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rememberwren · 4 months ago

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A Dichotomy of Thought || 8

Previous/Next Chapters Here

Poker Night

CW: non-consensual drugging, date rape drugs, non-con, dub-con, domestic abuse, sexual abuse, homophobia, slut-shaming, food control, fat-shaming, vomit.

He pops the tab on the soda can, the sound of aluminum grating against your frayed nerves. You sit at the table, hands tucked under your thighs because all you want to do is wrap them around yourself, hold yourself, feel a comforting touch, even if it’s only your own. He brings the soda over and sets it gently on the table in front of you.

It is Saturday morning.

“I know last week wasn’t fair to you,” your boyfriend says, planting both hands on the table, the picture of rationality. “I don’t like keeping secrets from you. I’d like to think we’re past that point in our relationship. Don’t you?”

You nod, teeth clenched tight around a scream.

“So from now on—” he holds up a pill for you to see, then slips it through the open soda tab into the drink. He slides the drink forward toward you at the table. “No more slipping things in your drink without you knowing. From now on, you get to make the choice. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s going to happen either way. The sooner you get used to that, the better. What you get to control is whether you have a good time…or a bad time. So what’s it going to be honey? Good or bad?”

You hesitate for a long moment. Your fingers are numb when you untuck them from beneath your thighs, trembling as you reach out for the soda—

—and tip it over onto its side, a sign of defiance.

His placid mouth stretches into a wide grin. Soda drips off the edge of the table and onto the floor. Drip, drip drip.

“Now,” he says cheerfully. “Why was I hoping you’d choose that?”

It is Saturday morning.

He pops the tab open on a can of your favorite soda, pulled chilled from the refrigerator. Warm is best; it helps the pill dissolve faster, more thoroughly. But when the drink is icy cold, you are less likely to taste the bitterness on your tongue. If you try hard, you can pretend that it is your very first Saturday, that you have just been handed a drink by your boyfriend, that you have no idea what is in it.

“We’ve got extra guests tonight,” he says, sliding the soda can to you. “I want you on your best behavior.”

“I always am,” you mutter.

“That’s just not true. Don’t bullshit me, baby. When you bullshit me, you bullshit the best.” He slides the drink toward you a little more, eyes dark and curious, wondering if you will drink this concoction that makes you relaxed and pliable, this drink that makes you enjoy the terrible things that are done to you.

But Simon and Johnny will be there tonight. You glare up at your boyfriend and slide the soda back across the table. “You wouldn’t. Not in front of the new guys. I’m not stupid.”

“Baby. You’re dumber than you look if you think I won’t do whatever I want in front of whomever I want,” he says with a laugh. He slides the drink back. “Next time you push that away, I’m dumping it down the sink. Make good choices.”

You almost do it for him. You really do. A part of you is sure that he’s bluffing; it just makes no sense. Why would he put himself at risk this way? But there’s a small frightened part of you that is always ready to be surprised, always ready to be taken to a new low, dragged to a fresher hell by these hands which were meant to love you. Maybe he would do it.

And is it worth it to defy him? You remember that one miserable Saturday after you had dumped the drink over. It had been one of the most painful, humiliating experiences of your life. Your Fridays afterward were often spent agonizing over the decision to come: was it worse to give in and drink? Did it make you wrong to not fight back, to even sometimes find moments of begrudging pleasure in your own rape? Did it make you weak?

The thought of being like that in front of Johnny and Simon—soft and slurred and slutty—makes you feel…strange. You don’t want to think about it. The other side of the sword is just as sharp: if you don’t drink, you will be painfully aware of everything that happens to you, aware of Johnny and Simon’s participation—or their impending disgust.

What is worse?

Reaching out, you take the can with a shaking hand and go to tip it over—then change your mind at the last moment. You drink it down in its entirety, letting it fill your hollow, aching belly, even if the sugar makes you nauseous.

Your boyfriend pulls a face, like you have pleasantly surprised him. He reaches out and takes the empty can from you and says, “Good girl.”

You want to be sick.

“You’re in a good mood,” Simon says while making breakfast. He was up early this morning, well before Johnny awoke. Usually when Simon wakes first, he’ll take care of whatever business woke him and then lay in bed with Johnny until the other man wakes, but this morning when Johnny’s eyes blearily opened against the sunlight streaming in through the balcony doors, the bed was empty. Trust, he thinks. Simon’s beginning to trust him to be on his own more often

“Could say the same fer you,” says Johnny with a grin, tapping the fingers of his hand against the table as he waits for his plate. His voice pitches lower when he asks: “Did yeh wake up on the right side of the bed, or are yeh just excited about what day it is?”

Simon scowls. “Nothing to be excited about, Johnny. It’s not a recreational event.”

“I don’t know,” Johnny says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m looking forward to it.

“You can’t kill him.”

“Heard that line before. Rehearse a few new ones.”

“I mean it,” says Simon, bringing Johnny’s plate to the table and setting it in front of him. Classic English breakfast. Fuck, Johnny’s stomach does a flip, he’s so goddamn hungry. It’s cut into bite sized pieces, but Johnny can overlook that. It’s a necessary evil for now, until his coordination is a little better—which it is, every day. Next comes Johnny’s orange juice, but just as Johnny reaches for the glass, Simon holds it up out of his reach, a frown in place. “Promise me that this is just reconnaissance. You won’t try to kill him—no matter what may happen.”

It’s Johnny’s turn to scowl. He lets out an irritated breath through his nose.

“Gonna starve me if I refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Bastard.”

“I don’t hear any promises.”

“I promise, I promise. Gimme that.” Johnny takes the orange juice. Simon lets it go, sighing. Though Johnny has told him what he wants to hear, he doesn’t seem comforted by it, Johnny thinks as he tucks in to his breakfast.

Maybe he can tell that Johnny’s lying.

“How do I look?” Johnny asks. He has buttoned his shirt on his own—a feat which only took him five minutes of careful coordination and deep breathing. Give me a fucking medal, he thinks to himself as Simon comes over to help him button his jeans (which are still too difficult to manage, depending on the pair he pulls on). Simon’s hands so close to his cock have Johnny humming, close to a purr in the back of his throat.

They still have not fucked since the accident, but Johnny thinks soon.

“You look like you need a haircut,” Simon says, voice rumbling against Johnny’s back where they are pressed together. One of Simon’s hands brushes through the lengthening fringe of Johnny’s mohawk, and Johnny lets himself shut his eyes at the touch, feeling a satisfied, sleepy urge come over him. Simon presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and warmth blooms in the pit of Johnny’s stomach. Simon’s been like this all day: affectionate, borderline clingy. Doting.

It’s a far cry from the way they had treated each other all week prior, and Johnny finds himself grateful for the change of pace.

But he can’t let himself be distracted now. Not when so much is on the line. Poker begins in less than an hour, and Johnny has promised Simon that he will be on his best behavior. It’s not a promise he looks forward to breaking—but what promise ever is? Johnny plans to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open, taking in intelligence and making plans.

But if an opportunity presents itself—if Johnny can find a single moment alone with your boyfriend—Johnny won’t hesitate. What a terrible accident it will be, he thinks gleefully.

He turns in Simon’s arms and must turn too quickly. He stumbles, nearly falling. Simon braces him, helping to hold him upright. He sees the strange look in Simon’s eyes and frowns.

“What is it?”

“I need to ask you something.”

“Alright.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Aye,” says Johnny promptly, grateful for an easy question. “With my life. Yeh know I do.”

“Do you trust me with her life?” Simon asks.

Johnny sighs a little. Simon has been so obliging today, Johnny should have suspected that he was waiting until the last minute to try to talk him out of any hairbrained schemes. Still, he says: “Yes. Not much I wouldn’t trust yeh with, Si.”

Simon hesitates.

“What is it?” Johnny prompts, reaching up with his hand to cup Simon’s cheek. He isn’t used to cupping this cheek, and it feels odd under his palm, almost like touching a stranger. “Go on, get it out.”

“Will you forgive me?” Simon asks.

“For our fight? Aye. Water under the bridge.” Johnny leans forward and places a kiss on Simon’s mouth. Now that is familiar: the curve of his lips, the way their noses brush, the scent of him.

Johnny is nearly out of the room, heading for his shoes (and his crutch, considering how unsteady he is on his feet) when Simon speaks again: “Not for that.”

Johnny stops and turns. The room turns with him. Simon stands with his back to Johnny, his huge shoulders hunched, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Johnny wishes that he would turn around and look at him, let him see the look on his face—except when he does, there is something oddly recognizable there, an eerie familiarity that he can’t put his finger on but which makes Johnny’s heart pound.

“For what, then?” Johnny wonders.

“For putting that Oxy in your orange juice.”

Goosebumps prickle all along Johnny’s arms and thighs. He stumbles again, and Simon is right there to catch him. Johnny is always unsteady on his feet when he’s been taking his pain meds. He stares at his lover blankly, struggling to piece together the what, the how, the why.

“Need you to be safe,” Simon whispers. “I can’t have you there Johnny. I need you to be safe.”

“Y’ drugged me?”

“Just need you to get some sleep. I’ll be back by the time you wake up, and when you do, I’ll tell you everything,” he says, helping Johnny towards the bed. Johnny collapses back against the pillows, weak not from the Oxy but from his own horror and shock. Simon says: “I promise.”

“Fuck yer promises,” Johnny slurs, eyes misty. Simon sits by him on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair until he begins to snore.

It’s all compartmentalized, his feelings packaged into neat boxes and put away in the safest recesses of his mind. It’s remarkably like being on an op, when he would have to triage his own emotions: cannot face that one yet—push it back and come back to it later (or never, if more convenient). He practically feels the mask slipping into place, down over his eyes and nose and mouth. No more Simon, just Ghost. Ghost on a mission. Ghost preparing himself to do and witness terrible things.

He’s numb to it all. His hand doesn’t even shake when he knocks on the door to 7C. Your boyfriend answers, brows raised with mild, surprised politeness, as if he didn’t truly expect that Simon would show (and Simon didn’t show, Ghost thinks darkly, but this idiot has no idea of that). Ghost holds up the case of beer he bought from the 7/11 down the street and the other man’s mouth stretches into a grin.

“I’ll take that from you—come on in. Make yourself at home,” he says, slipping the beer from Ghost’s hand. “Where’s your other half?”

“Sick.”

“Shame.”

“He’s no good at poker anyway. Doesn’t have the face for it,” Ghost says. He doesn’t even consider asking about you, isn’t willing to compromise his own position by revealing any favoritism toward you. Moving inward, he comes to stand in the living room. It’s eerie being here, this strange reflection of his own apartment. There are differences: the kitchen and dining room are separate, only one bedroom here as opposed to the two at 5C. It is very clean, rather impersonal, without any pictures on the walls or framed photos on the end tables.

There are hints of you: your shoes in the rack by the door, your name badge resting by your keys on the table in the foyer. But you are nowhere in sight.

Two other men are already in the apartment, seated around a square dining room table, dividing out poker chips. Ghost runs an analytical eye over them even as he nods his head coolly in a greeting. They are relatively fit, though neither particularly tall. Likely low risk, though he would be a fool to underestimate them when they have the numbers in their favor.

Before Ghost can even take a seat, there is another knock on the door and a third one enters.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Leah wanted my help putting the girls down for their naps.”

“I hear a little whiskey goes a long way,” your boyfriend suggests, shutting the door behind the final straggler. Everyone laughs except for Ghost who merely raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“You know Leah. She thinks there’s an essential oil for everything; alcohol ain’t it,” the man says. He points to Ghost. “Who’s this?”

Your boyfriend comes to rest a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost takes notice of the height difference between them with distant, dim pleasure. “Fellas, this is Simon. He’s in the apartment next door. Let’s all pretend we’re gentlemen so as to not scare him off.”

More laughs. Everyone takes a seat around the table. Beers are cracked open, and Simon feigns sipping at his as cards are dealt. He is pinned between your boyfriend and the straggler, but his back is to the wall which gives him a sense of security. His knife sits heavy where it is holstered against his lower back, keeping him from fully resting against the chair.

He wishes that he’d brought a fucking gun.

“So, Simon,” someone asks. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Simon’s gay,” your boyfriend tells the room, though where he has gotten this idea from, Simon couldn’t say. Is that what you believed? Did you tell him as such?

The straggler beside him visibly shifts away after this news. One of the other ones pulls a face like he has sucked on a lemon.

Simon has never put labels on himself—finds them constricting as opposed to comforting—but he’s been attracted to people of all genders at one point or another. It’s good though, for him to be misunderstood. Let their misconceptions about gay men color their representation of him, let them think him weak or soft or whatever the fuck their homophobia believes. It rolls off of Simon like water off a duck.

“Problem with that?” Simon asks the straggler, picking up his cards.

“No,” the man lies. Coward.

“Maybe your wife has an essential oil that will cure me,” Simon suggests. The table laughs at their friend’s expense, even the one who had pulled a face.

A round passes; Simon lets himself lose. He listens to the conversations with one ear and to the rest of the apartment with another, straining for any sign of life from you. He hears nothing.

Until: “So where’s the fiancé?”

When all eyes turn to your boyfriend, Simon realizes that you must be engaged. You don’t wear a ring, and you’ve only ever referred to him as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe it is a new development—or a development that you don’t agree with. He feels a dim stirring of satisfaction at the thought, dampened beneath his persona.

Your boyfriend gives a coy smile. “She’s around. You know how she gets around strangers. Shy.”

“Does that mean no…?” They all share pointed glances. It’s clear that there is something they don’t wish to say around Simon. Ghost leans forward, elbows on the table, waiting for one of them to break and give him a hint. Beneath the table, someone kicks the shin of the one speaking.

“Think I could use another beer,” one of them says, standing. The others agree hastily. “Simon? You good?”

“I’m good.”

The man disappears into the kitchen, but is only gone for a moment before returning. “There’s a goddamn lock on your refrigerator.”

Your boyfriend laughs. He reaches into his pocket and works free a small silver key, handing it over. “Yeah—keeps the cows out of the pasture, if you know what I mean.”

The table laughs—Ghost does not.

“I don’t get it,” he says, sliding his cards toward himself across the oak table and examining them with mild interest. The others fall silent as Ghost makes this moment purposefully awkward.

“Don’t worry about it,” your boyfriend says with a laugh in his voice. “Just a little inside joke we have around here.”

Ghost hums.

Another round passes. The guys share stories about their work, their wives or girlfriends. Some of them have children. Do they know what their friend does to you? Ghost wonders. Could they possibly not know? They occasionally make an effort to bring him into the conversation, but his answers are terse at best, and eventually they stop trying.

More rounds, chips changing hands. The empty beer bottles begin to stand like silent sentinels around the tabletop. Ghost puts little effort into winning, preferring to perform average at best so as to not attract attention. He keeps a close eye on the clock, a fraction of his energy always thinking of Johnny at home. Johnny who is hopefully sleeping peacefully.

The next hand has just started when the door to the bedroom bursts open so abruptly that the handle knocks against the outer wall. You stand in the doorway, your face twisted in some expression too complex for Ghost to begin to unravel.

The table loses it. Shouts of your name, whistles, joyful perverse greetings—a half dozen hands reaching out toward you, like you are the final member of this party and they have only been waiting for you to arrive. Your shoulders are nearly by your ears, you're so tense, eyes flickering around the room from face to face, sticking on Ghost for a fraction longer than the others.

One of the men manages to brush against your wrist with his fingers and you wrench your hand away as if burned. The knife at Simon’s back itches; he wants it in his hand.

Your boyfriend sighs, laying his cards down on the table. “What is it?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“It can wait.”

“It can’t.”

The two of you communicate silently for a moment: sheer stubbornness on your end with mounting frustration on his.

At last, he stands with a roll of his eyes. “Excuse me guys. You all know how she gets.”

The two of them disappear into the kitchen. Sensing his chance, Ghost pushes away from the table. “Think I need that beer after all.”

The others pay him no attention, ducking their heads together and talking under their breath to each other like a group of teenagers. It lets him slip away from the table and linger outside the kitchen doorway, silent as his namesake. He holds his breath, listening, knowing that this is the moment he and Johnny have been waiting for: concrete proof that your boyfriend is mistreating you.

“—isn’t working. I didn’t cheek it, I swear. Give me another, please,” you’re saying quietly, voice thick with tears.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Please! I don’t wanna—”

“Not gonna happen because there wasn’t anything in that soda, you stupid slut,” your boyfriend whispers softly. The words echo around in Ghost's brain, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Mission successful. “I just wanted to see if you’d drink it. Now go back to the bedroom and stay there until everyone has left. Understood?”

There is no response. Footsteps are heard—

Ghost has enough time to duck into the bathroom and avoid him—but he doesn’t. He lets himself get caught by your boyfriend, both of them staring at each other, eyes hard and knowing. There’s no reason to keep up the charade anymore, not after what he just heard.

“Need something, Simon?”

“That’s no way to talk to a woman,” Ghost says, soft and dangerous.

Your boyfriend rubs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “If I were you, I’d mind the business that pays me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Are you—threatening me?” he asks, head tilting in a manner of mild surprise. There’s something in his eyes that Ghost can’t identify, something that looks a lot less like the fear he would hope to see and looks instead like delight.

“I don’t like that word,” he says. “Leaves behind a certain degree of uncertainty. If I ever hear you say something like that to her again—”

His words are cut off as from the kitchen comes a scream, a wordless shriek of rage followed by the ear-splitting shatter of a ceramic plate. Even Ghost jerks, eyes flickering to the kitchen doorway, but there is no sight of you. A plate careens into his line of sight in the doorway, shattering to bits on the floor where you have thrown it.

“What the fuck,” your boyfriend mutters. Another dish shatters. He raises his voice, calm but booming: “Alright: everyone out. Poker night’s over.”

Simon returns to his apartment with heavy steps, feet nearly leaden with dread at what he is going home to, at what he has done. He opens the door to quiet darkness, steps inside, and lingers there just inside the door, listening for Johnny’s quiet snores.

He hears quiet sniffles instead. Stomach clenching painfully, he follows the sound to the bedroom and finds Soap on the floor. He has rolled himself off the bed, likely awoken out of sheer willpower and tried to follow after Simon. Johnny looks up at him, pupils blown wide, eyes red and swollen from crying.

“I’m sorry,” Simon whispers fiercely, kneeling down beside him. “I’m so sorry Johnny. I had to do it. You know I did.”

“I hate you,” Johnny whispers back, tongue thick. All of the sudden, his face pales and he leans forward, vomiting on the floor between them.

It is the least that Simon deserves.

#ghoap x reader #dichotomy of thought

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mamayan · 1 year ago

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🎃 Happy Halloween 🎃

Shigaraki Tomura x Fem! Reader

Good girls should just stay home, lest something goes bump in the night.

cw: NSFW • Implied Murder • Implied Serial Killer • Consensual Non-Consent turned Non-Consensual • Noncon • Dubcon • Abuse • Fingering (F) • Oral (M) • Deep Throating • Rough Sex • Attempted Murder • Hair Pulling • Degradation/Slight Humiliation • Dacryphilia • Yandere Themes • Kidnapping • a little OOC • This story possessed me and basically wrote itself • Barely proof read tbh

wc: 7k+

Something must be wrong with you.

Or at least, that’s what you imagine the world would think if anyone knew what you were doing.

The room was dark aside from the blue glow of your computer screen. The black web browser with red lettering almost ominous as your eyes scanned the consent form again. It was a consent form just to access the full website, on the surface serving only as a dating type of situation for the BDSM community. Beneath it though were layers deeper than what the simple description actually provided. You only found out about it through a deep dive into multiple sub-threads of Reddit. It was a basket case of crazy, the majority of information or advice, but you managed to dig up one reliable looking source.

This website you were currently on. L@ce&R0pe.com happened to provide a wide variety of goodies, from sex toys to actual published books on shibari, there wasn’t much you couldn’t find. Except like all websites not swallowed up by the deep web, there was never any section like the one you wanted so desperately.

Except this one, because your mouse didn’t hesitate to shift and hover over the drop down section for MEET, where you could link up with real people for whatever your heart desired really. You trailed down to NEW FRIEND, and clicked. A new tab opened, this one themed differently than the main website. It was light blue and pink, almost like a baby shower, except the only thing on the page was a single drop down menu, and clicking it made your head ache. There were thousands of options, but thankfully it was organized alphabetically, so you could easily scroll mindlessly until you hit the C section.

You found what you wanted, clicking it as your chosen option and hitting GO.

The screen changed, this time it looked similar to a dating profile fillable. You worked quickly, efficiently even, as you typed all your information in.

Not your name or address, nothing silly like that. Just your measurements, your favorite foods or beverages, the color of your eyes, your hair color, your height, and even the style of your nails. It asked if you liked to brush your hair everyday, how often you showered, what shampoo or body wash you like. You answered them all, as invasive as they soon became, you never wavered. What brand of deodorant do you use? How often do you clip or file your nails? To what length? Do you shave your pubic area? How often? What style? How many sexual partners have you had? Where have you had sex? Which hole do you prefer? Are you a crier or a screamer? Does blood turn you on? Do you like physical or mental pain more? Have you ever been raped before?

They got more personal and physiological as you answered. You felt hot and stuffy despite the window being open and the cool autumn air blowing in. You kept answering even as your throat got tighter and unease nestled into your clavicle.

Do you want to know who your new friend will be?

This time you do hesitate. Knowing would make it feel safer. Knowing would give you some semblance of control. Knowing would be the smart choice.

You clicked “no” and submitted the form, sealing your fate as your hands shook and adrenaline pumped through your veins.

You set the date for October 31st. Now all you had to do was wait and show up.

A notification hit his phone, lighting up the screen as cigarette smoke billowed around him in the back alley. A quick glance was all he needed to unlock and fully see the entire screen. The leather of his jacket rubbed against the brick he leaned against.

Halloween was probably the best time for such fun, crime rates skyrocketing and parties being loud and wild really left a big gaping hole for any type of heinous activity to occur. He grinned as the information poured onto his screen. His dick already becoming painfully hard as he read all your supplied information. You liked breath play, having someone spit in your mouth, even being slapped around. He was always amazed by the lack of shortage for sick freaks like you, but then again, he was one of them too. Licking his top lip, tongue piercing flicking out to rub against his cupid’s bow, he clicked “ACCEPT” on the notification. He had all your information, the when and where, and your adorable little comment of “Please don’t degrade me.” What more could he ask for? His smile is sinister in the low light off the neon sign of the bar, casting a purplish hue on his skin as he chuckles and shoves his phone away. Flicking his cigarette butt onto the dirty ground, he cracked his neck and knuckles before going back inside to finish his beer and round of pool with his friends.

He’ll see you on Halloween. He might even dress up a little for the occasion.

It’s cold.

It’s nearly November so you hadn’t expected warm weather necessarily, but it seemed chillier than usual despite your fairly insulated dress.

You dressed up as an angel, the irony not lost on you at all but it felt fitting almost for the occasion. The pristine white looked off in your surroundings. It was nearly midnight, but despite that the sidewalk of the park was filled with a fairly regular crowd of people passing through, on to the next party or home to sleep off all the alcohol. Really, you weren’t too out of place, in your white stockings and black heeled boots, the fluffy ruffled white babydoll dress that barely covered your ass or tits and the wings which were strapped around your shoulders and jutted out behind you. On your head was a slim clip which was attached to a white shiny halo that seemed to float above you, only a thin wire keeping it up. You’d at first felt a little exposed passing children going home for the night after trick or treating, eyes of judgemental families which you ignored boring into you, but now it was time for the adults to have fun. You’d already passed a plethora of college students or older dressed even more scantily than you, making you feel better, safer, out in the park you’d chosen. You’d chosen 0300 as your designated meetup time, but specified you’d be early in case they wanted to start sooner. So here you stood, under a streetlamp that illuminated you in a yellow glow, making you seem even more angelic despite the ominous darkness surrounding you. You were busy playing on your phone, scrolling mindlessly and trying not to appear too excited. Or scared. You figured it was a combination of both, the arousal and fear bleeding into one very specific but unnamed emotion. Tapping your boot to a rhythm only you could hear, the night drew on and another hour passed. The droves of people passing didn’t dwindle, but it was always a group, never a single individual which you hoped was your new friend. It was almost 0130 when you felt watched, goosebumps rising on your skin as you realized someone must be looking at you. A quick glance around showed no one though, and after ten minutes your hope dissolved into disappointment. It seemed your friend wasn’t an early bird.

“Hey,” a raspy, deep voice speaking almost directly into your ear, startling you enough to elicit a yelp. You turned, eyes landing on a dark clothed chest and trailing up to a hooded face you could barely make out through a mess of blue hair. His lips look a bit chapped, a small scar decorating a corner, but his teeth are white and straight as he smiles a grin that causes shivers to shoot down your spine.

…maybe your friend was an early bird, just not as much as you.

You take a step back, stuttering stupidly due to your overactive nerves and the earlier shock of his sudden appearance. “H-hi…um,” the stranger tilts his head, eyes still not visible, dark hoodie baggy on his frame. He looks a bit thin, like he wouldn’t have a lot of strength, his jeans having some strange splattering of fake blood or something on them. You lick your lips, heart ready to leap from your chest but not quite ready for the events to unfold.

Or maybe you were very ready.

“You’ve been standing here for hours,” he comments nonchalantly, hands moving to shove inside the large inner pocket on his hoodie, “Aren’t ya tired of waiting for your boyfriend?” His question is a bit confusing, and when you glance around you, it dawns that there’s no one out right now. When had the crowds dwindled to nothing? “I don’t… have a boyfriend…” you had clearly stated that online too, so he already knew the answer to your relationship status. Was he just teasing? Keeping this as realistic as possible? It made you a bit pleased. You fiddled with the ends of your cute frilly dress, exposing a small portion of your skin and garter belt which kept your thigh high socks up. His eyes tracked the motion, lips pulling up even higher making his smile menacing. Dangerous. “That so?” He asks, but it doesn’t seem like he’s too interested in a reply as he steps closer, his beat up sneakers so silent on the ground it’s a little unnerving. Since he’s playing along so much, it feels wrong for you to not reciprocate.

“What do you think you’re doing, creep? Stay back,” You hope he’s not offended by the name, figuring it wasn’t too mean or odd of a thing to call him. Your firm stance and defiant gaze make him pause, head tilting again but he’s quick to recover and laugh. It’s less of a sexy and deep chuckle like you expected, and more pitched and giggly. It’s almost creepy to hear from a grown man. Like a child from a horror movie laughing. “Creep? Yeah? Guess I am, but you know what?” His head lifts, and since he’s more centered under the tall street lamp, when he looks straight at you, two red eyes flash. “I’m a lot fucking worse than your average dumbass creep,” you jolt when he lunges at you, hand outstretched to grab you. It’s instinctive how quickly you turn and run, adrenaline helping you shoot off into the park where no light but the moon shined down. This is what you wanted, you chant to yourself to stay level headed enough to not truly panic. This was staged and as safe as possible. He’s not actually going to hurt you. You’d be fine, albeit maybe a little sore tomorrow morning. You shut your mind off and focus on running, though your speed wasn’t great in such cheap and unstable boots, roots and random objects on the ground constantly tripping you up.

You looked like the dumb girl in the horror movies, tits practically out of your low cut revealing white dress, strapless white bra damn useless and more for show than any real support or push-up. You huffed, digging in your heels when you heard a few twigs snap behind you, feet carrying you faster as you realized he was gaining on you quickly. He didn’t shout and you didn’t scream. The chase was exhilarating, your mind becoming fuzzy as your lungs burned for more oxygen. You hadn’t planned a chase, really leaving it all up to fate and your new friend, but this was perfect.

Until fingers tangled tight in your hair and yanked you completely off your feet, your shoes and legs going out in front of you as you landed gracelessly on your ass. Then an intense burning in your scalp erupts, a hiss of pain and a whine escaping as you slide over cool damp foliage, senseless grumbling coming from the stranger as he drags you into a deeper more secluded section of the park, away from any and all prying eyes. Not like anyone gave a damn. “I-it hurts!” You feel childish for crying, tears pricking your eyes but the burn was worse than you imagined truly, soft hands coming up to try and pry his fingers off.

He has a grip of iron apparently, not the least bit phased as he sighs, hauling you up and tossing you in front of him. You land weirdly on your left shoulder, a shock of pain numbing your mind as you heave for air and roll over. When you open your eyes, you’re face to face with him. His hood pulled off, shoulder length blue hair now tied back and up into a little bun while some stray pieces frame his face and forehead. Your eyes adjust to the darkness as they take him in.

He’s young, maybe early twenties, with pale skin and dark bags hugging beneath his scarlet eyes. He’s got a beauty mark just below his lip on the right side, the scar you saw earlier on the other. He’s not hard on the eyes, cute even, but the strange air around him makes the close proximity fill you with anxiety. His eyebrows are thin and sparse, but he cocks one with a smirk. “Not gonna scream for help, crybaby?” The nickname makes you realize tears are streaming down your cheeks, you blink them away quickly, shaking your head and trying to find your words again. “I—uh, do you want me to?” Wouldn't screaming just make it more likely for someone to call the police? You figured a little noise was fine, but screaming seemed counter productive.

His eyes widened a bit, confusion painting his features as he crouched down more comfortably on his haunches to get a better look at you.

He’d been watching you since you got to the park. A single party in this sort of place always sticks out like a sore thumb. You looked more ready for a porno than a costume party, from behind the view of your ass indescribably arousing in your short little dress. It was both a slutty and innocent look you pulled off well, at least enough to make him riled up, cock twitching in agreement within his pants. He shamelessly rubbed it through his jeans, caressing the hardening length and letting you watch with glee. Your face made him snort, amusement evident as he chuckles and squints. “You like this, little freak?” You looked like you did, he notes. Your wide pretty eyes, still a little teary and red at the ends, showed your blown out pupils. You looked to be more star struck, not terrified like any normal girl chased through a park and dragged into a little corner between some trees to be out of sight. He watches you swallow hard, lips parting before closing as if you aren’t sure what to say to that question. “Fuck, you’re cute,” he grins, “a cute little slut who stood out at night all alone as if begging for someone to come along and do something nasty.” You release a tiny yelp as he meanly shoves you back, straddling your upper chest with his thighs as he hunches over you, looming ominously above with wild eyes screaming for chaos. “Good thing that I came along, huh? Make all your nasty little fantasies come true.” He watches you gasp as he presses his fingers against your lips, confusion evident on your face but you aren’t really putting up much of a fight as you open and let him slide two in. “Nasty fucking girl, look at you, when you don’t even fucking know me.” He chuckles, and while he’s teasing you mostly, he is amazed. You looked erotic as hell right now, little angel costume all wrinkled and a bit dirty from the earth below, pretty face a bit stained with mascara that had run a little from your earlier tears. You weren’t wearing the waterproof kind it seemed. Lips bitten and chewed on, plump and glossy from whatever glittery shit you swiped on them earlier now wrapped around his digits as he dug around in your warm wet mouth. “Suck on them, slut,” he orders, his smile dropping and face becoming more serious as you hurry to obey, a strange trepidation building in your gut. He groans as he feels your tongue wiggle and swirl, pumping his fingers a bit now and enjoying the little bleats you release when he chokes you a bit with them. “Wonder if you’re soaked down here~” he hums, leaning back a bit and yanking his fingers from your lips, wiping the excess saliva across your cheek and huffing a laugh as your features wrinkle in distaste. His hand moves behind him, easy access to your cunt due to the frilly dress hiked up almost around your waist, revealing cute soaked white cotton panties he growls at the sight of. “You really suck at putting up a fight, crybaby, but I think I heard somewhere that girls get wet when scared too…” those red eyes flick back to your own, "You scared?” He asks, almost softly. He watches you breathe, chest struggling a bit under his weight but your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, not pushing him away. “A little…?” Is your shaky response, and he wonders silently if you’re an idiot or just a pervert. You might be both, because when he lets his thumb dig into where your pussy lay poorly hidden, you moan for him and spread your legs wider. You make it even easier to search for his desired location, your swollen bundle of nerves. “O-oh—!” Your head falls back, little halo becoming a bit misshapen as it gets flattened to the ground, he tsks, fixing it with his free hand as he thumbs your little clit and watches you mewl and writhe beneath him, pleasure clearly visible on your face. Your hips buck and wiggle, body pinned beneath his and unable to get away or closer like you desperately want for more friction than he’s providing. “P-please,” you can’t help but beg, hoping your new friend is merciful enough to make you cum and not simply edge you all night.

It’s the pouty expression which makes him nearly feral, his grin spreading wide again as he keeps working his finger on your clit but his face closes the distance between your own. His lips just barely graze yours, and you are all too happy to part your lips and give him a sloppy kiss back, his own tongue finally slipping into your mouth where you suck. The smooth muscle in your mouth and the saliva dripping from it drive you wild, hands now dragging him closer and trying to make him do more for you. The heat spreads slowly however, his pace not changing, and despite his slim build he’s much stronger than you. You aren’t able to take any more than what is given, huffing in exasperation and groaning when he places more force before easing off. “S-stop teasing…” you whine against his lips, which were much softer than they look. He smirks, airy chuckle felt more than heard as he shakes with a silent laugh, “how can I not, you’re such a rare find, I plan to take my time with you.” He kisses you hard to silence whatever whines you planned to release to make him give you more. Instead he forces you into a slow building orgasm that leaves him having to pin your wrists above your head lest your clawing rip his skin open. He works you gently and cruelly into it, loving how you gasp and choke for him, eyes rolling back while you shake almost like you’re possessed and soak through your panties. “There you go, heh, normally I wouldn’t bother to take my time with whiny bitches, but you’re more obedient and sweet than I first assumed.” He whispers into your ear as you come down from the mind blowing high, body limp and pliant like dough now. The insult from him brings out a little whine of protest, teary eyes looking at him with almost something akin to betrayal.

“I-I don’t like being called mean names…I said so online too,” he pulls up finally, the chill of the night attacking full force on your now exposed cunt as he brings your panties up to his nose to inhale. His eyes narrow, almost into slits as he pulls them back and shoves them into his hoodie pocket. “Oh yeah? You post that shit on your social media or something? Sorry, I don’t really use those trash platforms. I have a Twitch stream though,” he acts like this is the time for a regular conversation, even as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, yanking them down his hips to pull his cock free. Your eyes go wide, mind a bit blank and missing something, in favor of looking at him pump his length lazily. A trail of blue curls like on his head travel from his navel to his groin where it spreads out a little, the color a bit darker as it goes lower. He’s not one to shave it seems, but your eyes focus on his cock, average in length but girthy with a tip that curves up almost perfectly. It looks like a cock someone would sell as a dildo at a sex store. It was pretty, admittedly, as a few pearls of pre-cum dotted the tip and spilled over as he slowly worked it above you. “Hungry?” He jokes, but when you nod he grits his teeth and bites back a moan, the night truly more unexpected than he thought. “Open up then, crybaby.” He thankfully didn’t call you a bitch again, crybaby the less of the evils and more acceptable of a petname for your preference as you open your lips and awkwardly lean your head forward. “No need to lean up,” he mumbles, shifting until his knees now rested by your shoulders, tip just in your mouth and his forearms on the earth above your head. He’s looking down at you, and you lay back down as he works his cock in your mouth. He’s going to fuck your mouth, you realize a bit late, the position so easy for him to hit balls deep in your throat and prevent you from running just from his weight alone. You’re pinned to earth, the scent of crisp autumn becoming mingled with the musky masculine odor the stranger had clinging to him. Something smelled of iron too, but it was fainter and didn’t bother you too much, not when he seemed determined to suffocate you with his cock. You jerk a little, teeth accidentally grazing his cock and his hiss of pain alerts you that you’ve hurt him. He pulls up and out of your mouth, glaring ferociously as he looks down at you with contemplation. “Sorry—! I’m not used—,” the words leaving you mouth go unfinished as you’re suddenly looking away and down, confusion wracking your mind before white hot pain erupts across your face and you cry out in agony.

He watches with a cool nonchalance as you whimper and cry, holding your inflamed cheek and looking at him with teary eyes filled with questions. The sight doesn’t help his hardness, your face swelling a bit from the force of the blow already, but it was still arousing how you cried for him so easily. “Don’t bite my fucking dick and I won’t hit you, clear?” He’s grabbing you roughly by the hair again, yanking you up and no longer in the mood for that awkward position as he stands and pulls you to your knees. This position at least gives him a good eye full of your tits, shaking from your little trembling as you’re made to look up at him. His angry reddened cock next to your injured cheek is a sight for him, his hand gripping his shaft and slapping you lightly on the cheek with it, his hand in your hair preventing you from turning away even as you whimper in pain. “Okay, we’ll try this again, crybaby. Open.” You do, even as tears run like waterfalls down your face, mascara smeared and making a pathetic sight for sore eyes of you, you let his cock enter your mouth once more.

Because you’ve never been more aroused.

Your stranger isn’t nice, pushing hard and deep into your throat immediately and gagging you. You’re careful with your teeth, jaw already burning and aching as he locks his arm and hand, strands of hair tearing out as he works his hips into your face at an uneven pace. “Stop fucking moving,” he growls, stepping even closer, blocking any and all exits and forcing you to take it. His cock didn’t seem so scary when he’d pulled it out, but in your throat it was a plug to your oxygen and felt too big for your poor mouth. It hurt, feeling him go too deep and leaving you coughing and sputtering and even still he wouldn’t pull out, groaning and pressing impossibly deep like he truly means to suffocate you. “You got a good little mouth pussy, crybaby. Fuck—take my cock, just like that.” He moans, watching as you struggle on his dick to breathe or swallow, slobber and tears coating his cock as he makes a mess of your pretty face. He doesn’t care that your eyes are starting to roll back, hands which had previously been clawing at his legs going limp at your sides. You acted more like a hole for him to fuck when you were limp like this, and it drove him wild as he grunted like an animal and rutted into your mouth like he held a grudge against you. Both hands dug into your hair, hands pulling you back onto his cock when his hips bucked you away. “Never fucked a—holy shit—ah, mouth so damn good before—, ah fuck, fuck,” he’s getting breathier as time ticks by, his own eyes rolling back as his balls draw up tight. “I’m going to cum, ready for me crybaby? Want it in your tummy or on your face?” He’s being condescending on purpose, but it’s a bit useless considering he’s rendered you nearly unconscious on his dick. He shrugs your lack of response off, pumping his cock down your throat until he sees stars and yanks himself free just before the first spurt misses and hits the grass below, he grips the base, pumping and shooting his next shot right onto your face. He yanks your head against his thigh, delirious face dazed and coughing softly as he finishes on your glitter and mascara run cheeks, using the tip to smear it well into your ruined makeup as he sneers at you from above.

“Hah…” he catches his breath, sucking in oxygen along with you as his gaze turns calculated.

“Wake up, I’m not done with you yet.” He’s more gentle now that he's cum at least once, tapping your uninjured cheek with two fingers as your eyes roll around before opening and looking at him.

He swears, your face making him hard again instantly, blood pooling to his groin at the messy sight of you in your white ruined angel costume. “You really are unlucky I was out tonight, I don’t think I’m gonna let you go.” His dead serious comment caused something cold to hit your veins, chills running through you as you gape in shock.

“W-what…?” He reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulling out what looked like a foot long serrated hunting blade. He snickers at the blank look of shock on your features.

“What’s wrong, crybaby? No tears for me right now?” You’re shaking, getting paler by the second as you realize no, it’s not a costume, and yes, there is still dried blood on the blade. There’s dried blood all over him, his spree tonight ridiculously fruitful and his body still high on the thrill. Imagine his luck finding you. “T-this wasn’t in my profile, wh-what are you doing?” Now you look alert, now you act like a regular civilian, he notes cooly. “I only con-consented to the sex and stuff, I said I didn’t like—like blades or blood play.” Your eyes are wide as saucers and you have a cold sweat now forming and dotting your skin, shaky like on too much caffeine as your body dumped chemicals to help you run.

His head tilts, a few more strands of hair coming loose from his tie as those red eyes watch you without any emotion in their depths.

“Ah~ I get it now. Are you some kind of freak who links up with people online for this kind of shit?” He laughs, eyes not matching the manic toothy grin. “Sorry to disappoint slut, I ain’t your tinder or whatever match. Did you do it anonymously?” He’s beyond amused, thrilled by the horror dawning on your face as reality sets in. “You’re a fucking idiot.” He sneers, but he’s joyful when you book it, heeled boots caked in mud as they dig into the ground and you take off for real. True intent to get away now because he’s not your new friend, he’s a real stranger and his energy is nothing but malevolent.

You’re going to die.

It’s a sick thought that twists inside you as you push the hardest you’ve ever, scream bubbling up and out as you cry for help now. “HELP! Please! Someone! Anyone!” It’s more broken and hoarse than you want, his earlier abuse to your throat having taken a number on your ability to vocalize.

It’s empty. This damn park is empty.

Not a soul around and you can’t hear him coming for you anymore, and it only makes the tears fall harder as you drive your body to a breaking point. If no one is around you can at least aim for your car, your phone will take too much time to look at and dial the police, you’d be too open and that would mean—

Something—someone—smashes into you, your body thrown sideways by the brute force and flung roughly to the ground where you roll several feet.

It hurts—!

Your body and mind scream as pain lights up your shoulder, a previously dull ache now hounding for your attention so much it left you lightheaded. You twisted your ankle too or maybe broke it, already so regretful for the evening and your life choices that your shoes hardly broke the bank. It all hurt, and yet you still tried to crawl to get away, still eager for another deep breath of air in your lungs even if it hurt to do that too.

“Hck, please, please—help—!,” you’re a sobbing pathetic mess, and he couldn’t be more turned on by the sight. He dusts himself off like he hadn’t tackled you like a linebacker for a major league football team, his lanky form sinewy with muscle and his agility nothing to scoff at. He swirls the enormous daunting blade with a whistle, smiling more genuinely as he strolls towards your shaking form crawling away.

“Where do you think you’re going, crybaby? I said I wasn’t done with you,” he lands a solid hit to your middle, dirty sneaker smearing mud on your cute little dress, looking less and less white as the night wears on. The blow is not hard enough to damage anything, he’s sure, but you act as if you’ve been disemboweled by how you howl and heave. He rolls his eyes at the dramatics, settling one foot between your shoulder blades and pressing down until you’re left immobilized.

Your vision is blurry, going in and out of focus as you try, and try, and try to get away, cute nail polish chipped and ruined as you claw at the dirt floor for leverage.

He admires your tenacity. “You think you can get away? That anyone is coming to save you?” He brushes a few stray hairs out of his face as he laughs, the urge to gut you strong as he savors your useless little struggle. “Crybaby, look around! No one is coming! I said look,” he grinds out, dropping to one knee while his other leg remains planted on your back, his hand gripping your hair and yanking your head up to see what he meant.

There’s a fence. A metal chain link fence, and it had a sign your vision was too blurry to read through your tears.

“You ran yourself straight into the worst possible area, this is sort of your game over,” He leans down to look at you, yanking your head back and forcing you into an uncomfortable arch. He raises up the blade, fully intending to slit your pretty throat and watch your eyes as the light fades, but you blubber out a sentence which halts him.

“Y-you didn’t finish! E-earlier, hck, earlier you didn’t finish—!” Your eyes squeeze closed in pain as he yanks your head to the side. Confusion burned in him, and curiosity kept you breathing for now.

“Didn’t finish what, crybaby? Fairly certain I finished all over your face, if I remember correctly.” He has a sharp edge in his tone, something metallic fills your mouth and you realize you’ve bitten through your tongue in your panic. A few drops spill past your lips, catching his attention.

“S-shouldn’t you also f-fuck me too? I-it’s why I came out tonight, wh-why I, ah, d-did this,” it’s a long shot by any means, and he’s no fool, but you did make a good point.

He was still hard.

“Smart little crybaby, aren’t you?” He mutters darkly, setting aside his blade in favor of smashing your face into the dirt, keeping your head down as he presses against your back and yanks your hips up. Your knees are skinned from the rough handling, socks torn open and stained with blood and dirt while his calloused hands slip beneath your dress. Your breath hitches. You needed to think of some way out of this, some kind of plan to escape or incapacitate him.

He’s busied himself with your still dripping cunt. Two fingers roughly filling your hole and uncaringly stretching your tight entrance. “You really are a freak, wet even though you’re going to die, crybaby.” He felt a bit strange as you whimper and mewl below, hand slowing as he tried to place the feeling.

He shrugs it off, instead easily yanking down his jeans which were still unbuttoned and pulling out his cock once more, stroking his shaft a few times before he lined himself up with your puffy lips. “Fuck—,” he swears, eyes seeing stars as he pushes just his tip past the tight ring of muscle at your entrance, mouth opening as licks his lips and stares down at you. “Never had pussy so good…” he giggles darkly, cracking his neck as he pushes each inch inside of you, stretching you out deliciously until you’re speared on his cock with his hips flush with your ass. “Who knew you’d be the best, crybaby.” He muses, fingers digging into the fat of your hips, your little dress flipped up and over your ass so he can watch it bounce as he leans back on his knees to fuck you deeper. You need to think straight but it’s difficult with how good your body feels, the pain from earlier seeming to go away with a numb buzz as he fills your pussy, hitting perfectly against a spot that has you arching harder for more.

You really are a freak like he says.

You can’t help relaxing further, eyes dumbly looking to the side where your head rests as he pounds into you from behind, the coil in your gut growing tighter by the minute.

The clouds blocking the moon seem to part just for you, the full moon’s light no longer blocked and illuminating the little patch of grass he’d tackled you into. Something gleams, in perfect reach too as your eyes widen.

His knife.

He’d already proven you can’t outrun him, but what if he was injured? There’s a major artery in the thigh, if you hit that, wouldn’t you be able to get away?

He yanks back roughly, moaning as he feels you squeeze even tighter around him, velvet walls massaging his dick while he tries to fuck himself as deep as possible inside of you.

It hit you despite all your intentions not to, because this wasn’t safe and he wants to end your life and everything is wrong, but your body doesn’t listen. You cum with a shaky cry, and with an awkward turn of your head you watch as his head goes back and he moans, eyes closed in bliss as you coat his cock in even more slick.

You’re louder than you intended to be, but your fingers close around the hilt nonetheless, trembling with the heavy weight in your grasp, you use every ounce of energy inside you to swing it back into his thigh.

“Cute,” you scream as he catches your wrist, hand clenching so tight you feel your bones grind together as the knife falls from your grip. He twists your arm around and pins your wrist behind your back, holding it in place while his other hand remains at your hip.

“So fucking cute, crybaby. Did you cum just to distract me or was that because you couldn’t help yourself?” He’s getting a high from this, from fucking you and turning you into nothing but a toy as he bounces you on his cock, hips still but arms pulling you back and forth with ease. Scarlet eyes drink you in with undisguised sick glee, and he’s finally able to place the feeling from earlier.

“A pretty little slut trying to get her rocks off and getting shown why she should’ve been a good girl and stayed home,” he grunts, releasing you and leaning over, pinning you with his weight and nearly knocking the air from your lungs how deeply he hits you inside from this angle. Dirt fills the underbelly of your nails, your fingers digging into the earth just for some semblance of stability.

You had none. It was a sick and horrifying realization. You have no control. You can do nothing to stop this. As deeply as it made your gut sink, another odd emotion rose to the surface.

A bubbly sensation that tore through you as your tears became less from fear and more from overstimulation.

His hips piston in and out of you, bullying your cervix in this position as he ruts into you like a hound, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he moans and grunts.

You break again, spasm and cinch down on his cock like a vice while you wail as if in mourning. Maybe you are, for yourself at least. “Oh fuck—! s’too much—, please, I can’t—, f-feels good, hah,” your nearly incoherent babbling sends him over the edge along with you, his own dull nails finally drawing blood as he holds you for dear life as he releases deep inside you, tip kissing right up against you womb as he cums. You can feel it too, his cock twitching inside as the night seems to still for a moment.

He holds you for a while. Breathing you in, nuzzling his face into your neck and licking you. He holds you until his cock fully softens and it hurt to be gripped so tightly inside your wet heat, regrettably pulling away.

He stands, putting his sticky limp cock away inside his underwear and pulling up his pants, looking down at your ruined figure that had slumped over to the side.

“Y’know, crybaby… you really resemble an angel now,” he smiles, red eyes almost glowing as the moon blankets his back and shadows his face. His hair seems almost white like this, your tired eyes note. You don’t move or even flinch as he grabs his knife and yanks your limp figure up by your hair. Even now you’re still crying, face lax despite the rivers flowing down your dirty swollen cheeks. You make no effort to stop him, having given up completely.

He crouches down again, mostly eye level now as he makes you look at him.

“You got any last words?” He’s being dead serious. He feels strange looking at the almost glazed over look in your eyes.

“W-what…” your voice is barely a whisper, but the night is so quiet he catches it, “what’s your…name?”

An unexpected question.

His eyes gleam, smile ravenous as he puts his lips against your ear and whispers it.

“Tomura, what’s your name, crybaby?” He asks, gently, almost like he’s actually interested.

You hoarsely whisper it, your last time ever saying it after tonight. He hums, like it pleases him, before he brings down the knife swiftly.

Your vision goes dark, the strike mercifully painless. Your last thoughts blur as you drift into soft nothingness.

He releases your hair, grabbing your limp figure up in his arms as he chuckles and sheaths his knife properly on his hip. “Dumb crybaby” his voice almost singing the words as he whistles and walks away, the park dead silent but even if someone had seen you in his arms, he could just play the good boyfriend taking his sweetheart home safely. It’s not entirely a lie either, his eyes glancing down at your unconscious form, pretty neck unmarred but a bruise would likely form on the back where he struck you tomorrow. Tomura had never felt compelled to allow a victim to live, but then again he’s never fucked a victim either, so you’re the first for a lot. He supposed it made you quite special, his legs carrying him in the direction of his car in the parking lot about a mile south. Obsession and possessiveness swirled in those red depths as they looked at your figure.

“Good girls should just stay home…” he continues his sardonic little tune, his smile gruesome and foreboding.

Vibrant blue orbs check his surroundings again, noting once again his friend was a no show. Rolling his eyes, he knew it was too good to be true. Your profile screamed inexperienced and cautious, despite you clicking that you’d like him to remain anonymous beforehand. It didn’t matter, he’d just go enjoy some sorority girl pussy instead, figuring at 0330 that most parties would be winding down. Drunk girls dressed like sluts were his second favorite.

Dabi clicks the notify option on his app, letting the website staff know you never showed up.

Though, he muses if something did happen, the police wouldn’t be notified until it was too late. Halloween weekend after all meant you could be missing for quite a while before anyone noticed.

Not his problem though.

Post dividers/@cafekitsune

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krakenartificer · 1 year ago

Note

Pro tip: a marriage cannot work with a model of “your sex drive is wrong and mine is right so you have to do it my way”.

You can do “We have different sex drives but I don’t mind doing it your way.” You can do “We have different ideal sex quantities but I can flex and you can flex and I like the rest of this relationship enough to make up the difference with masturbation”. You can do “we have different sex drives but the desired quantity of sex balances out across this polycule”.

But “you don’t want sex enough so there’s something wrong with you so get over yourself and let me fuck you” is… uh…. The shorter term for that is “rape”. And no amount of negotiations, medical research, or arguing about “normal” can change the fact that it’s still rape.

Trust me on this. I tried all of them. They do not work. Please, learn from my mistakes, and do not go down the path I did. If this is really a dealbreaker for your partner, let it be a dealbreaker now. It will not be better 5 years from now.

And yes, you can have a happy loving fulfilling relationship no matter how much sex you want to have. My partner and sometimes go months without sex, and we’re over 12 years married and going strong. Sex isn’t about “normal”; sex is about compatibility.

Hi, person in the tricky sex situation here. How often are people expected to have sex in a relationship? People in the "middle" or "normal" part of the spectrum? I worry about me in future relationships and not being able to satisfy someone "normal". I also can't help but think of the stereotype of women in marriages being expected to have sex

No no no that is NOT how sex works! Some people fuck three times a day seven days a week and some people never ever fuck - and both scenarios are perfectly acceptable even though most people are somewhere in between. It's NOT about conforming to some normative standard for expected sexuality, it's about finding a partner YOUR individual sexual needs (or lack of same) are genuinely compatible with! And regardless of what you do or don't desire in these areas, you're not the only one who feels that way too or wouldn't mind it

#Rape cw #date rape cw #marital rape cw #emotional abuse cw #gpoy #I mean really gratuitous #except for the part where it’s relevant

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arieswritez · 7 months ago

Text

puppy love

puppy love | yandere!mark grayson x afab!reader | MULTI-CHAP: 3

chapter 2

cw; DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI!!! reader is neurodivergent, ableism, growing up is messy & adults suck, angst, niceguy™/slight incel mark, childhood friend/bully!mark, mark gets his powers sooner, teeny tiny implications of pseudo incest (blink and you'll miss it), violent rape, threats of violence, & canon typical violence, stalking, implied murder, gender & body dysphoria, mentions/implications of disordered eating, mark teases reader about their body once, overall asshole mark, implied grooming (mark handles it but he's a lil bitch about it later), so, victim blaming, misogyny, the inexplicable horrors of being afab, objectification, sexualization

about; you don't know how long i could stare into your picture and wish that it was me i guess it's different 'cause you love him but i've got an interactive sick and twisted imagination and that's gotta count for something - not allowed (tv girl)

you'd found a boy that made your heart go thump thump, thump. and you knew very well how the rest of that story usually went.

your love was encompassing. asphyxiating and obsessive. and in the very first moment the two of you interacted, you knew, this could be it.

you didn't blame yourself.

you couldn't blame yourself.

blame the love stories.

the disney movies with the princes and the magic mirrors. breaking curses with true love's kiss. much like the fabricated sugary fantasies, your potential life with him unfolded before your eyes.

he could be the one.

true love's forever kiss.

you imagined it all.

movie theater dates, awkward parental meetings, proposals, a home, kids, pets. arguments. therapy, even. pushing through at the end. death. rebirth. trying it all over again in the next life.

all you had to do was get him to stick around.

you had to make him understand that you could be his true love kiss, too.

you had to be perfect.

. . there was just one miniscule problem.

the boy so happened be on the same baseball team as mark.

it's the way the two of you had met.

despite the fact that you were supposed to be there for mark: your eyes were . . elsewhere. your eyes - then your focus - had gravitated towards him even before the first pitch. and you found yourself blushing as you watched him stretch: holding his baseball bat over his head.

you'd made it your only goal to attempt to extract as much information about it from mark as discretely as you could. and frankly, you should've known mark would be able to read you like the back of his hand.

because he found out what you were trying to do embarrassingly quickly.

and he was just as quick to shut it down.

you hadn't noticed the boy before. not really. but since the baseball game, he seemed to be everywhere. and you were excited to find that he was the new addition to mark's friend group. you knew this because you saw him and mark sitting together during lunch.

which meant they were at least acquaintances.

so imagine your shock when you came to find out. . mark didn't like him.

everything about him seemed to rub mark the wrong way. mark would clam up the moment you mentioned your boy. he'd change the subject. or his mood would just straight up sour. he'd go quiet and avoidant. and when you kept pushing, he finally snapped.

your boy was stupid.

your boy was shallow.

"don't say i didn't warn you." mark would mumble.

but warning you wasn’t enough.

your boy barely looked at you.

and you weren't sure if it was in part because of the way you acted. . the way you looked. maybe he was so out of your league that he'd completely removed you from his radar.

you'd watch him from across hallways and excitement would swell in your chest when you found that you'd be walking in opposite directions.

you'd see him coming.

he'd see you.

time would slow as you walked past him.

your heart rate would pick up.

but his eyes would remain forward and time would pick back up again as soon as you were past each other.

all it'd leave you with was the bitter taste of rejection in your mouth and a deep ache of anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

the only thing that sobered you up were the dizzying possibilities.

he hadn't seen you. he hadn't noticed the effort you'd put in.

but eventually, he would.

you don't know what it was that grabbed his attention.

mark was vehemently against introducing you two.

you were at a loss until you realized that you'd just have to try harder.

whenever mark left for the bathroom, you'd made it a mission to swipe mark's phone during study sessions. you'd go through his socials and send yourself screenshots of both his follower count and who he was following.

it was a long tedious progress but eventually, you'd found your boy's account.

thankfully, it was public. which meant the the decoy accounts you'd made to snoop just in case he was private turned out to be a waste of time.

you looked through his followers and did your homework on anyone he showed a particular interest in. you'd even made a list of the usernames of the people who’s posts he interacted with the most.

and soon you became a master of disguise.

you studied them top to bottom.

those that went to the same school were far easier to emulate.

you copied their mannerisms, the way they styled their hair, you changed the cadence of your voice, the way you rolled your r’s. your clothing grew tighter and your slouch was now an exaggerated upbeat gallop as you chased after the object your new affection, hoping one day he'd notice.

. . and the exact moment he looked into your eyes and did a double take. . you did one, too.

it was completely out of surprise before you caught yourself and continued to saunter away from him with butterflies in your stomach: flapping their wings so violently it felt like you'd be swept away.

his attention was the most excitement you'd felt. . in a long time.

and you knew you'd do anything to retain it.

it was a sickly sweet feeling: syrupy, sticky. clogging your vascular system to the point your head swelled. the lack of oxygen only heightened your fantasies.

the attention was addictive and so, so good you found yourself chasing that high all the time. going to extreme lengths to get his attention. even if they’d end up embarrassing you after.

you never allowed yourself to wallow in the feeling of dread that settled in your stomach when you did everything in your power to get his attention, though.

specially whenever it made a smile stretch across his face.

whatever you did faded into the background.

it was all worth it in the end.

something was wrong with mark.

and he needed to get to the root of the problem fast.

he was looking at you. . differently.

he talked to his dad.

nolan had said something about the changing moods having to do with his powers. how being intense and passionate was just in his blood.

he talked to his mom about it. albeit in a more discrete way. he'd never be able to live it down if she'd found out you were making him behave a certain way.

she'd just chalked it up to it being puberty.

mark didn't know who to believe.

he just wanted to stop thinking about you.

his nerves were shot to shit whenever you were near.

senses heightened: you were a fog blanketing his brain until your voice carried with it a technicolor vision.

he could smell you coming like a damn blood hound.

he could hear your pulse while sitting next to you.

something was wrong with mark.

he knew it when his teeth ached when you'd stretched your neck: raised your arms over your head and let out a little sound of pain and discomfort.

something was wrong with mark.

when the day's turned warm and wet. . and your clothing became more revealing.

he could see more of you.

freckles and moles, blemishes and scars, he hadn't noticed before.

he'd follow sweat drops rolling down your skin.

smooth. soft.

he'd held you, once.

when was the last time?

something was wrong with mark.

he'd lay awake at night staring up at the ceiling.

thinking about how you'd looked while you concentrated on a book. while you looked down at your phone. while you listened to music: smiling when a song you liked came on.

your little humming. . but not singing.

never singing.

mark noticed you'd stopped singing in front of him when he started to make fun of you for it.

that, too, was how mark knew something was wrong with him.

the way your moods would shift like tides under a crescent moon whenever he'd said something excited him. he felt pleasure - a violent zap of electricity shooting up and down his spice - watching your eyes light up or darken when he'd say something to you.

about you.

i like your hair today.

light.

you talk so goddamn much.

dark.

i missed you.

light.

your stories take fucking forever.

dark.

something was wrong with him when he found his own mood depended on fantasizing on how he'd make you feel that day.

if he was in a bad mood, seeing you in one, too, was a sure-fire way to make his day a whole lot better.

something was wrong with mark.

when he'd have to smother the sounds he made while imagining you -

something was wrong with him. . when red, hot anger consumed him when one of his friends made a smart quip about your body.

when he couldn't just laugh it off anymore.

something was wrong with mark.

. . or so he thought.

because he'd later find out. .

. . no.

something was wrong with you.

all of a sudden: mark was the one double texting.

triple texting.

mark was the one asking if he could hang out. . and when the fuck did he ever need permission?

mark was the one seeking you out.

something was wrong with you.

and he needed to get to root of the problem.

he picked his brain apart in an attempt to figure out what it was. you couldn't be under any stress. you looked fine. better than fine.

you looked happy.

fucking elated.

to the point where mark couldn't affect your moods anymore.

mark wanted to know what the fuck you were so happy about.

why the fuck you were so happy when he was falling apart at the seams. when his world was crashing down.

and there you were, completely fucking oblivious.

mark had always been curious.

and so, he went to see you.

the two of you were in your room.

you'd excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

and mark started looking.

you were predictable.

he knew where you kept your journal. despite how many times he'd found it and read it aloud - holding it above his head whenever you tried to snatch it away - he'd always managed to figure out your next hiding place.

it was easier that way.

he pretended he didn't know where it was.

you pretended to have some privacy.

he pretended not to know every single, minute, insignificant detail of your life.

of your thoughts.

thank fuck you were still so naive.

thank fuck for dairies.

he'd found it in a box under your bed.

and after flipping to the page with the freshest set of ink. . he'd found out what your problem was.

you'd found a boy who'd made your heart go

thump.

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