xyzcan

[xyzcan]

Writing and drawing is peak

[xyzcan]

yandere (s) x reader

- incest, yandere shit (stalking), dunno I forgot, raw and unfiltered shit cause I'm pissed off, so called 'different' reader cause it's y/n, cheating mentioned, angst ig, non-con, there's mention of say gex, heh I ruined their personalities to make it more fucked up :fire:

- I was honestly thinking of writing one for Scaramouche for @tnsophiaayaonly, but my phone started lagging, like WDYM Tumblr?! This is too long for you?! Ugh. I have to put it in a different part, and I also planned one for Albedo and Zhongli, but yeah, for now u get ts...:fire:

- you go give me what other character u wnat bru

Your brother’s fucking perfect. The kind of perfect that gets worshipped, adored, and obsessed over like he’s some kind of goddamn pop idol. Aether’s the golden boy—beautiful, glittering, with that annoying as hell smile that makes men fall head over heels and do the stupidest shit just to touch him. He’s delicate, lithe, graceful—a fucking twink—and somehow, that’s enough to make the world bend over for him. And you? You’re just the unlucky bastard stuck watching it all unfold, every damn day.

He’s the school’s wet dream and the neighborhood’s guilty pleasure, and while the girls fucking despise him—’cause he keeps stealing their boyfriends without even trying—you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re not jealous. Not even a little. You’ve never had a boyfriend for him to ruin, for one. No one looks at you the way they look at him. And maybe that used to sting, when you were younger. But now? Now it’s just... exhausting.

What really pisses you off though—what makes your blood boil—is having to see it all. Not just the attention or the simpering smiles. No, the real horror is walking into the kitchen and hearing the unmistakable sound of him getting fucked against the fridge by some lovesick bastard who probably thinks he’s in heaven. Or worse, trying to tiptoe through the hallway at night, only to hear moaning echoing through the thin-ass walls like some twisted porn soundtrack to your insomnia.

Your home—your fucking home—is supposed to be a sanctuary. A safe space. A goddamn Atlantis to drown out the world in silence and sleep. But instead? It's a brothel with walls made of paper, and you’re forced to knock on his bedroom door while he’s getting his ass wrecked again.

“Shut the fuck up! I need my sleep!” you shout through clenched teeth, knowing it won’t change a goddamn thing.

And sure, sometimes it’s funny. At least, it was the first few times, when you could pretend this was just a phase. But it’s not funny anymore. Not when it’s every day. Not when you’re lugging your blankets down the hallway in the middle of the night like a goddamn ghost, knocking on your sister’s soundproofed door with dead eyes and a broken sleep schedule.

- The worst part of all this isn’t even the moaning, or the fact that every day feels like you’re living in a never-ending porno where the plot never improves. No. What really pisses you off—what gets under your skin like a splinter you can’t dig out—is how Aether’s “charm” fucked up the only real bond he had: his relationship with Lumine.

They used to be inseparable. Twin language, twin touch, twin timing. Always in sync, always orbiting each other like stars that never strayed. And then he happened. That boyfriend. The one Lumine brought home with stars in her eyes and trust in her voice. And it should’ve been safe. Should’ve been sacred. But instead? That guy ended up balls deep in your brother.

And the worst part? Aether didn’t even want it. He never really gets a choice in that kind of thing. People see him, want him, take him. They don’t ask. They don’t slow down. They don’t care if he wants it. It's always been like that. He flinches like it's normal. And yeah, he feels guilty—he’s not heartless. He hated hurting Lumine. But what the hell was he supposed to do when the guy just... fucked him? When he’s never really been allowed to say “no” and have it matter?

Lumine gets it. At least, she tries to. She’s smart, and she’s gentle, and she loves Aether in a way that makes forgiveness inevitable. But it still hurts her. You see it in the way she stiffens when she hears that guy’s voice echoing from Aether’s room. In the way her hands shake just before she says “It’s fine, really, I understand.” You see it in her eyes—how they glass over and dim a little more every time she hears her ex still fucking her brother, like her pain was never enough to make it stop.

And you? You just watch it all fall apart and rebuild and fall apart again from the sidelines like some goddamn invisible extra. Because guess what? You don’t even *look* like them. Aether’s got that ethereal thing going on. Lumine's radiant, soft, like she stepped out of a goddamn fairytale. And then there’s you—the one no one ever suspects is related. The leftover kid. The ghost. You don’t shine, you don’t sparkle, you don’t walk into a room and change the temperature. You're just... there. Breathing in the secondhand smoke of their drama.

Sometimes you think it would’ve been easier if you weren’t part of this family. If you didn’t have to watch your brother get passed around like some kind of pretty little toy, or see your sister bite her tongue until it bleeds. If you weren’t the one stuck holding the pieces of two broken twins who can’t quite hate each other enough to stay apart or love each other enough to heal right.

And the fucked up part? You still love them. God, you do. Even when you slam your fists on Aether’s door and scream at him to shut the fuck up, even when you sit in silence next to Lumine while she pretends not to cry. You love them both, but really, you're tired.

That night, for once, you’d actually managed to sleep.

Not just doze off—actually sleep. The kind where your muscles stop clenching, where the world fades out and your brain doesn’t scream at you about the creaking bed frame down the hall or muffled gasps echoing through the vents. A rare fucking miracle. You were floating in that rare warmth, buried beneath your sister’s blankets, her soundproofed room finally giving you the illusion of peace. A quiet so deep it almost felt fake.

Until you heard the door creak.

You stirred, reluctant to surface, heavy with sleep. You wanted to pretend you didn’t hear it. Just another dream. Let it be a dream.

But the soft thud of feet on the carpet made your body tense.

You opened your eyes slowly. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, pouring through the half-closed curtains. Pale silver spilled across the floor, catching the curve of a shadow.

There was someone by the bed.

You froze. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it wanted out.

They took a step closer, and the light finally caught their face.

Aether.

You blinked at him, confused, the fog of sleep still clinging to your skull. He looked... strange. Not like the usual, smug, glossy version of himself. Not the adored, fucked-out fantasy boy everyone wanted. No makeup. No fake smile. Just Aether—tired, quiet, raw.

“What the hell are you doing?” you mumbled, voice rough and cracked from sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, staring at you like you weren’t real. Like maybe he wasn’t real. Like maybe the only thing anchoring him to this world was the sound of your voice.

“I couldn’t stay there,” he whispered. His voice was too soft, too fragile. Like a thread unraveling.

You sat up, the blanket falling from your shoulders. You could barely see his expression, but there was something off. Not just tired. Haunted.

You should’ve told him to get out. Told him to go crawl back into his mess and leave you the fuck alone. But you didn’t.

Because for once, he looked like he was the one barely hanging on.

“…He was still there?” you asked.

Aether nodded. “He wouldn’t stop.”

And fuck, you knew exactly what that meant. He didn’t say the words—he never does—but they hung in the air anyway. Heavy. Ugly. Familiar.

You sighed, shifting to make space on the bed without saying anything. He hesitated, then climbed in like he was ten years old again and the thunder outside had scared him. Like he just needed someone to keep the nightmares out.

You felt the mattress dip under his weight, his body trembling as he curled up beside you. Barely touching. Barely breathing.

You stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for the clock ticking and the occasional shaky breath from him.

“I hate this,” you muttered, more to the air than to him. “I fucking hate watching you get eaten alive like this.”

Aether didn’t respond right away. Then: “I hate it too.”

There was something broken in his voice. Something too real. No performance. No manipulation. Just a boy who’d forgotten how to be safe.

You closed your eyes again. “Try to sleep,” you said, almost bitterly. “Before he comes knocking again.”

Aether didn’t answer. But his breath slowly evened out. For the first time in forever, the silence didn’t feel heavy. Not as heavy as that feeling deep inside you.

Your eyes snap open like a goddamn alarm—sharp, wild, desperate for some kind of escape that isn’t coming.

There you are, pinned beneath him, utterly exposed. Your lower clothing scattered like forgotten scraps, a mess of fabric and shame.

He pushes your clothes aside without hesitation, slick fingers sliding against your skin like he owns every inch of you.

Then—he enters you.

A low moan escapes him, almost involuntary, like even he didn’t expect how much this would fucking hurt or mean.

“I’m sorry...” he murmurs, voice thick with something close to regret, but it’s tangled with something darker.

And then, as he thrusts his hips deeper, harder, filling you up in a way that leaves you breathless and trembling, he chokes out, “I’m really, really sorry...”

His breath is shallow, ragged—his movements uneven, frantic, sliding in and out like he’s trying to erase every line of control between you two.

You don’t hold back.

You yell.

You retort with everything you’ve got—sharp words, biting insults, curses that claw at the silence.

But before you can say more, his hand shoots up, fingers shoved deep and merciless into your mouth, silencing you instantly.

You bite. Hard. Teeth sinking into flesh you know too well.

He winces—a soft, gut-wrenching sound that cracks the brittle mask he’s been wearing.

Then comes the whimper.

The kind of sound that shatters something inside you, even as your body twists with pain and shame.

And then—he comes inside you.

Warm, undeniable, filling you in a way that makes your vision swim.

Your eyes water, tears spilling down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat and humiliation.

But he doesn’t stop.

He leans in and kisses those sobs away—soft lips against your skin, like a lie dressed as comfort.

“I’m so sorry... Really, I am,” he breathes, voice breaking, words repeating like a prayer to something neither of you believe.

He pushes deeper still, prolonging the torment, stretching out the moment before your release like it’s some twisted gift.

And then—he leans closer, warm breath ghosting over your lips, fingers finally sliding from your mouth.

Instinctively, you bite him—his tongue—sharp and unforgiving.

Instead of pulling away, he moans into the kiss, cheeks flushing a dark, fierce red.

You want to scream. To tell someone. To hit him, to fight, to rip this nightmare apart with your bare hands.

But you know it’s fucking useless.

Because you’re the only one who sees the truth.

To everyone else—the golden boy. The nice, submissive little gay twink who’s always been your brother.

He wouldn’t hurt you.

Hell, he wouldn’t ever fuck you.

So when you’re left with bruises no one sees, and scars no one hears, you keep it buried deep—locked behind a smile that feels more like a scream.

Because sometimes, surviving means pretending the knife doesn’t cut this deep.

- Xiao. The name alone twisted something ugly in your gut every single time you heard it. The ex-boyfriend of Lumine — the one who tore her apart and somehow managed to fuck Aether balls deep right after. No words can truly capture the blistering hate you feel for that guy. Even when he’s cold as ice, pushing everyone away with that stony, distant expression of his, you can feel the venom dripping from every glance he shoots around. Except, of course, when it comes to Aether — then he softens, lets his guard down in ways nobody else gets to see. And that’s what makes you hate him even more.

Because he’s a fucking cheater. A goddamn liar. And he’s one of the people who regularly uses your brother like a goddamn plaything, all the while shattering Lumine’s heart into a million pieces that you’re left picking up.

It’s a sick, twisted nightmare. And one day, you snapped.

You confronted him. Really confronted him. With fire in your chest and venom on your tongue, you cornered him in a hallway, your fists clenched tight, your voice trembling but sharp as a blade.

“How the fuck can you even look at yourself, huh? Cheating on Lumine, then using Aether like he’s some kind of fucktoy? You’re disgusting,” you spat, eyes burning with rage and raw hurt.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stared at you, those cold eyes darkening, and suddenly the distance in his expression cracked. Before you could even brace yourself, he moved — fast and silent — and the next thing you know, you’re pinned to the damn floor, his weight pressing down on you.

His body was rigid but trembling. You could feel the undeniable heat of his arousal pressed hard against your thigh, and the sickest part was—he was embarrassed. He tried to hide it, his usual cold mask slipping just for a second, replaced by something raw, confused.

He can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe he’s attracted to you.

Hell, the truth is, he’s been watching you. Long before Lumine and he were a thing, he noticed the way you shone. Not like the perfect blond twins who dazzled with their light and laughter. No. You shine differently—darker, quieter, with something that pulled him in like a goddamn moth to flame.

Maybe, just maybe, he even stalked you in his own twisted way.

And yeah, he tried to replace his fucked-up thoughts of you by going after your siblings. But that didn’t work. Not really. Not when the ghost of you lingered in the back of his mind, haunting every touch, every whispered word.

Now here he is, pinned against you, gritting his teeth, grumbling out a rough apology that sounds more like a growl.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I... I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low and ragged, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

You stare up at him, furious and confused all at once. What the fuck do you want from him? For him to admit he’s fucked up beyond repair? To hate him enough to burn the memory out of your mind? And what can you do about him?

What the fuck can you even do?

You're on the goddamn floor—cold, tile biting into your spine—right there in the middle of an empty hallway that smells like dust and silence and something rotten that no one ever bothers to clean.

And he's inside you.

Not just metaphorically. Not in some poetic, twisted way.

No—shoved deep inside you, your wrists pinned so tightly it burns, your fingers twitching with the urge to fight back, to scratch, to claw, to do something—but you can’t.

His weight cages you. His hips slam against yours like he’s chasing something only he understands, and you feel it. Every. Damn. Inch. Of him, like he’s trying to erase your insides and make you new, make you his.

And that fucking thought makes you sick.

Because this cock—this thing—that used to belong to your brother in the most disgusting way imaginable... it’s now inside you.

Stretching you open.

Filling you up until you're choking on the wrongness of it.

And still—you’re crying.

God, you're fucking crying.

Not from pain. Not entirely. Not even from fear, though it’s coiled in your gut like barbed wire.

You cry because nothing makes sense anymore. Because this shouldn’t be happening. Because somewhere between the heat and the horror, your body reacts like it’s alive for the first time, andthat betrayal makes your heart want to shatter.

You retort—something sharp, something bitter, maybe even something cruel—but your voice cracks halfway through, and all that comes out is a sob.

Pathetic. Raw. Real.

And he freezes.

Just for a second.

His forehead falls against yours. His breath hitches.

He whispers, “Fuck… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Again.

As if saying it more will undo the damage.

As if those soft, broken apologies can stitch together what he’s tearing apart with every thrust.

He kisses your cheek like that makes it better. Like he’s not desecrating what little innocence you had left.

“Shh... I didn't mean to—fuck—I just... I didn’t know what else to do,” he breathes, almost desperate, as if he’s the one being ruined.

And maybe that's the worst part.

That you can feel the guilt in him, buried under the hunger. You can feel how sorry he is.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s still inside you.

Still fucking into you.

Still muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” like a prayer or a curse, every word landing on your skin like acid.

You hate him.

You hate yourself.

And through it all—your trembling, your tears, the slick obscene sound of your bodies colliding—you wonder if this is what love is supposed to feel like when it’s drowned in rot.

You want to scream.

But you’re too full.

Of him. Of guilt. Of shame.

And he just keeps going.

Softly. Steadily. Like this is all he knows.

Like you were meant for this.

And you know, when it’s over, when he finally pulls out and leaves you there shaking on the floor, cold and empty and ruined,

he’ll say it one more time.

“I’m sorry.”

And you’ll want to believe it.

God help you—you will.

- You were never supposed to get involved.

Childe was Aether's problem. His boyfriend. The pretty boy plaything wrapped around that smug ginger’s finger like a ribbon soaked in heartbreak. You watched it unfold—slowly at first, like watching a glass teeter on the edge of a table, then suddenly all at once, the moment Aether stopped being his and became everyone’s.

It happened on one fucked-up day. One goddamn party. Aether, drunk, pretty, golden-eyed and too trusting for his own good, was passed around like some sick, twisted favor. People at school started whispering after that—no, not whispering. Laughing. Cruel snickers behind lockers. "Aether the school toy." Like his name was synonymous with being used. And Childe? The asshole let it happen.

He called it an “open relationship” afterward, like that label was supposed to dull the ache in Aether’s eyes. Like that word was enough to justify the silent crying at night when he thought no one could hear. But you heard. You were the one who held him after he curled up on the bathroom floor, trembling, breath ragged, smelling like liquor and regret.

And Childe? That ginger fuck would come over the next day, acting like nothing ever happened. Sometimes you'd come home and find him balls deep in Aether, rutting into him like a dog in heat, and every single time, something inside you just snapped. The rage was red and raw and choking. You wanted to punch him square in that smug fucking face. Kick him in the dick so hard he’d never dare get hard again. You wanted to choke the life out of him and scream, "Was it worth it? Was breaking him worth it, you sick bastard?"

Because Childe wasn’t just ruining Aether.

He was tearing everything down. Your home, your peace, your bond with your siblings—he was a wrecking ball dressed in designer clothes, all flirty grins and faux tenderness. You hated him. You despised him. That kind of loathing that seeps into your marrow and poisons you slowly.

And one day, it finally happened.

You snapped.

He had just finished "visiting" Aether—his shirt still open, skin flushed, a fucking bite mark on his neck like he was proud of it. And the way he smiled at you? Like this was all some casual arrangement, like Aether wasn’t lying on your bed crying three nights ago?

So you punched him.

Hard.

Knuckles cracked against bone. His head snapped to the side. Blood sprayed from his nose, and for a glorious second, you felt alive. Vindicated. His hand touched the mess on his face—and he laughed.

He fucking laughed.

Like you’d gifted him something precious. His tongue darted out, tasting the blood. And then he moaned. Moaned, like this was foreplay.

“What the fuck,” you spat, backing away.

“Damn,” he said through the blood, grinning like a perverse lunatic. “Didn’t know you had that in you. You wanna go again? Maybe step on me next time?”

Your stomach turned. Disgust rolled over your skin like oil. You had broken his nose, and he looked like you’d given him an orgasm.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you hissed, heart hammering. Your fists still shook.

He tilted his head, dazed and delighted. “You really hate me that much, huh?”

Yes. God, yes. You hated him so fucking much it made you sick. But what was worse—he liked it. He liked your hate. He thrived on it.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because now—now you realize you're nothing more than a joke to him. A beautiful, pathetic joke. No strength. No power. Just something to twist, to take, to play with until he’s satisfied.

And what hurts the most?

It's not just the fucked up way he holds you, how he pinned you so easily, your own damn shirt tying your wrists like you're some willing toy in his game.

It's not just the way his shirt is wrapped around your mouth, muffling every sound you make—your pleas, your broken breaths, your shameful moans.

No, what kills you is the way he looks at you while he does it.

The way his body moves against yours, deep and relentless, pushing into places that make your soul want to crawl out of your skin. Every thrust feels like punishment and reward, all at once.

And through it all, that fucking smirk on his lips—arrogant, cruel. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

But then he kisses you.

Soft. Tender. Like he means it. Like this is love. Like you're something precious.

And that—God, that breaks you more than anything else.

Because if someone walked in on this—someone with no clue of the twisted backstory—they'd think it was romantic. They’d see the way his fingers trail down your cheek, the way he hushes your cries with cooing whispers, and they’d think, wow, what a loving couple.

But they don’t see you.

They don’t see the fucking tears slipping past your eyes, falling silently down your cheeks, pooling into the creases of his shirt.

They don’t hear the way your breath trembles beneath the cloth, the way your body flinches not from pain, but from the ache of knowing—he doesn’t really care. Not in the way you wanted. Not in the way you needed.

And he sees the tears. Of course he sees them.

He brushes them away with the pad of his thumb, gentle like a lie, and murmurs against your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world:

“Shh… It’s okay, baby. Just a little longer, alright? I’ll cum soon.”

Like that’s supposed to make it better.

You want to scream. You want to fight. But your body betrays you. Your mind is a fog of pleasure and grief and this sickening warmth that blooms every time he touches you like you matter.

But you don’t.

You never did.

Is that fucked up?

Yeah.

But this whole thing is.

Does he care? No not really, I mean, c'mon, he's been playing this game since you guys were kids, you just had... To have more of a backbone than your siblings, which irritated him to no end that he ended up liking you more than he should. So now... Yeah.

[xyzcan]

This shit is based off of this, like so heavily based off i'd say it's the same but... Nahh I just like the idea so creds to this guy ig: @saikowatermelons

yandere x reader

- warnings: cannibalism, noncon, blowjob, yandere, degradation too, tied up, imprisoned reader, unhealthy power dynamic (prince n slave), honestly I get too horny writing smut scenes that I lose the supposed 'emotional' shit I'm supposed to add lmao... But HEJSKSKSKSK @tnsophiaayaonly would you notice this if I add scara in the tags? :3 pretty pls.

- And I keep on writing as if I was in Google docs because my doc's automatically turns asterisks into these italics or bold thingies... BRO the asterisks won't stop!!

And my grammar sucks, sorri English just ain't my first language </3

--- xyzcan writes.

He was born adored.

From the moment he first cried in the cradle, the kingdom wept with joy. The stars were said to shimmer brighter the night he was born. Poets wrote about the gleam in his eyes like it was a divine prophecy. His smile? That became the religion of fools and worshippers.

He was their prince.

And fuck, they loved him for it.

His every word was echoed with cheers. His footsteps blessed roads. His existence—untouchable, godlike, holy.

But they never knew him.

Behind that charming grin and bright laughter was nothing but a hollow pit of disinterest. All that devotion? Boring. All that praise? Noise. Meaningless, pathetic noise.

He played the part. Of course he did. Wore the crown like it was forged for him alone, smiled like he gave a shit, patted peasants’ heads and waved from balconies like he cared.

But it was all fucking empty.

The only thing that stirred him was the idea of power. Not just rule. Not just control. But something deeper—domination of the soul. He wanted to crack someone open. Strip them bare. And not because they bowed to him. Because they resisted him.

He waited for something real.

And then you showed up.

You were a smudge. A stain. A girl born from the ashes of a family of thieves—lowborn scum, the kind the court only mentioned to make examples out of. Your parents were enslaved, publicly punished, humiliated for crimes they did commit. And you...

You were the one that slipped away.

You didn’t scream for help. You didn’t beg for mercy. You ran like an animal. You stole scraps to survive. You learned to hide in shadows, to trust no one, to look at royalty with rage in your eyes instead of reverence.

You were filth.

You were perfect.

The moment he heard your name from a guard’s lips—dirty, snarled, covered in blood and accused of murder—he didn’t give a damn. Just another rat to execute. He signed the parchment for your death without even looking at it.

And yet…

He didn’t send the order through.

Why? He didn’t fucking know. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that single glimpse he caught of you—cuffed, dragged through the halls, blood drying on your temple, snarling like a goddamn beast—and something inside him shifted.

He let you rot.

One month. Two. Six. A year.

The dungeon devoured you.

And still, you didn’t scream.

You glared.

And that’s when he knew.

He couldn't kill you. Not yet.

Because you were the first thing that made him feel anything in years.

The air in the dungeon is thick. Wet. Rank with mold, blood, and rotting bodies that no one bothered to bury. It clings to your skin like oil. Every breath is a curse.

You’ve been down here for so long you’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like. Your bones feel like glass, your skin like paper. Every chain clamped around your wrist and ankle itches like fire. But it’s the silence that eats you alive.

Until he shows up.

The prince.

Cloaked in white and gold, untouched by filth. His boots click softly against the stones, clean even in this pit. He stands in front of your cell like he’s gazing at a painting, not a person.

You lift your head slowly.

He sees the bruise on your jaw. The cuts on your lips. The way your collarbones poke out like blades. And still, somehow, your glare burns hotter than the torches behind him.

You’re not broken yet.

And that makes his pulse quicken.

“Ah,” he says, smiling with that same radiant grin he shows the masses. “Still alive. Still angry. That’s good.”

You narrow your eyes. Your throat is too dry to speak, but if you could, you’d scream every curse you know.

He kneels. Close enough to touch. “You haven’t asked why I’m here,” he murmurs, studying your face.

You say nothing. He likes the silence too much.

“Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” he teases, tilting his head. “That I’ve thought of you every night for a year?”

You shudder. The chains clink with your twitch.

“...Fuck you,” you rasp, barely audible.

His grin widens.

There it is.

“I’ve kept you down here for so long,” he says, voice like silk and acid. “Because I wanted to see what you’d become. I thought you’d break. Thought you’d beg. But no… you’re still you.”

His hand reaches into his coat. He pulls something out. Wrapped in soft, royal cloth.

You stiffen.

He unfolds it slowly.

And your stomach drops.

It’s a hand.

Small. Pale. Fingers curled in a permanent twitch of agony. Dried blood coats the wrist.

You gag, bile rising instantly. The smell hits you next—rotten, metallic, thick enough to make your eyes sting.

“Hungry?” he asks softly.

You look up at him like he’s the fucking devil.

He chuckles. “Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been starving for days. I know. I hear your stomach. I see the way you tremble.”

You shake your head.

“No?” he says, blinking innocently. “But you said you were hungry…”

Then—too fast—he lunges.

Grabs your face.

Fingers crush your jaw open with brute force. You fight, kick, scream hoarsely, but he doesn’t care. He presses the bloody hand against your mouth. Flesh touches your lips.

You sob, wrenching away, but the chains bite into your skin and hold you in place.

“You don’t get to choose,” he snarls suddenly, voice cracking with something savage. “You don’t get to say no. You belong to me now.”

Tears streak down your face as he smears blood across your lips, forcing the taste into your mouth. You choke, body lurching with nausea.

You vomit.

He watches.

He smiles.

“I knew it’d be fun,” he whispers. “I knew you’d fight. Scream. Cry. I knew you’d make me feel.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple as you sob uncontrollably.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he breathes. “Not like the others. Not like those pathetic worms out there who beg for my attention. You are different. And I’m going to ruin you piece by piece until you scream my name like a prayer.”

And somehow… that’s the most terrifying part.

Because he means it.

He’s not here to kill you.

He’s here to keep you.

To twist you into something broken and beautiful, just for him.

And the worst part?

He’s already started.

“I’m hungry,” you croak, voice shredded and trembling—but your eyes don’t waver. “But not for that… you sick fuck.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

His smile twitches—just for a second. Not the polished grin he offers the crowd. No. This one’s twitchy. Unstable. Wrong. Something flickers behind his eyes, like a fuse catching flame.

Oh?

Even now—after all the rot, all the starvation, all the fucking hell—you still dare to look at him like that? You still dare to bare your teeth at a prince like you’re some rabid animal? His cheeks burn. His breath shudders out of him.

And he laughs.

It’s a soft, breathy thing at first, almost confused. Then it grows—full-bodied and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls like mockery.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, leaning in. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Filthy. Shaking. Barely breathing. And still, you throw insults like you’ve got power here. Like you matter.”

You glare harder, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “You don’t fucking scare me.”

That’s not entirely true. But you’ll be damned if you give him the pleasure of knowing just how much.

His gaze drops for a second—just a heartbeat. But it’s enough.

You follow it.

And your blood runs cold.

There, beneath the soft fall of his pristine white coat, straining against velvet trousers, is the undeniable outline of his arousal.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his smile grows sharper. His voice drops into something darker, lower

“…See? You noticed,” he says softly, almost sweet. “I was wondering when you’d see what you do to me.”

Your stomach twists, bile threatening again. You want to scream. To disappear. To rip your skin off just to feel clean again. But all you can do is stare at the living nightmare in front of you.

This isn’t a prince.

This isn’t a savior.

This is a monster in silk and gold, who people kneel for with tears in their eyes, who children dream of meeting, who the entire fucking kingdom worships.

But here, in the damp belly of the palace, you know the truth.

He’s just a sick fuck.

He steps closer, slowly—like you’re prey.

He watches your reaction like it’s a performance crafted just for him—each flinch, every twitch of your lip or narrowing of your eyes only fans the flames licking hungrily beneath his skin. His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with something predatory. He lives for this—the way you still bite back, even now, even after everything. It’s like watching a candle trying to burn in a storm, defiant and stupidly beautiful.

He pulls his hand away from your mouth, slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Blood streaks your lips, trailing down your chin in thin, red rivers. You cough, gagging as the taste of iron clings to the back of your throat. His eyes follow the path of that blood like it’s art.

Then he pressed it.

That disgusting, throbbing bulge in his pants.

And he notices you cringing.

His smirk twists. Grows darker. Hungrier.

He steps closer, the heat of him suffocating, invading your space like a fog you can’t escape. His voice drops into a gravelly whisper, thick with amusement and filth.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I am a monster."

Before you can spit another insult, his hand shoots forward and fists in your hair.

You cry out, your scalp screaming as he yanks your head back with brutal force. The cold wall behind you offers no mercy as you’re pinned in place by his hold. Pain lances down your neck, tears springing unbidden in your eyes—but still, you glare.

He leans in, and you can see it—really see it. That perfect princely mask is gone. His expression is feral now. Lust, yes—but something else too. Something ancient and terrifying. Something that sees you not as a person, but as a possession. A toy. A fucking plaything to break and remake as he pleases.

“You’re so full of fire,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek. “So fucking brave. It’s adorable.”

His grip tightens in your hair, drawing a hiss from your throat.

“I wonder how long it’ll take to turn that fire into begging."

You don’t answer.

So he grabs your jaw, fingers digging into the bone until it aches, until your mouth is forced open like some grotesque puppet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, almost in awe. “Fucking gorgeous, even now.”

You try to twist away, but his grip only gets tighter. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. The sting mixes with exhaustion, fear, rage—and yet your eyes burn with hatred.

“Do it,” you rasp. “Whatever you want. I won’t break for you.”

He pauses—just a heartbeat—and then lets out a low, shaky laugh.

“Oh, you will,” he says. “That’s the best part.”

He unbuckles his belt with a metallic clink, his movements deliberate and cruel, as if prolonging that humiliating tension. He pulls out his length—already hard and veined—holding it in front of your face.

"Open that smart mouth of yours," he commands softly, his voice dripping with mocking kindness.

You hesitate, your eyes filled with hatred and disgust. This was so fucking humiliating. He chuckles raspily, the sound sending a shivers down your spine.

He wraps his hand around his length, giving it a slow stroke. "Or should I just shove it down your throat?" He threatens, his thumb brushing against his tip.

Without warning, he slaps his cock against your lips, forcing them open. "Suck," he orders raspily. He grips your hair tighter, using it to guide your head down onto his shaft.

You gag as he forces himself into your mouth, filling it completely, you feel his tip burning in your mouth.

He starts fucking your mouth roughly, letting strings of groans and moans escapes his lips, groaning like it's some divine prayer. Your lips stretch wide around his thick girth as he pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat. It burns, but the humiliation burns even further.

You try to breathe through your nose, but he doesn't give you time to adjust, when has he ever?

His hips move in a brutal pace, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with wet, slurping sounds. He watches his cock disappear into your mouth over and over again, his pleasure building rapidly.

He never expects to feel this good with a criminal of all people.

He pulls your head forward harder each time he thrusts in, making you gag and drool around him. Your saliva coats his length, adding wetness to each stroke.

"Look at you," he rasps, watching as your lips stretch obscenely around him, "Such a pretty mouth for such nasty things." His cock glides smoothly now, thanks to your saliva. He pushes deep enough to make you gag again, holding your head there for a moment.

"Take it."

His pace becomes even more brutal, using your mouth like a prostitute, like the fucking slut of a criminal you are. He can feel his release approaching and he wants to use you for it.

He reaches down and grabs your hair harder, pulling your head back to look at him as he starts fucking your mouth even harder. "I'm gonna cum,"

"And you're gonna swallow every fucking drop." He growls with feral intensity, pushing his entire length down your throat. Your eyes water and your nose runs as you gag loudly around his thick base, fuck. He starts fucking your throat, forcing his dick down your throat over and over again, he could feel your teeth scraping against the base of his shaft, as if threatening to bite him.

He honestly just gets off to it more.

He grunts deeply, his hips moving faster and more erratically as he nears climax. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth become obscene and loud in the quiet dungeon. Saliva drips down onto both cheeks making them glisten obscenely under harsh light.

"You're so disgusting taking my whole fucking dick down your throat," he groans, his voice filled with disgust and arousal, he considered slapping you, treat you like the criminal you are.

Would that make you beg and submit?

"You look like a fucking mess, all choked and slobbery." He pulls out for a moment, just to slap his wet, throbbing dick against your face.

"Open up, you stupid whore," he hisses, grabbing your jaw and forcing your mouth open. "Look at this fucking mess," he says, showing you the wet, saliva-covered length of his dick. "You're gonna swallow it all, you dirty slut."

"Gods, you're like a cheap whore," He mutters, pushing back inside your mouth, making you feel every vein with your tongue. "Do all criminals suck off cock this good, or is just you? Do you even have dignity? Do whores like you have pride?" He laughs darkly, hitting the back of your throat again.

"I'm gonna cum soon, baby. I'm gonna cum down your fucking throat and you're gonna swallow every fucking drop like a good little slut." He starts fucking your mouth faster and harder, his balls slapping against your chin. "Swallow it all..."

You feel tears go down your face. This was not only humiliating, but you were just forced to feed on fucking human flesh. And still—even now? You're still getting said human flesh down your throat, it's just a different kind.

"Right there," he moans loudly, gripping your hair tighter, throwing his head back, he can feel his release coming like some high-drugged up guy. "Right fucking there!" He holds your head still as he thrusts deep into your throat one last time and explodes. His cock pulses violently inside your mouth filling it with ropes of his cum.

Your knees ache against the cold stone floor, and your throat feels raw, violated. Your body is still trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the aftershocks of him.

And then… he touches your cheek. So softly. So fucking softly.

“Good girl,” he coos, as if his voice hadn’t just torn through your soul minutes ago.

You flinch, and that only makes his smile widen—like he finds it endearing. His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek like some twisted parody of affection.

“Gods, you took that like such a good little toy,” he murmurs, his tone warm now. Worshipful, almost. Sickeningly proud.

You stare up at him, blankly at first. Numb. Dissociated. But then the heat rises—behind your eyes, in your throat, in your chest. Shame, rage, horror. Your stomach twists, like it might turn itself inside out.

“Such a pretty little whore,” he adds, stroking your face with a lover’s touch.

You can’t breathe.

It’s not just what he did.

It’s that he thinks you should be grateful for it. That he's comforting you—as if he cared. That he expects you to smile, to nod, to collapse into his arms like some ruined little doll who finally accepts her place.

And the worst part?

Your body doesn't scream. Your body doesn’t fight. It just sits there—tired, used, broken in silence.

You feel your sense of self crumbling, piece by piece. Your thoughts are screaming, but they’re trapped beneath a glass surface. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t want to hear them. He’s already rewritten your story in his head—and in his version, you're his.

His to use. His to break. His to “praise."

Your vision swims. You want to throw up. You want to claw your skin off. You want to scream that you are not this, you are not his, you are not some thing—

But your voice is gone. Swallowed by everything he took.

And he kneels down beside you, whispering, “See? That wasn’t so bad… You’re mine now, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice is gentle. His hand is warm.

And all you can do… is sit there, soaked in grief and fury, tasting the rot of helplessness on your tongue.

Although the hopelessness you felt, that feeling of violation itching on your skin, that salty taste of his release remains on your mouth... Even after all of that, he can still see— feel. Feel that you're still you. Human. Fiery and so so you.

And it makes him grin.

“I thought you were different,” he murmurs, the edges of his voice soft as silk—a lie wrapped in luxury—as he drags a gloved finger down the rusted chains keeping you bound.

It felt like a lie to you, but to him? It's the utmost truth. He can still see it. The thing that made you so fucking special.

Each metallic scrape feels like it’s splitting your nerves open, like it’s scoring his presence deeper into your already-battered psyche.

“And look at that…” he breathes, tilting his head with childlike awe. “I was right. You’re delicious when you’re angry. I want to bottle that rage. Smear it on my skin. Drink it. Bathe in it. Let it soak into my fucking bones.”

You recoil instinctively, your chains clinking with pathetic defiance.

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, you finally found your voice and it cuts through the hopelessness you felt, the words tearing out of you, raw and ragged. “You’re not human.”

That stops him. Not like a wound—but like a revelation. He blinks once. Slowly.

Then he kneels again. Just like before.

But this time… he’s closer.

Close enough to smell the iron on your breath. Close enough that his warmth seeps into your cold skin like poison. His gloved fingers trail up to the shackles around your wrists, curling around the chains—not to release you, of course, but just to feel them. To remind you they’re still there.

His breath ghosts against your lips, too intimate for words like “prisoner” to make any fucking sense anymore.

“No,” he murmurs, so quiet it could be mistaken for reverence. “I’m not.”

His eyes gleam—not like jewels, but like something wet and feral crawling out of a pit.

“And neither are you. Not anymore.”

You freeze. Not from fear. Not from pain.

From the truth in his voice.

“Do you think the world up there will ever take you back after this?” he whispers, his tone almost tender. “Do you think they’ll see anything but filth when they look at you? You’ve been marked, sweetheart. Tainted. Owned.”

Your heart is hammering now. Not from the threats. But from the quiet realization that—deep, deep down—you believe him. Some cracked little voice inside you is already grieving the life you’ll never get back.

You shake your head, biting down hard on the sob rising in your throat.

“I’d rather fucking die.”

He smiles.

But not with mockery. Not with sadism. It’s softer. Like you just confessed your love instead of your refusal. His hand brushes your face like you’re precious porcelain he intends to shatter slowly.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he says, voice low and warm, like a lullaby sung in hell.

“You will. But only when I say so."

That’s when you realize the real horror.

It’s not the pain. It’s not even the loss.

It’s the waiting. The knowing. The cruel, slow corrosion of being kept alive not for salvation—but for his entertainment. For his need. For him.

And there is no escape. Only the illusion of time.

Only him…

...and the unbearable, suffocating fact that no one is coming for you.