#tw: bloodplay
Text
just a bite.
modern!au vampire!scaramouche x reader
summary: being roommates with a vampire who craves you carnally just as much as he does for sustenance? awk.
word count: 4.6k
tw/cw: 18+ only, afab reader, drinking, unintentional roommates with a vampire (he kind of just invites himself in. and never leaves), mutual masturbation, sex in exchange for blood, frottage, rutting, bodily fluids, bloodplay, blood drinking, scaramouche isn’t really so much bitter, angry scaramouche or calmer wanderer but more a blend of both? (he’s really just a stray cat who latches onto you), lots of banter, brief reference to suicidal behavior (scaramouche)
--author’s note: happy late bday scaramouche <3
“You’re leaving?”
While two months ago, you wouldn’t think twice about stepping out to grab drinks with a friend, now things are different. Two months ago, after all, you did not have a half-starved vampire passed out on your doorstep, after trying to deny himself of his one source of sustenance.
Two months ago, after all, you didn’t invite said vampire into your apartment unknowingly, only to find yourself pinned to your doormat, his crazed, crimson-tinged gaze focused intently on your neck.
Two months ago, after all, you did not have said vampire now lingering in your house as an unofficial guest after said unsuccessful attempt to drain you dry.
(“You were the only one stupid enough to let me in,” he said drily, kicking his feet up onto your coffee table the day after, when you had awoken after his frenzy. Surprised you’re still alive, he’d said nonchalantly. As if he was not a stranger in your house. As if he hadn’t tried to suck the life out of you like some kind of vertically-challenged tick. He ignored your attempts to swat his feet off, instead crossing his arms and tossing his head to the side.
A tick with an attitude, most definitely.
“Besides… why should I pass up the chance for a free meal and board?”)
That free meal, as it turns out, is you. Modern day vampires are few and far in between, but they have to resort to any means for survival. Even if that means latching onto their unwitting victims for shelter. And a constant supply of blood.
Just your luck.
“Yeah,” you respond absently. “A friend invited me out for drinks.”
“…Drinks?”
Two months ago, you also did not know the telltale signs of his displeasure. The hard edge to his voice, the slight huff of annoyance he denies making. I don’t breathe anymore, you idiot. Perhaps it’s a tic he retained from his human days.
Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom. Looking every bit like the helicopter roommate he is. “What time will you return?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure. Eleven, maybe? Later?”
You glance over at him to find his mouth curled into a thin line. He’s sulking. When he catches your stare, he turns away, waving a hand dismissively at you.
“Whatever. You’re gonna regret it. You and I both know you’re not a drinker.”
—
The annoying thing is, he’s right.
Two hours later, you stumble through the front door after fumbling with your keys, during which you wondered why your ever so thoughtful roommate, who could certainly hear you, couldn’t just let you in. Like you did for him back then.
Vampires apparently don’t believe in ‘an eye for an eye.’ Or, er, blood for blood.
“Told you so.” His smug voice rings out once you’ve made it in.
“Mm, shut it,” you say, kicking off your shoes by the entrance before trudging towards him. You rub at your temples irately, willing away the wave of dizziness that runs through you.
Damn, and you didn’t even have that many drinks. Just one or two. The fact that your new guest knows you better than yourself is humbling.
Mercifully, Scaramouche is quiet as he takes in your disheveled state. You’re expecting more reprimanding, but instead, he asks, “Are you alright?”
“The room is spinning.”
“You would’ve enjoyed a night in more.” He pats a spot on the couch.
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter despondently, plopping down next to him. Of course, he’s bundled himself up in all your good blankets. You’ve been wondering why they’re missing. Mr. Cold and Undead and Heh, Only Humans Would Struggle To Survive in the Winter reveals his true nature as the biggest blanket hoarder. Tugging at one of them earns you a shrewd glance, before he opens it up and drapes it across your shoulder.
Some mindless telenovela drones on the TV as you drift off. You’re not sure why, but he’s taken an interest in watching shows that portrayed the difficulties of human relationships. It’s because I find them utterly foolish, he said. Why can’t your kind just learn to voice what troubles them? While he claims it’s like watching ants struggle to survive, you’ve caught him more than once engrossed in the passionate declarations of love and ardor playing across the screen.
Before you know it, your eyes flutter shut. Darkness settles over you. You don’t know how long you’re asleep, but when you wake up, the show is long over. Groggily you lift your head up, realizing that you fell asleep on his shoulder. Again. You murmur out an apology which he brushes off. He’s staring at you expectantly, as if he was waiting for you.
“Hey. I’m hungry.”
You stretch your arms out, before letting them fall back against your lap.
“And?”
He looks at you as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.
“Give me a bite.”
“Mm…” You gauge yourself. Drowsiness clings to you like a second skin. “I’m tired. No.”
Scaramouche frowns. He removes himself from the blanket fort he’s built, facing you with an irate expression.
“You’ve offered it before,” he says blithely.
“Yeah.” You nod. “I did.” You still have the scar to prove it.
“Well,” he presses. “What’s the difference now?”
You sigh, falling against the blankets he left behind. Since Scaramouche doesn’t exude heat, they haven’t leeched any warmth from him. You nuzzle into them, hoping vainly to warm them up somewhat.
“That was after you fingered me.”
He scoffs. “So that’s what it takes to get some food around here? Pleasuring your body? How easy.”
“Hey, it’s my house–my rules. If you want access to the blood bank…” you say, gesturing towards yourself with one hand. The other tugs at the sleeve of your sweater, dragging it down to reveal the unblemished skin of your wrist. Territory he hasn’t marked yet. His gaze darts to it with a look of barely concealed hunger, no doubt able to smell the blood thrumming through your veins.
“You gotta pay up.”
He narrows his gaze. His voice is measured, as if he’s negotiating the terms of your agreement. “And this form of payment… is just your pleasure, right? You want nothing else?”
You shake your sleeve back into its original position. You don’t miss the flash of urgency on his face. He must really be hungry. Guilt registers briefly in you. Perhaps you shouldn’t tease him too much.
“I would prefer it came as a package deal. My pleasure and yours combined. But…” You shrug. “It’s up to you. It’s your choice.”
“Choice?” He lets out a derisive laugh. “You speak as if I have a choice. As if this existence gives me anything but the illusion of free will.”
He leans in, grasping your wrist. “You though? You’re always choosing to be a damn brat,” he mutters. He yanks your sleeve down, staring intently at your wrist. You’re sure he can feel your pulse spike. You trust him–mostly. Other than that first time when he appeared at your doorstep, he’s never forced his appetite onto you.
But… in moments like this, you’re still highly aware of your roles here. He’s the predator who’s simply decided to play house with his prey.
“I can’t choose my diet. But you can choose not to be my next meal. And yet…” That same amused chuckle. As if he’s mocking himself just as much as you. “You offer yourself up like this before me.”
He’s close. So close you can see his lashes flutter, can see the flecks of scarlet in his eyes. His bloodlust.
“I trust you.”
His gaze darkens. With his other hand, he grasps your sweater fabric at your chest, dragging you closer to him. “You really are a fool.”
Then he surges forward, his lips crashing against yours.
Scaramouche, you’ve learned, has two types of kisses: the first is mocking or teasing. Whenever you’ve done something that particularly annoys him (the list is quite long), he’ll deny you affection for as long as he can. Nipping your lips with his fangs, sometimes nicking you, brushing his lips against your forehead when you really want a proper kiss. But this–this is the second kind of kiss.
Raw hunger.
Like your very essence could breathe life back into him. Like he can’t get enough. Like he knows he’s damned to a life of eternal solitude but he intends to drag you down to hell on the way.
He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours. His hand on your chest slips underneath your sweater, tugging at the material. You know better than to keep him waiting. If he’s impatient enough, he’ll just rip it off.
Once your sweater and shirt are off, Scaramouche wastes no time, his lips finding yours once more. He circles your breast with his palm, marveling at its suppleness, before squeezing harshly. You moan into the kiss, pulling back, until he surges towards you again. Where do you think you’re going? His other hand brazenly undoes your pants before diving in.
Your breath hitches. This time you do pull away.
“H-Hold on, bud, have you ever heard of foreplay?”
He rolls his eyes. “You seem plenty wet down here,” he says, stroking over the damp spot in your panties. You squirm, more of your arousal pooling into the material. “Just a little kissing does this to you? Pathetic.”
“Y-You’re one to talk,” you say, eyeing the bulge in his shorts. At your words, he shifts his weight, attempting to hide the obvious signs of his arousal.
“It’s the thrill of knowing my next meal is so close,” he says offhandedly. Unconvincingly.
“You could just say you’re excited, you know. That I excite you.”
He glances at you curiously. Wide-eyed, in a false display of innocence (he’s anything but). “Now why would I say that?”
You’re about to retort when he cuts you off, his thin, dexterous fingers slipping into your panties, stroking the slick, wet seam of you. You let out a shaky moan, your thighs clamping down around his hand.
“Ah-ah-ah. Don’t hide from me now,” he reprimands. With a firm hand, he yanks your pants and panties down part ways, trapping the material taut between your thighs. You’re rendered immobile, splayed open for his greedy touch.
He brushes against your twitching clit, and your breath hitches. His finger slips inside you, the audible shlick of it parting your wet folds flustering you. Wriggling around inside you intently, he digs further and further until he nudges a walnut-shaped nub inside you. When he finds it, he thrusts into you with a relentless intensity, enough to have you lurching against him.
“You’re so predictable.” There’s a hint of pride in his words despite their harshness.
You pout at him but are interrupted as he slips another finger into you. Once he feels just how easily your walls take him, his fingers soon drenched by your slick walls, he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. You grasp at the sleeve of his sweater, squirming against him.
“M-More… please,” you whine.
Scaramouche’s fingers probe you, his thumb circling your clit with intensity. He’s relentless in his assault. When he wants something, after all–whether that’s blood, or your orgasm–he gets it. He knows just the strings to pluck to make things happen.
You’re close, rapidly approaching the precipice of your pleasure. You tremble around his fingers, your toes curling. Your eyes slip shut, a cry of his name on the tip of your tongue. But just before you’re about to crash over the edge, he stops. His fingers cease all movement inside you, before slipping out.
The loss is instantaneous.
You gasp, your eyes snapping open.
“Say it,” he demands.
“W-wha—why did you—“
“Say you’ll let me drink from you. Then and only then will I continue.”
Your jaw drops.
“I was—I was so close!”
He smirks cruelly. “I know. That’s why I stopped.”
You pout. You shift your thighs, nudging his fingers inside you.
“Should’ve known. I guess I’ll just grab my—“
His gaze narrows dangerously. “You’ll use none of those contraptions on yourself.” You know what he’s referring to–he’s well-acquainted with the second cabinet of your drawers, where you kept your collection of vibrators and dildos.
You sniffle contemptuously. “At least she’ll finish the job—”
His hand grasps your thigh, squeezing. He’s frowning hard enough to leave a furrow in his brows.
“When…” He pauses, as if struggling to voice the words himself. “Are you going to admit that I’m all you need?”
Your eyes widen in surprise.
“Other humans… Contraptions–”” He spits the word out as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “None of them can compare to what I can do. None of them can make you feel the way I do.”
“Scaramouche…”
“And you? You should be offering yourself to me,” he says, glaring. Seemingly over his oddly heartfelt confession. He looms over you, forcing you to lean back until he’s near straddling you against the bed. “A lowly human giving their life source to a demon of the night.”
The first thing that you think of is: Damn, this guy’s ego is something else. Offering yourself? Lowly human? He certainly thinks of himself as a god.
The second is, Did this all start because of a sex toy? Is he really jealous over Miss Satisfy-Her?
“Someone’s on their high horse--” You yelp once his fingers pinch your clit. You whine.
“Now,” he asks, locking eyes with you. Asking for permission. “Will you let me?”
His fingers toy with your clit, waiting patiently for your answer.
You nod, and he sighs in relief, muttering a thank you against your neck.
He leans in, his lips brushing your skin. His tongue peeks out, leaving wet trails against you. You shiver; it reminds you too much of another action, down there. It makes you think of what else his tongue could be doing.
He laps at the curve of your neck, before inhaling deeply. His fangs prod your neck, before they sink in, piercing your flesh. A soft sigh against you. His fingers resume their minute movements inside you, his other hand clutching your shoulder as he sucks harshly.
“S-Scaramouche.”
The sound of him gulping down your essence fills the air. His fingers resume their movement inside you, dragging against your walls slowly, stretching you out.
“A-ah–” you gasp.
He moans brokenly against your neck, clutching you further to him. He’s gulping down your blood by the mouthful. With great effort, he pulls away reluctantly.
“Your taste…” He sighs out. “There’s nothing like it.” His tongue laps up the blood seeping out of you, his venom to seal the wound. “Even with that human toxin inside you.”
His mouth is stained crimson, blood flecked acrossf face. He sees you staring and licks his lips slowly, a fang poking out. Heat pools in your gut.
“You know, it would feel even better if you tried me down there—yowch!” You jolts when he slaps your clit. The action has your overstimulated flesh throbbing.
“Filthy-minded human.” He rolls his eyes but the action is affectionate. His words have no bite to them.
He continues stroking you, and you reach out, your hand brushing the bulge in his shorts. You intend on making him feel pleasure too.
He stiffens at your touch, letting out a shudder. He’s always so sensitive after feeding.
“Ha. Looks like I’m not the only filthy mind here,” you observe.
“D-Damnit. If you’re going to do it, you better do it right.”
He ruts into your touch. The way he cants his hips up, his eyes fluttering shut, biting down on his lip–it’s as if he’s imagining fucking you, being inside you already. His fingers inside you turn crueler, thrusting with deadly precision against that spot that has stars dotting your vision. It’s clear that’s also on his mind.
“Y-You’re fucking my hand like it’s a-any empty hole.” Something about your crass tone has him bristling. His face aflame, he hisses at you:
“S-Shut it.”
You take it a step further, reaching inside his shorts. Once you grasp him fully, the whole throbbing, twitching length of him, he’s groaning, tipping his head back. The image of sheer debauchery. You’ve always thought Scaramouche was pretty–beautiful even–in a way that’s ethereal. He scoffed when you told him as much.
(“Fixating on appearances is foolish. I need to be able to attract my prey, right?” he said, hiding his face from you.
“Are you blushing?”
“Shut it! Vampires can’t blush.”)
But it’s more than that. You think that Scaramouche’s mannerisms, his temperament, his ego, are all delicate, like glasswork. But the way he’s fucking into your fist demands for you to treat him as anything but fragile.
You jolt when his hand reaches down to smack your clit. He smirks at the look you send him.
“Pay attention to me while I’m fucking you.”
“We’re hardly fucking—shit.” A moan tears out of you as he starts rubbing that spot inside you vigorously. You’re mewling out his name.
“Scaramouche~”
Then his fingers are leaving you entirely. While you want to whine at the loss, he’s discarding his shorts, his cock springing up, pointing towards you. A string of precum leaks from its reddened tip.
“I’m not going to soil my shorts,” he says defensively.
Scaramouche leans over you. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him closer. His cock slides between your bodies, his oozing precum easing the friction. He’s all shaky gasps and stifled groans.
In vain, you try to get him to put it inside you already, but he doesn’t. The most he does is move downward, angling it so the hard tip of his cock presses against the engorged flesh of your clit, makes you feel as if he’s fucking you.
“I’m… I’m close.”
That’s all he needs to hear to bring his fingers back into the mix. The combination of his cock stimulating your clit and his fingers thrusting into you like he would fuck you is enough to have your thighs trembling, your pussy spasming around his fingers. You cum with a shaky cry of his name.
“Oh god, oh god yes. P-please! Don’t s-stop.”
“Haa… more, more? Brat. Not once is enough to satisfy you, huh. Fuck. You’re so damn warm…”
His arms curl around you, his fangs sinking into your neck with a throaty moan as his seed spurts between your bodies. He continues humping you through it, making a sticky mess of your stomach and thighs. It goes on like this for several beats, Scaramouche’s thrusts against your sticky skin in tandem with his fangs sucking you dry.
Your vision dots at the edges. Scaramouche keeps sucking and rutting against you, as if you’re nothing more than his object to use.
He finally releases your neck, lapping it up with his tongue.
He sits up, glancing between your bodies. He smirks at the sight–his cum painting a messy collage over your skin, your blood streaked across your neck. His cock surprisingly still hard. Us vampires don’t have the same limitations you humans do, he once told you. He hums, his thumb traveling up to your neck, smearing the blood further.
He’s transfixed by the sight, his fingers trailing it down from your neck, circling your breasts, before making its way down to your clit, leaving a line down your abdomen. You shiver at the sensation, at the still hungry look in his glowing eyes.
Then he’s glancing back up at you.
“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already. That was just round one.”
“I’m still hungry. And you? Heh. That twitching, drooling hole of yours is just begging for more attention.”
As if he hasn’t just cum, his cock stays hard. His stamina a thing of legends.
Scaramouche wraps your leg up around his waist. His cock slides through your slick, gathering your juices. A hand on his cock, he circles around your entrance, smirking once he hears you whine.
“Don’t tease—”
He thrusts into you fully, burrowing his cock into you deeply with not an ounce of mercy. It takes the breath out of you, has your hands scrambling for purchase around his neck.
The room is filled with the sounds of his hips smacking wetly against yours, interspersed by his grunts. Scaramouche pounds into you, his lips pulled back over his teeth, showing his fangs. His voice is strained through gritted teeth.
“Take it… fuck. You take it—you take me so well.”
His gaze is transfixed on the sight of the blood on you. He leans in to kiss your neck, willing it closed with his venom. But also to savor the taste of you. He groans like a man drunk on ambrosia.
You want to see the appeal. Scaramouche always looks so fucked out after he’s had some of your blood.
You reach up, your lips brushing against his neck. Your teeth graze his skin before you bite down. He grunts, stilling his thrusts. Your teeth aren’t sharp enough to draw blood, but you hope to at least leave some kind of bruise, to see violet blooming across his pale skin. When you pull back, you’re disappointed to see that you couldn’t even leave behind a mark.
You’re sulking. “No fair!”
“Heh. Ha—Hahaha.” He’s full on laughing now, his thrusts picking up in speed and force. His hips dig into your ass as he’s practically bouncing you with his cock at this point. “Were you trying to mark me?”
The idea seems to amuse him greatly.
“Foolish little human. Your teeth aren’t nearly strong enough to pierce my skin.”
You pout. “N-no kidding.”
At how upset you look, he seems to ponder something. His nails extend into claws, before digging into the side of his neck. Blood trickles down the smooth column of his neck, onto his fingers. Then he brings his fingers up to your lips, a strange look to his face.
Hungry, yearning.
“This is what you wanted, right?” Gaze half-lidded, he watches as your tongue slips out, tasting his blood. It doesn’t taste much different from yours—other than the fact that the taste is sharper somehow. The consistency of his blood thicker. It has the same iron, metallic tang. Scaramouche watches intently as you clean his fingers off, his cock throbbing insistently inside you.
As he pulls his hand away, you decide you want more. You lean forward, lightly nipping his neck where his blood pools out before it can heal. Lapping lightly, his blood coats your tongue. You scrunch up your face. The taste is not great, but Scaramouche moans helplessly against you, his hips sliding into you once more as he clutches you to him.
His pace is erratic, spurred on by the slick sensation of your tongue on his neck, at your teeth lightly biting down on him.
“Mmfp. F-fuck…fuck!“ he exclaims as you press a kiss against his neck. Scaramouche attempts to pull out of you, but he doesn’t make it before he’s shooting ropes against your pussy. Moaning helplessly, he brings his blood-tinged hand to the base of his cock, holding it as his still-cumming cock thrusts against you once, then twice, catching on your rim of your pussy. He makes sure to cover you with his spend.
Utterly spent, his form collapses onto yours. The two of you lie in silence, the room punctuated by your heavy breathing. His cum already cool on your skin, you fidget as his proximity makes an even bigger mess atop you. The realization of just what you did earlier hits you, the taste of his blood lingering on your tongue.
“So. That was… something.”
He props his head up on your chest, his gaze boring into you.
“You don’t… you don’t get the significance of that action, do you? Drinking my blood.”
You blink at him several times. The lack of comprehension clear on your face has him scoffing.
“Ha. Haha. You’re really something.” He props himself up on his hands, his state locked on your blood-stained lips.
“For my kind, sharing blood is an intimate act.” He pauses, voicing the next words carefully. “One reserved only for… lovers.”
His eyes meets yours, as if seeking your reaction to his statement. You can’t be sure but from the way he shifts uneasily…
It’s almost as if he’s afraid of your rejection.
“Oh,” you say finally. “Well, I thought that’s what we are?”
He’s silent. Your fingers brush your lips, before brushing the side of his neck that he jabbed. It’s all but healed, leaving behind a faint scar.
You grin at him. “Blood buddies.”
Something in his gaze sparks. He scoffs, turning away. “You really are an idiot… My idiot, though.”
There are a few things Scaramouche wants to tell you. Like the fact that vampires do not take mates easily, that the love of the undead is not something to take lightly. That sharing blood is not only an intimate act, but basically a binding one, absolved only by death. Not something as simple as being newfound “blood buddies.” But he sees your dopey, grinning face, and decides that those are things that can be saved for a later conversation.
For now, he will content himself with the fact that you’re in his arms, and there is nothing and no one that will get in the way of being here, where you belong.
His grip tightens around you.
He’ll make sure of it.
That is…
You make a face. “You know, your blood tastes kind of funky, Scaramouche.”
Unless the thing getting in the way of your eternal place by his side is you. Yourself.
He bristles at the comment. “What insolence. I’ll have you know my blood tastes just fine.”
“It’s just kinda… well, sharp. Thick. I hope I don’t have to drink more of it.”
“How dare you. I never should have given you my blood to begin with.”
“Sorry! Maybe it’s a vampire thing.” He softens his stance, but his scowl is still present. He’s not appeased by your excuse. “I’m sure my blood would taste funky to me too.”
“Well it doesn’t,” he says crossly. “It tastes like….”
Warmth. The sun. Life. Like being human again.
“...It tastes alright.”
“Hey!” You jab him in the shoulder. “That wasn’t what you said earlier.”
He gives you an unimpressed look. “And what was that?”
You scrunch your nose up, trying to recall. “Something something… ‘nothing tastes like you.’”
“Ha. That’s your misinterpretation. I meant no one tastes as annoying as you.”
You grumble, making a move as if to shake him off. He latches on tighter.
“Just admit that you need me already,” you say crossly.
A pause.
“I do. Just as you need me.” He catches your sideways glance at your room, and grasps your chin. “And not any kind of human contraption.”
“Sure.” He narrows his gaze, but settles back, seemingly appeased by your answer for now.
“I can wait for you to speak your truth on the matter. I’m in no rush,” he says easily enough. Suspiciously easy.
“And besides… you may find your drawers to be conspicuously empty tomorrow.”
You gasp. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Heh. You don’t know what exactly I’m capable of.”
#scaramouche x reader#kunikuzushi x reader#genshin impact x reader#wanderer x reader#genshin x reader#vampire!scaramouche#genshin smut#genshin not sfw#tati writes#tw: blood#tw: bloodplay
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𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇
includes | DARK CONTENT / KINKS ! villain! adult! izuku midoriya x fem! bodied reader, though no pronouns used except ‘you’ & a few ‘they’s ‘, knife play, blood play, fear play (?) , degradation, hard dom izuku / ooc izuku ,,, this was just very self indulgent which is why he’s ooc :nervous_laughter: , restraint mentions , small bit of fingering (f receiving ) , dirty talk , no actual penetration, that may be it ?
word count | 1616
The cold feel of steel was cold against your skin, harsh and stern as the blade was pressed against your skin, gently dragging it down your side.
Most of your clothes had already been discarded by now — well… cut and ripped from your body, laying on the floor instead. All that was left was your undergarments… something the person wielding the knife was careful to avoid.
For now anyhow…
And the person who was doing this to you? None other than the well known villain, Izuku Midoriya… your partner and beloved.
However he wasn’t in the happiest of moods, for he had a long day with the league… and your pictures of the new lingerie set you bought that had been sent to him only increased this annoyance.
He had wished to have been there to take the picture for you, add them to his pretty collection. But instead he was forced to continue the grueling tasks of the villain’s day while trying to keep himself from picturing how you’d look if you were under him just about now.
And when those pictures had just kept coming… he became irked, you knew what you were doing, this was all a part of the game you liked to play with him… but he didn’t want you to believe you actually had the upper hand… Midoriya couldn’t have that, now could he?
Which is what had led you to be in this current situation now, your wrists crossed over one another while tied above your head, your legs tied to either side of the bedpost to display your most revealing parts to him.
You gave up struggling a while ago, considering how Izuku had quickly brought out his switch knife and had it pressed against your throat as he whispered for you to “stop struggling, doll~”.
“I think I should punish you by fucking you until you beg me to stop, but then I could keep going until you can’t sit right, or until I’m satisfied. Seems like a fit punishment, don’t you agree?”
His words came out lowly, yet they still stayed smooth and never wavered. Izuku had always been sweet to you, despite his villain status, you were his sweetheart, his world — and he’d burn down the city if it meant he could show you the lights.
However there was a rather terrifying part of him too, a side that came out in moments like this, the side that loved to see you struggle and hear you whimper as he dented your skin only slightly with the knife.
And it was a side of him that you loved… it was thrilling, the adrenaline rush of it all… you couldn’t get enough.
“You’re so pretty, even like this, tied up, scared, a mess….”
Izuku cooed, his viridescent eyes gleaming down at you with a certain fondness — with a certain sadistic glint. “ I haven’t even touched you properly yet and you’re already soaked for me, aren’t you, [name]?~”
Midoriya chuckled at the way you could only muster a soft whimper in reply, his scarred hand dipping down to your thighs with the knife in hand.
His fingers traced delicate patterns on the plush of your thighs and you sighed at the feeling, his hands a familiarity to you from how many times he has made you tip over the edge of pleasure with them.
But this time it was different.
For soon his calloused hands had been replaced by the tip of his knife once more, soon dragging down your skin. It was ever so lightly at first, though soon the steel had dug into your skin a little as he dragged it down, causing you to yelp out at the sudden pain… for he had drawn blood.
And yet there was something so undeniably hot at the way you watched his eyes gleam in sadistic delight, the way you felt yourself throb as he slowly lent down and licked away the small droplets of blood.
And there was something that made you soak through the intricate lace of the lingerie’s panties after he had locked eyes with you, smirking against your skin.
This side of Izuku was one you would never get used to, sadistic, calculating his every move and adoring the way your eyes light up in fear of what he was going to do — yet the way your head dipped back in the moment of pleasure from his knife pressing against your inner thighs.
It was a beautiful sight.
You were a beautiful sight for him.
Midoriya gave a soft hum, his freehand coming up to hold your jaw and tilt your head back to look at him. Although his touch was soft, caring. Like the old version of him peaked out. “You remember our safeword, right, darling?”
The villain gave a soft yet small smile, kissing you quickly before leaning over you once more.
And you nodded — knowing the color system you two have set up for scenes like this. “Words, doll.”
“Of course I do, Izuku.”
“Good.”
He adored the sight of you.
Your breathing heavy, the rise and fall of your chest heavier and faster than its normal pace, your eyes half-lidded yet your pupils blown with lust and need… and your own slick dripping down your thighs.
“And to think my doll can be such a slut… you truly do look like quite the whore, don’t you?” Midoriya chuckled, voice low as his empty hand applied pressure against your clit.
And you gasped, the sudden stimulation giving you a sense of relief but not enough. And that was when you felt it.
His fingers worked skillfully inside of you like they had many times before, his gaze shifting from the blood trickle down your collarbone and to your sternum before green eyes glowed at you as he watched your expressions.
The blade was now against your neck, Izuku’s eyes gleaming down at you with a smirk adorning his features.
“So how about this… you can either choose for my fingers in you or my cock… although both options include my knife against your pretty little throat as I watch you struggle to not arch upwards and cut yourself… although don’t forget Tomura and Dabi are just outside that door too, of course.”
Your eyes rolled back soon afterwards, his scarred and rough fingers dipping into your walls as he left a cut or two by the dark love marks he had sucked on your collarbone only mere moments before.
He always did find it amusing how quickly your expression could turn lewd… and he wondered just how lewd he could get you?
His hand lowered again and with a flick of his knife, the only piece of fabric that was covering your most revealing part to him was cut and fell off to the side.
The knife trailed your body, leaving marks and small cuts into your skin, from the plush of your thighs to the soft skin of your side and torso.
At the way your eyes rolled from both the pleasure and the pain, he would have sworn he would have carved his name into your thigh right then and there… perhaps then you’d truly understand who you belong to.
“The whore’s so desperate they can’t even answer a question…” He sighed in faux disappointment and instead of continuing to stretch out your walls for him, he pulled his fingers out.
Your slick covered his fingers so well, you were so desperate, so needy, even despite the fact that he had just been making you bleed a few moments more.
Izuku was always fond of it, fond of how obedient you were for him… even though he would have to put you in your place for some of your misdeeds.
You whined at the loss of his fingers, feeling empty once more, that was until a sharp gasp and sinful moan cut you off after he had grabbed a fistful of your hair and made you look at him.
“You’re so dirty, do you like it that much? Do you like your Izu treating you like this? ” Trailing the knife up once more, leaving the small drops of your blood at your torso, Izuku leaned down to bite on your neck, just barely grazing the cuts he had left.
His knife was against your throat once more after he felt you squirm against the restraints, “you should see your expression, so lewd… you want this, don’t you? To be good for me… to let me carve my name into your skin so you and everyone else will know who you belong to… who owns you. The dumb whore wanted to be my pet… who would’ve thought you’d turn into such a filthy whore for me?”
Izuku Midoriya chuckled, the villain enjoying how your eyes struggled to stay half lidded as you tried not to give in to the overwhelming sense of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain.
Pressure was applied to your throat, the knife dipping into your skin there. “I’m not going to do anything until you tell me exactly what you want…”
You whimpered, desperately trying to get some sort of relief without making the blade dent your skin further. Now he was side glancing at you and you could feel him smirk against your skin as he licked at the cuts.
Izuku Midoriya was a villain who had a side to him you never knew about…
“So, come on, doll… what will it be?~”
And with it brought an adrenaline rush you couldn’t get enough of.
“ Say it. I want to hear you beg for it as I fuck you with my knife against that pretty throat of yours ~ ”
#izuku smut#bnha deku#tw.knifeplay#tw: bloodplay#tw: hard kinks#tw: dark content#tw: dark themes#deku x y/n#deku smut#deku x fem!reader#deku x reader#bnha midoriya#midoriya smut#midoriya x reader#midoriya izuku#bnha izuku#bnha smut#izuku#izuku x reader#izuku midoriya x reader#bnha#bnha x reader#my hero academia#mha#mha smut#smut#x reader#x reader smut#izuku midoriya smut#boko no hero academia
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I have to share this thot I had earlier!! Imagine gremlin Shig’s s/o has a vampire quirk and everytime they see his exposed neck they’re like oh fuck that’s hot and have to restrain themselves from pushing him up against a wall to get a piece of that ;D
Hell, I don’t even have a vampire quirk and this is me. That man’s neck is so biteable it’s not even funny.
Honestly though I think he’d be into it. You can’t convince me he’s not a masochist and I think the pain/kink/intimacy combo would really do it for it—the harsh pinch of your fans breaking his skin, the sight of your lips stained crimson with his blood? Instant raging hard-on.
#besides you think he’s gonna let you bite anyone else?#no sir#shigaraki thoughts#ghuleh.answers#tw: bloodplay
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oh fuck y'all im watching this documentary and they're interviewing vampire couples and now im thinking about bloodplay and vampire au's
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@vntagetee || (harassment) Vampy mutuals
It wasn’t uncommon for a vampire to bite another vampire, the changed body’s blood production was reduced a great deal, so they had to rely on feeding to rejuvenate themselves. In a case such as this, it was mostly territorial.
The seductive purr when he stirred awake, took the beauty into his arms, how natural it became for him to find the perfect amount of purchase to rest his head against hers. The joyous noise intensified when he nestled in, no warmth from him, nor from her, but her presence was indeed felt without him even opening his eyes. How simple a motion for his lips to part, fangs exposed, with the points sunken deeply into the woman’s neck.
The rush of crimson filled his mouth as he drank from her, with his latch on her secure, he moaned against her before he stopped. Already all messy, kissing at the woman’s neck as if to feign some apology for stealing from her so early in the evening. He continued to keep his arms snuggled tight around her, his tongue progressively smearing blood across her skin as he licked in needlessly brazen ways, “It’s sundown, Bobby-Lynne, are you awake yet?”
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[ ♡ >> send me a kink and I'll have my muse rate it << ♡ ]
scale: fuck no, gross, not for them, eh, no opinion, kinda, hot, fuck yes, p l e a s e do this
Anonymous asked: ~*a wide array of kinks for you*~
Bass: petplay (as in dog bowls, cages, animal noises, not just leash & collar), foodplay
Petplay - "Kinda / hot". There are some elements of petplay that Bass enjoys. When he's the "owner", Bass doesn't mind pet sounds, if that's what his "pet" is into. He would also enjoy feeding you from a dog bowl or locking you in a cage. Bass will go as far as his partner wants to go, and can find it enjoyable.
When he's in the role of a "pet", Bass prefers to keep to collars and leashes only. At most he'd be happy to get a bone gag, or even a puppy hood. But he will not go as far as animal sounds (although he might give a teasing bark) bowls, or cages. And him being in the role of a "pup" is reserved for Amanda (@a-swines-baptism) and Eli (@midnight-radio-host).
Foodplay - "not for them". When sleeping with a survivor, Bass doesn't consider them as food. Not anymore. And although he does feed during sexual activity, he doesn't consider that as "foodplay". He also wouldn't know how to participate in such a kink, as he had never experienced it himself.
Liam: breathplay, bloodplay
Currently, Liam has not experienced either. However, breathplay would count as "hot" if he's the one performing and a "no opinion", if he were to experience it himself. Seeing someone on the verge of passing out could be a thrilling experience. As for bloodplay, he's on "not for them" regardless if he's the one being carved or not.
Simon: pegging, biting (giving/receiving)
Pegging - "fuck no". He's aware that some are capable of experiencing pleasure from pegging, however he was never even mildly curious about it.
Bitting - giving "fuck yes", receiving "kinda". Simon could find it difficult to resist biting. But he would resist, if his partner was not into it. This is potentially the only moment where he drops his vanilla zone. Especially that if his partner was really into it, the needs of both him and his wolf side might merge, and the bites might not end on soft love nibbles. As for being bitten, he wouldn't mind his partner responding with the same. It's not something he finds particularly "hot", but he's not about to say his partner is not allowed to bite him back.
Samuel: sounding, service gags
Sounding - "eh". The concept sounds terrifying to Samuel. But he had also heard in the past of the potential for increased sensitivity. He would be curious about it, but only with an experienced partner who he trusts. He'd rather not be an experimental subject for someone who has no prior knowledge. If he were to perform it on another, it would be a "fuck no". He'd be too worried about potentially damaging his partner.
Service gag - "hot / fuck yes". Samuel's main interest is causing pleasure to his partner. And being in a situation where he's made to serve is thrilling. Perhaps he'd not be as willing at the start of a relationship, but all depends on his choice of partner.
Nathan: cannibalism, needles
Cannibalism - gross. This guy may at times lick blood off his knife, but turning his victims into prey of a hunt does not have the same thrill to it. He was never interested in human meat, and potentially won't be.
Needles - not for them/kinda. It depends really. He might be interested in experimenting with some drugs that need to be first injected. But, as a whole, Nathan prefers it when is partner is lucid and aware of his surroundings. And if you need to restrict someone's movements, rope or muscle can be as good as paralysing agents.
#the bastard [ ooc ]#samuel [ ooc ]#simon [ ooc ]#nathan [ ooc ]#liam [ ooc ]#fog walkers [ asks ]#[ anon ]#adult corner [ +18 ]#tw: cannibalism#tw: needles#tw: blood#tw: bloodplay#tw: knifeplay#[ long post ]
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Bloody
The first time Whumpee had fainted after watching their own blood seep down their arm, Whumper had watched in silent amusement. Before realising that… well, this could be a bit of a pain.
So the second time he strapped them to a table and walked up with his knife at the ready, he came prepared.
Whumpee glanced at the knife and while their expression tightened, there was a hint of smugness crossing their face. Not much to torture when they’re out cold after just the first cut, Whumper had to admit.
But their face fell when Whumper held up the knife and a piece of black cloth dangled from the tip.
A blindfold.
“Figured we could see to what extent your fear of blood goes,” Whumper said, swinging the cloth back and forth until it slipped from the knife and draped over Whumpee’s collarbones.
“It’s not a fear of blood!” Whumpee bit, pulling at the leather straps binding them. “It just… happens,” they finished, less fierce.
“It happens…” Whumper mused. So this probably wasn’t the first time. “Have you ever tested it? Do you just go whoop when you see your own blood or is the sensation of it pumping out of your veins enough to pass out?”
Whumpee paused, their lips pressed together and their throat bobbed. “I… I don’t know,” they admitted.
“Let’s find out.”
He set the knife down on the table, deliberately placing it just next to Whumpee’s bound hand. If they struggled enough, maybe they could touch it with a pinky finger. Blindfold in hand, he leaned over them, easily slipped it over their head as they shook ‘no’ and they continued to shake their head even when the band fit snugly over their eyes. He shushed them gently, cupping their face with both hands, stopping them from shaking their head.
“Now, then…” His hand curled over the handle of the knife and as he lifted it he let the blade scrape over the surface with a scratchy shing to signal that he was about to start. And to draw a flinch from Whumpee. He grinned; now that they were dependent on their other senses, he wasn’t above helping out with that.
He rested the blade just under their shoulder where their deltoid curved, letting the cold touch seep into their skin before the sharp edge of the blade would follow.
A soft and surprised little yip sounded within their throat when the knife broke skin. Teeth clenched when he slid deeper, their chest heaving to keep their scream contained until he dragged the knife further through muscle and a broken gasp tore free.
Blood gushed along the stripe of the cut, streaming down their shoulder, tickling over skin.
A fist clenched. And Whumpee went white as a sheet.
But they didn’t pass out.
“You look like you already lost a gallon,” Whumper said with a smirk.
“Sh—shut up,” Whumpee shot back, but their voice was weak, high-pitched.
They tensed up when the blade rested against their arm again.
But Whumper merely held the flat of the blade under the cut, not yet breaking skin, and he caught a few thick drops of blood. Then he carefully brought the knife up, hovered it over Whumpee’s face, and watched as the red pooled closer to the tip. A single drop fell right onto their cheek.
And after an initial flinch, Whumpee completely stilled. To the point where Whumper thought that was it for the experiment.
But then a shivering inhale rasped past their lips.
“Don’t do that…” they managed to whisper.
“Don’t do what, dear?” Whumper drawled, smile creeping wider. He tapped a finger to the blade and watched a second drop fall right onto the blindfold. It drew out another twitch. The cloth absorbed the dark stain immediately, while the spatter on their face slowly rolled down their cheek. It sent a shudder through them as it tickled the underside of their ear and disappeared into their hair.
“That… the b—the blood, don’t—”
“It’s just a splash of water, love.”
“It’s not!”
Whumper grinned, fingertips swirling through the puddle of blood forming under their arm. “No,” he murmured in agreement, and he tapped two fingers slick with blood against their cheekbone. “It’s not.”
A strangled sound of anguish sounded in Whumpee’s throat as the two fingers slowly made its way down, leaving two cold stripes of red draped over their face.
Whumper watched them fondly. Amazing how the brain worked. It registered everything, from the warmth gushing out of their cut, to the splash on their face and it drying on their cheek. Yet it didn’t trigger that severe drop in blood pressure to make them check out.
With Whumpee blubbing their mouth like a fish on dry, heaving in shallow breaths yet none coming back out as cries, you’d think their level of emotional distress was at peak. But fight or flight was still overpowering everything. And oh, how they wished to fly; their wrists pulled tight against their bonds, straining as they hoped for the leather to give just a bit so they could slip free. Just a bit more, dear, and you’ll feel the blood bubble up there as well…
“Lost your voice?” Whumper purred.
His hand tightened over the cut and Whumpee screamed. Ah, no, still there. But they immediately fell silent when that same hand gripped their jaw tight. Fingers sleek with blood dug into the side of their jaw, just under their ear.
“That’s right,” Whumper crooned. He let a fresh drop fall onto his thumb and pressed it against their lips. “Just… shush.”
Their lips, slightly parted in despair, immediately pressed tight into a thin stripe. And with a grin, Whumper took advantage. He slowly smeared the drop over both their lips, coating them in red.
“You might wanna lick your lips. Seems a bit dry to me.”
Every little gasp had indeed made their lips uncomfortably dry, blood now seeping into the cracks, immediately drying and making things even worse. As Whumper pulled back, he could see them hesitate, fighting the automatic response of their tongue wanting to offer a bit of relief.
Those beautiful red lips trembled hard, and their chin started to quiver as well.
The underside of the blindfold started getting wet. Tears trickled out from underneath, mixing with the red stripes over their cheeks, breaking them up and a drop pooled on the edge of their jaw, tinted with a hue of red.
“P-p-please…” The word puffed past quivering lips. “Stop. Just… just cut me up like you wanted, but… stop…”
“Ah.” Whumper feigned his surprise, though he didn’t have to hide his grin, growing wolfishly large. “Right. I think we both got a little distracted.”
He scraped the knife over the table again before resting it against their arm, slowly moving up and increasing the pressure. “Let’s tap out some more.”
-
General whump tags: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @auroragehenna @oprhan
#whump#whump drabble#whump writing#strapped to a table#angst#fear of blood#sadistic whumper#knifeplay#bloodplay#tw blood#my writing#whumplr#can't believe I forgot about this drabble it's an outrage
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in the mood for being gentle (fucks you raw, cuts your guts open, watches my cock sliding in and out under your guts, makes you eat your organs, kisses your bloody mouth, cums in your corpse)
#bl00d k!nk#violence kink#autoassassinophilia#bl00d play#cnc k!nk#erotophonophilia#murder kink#bl00d kink#cnc ns/fw#free use kink#bd/sm sadist#bloodplay#bd/sm rope#bd/sm kink#bd/sm masochist#masochist kink#masochistic#sadomasochistic#sadistic#snvff#tw necrophillia#necrophilism#paraphilia#knife k1nk#knife kink#knifeplay#cannibalism kink#degredation kink#humiliation kink
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Ugh what a mess 🔪🩸
#bl00d k!nk#bl00d play#g0recore#tw fake blood#bloodplay#tw blo0d#fake bl00d#k!nky thoughts#cnc k!nk#hard k1nk#obsession
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Y'all don't even realize how much I fantasize about rape. I dream that while walking home alone at night, someone would drag me into a dark alley and fuck me like a rag doll. This guy will leave me with dripping cum, blood, all beaten up and that's when I will be happiest.
#rapekink#r@pe k!nk#rough cnc#r@pedoll#r@pe tw#r@petoy#r@pesleeve#r@pe fantasy#attention wh0r3#k!nky thoughts#wh0re#whor3#k!nk blog#nsft concept#cw bl00d#bl00d kink#bloodplay
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𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝
— bonten!sano manjirou x fem!reader x sanzu haruchiyo 🔞
part 2 of brittle to the bone || prev.
if mikey is harsh, imposing, unyielding, then haruchiyo is just that with playful charisma superimposed over cruelty.
wc. ~9k
tags/warnings noncon, predator/prey dynamics, yandere undertones, knifeplay, mild bloodplay, forced infidelity, self-harm, degradation, overstim, mind break, mentions of gunplay, minor character death(s)
notes he’s very mean
snapshot;
Soft. Soft.
Haruchiyo parrots the word in his mind. Almost as if within it holds the secrets to the universe — and that if he keeps saying it, keeps feeling the weight of this single featherlight syllable on his tongue, that it’ll give him a revelation of sorts.
Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.
∗
Be good.
‘Be good’ — by which Mikey meant, you suppose, no speaking to others in the compound, no leaving the house, no stepping inside anywhere but the bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen… all the places that you’ve been wandering in-between for years without ever going outside. Is there anything else?
Well, you can’t bother yourself to remember. It’s not like you can do anything in here that’ll piss him off anyway. The time you’ve had to spend alone has started to blur into an impalpable being — an amalgamation, of sorts — warping and slowing your perception of reality to a tenth of a millisecond whenever Mikey isn’t around to monopolise your attention.
…I’ll reward you like a good little bitch when I get back. Can you do that for me?
Don’t leave the penthouse. Don’t enter rooms you don’t know. Don’t speak to anyone other than Haruchiyo. It should be pretty simple. Yeah, you can definitely do that for him. You can be good. You can. You’ll show him.
(As long as Haruchiyo doesn’t kill you before you get a chance to.)
You close your eyes, an image of the man with roseate hair floating into your memory. His lilting voice, the rattling of his pills, the way he kissed your hand after introducing himself and the way he smirked when Mikey made his announcement. A prickling chill runs down your spine like cold water.
You clench a bundle of the sheets into your face, burrowing into the lingering scent of Mikey, and decide that you hate the way Haruchiyo speaks. In a slow, condescending drawl, smirk bared, revealing the carious fangs of a seasoned predator, the narrowed slits of his eyes scrutinising (for what, you have no idea) as if he thinks of your life as even more insignificant and disposable as the dirt between his shoes.
There’s another thing, too. Something that fills your little heart with enormous anxiety and forces you on simmering coals within his presence, even now when you’re all safe and sound in this room with its four white walls and thick, locked door.
You can read that grin like an open book.
He thinks that your relationship with his boss has an expiry date. That it’s only a matter of time before you’re disposed of, too. That, without question, you were only there as a form of stress relief, your sole purpose being to tend to his boss’ every need. An emotional outlet, of sorts.
(You hate it because you know he’s right.)
But you don’t tell him that, don’t want to offer him the satisfaction — instead you scamper from his gaze, always slipping out of a room just as he enters it, going as far as to strategically plan out your daily activities to ensure that you wouldn’t be catching any glint nor shadow of that vibrant pink.
And for the most part, it’s working. And even if it didn’t, he has a funny way of looking at everything and anything as if it were leagues beneath him, so much so that you find it easy to simply duck your head and deem yourself unworthy of staying in his presence any longer than you already have. It’s weird, how simple it is to evade him — how predictable, easy, like child’s play. When he has just about given you as much attention as one would to a stray twig obstructing a sidewalk.
So, just like every other nagging worry, you stuff Bonten’s-Number-Two-Sanzu-Haruchiyo away in a cabinet for safe-keeping.
Time without Mikey also means that you’ll at least get a bit more time to yourself (albeit a large portion of it would be spent calculating how to avoid the man he left in his place).
You’re using it wisely, you think — alternating between counting the grooves in the ceiling to toying with the strands of velvet rug in the middle of the too-spacious bedroom, to daydreaming until sprawling scenery of the outside-world blooms behind your eyelids… okay. So you haven’t been able to get anything truly productive done. So what? The word ‘productive’ feels alien in your mind — almost as if there’s something fundamentally cursed about its three syllables, as if it belonged in a realm unattainable to someone like you. You haven’t had to worry about being pro-duc-tive in years. It was always Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.
At some point, you think dismally, I’ll have to get up. But now is not the time. So you count, and count, until you feel your consciousness slipping away, and your eyelids droop, and you sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sleep that blunts the ache of isolation and the burning of your bruises, tip-toeing featherlight over your skin like a reminder of the person who left them.
(Mikey doesn’t leave sticky notes on the fridge telling you to remember to brush your teeth and comb your hair. Everything he gives you comes from himself: his flesh and bone, his pain, his heart, his bruises.)
When time meanders forward, and inevitably touches upon evening, and you stir from sleep feeling an unbearable feeling of emptiness in your stomach (almost as if a large cavity was drilled into your abdomen), you shake the drowsiness away starting to feel an oncoming panic that Haruchiyo somewhere somehow found a way to sneak something into your breakfa— oh. That’s right.
You didn’t even have breakfast.
Your gut howls in agony. Reluctantly, you unwrap the self-made cocoon of blankets, preparing the mental artillery required to slip out the bedroom.
Haruchiyo seems to be missing from the kitchen, which is a good thing, a pleasant thing — though you aren’t stupid to assume that he is shirking his duties as your ‘guardian’. Living in a sprawling penthouse with just two people, minus the seclusion, leaves you enjoying an overwhelming sense of privacy most of the time. But now? Now it feels like there’s bear traps under every tile in the floor, shuriken blades concealing themselves behind every groove in the ceiling (there were about 200 that you counted before dozing off).
It takes a few furtive glances down the corridor and you (fruitlessly) keep a knife within arm’s reach (‘I don’t know why I’m doing this it’s not like I’m even capable of wielding a knife’), but you get to work quickly, preparing a decent meal the only way you know how. The purple blemishes lining the expanse of your neck and thighs still throb in protest when you move, although now it’s become a dull, persistent, guileless ache. You’re all alone, since it appears that your housekeeper is nowhere to be found — got scared away, maybe?
Come to think of it, staff don’t stay for very long around the Bonten building (either that or the numbers are endless; every day you see a new face), and you were always too busy to pay attention to anything but the hulking man demanding your attention.
Even so, something about that particular woman made the word ‘bold’ pop up in your mind in thick, underlined letters.
She’s been around for a few weeks now, looking to be about the same age as you (maybe a little older?), and always wore her black hair pinned back neatly, revealing youthful and bright eyes. She isn’t permitted to stay long — no longer than when she finishes up cleaning and cooking food that’ll last the next few days — and neither of you know each other’s names. Though she did offer you the most sympathetic of smiles when the smell of good food left you poking your head into the kitchen. You think of it sometimes, when you’re lying in bed sleepless.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done this on my own, you frown, wiping sweat from your brow. Not that you haven’t cooked before, you have — you just can’t remember when. Your fingers curl feebly around the vegetable peeler, strips of potato skin falling onto the cutting board like ribbons. How long has it been, since you’ve put so much care into something other than Mikey? Again, you’re reminded of how much of your time that he eats up on the regular, like a blackhole both in his presence and absence; like a mechanical heart that your empty cavity of a ribcage can’t pump blood without. The thought alone should petrify you.
Don’t think about that.
There you go again, fretting over things that can’t be fretted about. You stubbornly follow the woman’s phantom movements from what little you gleaned from watching her from afar, guiding your hands over a boiling stove. The sizzles generating at the bottom of the metal pot reminds you of firecrackers. If your memory serves you well, there should be extra seasoning in the top cabinet. And you have to remember to work fast, too, just in case Haruchiyo decides to stick his head out in curiosity.
One by one, along with those forbidden thoughts, the various base ingredients are banished into the pot. Minutes later, you taste the thick broth with a spoon and damn, you realise, this actually tastes kind of good. This actually feels kind of good.
Yeah… yeah no, maybe you’re starting to get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll actually turn out okay after all — the next two days, your isolation, this makeshift stew. Not as good as the woman’s, but you reckon she’d give you a pass for trying. It’s only been a few days tops, but you cave and sigh; you kinda miss her presence. It gave you something to mull over amidst constant chao—
“What the hell are you doing?”
Your blood freezes.
At the doorway, Haruchiyo looks dishevelled, pissed, a single olive eye twitching. Your legs caramelise into a thick hardness, rooting you to the ground. The pot continues to sizzle above the flame. Since when did he…
“C-cooking?” you begin warily, glancing for the nearest exit, trying to keep an impervious look on your face even though every second that slips by a silent fear creeps up on you like a chokehold. You flinch as he stalks closer with the air of a forensic inspector, looking over the mess that is the kitchen, the wildly strewn pots and pans and utensils — all because you panicked and couldn’t find the ones you were looking for.
(Around the counter? No—that will take too much time. What if you shoved your way past him? No, god no—are you stupid? He’d catch you immediately—)
“You’re dumber than I thought,” he snarls, his mouth donning that prized scowl, leaning forward before you can react and jabbing a finger at the cutting board. “You don’t even know how to handle a fucking knife?”
“Wha—huh?”
You blink; the pellets of onion, potato and carrot lie limply on the scuffed wood. Misshapen little pieces, some thick and some way too thin. Your hands lie frozen in time, one grasping at a chunk of orange and the other gradually growing slick around the knife.
He clicks his tongue in disdain.
“At this rate, you’re going to kill yourself before I do.” Haruchiyo and the long tendons of his fingers pry the weighted blade out of the comfort of your hands. Insistently, in a way that tells you he’s mad—oh god he’s mad— but strikingly, without a touch of malice. Is he mad? Is he sober? He won’t turn it—the knife—on you—right? Your breath hitches.
“Mikey would maim me to a pulp if you succeeded in that little stunt,” he arches a brow, as if using Mikey’s name in such a manner left a bitter taste in his mouth. For some reason, blood rushes to your ears as you watch the man in an unbuttoned suit hunch over the cutting board. You give him space to examine the ingredients, biting your tongue in shame. “If you wanted food you could’ve just said so.”
You could’ve just said so.
Something doesn’t feel quite right about his words, but you’re too relieved to dwell on it. You are graced with a sliver of respite, a moment’s peace; at least you know Haruchiyo has no intentions of killing you. He can’t. Probably.
The silky-smooth incisions he makes on the vegetables and meat send a tremor down your spine, each chop bouncing around in your eardrums. He’s helping you and yet, you almost feel bad for wanting to run. You don’t want to know where he learnt to wield a blade like a razorlike extension of his fingers.
“You know a lot,” you whisper, biting your lip afterwards, minutes in when the aimless hovering becomes too much to bear. What the hell are you doing, trying to make small talk?
“I know enough,” he shoots back, long lashes fluttering like large silver fans as he turns around to squint at you. He likes to look at you as if you were some ancient vase excavated from the earth, you realise. Or like a fossil. As if you originated from a completely different time from him.
Nothing much of a conversation passes between the two of you after that; you awkwardly go through the motions, trying your best to stay away. He mutters some weird cantation under his breath as he sections off the potatoes from the carrots, moves them over to a plate as he readies the meat.
It’s almost faelike, how systematic of a man he is. How quick he is to catch on, requiring minimal instructions from you, despite seeming like a person of inferior culinary calibre.
When he’s done, Haruchiyo pats his hands on his thighs, breathing a sigh. His gaze mulls over the piping stew still bubbling with the newly-added ingredients, before plucking itself away and landing on the door to the study just a distance from the kitchen (his hiding place; his deep cavernous den). Just before he saunters to the room, twisting a hand on the door knob, he says, “I don’t cook, so don’t expect me to.”
(You didn’t.)
It was a brief encounter.
In the early dusk, long after your meal, you hear him crawl out of the study like an emerging creature of the night, and when you’re halfway through turning over a page in a novel (a dusty old one that you found hiding inside the drawers of the bedside table) you hear the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic, echoing from where the kitchen must be.
It’s strange, the gladness that washes over you — you hadn’t really expected him to react, let alone try your cooking. Come to think of it, you weren’t even sure that he ate in the first place. (He said he doesn’t cook, but he knows the ‘correct’ way to use a knife? Odd.) You frown, none of the words on the page construing a decipherable meaning to you.
Maybe, just maybe, sharing the same space with Haruchiyo won’t be so bad after all (now that you know he eats and sleeps like a human being, is normal-functioning in most aspects of his physical body).
With this thought in mind, you carry on business as usual in your small corner of the house, lightly pondering which part of Japan Mikey has found himself embroiled in.
At nightfall, your ears unwillingly pick up loud thuds down the hallway, and you triple-check that the door is locked before climbing into the soft covers, stifling a shiver. Regardless of whether he’s been oddly tame or not, it’ll take a while to get used to this — the strange, unexplainable things that go bump in the night.
The bed… feels emptier. Desolate. Something feels odd, like the calm before the storm. It’s just your imagination. You close your eyes, falling asleep imagining Mikey’s arm around your hip. Ironically, you can’t seem to sleep well without him.
∗
What is this?
He’s felt like this before, of that he’s certain. A longass time ago. Judging from the huge blip in his memory when Haruchiyo tries to recall, it must’ve been eons since then. Eons and eons and then some, back when inactive volcanoes still spat real, smouldering lava — he’s sure it’s been that long.
It’s curious, and it amazes him more than it disgusts him. He should be disgusted, the logical part of his brain adds; he should have just minded his business and carried on as usual. He should have let you cut yourself in that dangerous manner (what’s a tiny cut going to do, add another notch to the scar-ridden pole?) — let you experience what it’s like to live life with an impish brain.
He wasn’t intending to interrupt. Ten, fifteen minutes must’ve ticked by, with him standing there in silence (you are quite the careless one). He couldn’t push down the onslaught of annoyance at the way you bent over backwards to reach the top shelf — are you trying to make his job difficult on purpose? Haruchiyo is a lawless beast, sure, but even beasts have their master’s orders to abide by, along with a special place in hell for those who don’t obey orders. Maybe that was your goal — maybe you wanted him gone. Maybe deep down you’re a spy sent to eliminate Bonten from the inside.
That is how he almost relished in pure excitement, at the promise of bloodshed regardless of how minor.
And yet, and yet, when he saw the flat silver falling just millimeters short of slicing into your soft digits, something compelled him to step in. (To help? Or to finish the job? No, he knows why. It was to chase this surreal, abstract feeling.)
Soft. Soft.
Haruchiyo parrots the word in his mind. Almost as if within it holds the secrets to the universe — and that if he keeps saying it, keeps feeling the weight of this single featherlight syllable on his tongue, that it’ll give him a revelation of sorts.
Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.
He wonders how you had the time to teach yourself how to cook. Or if you’d already known before you were brought here (in any case you didn’t look very experienced). If the flavourful explosion in his mouth attests to his boss’ favourite dish. Comfort food, his brain supplies. What is that? He never understood the little nuances that people sprinkled in their vocabulary, though the terms lingered in his head like pesky flies. (If it’s shit, it’s just shit, right?)
He’d been so used to the staleness served at dilapidated bars that he’d forgotten almost completely what it means to have a proper meal. If it wasn’t stale or nasty it was too fancy for him to stuff down his throat — he has always been a picky eater, wanted things to be just right, but somehow the smell alone was enough to entice him out of the study.
And when he took the first bite, something strange happened. A feeling akin to warmth flooded his veins. (It’s amazing, isn’t it? It was like poison. His head started spinning and his mind morphed into a jumbled maze of thoughts; so deeply entrenched in its twists and turns he was, left palm slowly running across hedged walls, groping for an exit. Or trying to find whatever treasure, salvation, lied in the middle.) It never ever struck Haruchiyo that you might’ve snuck something extra into the food to incite this wild reaction in him. No— you’re too innocent for that. Kind. Warm. Trusting. Soft…
Not once did you knock on the door. Not that he expected you to. Not that he wanted you to. (You’re stupid but not that stupid.)
He must’ve been in there for hours, oscillating between the fabric of time and space, consciousness and unconsciousness blurring into one.
Flashes — funny things, like trusting someone, like cutting his fingers by accident as a kid, sitting outside the doctor’s office (“What are they going to do to me?” a young boy with flaxen hair whispered. “They will put you in stitches. It will not hurt. Just a few pricks, nothing more,” someone whispered back… who?) — materialise before his consciousness often. Uninvited. Unwarranted.
When he is awake they come to him like blessings, like offerings to a long-forgotten deity. When he is asleep they take on the sparkle and sheen of a fairytale — so blurry and blinding that he could never hope to brush his fingertips across such an ethereal feeling in his mortal life.
Because a common thread was that these recollections (or fairytales, or glimpses into the ether, or as he personally likes to call them, fever dreams) never lasted long.
The feeling always, always chose to leave last — that silent poking and prodding going on without his consent, shady dealings happening at the edges of his conscience that scream at him to mourn for a past innocence, something that he has no chance of ever recovering. Memory, in this way, comes like slippery eels in the palm of his hand: if he’s lucky, he’ll catch one. If he isn’t, oh well.
“Fucking hell,” he grunts, plastering his spine to the back of chair in hopes of relieving the pain throbbing behind his eyelids. Defeat tastes acrid, bitter, on Haruchiyo’s tongue; it’s no use fighting the waves of agony strobing like a heat wave.
His arm adeptly loses feeling and the metal spoon crashes down onto the plate. It’s empty now, and his stomach is somewhat filled. Yet this shitty-ass migraine chooses to latch onto his brain like a leech. God. Can’t you just—I don’t know—let me off? This one, goddamn time, Haruchiyo curses. He’s pissed. He’s sure he left an extra stockpile of that good stuff somewhere…
Old habits die hard, but it’s difficult to dwell on it when all he can feel is gratefulness for his own foresight. Mikey finds ways to avoid him a lot when he doesn’t feel like entertaining his highs, kinda like throwing a bone to stave off a dog’s abundant energy. But for the most part, he lets Haruchiyo do his own thing — lets him chew on the proverbial bone to his heart’s desire. Thus, once again, Haruchiyo finds himself with a fistful of pills. (It’s the only way he knows to curb the pain.)
He’d really meant to pounce on you by now, he thinks, as he swallows another. Gulp. He meant to already sink his claws into your neck, the same way Mikey does. Gulp.
But he can’t. Right now he can’t even stand straight his head hurts so bad. As if something from within him wanted to turn his body inside out, displaying his innards.
And, fuck, when the itch resurfaces again like an old friend, there’s little he can do to stop it. (When has he ever been the type to argue with instinct, after all? If anything… he is a slave to it. It’s understandable. Mikey’ll forgive him. He’s too used to running free, veins pulsing at the first whiff of prey. It doesn’t do anyone good to cage a wild animal.)
Haruchiyo and his dimmed gemstone eyes, clouded over with a drug-filled haze — a comfortable, fitted collar around his neck and the leash held firmly within his grasp. A slave. A weapon to his own instinct. Nature proclaims that it’s law for predators to hunt prey. How many girls has he killed? How many that look like you and how many just to satisfy this instinct of purging prey.
Haruchiyo has lost count at this point. Everything blurs and twists into one: pill-shaped candy, the boy with pale hair, the warmth of the food that felt like a paperweight on his tongue… you clutching the tip of your finger, thick blood gushing out. (The ‘what-if’ that would’ve happened if he hadn’t interfered.)
Deeper and deeper, he starts to feel dizzy, as if he were plummeting down a rabbit hole. He stumbles from the kitchen and into the living room, heads towards the noise that made his ears prick up like a predator groping for blood. Thirst. He’s unbearably thirsty.
It’s not you— is that you? He goes rigid; blinks away hysteria. It’s you.
All he can think of is you— all he can think is, Mikey will forgive him.
∗
At an abandoned dock two cities away a figure sits patiently, embroiled in a decrepit darkness. Moonlight creeps across his hunched back like vines over a wall. Dark bangs fall messily across his face with some strands still matted in a sticky substance. Sweat, or blood. Mikey scrunches up his nose. If you were here, he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning himself up.
But you aren’t. And the thought is enough to wind a bunch of thorns around his chest.
The cylindrical shape feels strange as heck against the insides of his mouth. He’s poked his tongue through the barrel a few times before, out of pure curiosity, like a cat toying with a ball of yarn trapped in its mitts. But the taste? Well, it’s just as he expected it to be — bland. Flavourless. Unappealing. Just as unappealing as life without you.
(The fuck? Takeomi called me all the way here just to deal with this?)
Then again, he did take a longer time than usual to exterminate the local pest populace. Mikey doesn’t know if this particular thorn in his side is exceptionally formidable, or if he is exceptionally off his game today. (Huh — no, that can’t be it. It’s not as if he saw hostile figures blurring into two then three then four like a cheap ninja trick, even as he struck them down unfazed; not as if, after the tenth one the blood got too heavy for him to focus, and everywhere he turned, intrusive images of your skin plagued his psyche like a disease… no, that can’t be it.)
(…Right? Right. No way.)
He’s miserable. He wants to go home. He wants to hold you and he wants to make you taste the barrel of the gun as he is now — make you run your tongue along its concave shape and ask if you can taste the gunmetal on your teeth and call you pathetic when you start trembling like you always do. Would you let him? (Of course you would. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.) You are obedient, Mikey likes that about you, and you’re always willing to go along with his whims — though, he frowns, it’s mostly because you’re scared. Probably.
Somewhere in the dark a rat squeaks, scuttles into a crack, leaving the timid cry resonating within jagged walls. It reminds him of yo— he throws his head back and gives a long, hard groan, one that spirals in the stillness.
Okay that’s it. He clutches his head. I’m getting out of here.
“Oi. Come, Senju,” he calls monotonously, not waiting up before hopping down, setting his course deeper towards the direction of darkness. A barely audible pair of footsteps follow close behind. But Mikey’s thoughts are occupied; he thinks about the flat surface of the gun and what colour it’d make your skin turn, and he thinks about Haruchiyo sitting faithfully in the penthouse, doing his job. (He’s a little worried, and that’s an understatement.)
Mikey sighs, nose breathing in the musty, oppressive smell of the sea.
One more day and he’ll be back where he was with you; one more day and he’ll be home. But at the very least, he thinks, this little business venture has turned out to be the tiniest bit amusing. His first time exploring Japan in months and he’s already got himself a souvenir to take home.
∗
It’s… raining.
A fine, feathery, bountiful rain that’s only noticeable from ripples of water cascading soundlessly on the full-length window, and floating umbrellas shielding commuters from the downpour hundreds and hundreds of floors below.
From your bird’s-eye view, they all but resemble dewdrops of microscopic colour, so far away that you can barely tell they’re alive. You press your palm flat against the glass, feeling the heat of your own skin absorb the cool surface, feeling the tiny vibration brought forth by the morning raindrops on the other side.
How long has it been? Since you’ve been on that other side?
A backdrop of grey paints the city. A familiar view, but one that you’ve never quite gotten used to. It’s quiet. Way too quiet, at that.
Where is Haruchiyo?
The chill spreads to the tip of your toes when they meet the marbled flooring. You slip off the couch, contemplating the merit in searching for a man you would otherwise do triple somersaults to avoid. Is this a good idea? You chew on your lip. It’s not. But where is he?
You’ve been feeling uneasy for the whole morning. Earlier there’d been a crash (multiple) coming from the hallway, and besides making you drop your book it also brought with it a nauseating wave of anxiety. Not that you expected Haruchiyo to be quiet at all times, goodness no (last night was a test of your patience), but there was a certain instinct imbued into you that made the hairs on your forearms stand on end whenever things were a hint out of the ordinary.
A certain intuition that came part and parcel with living with dangerous, scheming people.
Why is he grunting like that?
(That was a grunt, right? No… no, it definitely was.)
There was the sound of something sharp, like metal, grating against the floor — what was that? You scurry over to press your ear to the door, listening hard for anomalies, trying to conjure up hypotheses in your brain that don’t equal to Haruchiyo throwing a messy fit or getting ready to jump you or — well, kill you.
A clunk. Several thumps. A knife, maybe? Or he could be moving furniture, or, or—he could be practicing with his rumoured katana (you’ve never seen it but heard people talk about it in hushed whispers) — there’s no way to know for sure. All these unidentified sounds send seismic fear rippling through you.
With Mikey there was no need to question anything, because it was only a matter of time until you found out. But now that you’re alone — alone and defenceless and the most vulnerable you’ve ever been since you were fresh out the womb — it strikes a waning courage in your steps as you venture into the unknown, sweaty palms encircling the cool metal door knob, trying your hardest to stifle the click it makes when it unlocks.
Slowly, you tiptoe over to the source of the sound. Because it couldn’t hurt to just take a peek. Right? Just to check in. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he isn’t putting funny stuff inside your cupboards.
And. Well. If you were being honest, being Mikey’s little pet must’ve changed you a lot.
Complacency that thickened your skin, artificial layers of cosmetics over baby-smooth doll fabric. The false sense of protection under Mikey’s invisible iron fist comes with its own, hefty price. It must have gotten to you somehow. It must have done something to build up that liquid courage in your veins, in its own twisted way, surely, because—because no sooner than when you poke your head through the doorway into the living room do you see it.
See them.
You stare at the pile of grisly red organs splattering the cold hard floor; stare at death itself.
And, on top of it, as if crowned the victor, no one but Haruchiyo hunches leisurely over the grisly mound of flesh. Cleaning the mess behind his fingertips with his tongue. Eyeing his handiwork. The glinting edge of the tiny scalpel in his hand still dripping with scarlet, sharp edge pointed towards god knows what’s left of that person ohgod—
Your gut drops to the floor in horror. That uniform. That’s her. That’s the woman. Shit—fuck. What was once a sweet young woman is now a mangled corpse by the hands of Haruchiyo. Something… something is terribly wrong. She doesn’t look like she’s been dead for minutes. No, her eyes are far too cold. Like gaping holes. There is blood from her mouth, no, there is blood everywhere —
Haruchiyo hums, his rosier-than-cotton-candy hair dip-dyed in scarlet. Drip, drip. “Looks like… ah, I’ve roused the attention of our reclusive little rabbit.”
It’s the same man who’d grasped your hand in a courteous gesture just the day before, who’d saved you from slicing your fingers, the same goddamn murderer who’s just got his hands on the only person in years to address you like a regular human being. Idiot. You’ve done it this time. You’re a fucking dumbass. He’s a murderer, murderer — he’s going to kill you.
You’re next.
“What’s wrong, little bunny?” His grin only widens at your stupor, your slow, petrified jaw hanging agape. “You look scared. Do I make you feel scared?”
Your legs won’t budge; you whimper.
Run. Runrunrun — your body is screaming at you, imploring you to hurry the fuck up and run for your goddamn life, but you don’t. Pleas fall on deaf ears. Your body is caught in a bear trap, forcing you to take in the gruesome scene before you. There is so, so much blood. More than you’ve ever seen in your life. And all of it, all of it, is hers.
Just the other day she greeted you with her usual warm smile. Just the other day she was a living, breathing human, who ate and slept and radiated heat.
“Your face tells me you want to run,” he trills, eyes narrowing into slits. “Gonna run away?”
His tone is shrill as a sharpened blade, deranged, with every word mounting into maniacal glee. “Run with your little tail tucked between your cute thighs, back to your big, strong Mikey?”
Bloodshot and unfocused eyes zero in on your face and his body convulses like a zombie erecting from the dead, joints creaking like bars of scaffold. Slowly, assuredly, he rises to one knee, he points the scalpel at his own collarbone, and wait, wait, why is he—
“Look here, little bunny,” he coos, a big wide smile twisting the scars on his mouth; his wrist twitches, yanks, the blade following suit, dipping obediently into his own flesh. His own skin. His own blood that leaks pure sparkling scarlet from a thin crevice.
A scream tears through the room, one you can only feel is yours from the vibrations ringing in your hollow throat — he doesn’t wince. Sheer horror sends your body flying back, hands clasped tight in front of your face to shield you from the deep dark red. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real. Red is matted to pink strands of hair, red is glittering across his mouth like the snout of a beast, red is slowly advancing across the carpet. Wake up. You tremble, whimper. This is bad this is bad this is bad.
A cackle rips into the air, one with a chilling, blood-curdling echo bouncing off the walls, and no sooner than when he takes a step forward does the impenetrable cement in your veins crack.
Fight or flight.
You turn and bolt, feeling the weight of your numb appendages carrying you as far as possible, away from that—that sickening blood, that red crawling ever so closely towards you like hot, molten lava—
You race, stumble, dive into Mikey’s room (Idiot! Mikey isn’t even here! The exit — you have to get to the exit!), managing to grab a spare key off the counter before fleeing like a bat out of hell towards the front door, salvation, the only way out.
“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you yet.”
But then your back’s hitting the wall as you scramble to flee, jolts of the impact swelling up your spine as you hurtle into a dodge when Haruchiyo lunges, bloodied fingertips snatching your wrist and pulling pulling yanking, until the keys crash to the ground with a deafening clatter, until you’ve been sucked into the floor with a scream clawing at your throat, until you’re submerged limb by limb into that deep deep red that you hate.
“NO no no no no, letmego, letmeg—”
“Shh, shh!”
The cool tip of the blade drags along your cheek, thinly scraping against the surface, slicing into half the wet tracks that tears have left on your face so that slivered carmine wells up through the broken skin. His body has no right being this warm, pressed up against you, your knees and arms already going slick with blood. It’s over. He’s caught you.
Your eyes stay screwed shut amidst the barrage of hot tears bursting behind your eyelids. He has you pinned down for good, you realise, a strained whimper fighting its way in the back of your throat. There is no escape. The pain is real. You can feel the slim thread of blood rolling down your cheek, mixing with the tears — only for him to lean closer, lapping up the traces of it with a satisfied chuckle.
His saliva leaves a slimy, wet sensation on your skin. It’s the worst feeling you’ve ever felt in your life.
“Please… I won’t tell anyone… I won’t tell Mikey— please, just let me go…”
“Ah ah ah.” The man — Sanzu Haruchiyo — hushes you again, a finger on your lip, his shuddering breath fanning erratically on your face, his voice fading into yet another hysterical chuckle. But it’s deep, breathy, and taunting, thrumming loudly in his chest, and sending a tremor through your very soul. “I think you’re forgetting a teensy, tiny fact, little bunny— Mikey’s not here.”
Your nose fills with iron when he is this close. Haruchiyo’s eyes — those bulging, green masses of insanity — shift and convulse as if you were faced with the mouth of an abyss. His grip on your wrists tightens to an agonising degree the more you plead and squirm, leaving you with no choice but to hold your breath, hoping desperately that someone will come to your rescue.
Where is Mikey?
You’re going to die here. You’re going to die here… and there’s nothing you can do about it. Pushed up against this psycho killer, who’s just murdered a person innocent of all crime, an outsider who shouldn’t even have been here. Is this how you find closure? From someone other than Mikey?
Manjiro… the thought is enough to shoot a terrible pain in your heart, something unwarranted like denial, like indescribable terror, like—like regret.
I never told him I love him.
Twin dilated pupils absorb the sight of your writhing, suffering form, shuddering in their sockets from unmatched euphoria.
“Why don’t we play a little?”
∗
Truth be told, Haruchiyo doesn’t know what time of day it is, what day it is, and all he remembers is feeling fatigued with an indescribable, insatiable hunger. He thinks he’s never felt so dissatisfied in his entire life.
But this… this is nothing short of a feast, isn’t it?
“You…” he begins, seething through his ultra-wide grin. “You’re a huge slut!”
His hands, not knowing where to touch, land greedily on every inch of your traitorous skin. Groping, taking, as if the gates to heaven inexplicably opened; a creature of hell, he is — a pitch-black entity descending upon a fine-feathered angel. He can’t stop himself, not when you’re so helpless to fend him off.
“If I had known… that you would be going around getting wet at every man touching your little pussy like this…” He bites back a laugh, the scarred edges of his mouth contorting.
You look confused — terrified, but mainly confused. And scared as to why he hasn’t ripped apart your insides yet and god you’re fucking delicious. Your nightdress has long been torn to shreds. Blood — not yours — is splattered everywhere on the marble flooring. Haruchiyo’s obscene groans come like second nature at this point. It’s good, it’s too good — your cries, your shivering, your scent, the way that he can taste how salty your tears are and hear the wetness gathering at his fingers.
“You’re a damned whore, aren’t you?”
You look stunned, stupefied, as if your little brain can’t comprehend what Haruchiyo wants to do to you, as if the squelching noises coming from between your thighs are a mechanism separate to your conscious body — as if they don’t tell him all he needs to know.
“S-stop,” you snivel, wrists straining in his grip, though he thinks it couldn’t possibly hurt from the way you can’t help your half-moans, so delicate and frantic, flitting about in his ears like a pair of small butterfly wings. “Stop, please, a-ah, don’t touch me there—”
“Here? Oh, but what if I want to?”
Frankly, this is the most fun that he’s had in ages — your kitten-like mewls and crystalline tears, soft hips twisting fruitlessly and the friction only serving to make his blood rush south, adrenaline sizzling in his veins even more so than when he was in the midst of mutilating that dumb placeholder, that fake…
“You feel so nice and soft inside, little bunny.”
Haruchiyo shoves his fingers past the lips of your cute slit, prodding and poking like it’s his first time touching a virgin. Warm, tender, and suckling on him like a fawn to its mother’s breast… the gentle clasp of your pussy against his fingers feels like nothing short of heaven. God almighty, no wonder Mikey couldn’t keep his hands off of you. His cock becomes erect, the tip becoming sensitive as it strains against precum-soaked fabric.
He watches you squirm, watches as your tits heave with every breath you take. For the first time Haruchiyo is close to you, closer than ever before, to the point where if he brandished the scalpel now there’s no telling whether he’ll lose control and gouge your pretty eyeballs out in a fit of blind lust. Just like he did to so many others before you — just like those other porcelain, fragile, counterfeit dolls. (Except there’s really nothing that comes so close to perfection as the real thing.)
“What do you think is stopping me from killing you, hm?”
He poses this question in the midst of circling your shining pearl, bringing you closer and closer to climax, coaxing panicked moans out of you as if the realisation just hit you that maybe he will rip apart your insides after all.
Then, when you whine out instead of replying, Haruchiyo pauses, pressing his weight against your soft body for good measure, keening at your smell. He sighs—
“It’s because torturing you fucking turns me on.”
You used to smell like roses — like Mikey. But the you in this moment smells like sex, sweat, and potent iron, blood from his fresh killing and blood from his own flesh and bone; he has never felt such uncontrollable desire in his life. This is it, he thinks, this is the treasure waiting for him at the end of the maze.
His lips latch on and suckle on your exposed nipple, tongue circling and biting and lapping hard until it draws cries of pain. His face returns to your neck, a slimy tongue sticking out and coating you with saliva, feeling himself quiver with desire when your entire body convulses. His hard length grinds against your inner thigh like a mad dog, eager to insert itself into your warm and inviting hole.
But not yet. Just a little more.
He releases your wrists. Sharp nails latch themselves onto your scalp, straining against the roots of your hair to tug you eye-to-eye with his gaze. People like to say that Haruchiyo gets a spine-chilling, deranged gleam in his eyes when he’s in the middle of torturing someone — what do you see this time?
A monster? The devil himself? Or something more divine? Otherworldly? Something like a god?
His teeth sink into his bottom lip; not bad, he credits his brain, eyeing the tremble of your lip and the way tears cascade down your cheeks and jaw and drip onto your breasts, he might just crave to make you worship him. More than anyone else. More than his King; make you become his own private devotee.
“Does Mikey also do this?” Haruchiyo’s gravelly voice whispers filthy vice in your ear. “Does he? Tell me.”
Your back hits the floor. He sticks another finger, two, then three, inside your cunt, wriggling and feeling for the one spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch. Your non-stop whining, your incoherency, your lack of capacity for full sentences, all of it is starting to unravel his control — spilling out like a spool of thread underwater, dispersing never to be reeled in again.
“Tell. Me.”
“N-no!” you rasp, hips quaking.
“Liar,” he smiles. You’re a liar. You’re a filthy liar. He saw you. “What does he do to your little clit, huh? Rub, rub. Oh, you feel so soft and slippery here.”
“Stop, please, a-ah! It’s too much, it’s too much…”
“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” he is quick to comfort, fingers speeding up, abusing your tiny nub, as if his ears were blotting out your frantic cries and tearful struggle. So, so sensitive. He almost feels like you’ll break. “Cum all you want. Again and again. We’ve got all day.”
He attaches his lips like a parasite to your cheek, licking at the small cut, sucking every drop of blood that leaks out, all while his fingertips never cease their momentum. You resist and jerk away from his face, only for him to wrench your jaw tightly in place.
“No, I don’t want to cum, I don’t—” You struggle like a rabbit with its hind legs bound, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in a feeble effort to mute your cries of pleasure. “I-I’m gonna—”
You cum without warning; a spray of liquid pools at your entrance, your thighs spasming under him as if charged with electricity. He coos as if to cheer you on. Fuuuck. He’s not done. There’s no way. Droplets of your juices taste like dews on his tongue; so much he wants to do, but he only has two hands.
As you reel, incapacitated with the afterglow of your orgasm, his palm lets go of your face to wrap around the flushed tip of his cock, giving a few sharp pumps, imagining what it feels like to be buried in your warmth. Well, he won’t have to imagine much longer.
“So pretty, you’d put every other girl to shame,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and another to your lips, silencing your whimpers. “I hated you, god, but turns out you’re good for at least one thing.”
“Let me… let me go…”
“Nah. But did it feel good?” He wants to break you. He wants to see you drowning in so much pleasure that you collapse and black out and crave nothing but his cock.
Your face scrunches up. You’re looking at him, he thinks. Though your expression looks weird, and you’ve stopped struggling.
“Mikey… Mikey’s gonna… he’s gonna be so mad,” you start to hiccup, tears dripping silently onto the marble, bottom lip trembling. Haruchiyo goes still, watching you cry at a loss for words.
He’s confused.
Mikey? Really? At a time like this? And he sees it again. That blatant softness that filters over your eyes — that ickiness. You’re so in love with his King that it’s pathetic.
It hadn’t been obvious before, but it is now. It’s thickening the skin between your heart and the outside world: it’s still there, the veins permeating the layer of visibility just barely, but the pulsing is faint.
And he sneers. Who do you think you are?
“You came because you’re a disloyal whore and you know it. Looks like you didn’t really love him after all, huh?”
At his words, you let out a hurt-filled gasp, as if they made their way into your heart and deposited lashes of agony there. Your mouth hangs open with tears still streaking down your face. The sight makes him want to coo at you.
“Look — you’re all messy and slick down here.”
Before you can tell him to stop, his fingernail scratches your abused clit, hard and fast as if trying to coax another orgasm out of you. Just one more. You can endure it, right? He’s watched Mikey do worse to you. He’s watched Mikey splay your legs open at his mercy and threaten to let every man in the room have their way with you.
Your body thrashes in retaliation but it’s no match for Haruchiyo’s strength, helpless to fight back as he pushes you further and further until you splutter and give a keening cry.
“What would Mikey think if he saw you like this?” he laughs, tuning out your pleas to slow down. “He’d fucking kill you.”
Another spray of your juices — another sharp scream of pleasure. By the third, fourth, your body starts trembling in overstimulation.
“I’m going to make you cum, again and again. Until you regret ever coming here. Make you regret trying to tempt my King.”
Haruchiyo mindlessly nibbles at your ear, before brutish hands reach down to force your legs wider. It’s about time, isn’t it? His cock throbs painfully at the wait.
“No, no, no… you can’t—”
He ignores you, rearranging his hips so they align with yours, gripping your abdomen like a vice as if trying to bruise. More, more, more. All his filthy fantasies start to spill out of the crevices in his brain. All he can do is watch the lavish black rush out in an endless downpour, and he, wrought with an incurable thirst, helps himself to your body, spellbound by the adrenaline you incite in him and the softness and warmth that you—
Ouch. He feels a prick.
From his shoulder, a tiny cut. A warm drop of blood beads at the broken skin. Ah. you’ve got your puny, trembling fingers on the handle of the scalpel.
How clever. A laugh bubbles from his throat.
“Oh, little bunny. Are you sure you want to do that?”
His hand removes itself from your body, snatching the blade out of your grip. You panic and try to retrieve it, but in your moment of desperation he chuckles and slides his cock in, stuffing you with inches of his length at one go, stretching you out like a cushy sleeve.
You yelp, foal legs kicking at air. Haruchiyo takes the time to tuck the blade away.
“Stupid, stupid,” he clicks his tongue as you wail in defeat, tiny paws padding at his chest like you want him to pin you down harder — like you crave for him to abuse your little hole until you can’t walk for the rest of the year. “You’re just a little stupid, aren’t you? Gone all mush-brained from me teasing you?”
He wastes no time in bottoming out, leaving the tip brushing against your womb, beating on the squishy walls again and again. His pace is manic, uncaring, straight from the get-go. Nothing can compare to you. Your tight, slick walls accommodate him so lasciviously, so perfectly, that he swears you know what you’re doing.
“You know what? I’m not even mad. Not when you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.” His King has an eye for quality, he thinks, adjusting his grip so he can thrust deeper in you.
A mess of blood, cum, tears — a mess that he has made you, forced onto you like ink on a canvas, and he bled a bottomless black. You’re coming around slowly, letting the ink sink into your putty flesh and submitting yourself to the sensation, hips unknowingly rising to meet the timing of his thrusts. That’s more like it, he licks his lips. You’re cute. Obedient. He wouldn’t mind taking you home.
“Hey, hey. Here's—uh—an idea. Why don’t you become my own cocksleeve? I’ll tell Mikey that you—hah—fought real hard, but you just couldn’t resist putting a thick, hard cock inside you. I’ll tell him you couldn’t help it.”
Haruchiyo chuckles mid-pant, having grown rather fond of you and your insides. He’s heaving like a beast, sweat gathering at his forehead, eyes squeezing shut to ride out this pure bliss. It’s a first for him. Has he been doing sex wrong his whole life?
“After my King disowns you… after he throws you out on the streets… I'll pick you up and give you a home. this little pussy… I’m going to make it my own.”
“Ah, ah— sto— ah…”
You’ve gone stupid for good, now. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, mindless babbling spilling from your lips (he can barely make out Mikey’s name in poor, broken syllables), your breasts bouncing and pussy twitching as it overflows with juices. All words are lost to you in this state.
And yet you’re still hugging his thickness diligently, just like a custom-made cocksleeve. He really ought to reward you. Haruchiyo reaches down to stimulate your clit and shudders at the feeling of you clenching tighter.
That far-off look in your eyes, your thighs periodically convulsing with spurts of cum spraying out pathetically between your folds — it’s almost too good to be true. You’re spent, brainless, mouth agape and tongue lolling out with drool overflowing from the sides when Haruchiyo finishes in you. He can make out broken parts of your speech: feeble efforts of voicing his name.
Not Mikey’s. His.
“You’re mine to play with now,” he says, throwing his head back in laughter at your pitiful mewls. “What do you think? You don’t have any objections, do you?”
Without thinking, with a heightened lust that betrays all logical thought, he sheathes himself again, all the way to the brim with a heady groan. The cum still potent and thick inside your hole spills out and paints his cock in a hot mess of liquid.
Your mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes glazed over with so much pleasure that you look as if you were far, far above the clouds.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
#tw yandere#tw noncon#tw overstimulation#mikey x reader#tokyo revengers smut#yandere mikey#yandere tokyo revengers#sano manjiro x reader#haruchiyo x reader#yandere haruchiyo sanzu#🐝; sweet syrup#tw bloodplay#tw degradation#tw infidelity#tw mindbreak#chiyu; dark#tokyo rev x reader
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🩸Come on in, don’t be shy. 🩸
#mine#my photos#aesthetic#alt aesthetic#alt#bl00d k!nk#bl00d kink#bl00d play#tw blo0d#cw blood#blo0d#bloody hands#bloodplay#tw blood#blood bath#blo0d kink#photography#low quality
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nate might have really intense kinks but he is a MASTER of aftercare.
if you’re a groupie and/or one night stand, he’ll still tend to your injuries albeit hastily as he doesn’t want you to spread rumors that ruin his “grrr scary tough guy” image and out him as an actually good person. he’s a bit weird about it, doing it silently while pushing and grabbing you in all the places you’ve been hurt, but he isn’t rough—not nearly as rough as he was. if you make a sound out of pain he’ll stop and look at you before returning to the injury with an even gentler hand.
if you’re his partner though, god he will not let go of you for a second. he loves cuddling after sex—especially if it was rough—to make sure you know he still cares about and loves you. he’ll quietly ask if you’re okay while he runs his hand down your thigh or back. if you’re injured, he’ll honestly feel pretty bad if you can believe it (post-nut clarity) and will jump at the chance to take care of you. he needs a bit of reassuring on occasion; let him know you aren’t afraid of him or angry with him for what you two did. remind him that it was consensual and you had fun. he’ll gently kiss your forehead and start to get dressed.
sorry i’m fucking gay
Bro, I AGREE, you don’t need to TELL ME-
LOOK AT HIM
Btw I’m writing this since I love this but idk what do with it-
Aftercare W/Nathan Explosion!
Nathan rolls over, taking his weight and warmth off of you. Only when the cold air hits do you finally realize how hot your own face is. You stare at his ceiling, blinking away tears from your blurry vision, a mellow sense of pleasure still swishing in between your thighs; it’s wonderful. You try to take some deep breaths but only let out pitiful whimpers. You’re still shaking, still caught up in his powerful motions that now only ghost over your body. You can feel Nathan beside you, breathing out his own grunts. The entire room has a strong scent of sex.
You’re unsure how long you’re laying there next to him, could’ve been a few seconds, a few minutes, lots of minutes. But at some point your body years for warmth again. As soon as your shakes are replaced with shivers, he somehow knows and pulls himself up to encase you. Big mistake. Once he moves your body even an inch closer to his, it becomes horribly clear just rough he had been. All the cuts, scratches, bruises, bite marks, and sore spots begin to scream on your skin. You moan, in agony rather than bliss, as your body is consumed with aching and stabbing. You begin to weep again. The pain alone, you could’ve handled, but the sense of pleasure and love fighting pain and embarrassment overwhelms you to tears.
Nathan cringes. Just moments ago, it was so lovely to torture you whilst you lay underneath him, screaming his name. But the aftermath was nothing short of hell and he couldn’t stand to see you go through it. Of course, it wasn’t entirely Nathan’s fault, you had begged him to ruin you and he had happily obliged. The two of you have always had your moments of…cruelty in the bedroom, but never before had it been so much and all at once. Tonight became particularly passionate and therefore particularly harmful to your anatomy, and now the consequences were reaching you. You were bleeding in random places. Bright hickeys and bruises were beginning to form all over. Your throat was strained from all the noises you made. Your legs wanted to die. Tomorrow, the pain would be even worse.
“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, running his hands over you, light as a feather, “I’m so sorry.” God, his voice was addictive.
You tried to forgive him, but your words tangled in your mind and refused to leave your throat. You moved a hand up to brush over his scalp. He understood the sentiment. Still, he began to kiss every single mark he made that was visible on your body, and there were plenty. His lips sent your mind into fuzziness. The rough pads of his fingertips gently danced over your thighs, caressing your bruises oh-so-lightly before a warm kiss took over. Your face buried into the pillow, letting him heal the wounds he had created. It was wonderful, he was wonderful.
“Love you,” He grumbled, mouth pressed again your flesh. The vibration of his rich voice gave you goosebumps. His tongue slipped over a patch of dried blood on your hip, where he had used the most beautiful blade to slice you open. He had never been shy about blood, in fact, he seemed to thrive in it, as he now made a guttural sound from tasting yours.
You whispered, all you could manage, “I love you, too.” You had stopped crying, luckily. Now you basked in warmth and tried to soothe your throbbing head.
He stared up through his dark lashes, mouth still attached to you. As much as he hated to see you in pain, this moment of vulnerability made his heart melt in ways that he could only describe in the lyrics. He pities the past Nathan, who still destroyed you all the same and yet refused to show such courtesy to fix you back up. It was once minimal, hasty, even harsh the way he seemed to be so eager to be over with you. Never again. Now, he was willingly addicted to your touch and drowned in the way you felt underneath him as he slowly treated you with all the compassion he could muster.
Nathan loved to fuck, torture, violate you until you were a mindless mess for him. But, just as much, he learned to nature and cherish the wonderful body that you so kindly submitted to him.
#polyklok is real#metalocalypse#dethklok#metalocalypse x reader#request filled#tw bloodplay#tw wounds#nathan explosion#metalocalypse nathan#nathan explosion x reader#dethklok x reader
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TW/SH/SH MENTION/BL00D/SFX
My first experience with cvtting in bathroom, it was amazed, apart from my emotions and mental state it was so succesful and still im so proud bc of this.
I so much love bl00d and i was so happy that i needn't to worry about stain sth
It wasnt so much blood but it was w bit much. I hope i can do it again in nearly future 😍
#sh mention#tw sh destructive behaviour#self destructive behavior#sh cvt#blo0d#bloodplay#bl00d play#sh trigger#sh things#sh vent#sh tumblr#sh#depressing shit#tw depressing stuff#tw self h4rm#tw self destruction#tw blood#tw depressing thoughts#tw s3lf harm
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Excuse me?! Soap being into comeplay broke my brain asdfghjkl;
you're not the only one anon and i love that for you. here have two (or technically three) more soap kinks just for you
warnings: biting, blood play (and menstrual sex).
18+ ONLY please and thank you. i'm trusting you anon that you are 18+ because that post was marked as mature content.
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continuing the theme that soap is a disgusting, nasty possessive freak of a man (affectionate). that man is so into biting. soap is obsessed with leaving bite marks under your clothes (and yes you had to negotiate the hell out of that one because he just wants everyone to see that you're his BUT because we're gonna go with SSaC practices, he agreed to bite you in places that you can cover easily).
that man loves leaving bruises, but what drives him out of his mind? biting hard enough to draw blood. there's just something about watching the spot where his canine dug in too hard on your thigh well up with a little bead of blood that just sends him into a frenzy. he's so disgusting that he'll lap at it and then worry his teeth into the bite to make it bleed even more. disgusting. i want him in a way that's truly concerning.
speaking of blood, if you're a person that menstruates, he's so into fucking you when you're on your period. i don't mean with his cock (although he would, he wouldn't be able to stop himself), i mean he's fucking his fingers into you. you're just so warm and wet for him. he's fascinated with dragging his bloody fingers out of you and leaving fingerprints on your hips, stomach and thighs before dipping back in to pull moans out of you as he crooks his fingers just right.
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p.s if you haven't already seen it, read early's post on period sex with soap because it changed my brain chemistry.
edit to add the taglist: @kaadaaan (and if anyone else wants to be tagged pop a request in the replies, i'm not tagging people that request on anon)
#pfh answers#cod fic#john mactavish x reader#here be kink#tw bloodplay#tw menstruation#tw menstruation sex#tw biting#jm
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