong with what he’s done. He doesn’t see his relocation of you as kidnapping, nor does he understand why you seem so unhappy to be with him.

It was inevitable that you’d be sharing the same home and bed, didn’t you know?

Why do you seem so surprised when he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against his body, spooning you and sighing your name into your ear with just a bit too much reverence?

Why are you flinching away from him when he pulls you close for a kiss, his calloused fingers gently grasping your chin as he whispers between wet, loud kisses that he loves you, that he’s more in love with you than you could possibly imagine, my flame, you are my light in eternal darkness.

He’s sappy and too much and always hovering around you, his presence smothering you in every sense of the word. He’s clingy and needy, always wanting to be watching you and simply observe you, because even though he now spends nearly every hour of every day he has off in your presence, everything you do is still special to him, interesting and wonderful and important, and he has no sense of boundaries.

He will be standing close to you, practically breathing down your neck. He will ask you all sorts of personal questions, ranging from things like your greatest fears and most embarrassing moments to your menstrual cycle and which spots feel best when you’re touching yourself to the thought of him.

(He assumes you must pleasure yourself while thinking of him, because he does, too, religiously, every night, your pretty face and voice and body at the forefront of his thoughts as he paints his fist white over and over and over.)

He doesn’t see any reason why there should be any sort of barriers between the two of you, because you’re soulmates - made for one another, destined to spend your lives together, your fates irrefutably intertwined and brought together by the unyielding, passionate love you possess for one another.

And, unfortunately, this lack of barriers manifests itself in some pretty undesirable ways - you’ll be sharing one singular toothbrush, for example, Kyojuro insisting that it’s romantic and sweet and becoming of a young couple to share everything with one another, even their saliva.

He’s having the two of you share undergarments; they’re all made of soft, smooth cloth, in a variety of neutral colors that he’ll wear for the day, then shuffle up your legs the next day, smiling and licking his lips because the fabric that spent all day pressed up against him is now pressed up against you.

(And, on days where you’re particularly unlucky, sometimes Kyojuro lets his thoughts run a bit wild once he’s wearing them, his eyes fluttering closed as he imagines you and subtly ruts against his palm as he waits for nightfall in the small village his next mission is in, the time passing slowly until he’s gasping your name and staining the undergarment with wet warmth, already giddy and excited to have you wear them tomorrow, unwashed.)

He’ll even sometimes share food - and not in a sweet, romantic way, but rather in a raw, connected way; he’ll take a bit of food and chew it, then press his lips against yours and push it into your mouth, encouraging you to chew as well, before eventually kissing you once more and swallowing it all himself, his grin nearly blinding because now he’s eaten both the meal and you, or at least a bit of your spit.

He’s just weird, and while he’s constantly showering you in compliments and spoiling you with anything and everything under the sun, it’ll be hard to adjust to this new, strange lifestyle simply because he doesn’t really allow you time to adjust.

He’s expecting everything to be sunshine and roses from the moment you wake up as a freshly kidnapped darling, his expectations high that you’ll be pliant and willing and happy to learn that you’re finally, finally together.

And while it takes a lot of disobedience from you to snap him out of his rose colored view of you, Kyojuro is doing everything in his power to make sure that your relationship is perfect, that he’s taking good care of you and loving you as he should.

Which leads to another important aspect of being his darling - he doesn’t see women is inferior in any way (Shinobu and Mitsuri alone have dispelled that image), but he likes the idea of you being his housewife, fulfilling traditionally feminine duties.

He likes the idea of you taking care of the home, making sure dinner is cooked and served for him in the evening (he’ll often send a crow your way when he’s heading home after missions, just so that you can prepare for his arrival - normally, this means a meal and very little clothing adorning your frame, so that he can feast on your delicious food and then your delicious body), and attending to his every need as he does you.

He likes the idea of you keeping the mansion clean and eagerly awaiting his return home when he’s away, your devotion to him keeping you motivated to make sure everything is perfectly in order for him.

He’s trying for children very, very early on, his thrusts slow, deep and meaningful as he kisses you and promises that this will finally be the load that takes, because the mere idea of you swollen with his child and needing his help to do things even as simple as sitting down makes him giddy and unbearably excited.

And he doesn’t want just one child - oh no, he wants many, as many as you’re willing to give him.

He wants the perfect family with you, and as your captor, he won’t try to hide this wish. You will be made aware that he wants you to dote on him, that he wants you to spread your legs and conceive his child, that he wants you you you.

(He’s discussing potential names with you within the first week of having kidnapped you, his fingers idly tracing over your stomach as he tells you that the first born must be named Shinjuro, then perhaps we’ll have a daughter, and she can be named Hana! But we must also have some named Takeru, Ucharo, Nakagome, Watabe, and of course Shigeru! And after that, if you have any names in mind, we can surely name the following children them!)

Kyojuro isn’t necessarily bad, per se, as he does genuinely spoil you and give you all the time and attention and physical affection he can, but you’ll feel weighed down, crushed, drowning in the way he always seems to take and take from you.

But eventually, you will grow dependent on him - how can you not? He’s still so sweet with all the compliments he gives you (a little deranged, perhaps, but the sentiment is there), the reverence in his eyes when he gazes at you, the gentleness and eagerness in his touch when he has his hands on you.

He’s complicated, yes, but life with him will be so very simple - just bend to his whims, and perhaps you’ll even enjoy the way he hugs you so tightly it nearly hurts, or how he limits the number of servants who are allowed to speak with you - he just loves you, and is it so wrong to enjoy being loved?

PUNISHMENTS:

As his darling, you’re somewhat lucky that Kyojuro is as delusional as he is, if only because it keeps him mostly blind to any misbehavior and attitude you can throw at him.

Of course, he has his limits, but in general he’s able to write off any snarky comments of yours or slight attempts to put distance between the two of you as you simply you trying to be funny, barking out a laugh and moving even closer to you, pressing into your space even more, making sure there’s not an inch of space between your bodies.

Or, sometimes, he interprets your very blatant rebellions against him as you simply trying to test his resolve – he thinks you’re trying to force him into showing just how deeply he loves you, as if you’re testing just how strong his feelings for you are.

And while he finds this just the slightest bit offensive (you’re doubting his love for you – his passion for you; can you not tell that his heart beats only for you? Can you not see that alongside his duty to the Corp, you’re the reason he breaths, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the reason he’s alive?), it mostly serves as motivation for him to love you harder, to become more expressive with his feelings.

It pushes him to hug you tighter, his fingers nearly leaving bruises with the strength of his grip around you, the hugs going much longer and getting more intimate, if the brush of something big and hard against your thigh is any indication.

It pushes him to compliment you more, the words falling from his lips with such conviction that it’ll almost make you flustered, if the content wasn’t so unnerving.

(There’s lots of you are so beautiful, my flame, but there’s also a lot of you look so peaceful in your sleep, it makes me want to lock you away forever and keep you mine and deep inhales followed by your scent sets me on fire, my love, you don’t know what you do to me.)

He views most of your rebellions as simply you trying to catch his attention, perhaps being a sign that you feel you’re being neglected by all the missions he must leave you and attend to.

And frankly, Kyojuro doesn’t blame you – he wishes he could give you more attention too, because although he feels his job is wildly fulfilling and the morally correct thing to do, a more selfish part of his heart yearns to spend his days with you in his hands instead of his sword, your body curled up against his while he keeps you warm and tells you how deeply he loves you.

And because of all the different avenues he employs to simply disregard any negative behavior from you, punishments with Kyojuro are extremely rare. It takes quite a bit to push him into reality for even a brief moment, to force him to come face to face with the fact that you aren’t happy and that you don’t love him.

He only has a few triggers that can be powerful enough to force him into this mindset – you harming yourself, and you attempting to escape.

When you injure yourself, it’s difficult to rationalize why you would have done that, but he’s normally able to scold you (with condescending words and tone, that same smile stretched across his lips), telling you to be more careful and let me prepare your bath next time, all burns from hot water must be avoided in the future! But you trying to escape is not so easy to twist into a pleasing fantasy of his.

It’s much harder to understand why you’re ceaselessly trying to break open the windows of the estate, to the point where your knuckles bleed and your elbows bruise. It’s harder to understand why you try to work at the lock keeping the main doors sealed, your poor fingernails splitting and aching from all the tugging and pulling.

He’s not sure why you’re going through so much trouble – surely there must be easier ways to get his attention. Surely there must be less painful and pitiful methods to get him fawning over you and proving his dedication to you – so why aren’t you taking them? Why are you choosing this difficult path, one that makes him apprehensive to leave you alone for more than thirty seconds?

(Not that that’s the only reason he’s hesitant to leave you alone – his clinginess and desire for your physical touch is the bulk majority – but it’s still a major player.)

And when he asks you, with his arms wrapped around your abdomen, your own arms flailing and your legs kicking at anything you can reach, your answer will have him pausing for a moment, an unwelcome feeling of reality washing back over him.

Because I hate being here, I want to go home! Please, let me go home!

His spine goes straight at that, his eyes widening ever so slightly, your punches and kicks to his shoulders and thighs doing nothing to faze him. You want… to go home? But aren’t you already home, by his side?

His grip tightens on you, a sort of displeased hum ringing in your ears. He’s carrying you away from the front doors and down the convoluted hallways of the estate, his grip on you never weakening.

Your words repeat over and over in his head, each replay confusing him more and more. You aren’t happy being here? With him? He bites his lip, bright eyes glancing down at you in his arms, with big tears slipping down your cheeks and your shoulders shaking with poorly concealed sobs.

This doesn’t seem like an attempt at gaining his attention – why would you go through such lengths? In all his time of falling in love with you, he’s never known you to be such a good actor.

Your tears look real, as does the sound of your voice when you whisper his name and weakly pound your fist against his chest, begging him to let me go home, I can’t be here any longer, I can’t stand it!

He sets you down onto the bed of the bedroom he’s brought you into – the bedroom where he forces you to sleep beside him, your nightclothes sticking to your skin with the heat that radiates from his body and the sheer proximity his forced cuddling creates.

He’ll watch as you scramble away from him, curling your knees to your chest and looking up at him with such raw, pained eyes, and for a moment it makes Kyojuro’s heart clench, genuine regret rushing through him.

Has he made you this upset? Is he the reason for your anguish? It makes something heavy and uncomfortable settle into his chest, and it’s that driving force that pushes him to come closer to you, matching your every scoot away from him with a step towards you.

Eventually your back hits the wall and he kneels before you, his face mere inches from your own.

Tell me, my flame, why are you so displeased?

His question makes you gulp, but before you can stop yourself your mouth is already moving, every repressed thought and emotion you’ve felt the last few weeks you’ve been stuck with him finally coming to light.

Because you’re a monster! You’ve kidnapped me and forced me into being your wife, and you have the audacity to ask me why I’m upset? I can’t stay with you, Kyojuro, not here, not anywhere! We aren’t in love – you’re mistaken, I don’t love you and whatever this is, it’s not love, so don’t tell me you love me! Please, just let me return to my home and family, I beg of you.

You cut yourself off with a small sob, and as your eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, your blood runs cold when they reopen.

You’ve never seen Kyojuro look like this – gone is that familiar grin of his, instead replaced with a harsh, straight, tight lipped expression. His eyes no longer hold any of the warmth and adoration he normally gazes at you with – rather, they seem unbearably cold, the heavy weight of his stare making you shrink in on yourself despite your rather brave speech. And something about his presence feels much larger than you’ve ever experienced it – it’s in this moment that you realize just how defined and huge the muscles he’s sporting across his upper and lower body are, the man before you holding more strength in his pinky finger than you in all of your body.

It’s crushing, the sick, horrible feeling that something is terribly wrong making your every hair stand on end, your breath ragged as you wait for his next move. Kyojuro nods slowly, his expression not changing.

I see.

You bite your lip, anxiety making a pit form in your stomach.

You need to be reminded of what’s important, my flame. You’ve become misguided – but don’t fret, I will help guide you back to the path. This will hurt, but with time you’ll understand my actions and perhaps even thank me for them.

His words have red flags raising immediately in your mind, but before you can really even process your own questions, his hand is shooting out grasping on of yours, fingers pressing against the pad of your index finger and pushing pushing pushing –

There’s a sickening crunch noise that fills your ears, and everything feels numb for a moment before white-hot, acute agony rushes through you, your finger already swelling and throbbing from the broken bone now within it.

Kyojuro watches as you sob harder, your eyes red and puffy as you look at him, your gaze weak and, quite frankly, pitiful. He only takes a deep breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before moving to the next finger, a matching crunch sound only making you cry harder.

Eventually, each finger on your left hand is broken, his hands already moving to start on your right. He’s quick about each break, not letting the pain linger any longer than absolutely necessary, but it doesn’t matter.

By the time he finishes with your right thumb, you’re nearly numb from the pain, your tears having run dry as you shake and jerk with every hiccup and sob that wracks your frame. The sight hurts Kyojuro, truly – and he’ll tell you as much.

Shh, oh my flame, don’t cry – I know it hurts terribly, but so does my heart. Do you see now? Do you see that I love you? I’m showing you that our love is real and pure – I will nurse you back to your proper health. I will be your hands when you cannot touch, and I will stay at your bedside every free moment to keep you company and ensure a quick recovery. Do you understand now? This is your home – no one can care for you in the way that I can.

His voice is soft, with a certain condescending lilt to it that only makes you dumbly nod, the pain still rendering you numb to your surroundings. And as Kyojuro carefully picks you up once more, moving you to your shared futon and gently tucking you under the covers, he’ll quickly gather some small sticks and medical gauze, wrapping each finger and cooing at you all the while.

And as he places a kiss onto each finger tip once its wrappings are complete, you’ll find yourself considering his words.

The conviction to individually break each finger of your lover is certainly no joke – perhaps he could be correct? Is this love?

Is the way he'll carefully feed you your meals as your wounds heal a sign of his truly undying feelings for you?

Is the way he bathes you (with wandering hands and stuttered breaths) a sign that he does truly care for you?

Is the way he helps you use the restroom without the use of your own hands a sign that he’ll truly stand by your side through darkness and light?

Your brain screams no, every ounce of your independence fighting the stream of questions, but some part of you finds comfort in the notion, in believing Kyojuro when he says that he loves you.

And as the days pass and your injuries slowly heal, your captor’s constant presence by your side helping to keep you clean, healthy and well fed, you’ll find that part of you growing louder and louder, drowning out your mind.

Because really, does it even matter? Kyojuro Rengoku is a man of dedication and unwavering devotion – and if he wants you to love him, isn’t it only a matter of time before he succeeds?

After all, who are you to stand your ground in the face of someone like him?

OVERALL DANGER:

6/10

Kyojuro isn’t necessarily dangerous, or at least in the sense of being a threat to your life. He’s clingy and needy and out of touch with reality, of course, but he doesn’t enjoy the notion of hurting you. He’s willing to, if it’s his only choice, but you’ll never need to worry that any hidden sadistic tendencies of his will emerge. He’ll never suddenly develop the desire to see you cry, nor will he suddenly discard you should his feelings dissipate.

Once his infatuation begins, Kyojuro is committed to making sure that you stay healthy, happy, and – most importantly – by his side.

He’s convinced that he’s the one that can make you happy, that he can give you the most perfect, loving future, filled with laughter, kisses, stolen touches and even a few children with bright yellow and red hair running around the estate.

He’s convinced that he can make you happy, that he already does make you happy, and it will be extremely difficult to snap him out of this fantasy he’s created for the two of you.

He’s an influential man with extreme importance, and you’d be extremely hard pressed to find anyone who would even believe you if you were to somehow escape him, if you were to somehow catch on to his nefarious intentions before he’s stolen you away.

It’s the combination of being surrounded by death, and a yearning to be happy and build a loving family that pushes him to pursue you, developing a future with you feeling so fucking important that he simply can’t resist the drive to court you, to wed you, to see your gorgeous smile and the pretty golden ring with flames engraved on it around your finger.

He’s simply a man in love, and if that love means his hands on your body, pulling you closer and closer and closer until you can hardly breath, so be it.

It’s only natural for something as powerful as love to create such a strong devotion, and isn’t it oddly romantic, in a way? To know that someone as powerful, important and revered as Kyojuro is in love with little old you?

Doesn’t it make you feel good to know you have the Flame Pillar wrapped around your finger, that he’d get on his knees for you at just the merest flutter of your lashes?

He’s truly in love, so embrace it with open arms – he sure is, and things will be much, much better for you the sooner you accept the love he’s so frantically delivering to you.

#yandere kny #yandere rengoku #_kny #_kyojuro rengoku #yandere kyojuro rengoku #yandere demon slayer

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