#tw bloodplay

[hanayumi]

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

[polyklok]

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

[pfhwrittes]

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.

-- 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.

-- 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

[zorosdimples]

big scary monster boyfriend with razor sharp claws who can’t help but fantasize about carving your flesh and marking you as his for all to see

#i’m talking about scars okay please don’t come at me i’m sick in the head #the intimacy……. #tw bloodplay #cw bloodplay #tw marking #cw marking

[dancingisdangerouss]

Heyoo, hope you're doing well!

This is a dexter morgan x fem!reader request!

Consider this, established relationship, hot smut.

That's it.

(I am starved for dexter morgan fics)

So I definitely think Dexter would 100% be into bloodplay, and hope you don't mind that I went in that direction! With his obsession with it and keeping blood trophies from his victims, it just makes sense to me.

Summary: Reader does not know her boyfriend is a serial killer, but she does discover that he has a thing for blood, and suggests they bring it into the bedroom...

Warnings: Blood/bloodplay, slight ignoring of safe words, dark content, sexual content. Dexter is a serial killer and has been known to be unfeeling for the most part, and unable to control himself at times. Read at your own discretion.

“Fuck!”

You winced and dropped the paring knife, which clattered into the sink. Vinaceous blood rose to the surface, pooling in the palm of your hand. You set aside the potato on the cutting board, cursing yourself for such a clumsy slip.

“Y/N?” Dexter called from the living room. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, no worries, it’s just a small cut. I think,” you hollered back, turning the faucet to the cold setting. 

Just as you eased the handle up to start the water, Dexter materialized at your side, catching your hand in his.

“Oh! Hi, babe. You scared me,” you laughed as he drew your hand closer to himself, scrutinizing the wound.

As your eyes lifted to his, a shiver spiraled down your spine. An eerie shadow had crept over his eyes, an almost hungry glint present there as he lightly squeezed your hand, watching the fresh beads of blood dribble out. You cringed.

“Dexter?”

The blood spatter analyst drew your hand up to his mouth. His tongue flicked out to lap against the slice, slowly collecting the blood as it darted across the open wound. His warm saliva stung your skin.

“Dexter! What the fuck—?”

Dexter withdrew and met your gaze, startled, as though he were just now really looking at you. That corybantic shade lifted from his eyes. 

“Shit! Sorry, Y/N, let me—” He hastily turned on the faucet, thrusting your hand beneath the cool stream. His broad shoulders shook with a nervous laugh. “I was just messin’ with you. You should’ve seen your face, it was adorable.”

You weren’t buying it. Grinning knowingly, you shut off the faucet, your hands running up and over his chest to link around his neck. “Well damn, Dex. I knew you were into blood in the streets, but I didn’t realize you liked it in the sheets.”

The poorly-hidden panic in Dexter’s face quelled. “Sorry?”

“There’s no shame in a blood kink, babe,” you reassured him with a wink. “You should’ve just told me! We need to be honest with each other if you want this relationship to work.” 

“Oh…” Dexter’s lip quirked, relief tinging his expression. It was so cute, how he seemed to think he could hide things from you. To everyone else, Dexter was an unknown—a strange, unreadable man with blank pages inside. But you’d known him long enough to pick up on his emotions. There was nothing he could hide from you.

“Sooo…” You released him, fishing a clean paring knife out of the wooden knives block. “What say you? Wanna put dinner off a bit? Maybe…” you stroked the blunt end of the knife along Dexter’s collarbone and he stiffened, “we can explore this a little more?”

Dexter’s breaths quickened. “You’d…want to do that?”

“I can’t say yet whether I’m into it or not, but…” You kissed the tip of his nose. “For you? Anything.”

Dexter’s lips crashed into yours so hard, you nearly fell backward. He slid the knife from your hand and tucked it in his back pocket, beginning to lead you carefully toward the bedroom, all the while moving his mouth feverishly with yours. 

You’d never seen him so excited before. Sure, he seemed to enjoy your sex life plenty, but you had yet to see this…animalistic side of your lover. You liked it.

Dexter kissed you all the way to the bed, only momentarily parting from you to root around in his closet for something. A shuffle of clothing and boxes later, he withdrew with a large plastic sheet in his arms.

“Well isn’t that convenient?” you teased as he spread the tarp out across the bed. “You’ve been wanting to do this for a while, haven’t you?”

Dexter chuckled, lifting you effortlessly onto the mattress as if you were made of nothing more than styrofoam. “Why else would I have giant sheets of plastic in my closet?”

Crawling atop you, he made quick work of his own shirt and belt, unzipping his pants but not yet removing them.

“You got a safe word in mind?” he asked as he retrieved the knife from his jeans.

You stared at the ceiling fan thoughtfully. “Fava beans.”

Dexter wrinkled his nose at that. “Is that a Silence of the Lambs reference?”

“Yup.”

“Isn’t that a little…morbid for this?”

You giggled, pulling him to you for another kiss. “Not when you’ve got a morbid boyfriend.”

Dexter smirked. “Fava beans it is. Quick question: How attached to that dress are you?”

“Huh?” You looked down at your handsome green sundress, which you had picked up years ago at a second-hand shop. You liked it, but it wasn’t anything special to you. “Not…not a whole lot. Why?”

With a feral grin, Dexter nudged the sharp side of the blade between your breasts, cutting a slow split down the fabric from cleavage to navel. His large hands slipped beneath the dress, ripping the last parts of the seam open to the bottom, fully exposing your undergarments.

“Ahh, okay, I can dig it,” you purred, wiggling as he began to peel your panties off. 

He had the decency to at least remove your bra and panties by hand, tossing them haphazardly over his shoulder before bringing the knife back into play. He very carefully and meticulously drew the blade along your exposed throat, tickling the skin teasingly. Dragging it down your neck, he chose a spot at your collarbone, easing the knife into your flesh just enough to let a thin line of crimson follow in its tracks.

You shivered, wincing. The knife froze in place.

“Fava beans?”

You shook your head. “Trust me, Dex. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He ran an index finger gently along the new break in your skin, smearing the blood like red fingerpaint in little circles. You had a grotesque fascination with the look on his face as he did so, his wild eyes burning like hot coals as he leaned in to dab his tongue along the streaks.

You groaned against him and his hips bucked lightly into yours, that telltale hardness scraping at your core. The knife made its way down to your belly, nipping deeper into the skin than before as he allowed more blood to bubble up to the surface. He sighed contentedly at it.

Dexter’s fingers tucked into his jeans, yanking them down the rest of the way. He kicked them off, his boxers following suit before he re-planted himself over you, pumping his length while he sucked and licked across your bloodied stomach, groaning lustfully at the taste.

He flipped you onto your back, pulling your hips up to his as he ground against your ass, the firm head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You whined, wiggling encouragingly as he circled his hard erection around your weeping slit. 

“Please,” you begged, digging your fingers into the bedsheets.

His cock breached your welcoming walls, fully plunging into you in one hard, quick thrust. You both moaned in unison at the intrusion, and his teeth raked across your shoulder.

Dexter began a slow rhythm, thrusting fully in and out each time in long strokes. All the while he continued to indulge himself with the knife, leaving thin little trails of blood artfully along your back and between your shoulder blades. How he managed to steadily cut you with such precision while simultaneously fucking you from behind, you’d never know.

Between cuts, he occasionally squeezed handfuls of your flesh between his fingers, forcing more blood to rise up and trickle down from the cuts. He licked all over the punctures as he continued to strike his hips against yours, teeth even nipping at the edges of the open wounds.

Heavy panting escalated alongside harder thrusts, and he groaned throatily as he dug the knife into a spot near your upper back, piercing deeper than before.

“Dex…” Your eyes fluttered open, the pain beginning to overwhelm the pleasure. “That’s a bit much, babe.”

But Dexter continued to thrust with reckless abandon, grunting and panting as he forced the knife deeper in time with his thrusting, his eyes rolling back. You couldn’t see his face, but you almost felt the shift in the air, the change in his movements as he pummeled you. 

“Ah! Fava beans,” you whimpered, unable to handle it anymore.

Dexter said nothing verbal, still moaning deeply as he rammed into you, the knife now feeling like it was tearing through cartilage. It was almost like he had tapped into some other place inside of himself, and couldn’t even hear your cries.

“Fuck! Dexter! Fava beans, fava beans!”

As if breaking out of a hypnotic state, Dexter suddenly ripped the knife from your shoulder. Blood and cum gushed forth from flesh and cock as Dexter came hard, yelling out your name as he held himself still, hips rocking throughout his powerful orgasm.

The knife clattered to the ground and you fell forward as he released you, gasping for breath. Having snapped out of his reverie, Dexter pulled his soft cock from between your nether lips and scrambled off the bed, rushing to your side. 

“Y/N! Shit, I didn’t mean to—” He frantically grabbed his shirt off the floor, pressing it to the gaping wound on your back. “Shit. Are you all right? Don’t worry, I can stop the bleeding, it’s not deep enough for stitches or anything. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize…” 

“Clearly we need a new safeword,” you grumbled, sitting up on your hands and knees as he held the t-shirt firmly in place. “I mean, fuck, Dex, it’s almost like you’ve stabbed someone before.”

You never noticed the guilt-ridden look on his face.

#asks #requests #anonymous #slowly getting to all of these #I know I'm taking forever #dexter #dexter x reader #dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter morgan x female reader #tw blood #tw bloodplay #tw dark #tw dubious consent #at least regarding the blood and inadvertently ignoring the safe word

[rainbowgothdisaster]

Jason's thighs and tits tho 😩

this man has me so fucked up. tw for blood, bruising, guns, crying during sex, face fucking, boobjob, size difference (i wasnt originally gunna put this under the cut but then. youll see. i got carried away. i ramble.)

also this is so incredibly horny i cannot emphasize how unhealthy i am about this man. there's some nice stuff at the end but its still kinda horny just not explicitly fucking

listen. i need to sit at his feet with my head against his legs just licking and nibbling my way up. leave so many hickies and bruises. i do not care who is in control i am taking my time working up. and id work all the up to his face so that the entirety of his legs, belly, titties, and neck are completely discoloured. i would absolutely be wearing lipstick everytime im kissing around him. i NEED to leave as much of a mark as i can. i NEED him begging without me even being half way done.

i am absolutely fucking his titties by the way is that even a question?? can you IMAGINE how good thatd feel???? justing sitting on his belly and pushing them together????? i mean it might not be enough to completely envelope your cock but GOD just the fact ur doing it is enough.

if im topping (bcuz jason todd is a switch and we need more bottom!jason todd x reader content) i am folding that man in half and he will have so many hand shaped bruises on his thighs. i keep my nails really long so hed def be bleeding as well just from digging my nails in holding his knees to his chest. i dont care how itd hurt my back to bend forward and keep pounding him my face is in his titties the whole time. if hes taking it from behind then i am completely wrapped around so i can grope him. or im holding onto his thighs for leverage. either way i am dicking this man down until he is SOBBING. he already cries during sex, you cannot convince me otherwise, and i am absolutely getting as many tears and cum (and blood👀) out of him as possible.

and he would ABSOLUTELY do the same to me. i will call this man anything he wants for him to fucking destroy me. listen. imagine it. hes fucking your face, youre absolutely scratching the hell out of his thighs trying to get your bearings. or even better hes in gear and your hands are legitimately tangled in his thigh holsters. hes an empty gun in his left hand (that btw is covered in your spite) and your hair in his right. when were finally fucking good and proper as the lord intended hes got me on my back to look in my eyes but all i can do is cling to him and alternating between biting him (bcuz i just need something in my mouth and im less likely to take out his jugular than i am to bite off his fingers) and just having my face shoved in his titties. both our backs are scratched up. i can feel his legs trembling inbetween my completely useless ones.

afterwards im laying on top of him, were both covered in cum tears sweat spit and blood and legs too weak for either of us to do anything about it (not that i want to anyway), im just absentmindedly groping him (titties are just stim toys) until we pass the fuck out from *gestures vaguely* ALL OF THAT.

his thighs are absolutely unfair. need a nap? pillows. hes in gear? god his hostlers cling to him in just the right way. hes got shorts on? my eyes are never leaving his thighs. im not even being subtle i am fully staring. no one would blame me. everyones jealous i get to hit that. i would always have a hand on them when were sitting together. not even horny they're just nice and i need to feel them. soft muscle has me fucked up. hed totally flex them just to see my reaction too.

oh his titties are just as bad. sure they're not defines thru his armour but when he has to get dressed up????? jason todd in a button up???? oh my god how has he not lost any buttons yet. suits are absolutely not fair, and sure he may think the same as me all dressed up, but its not the same. bcuz i fucking said so. also taking naps on his titties is even nicer than his thighs, his thighs he could be doing something else but his chest you know his full attention is on you. fully pressed against each other. i am 5'0" and i put him at 6'4" so i come up to his titties. anytime he would corner me against a wall i am at tit height. perfect.

hes the type that once ur comfortable around each other hes never wearing a shirt again (me too babe) and thank whatever god there is for that. hes walking around just in sweats, titties out?

hed def walk around without pants too, just in boxers. you get to enjoy his thighs too? id faint. this man is so perfect. hes the type that if i looked at him too long id start crying. like in complete adoration.

i am pulling this man on the couch or into bed every opportunity i get, i need to be tangled in him. i need our legs tangled together or to be in his lap.

im not a fan of weighted blankets bcuz of how blankets work they make me feel trapped, but id love for a person to lay on top of me. just jasons weight pressed on me, half not bcuz he doesnt wanna crush me. just a reminder hes there as i fall asleep.

#jason todd #tw gunplay #tw bloodplay #FINALLY i get to expose myself #anon you have no IDEA how much ive wanted to thirst this hard and in this much detail #i have wanted to talk about my kinks for forever but i get nervous #no if im simping for this man you are knowing the gross details

[westanthewaterman]

According to Plan - Murdock x GN!Reader 1/2

Rating: NSFW

Word count: 700+

Summary: Sometimes, when trying to switch things up, things don’t always go according to plan

TW: knifeplay, bloodplay, slight choking

MASTERLIST - AO3 - PART TWO (coming soon)

Murdock steps out of the bathroom, letting out a breath and combing a hand through his damp hair. He stops in his tracks, eyes darting around the hotel room. You’re nowhere to be found. 

He’s about to reach for his phone on the bedside table when the door to the bathroom slams shut and you press yourself up against his back. Something cool and sharp is placed against the front of his neck and Murdock takes in a sharp breath. 

“Hi,” you purr into his ear, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“This is…unexpected.”

“I thought we could switch things up for a change.”

Murdock licks his lips, running a finger along the edge of the knife. “Well, you’ve got me at your mercy. What now?”

You falter then, your grip on the knife’s handle loosening as you scramble to think of what to do next. 

“Oh darling,” he chuckles, the rich sound of his voice sending a wave of heat burning through you, “don’t tell me. You didn’t think you’d get this far, did you? What do I always tell you? What’s the number one rule when we’re out on a hunt?”

“A-Always have a plan.”

“So what was your plan, my dear? How were you expecting this to go?”

“I…I was going to sneak up on you when you came out of the shower-”

“I will say you did a very good job of that, darling, I’m very impressed.”

“-and-and then I was going to…um, have my way with you.”

“Oh, darling.”

Murdock turns to face you. He gets a tight hold on your chin, not enough to hurt but enough to force a whimper from your mouth, and leans down, the barest hint of his lips brushing over yours. 

“I still have so much to teach you,” he whispers, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth. His free hand grabs your wrist and directs the knife back up to his neck, applying it with more pressure than you had originally. 

“Careful,” you murmur, “it’s gonna cut you.”

“Oh, but that’s the point, isn’t it? You don’t press a knife to someone’s throat unless you expect to draw blood. The trick is knowing how much pressure to apply to make it fun. You don’t want to slice open my carotid artery, but you still want to see a nice hint of red. Go on, a little harder.”

You hesitate for a moment, looking between him and the blade before taking a deep breath and pressing with more force. His skin splits open beneath the sharp edge and small rivulets of blood begin to seep from the wound. Your eyes are glued to the way it trails down the length of his neck and over his collarbones. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it, watching the very essence of life drip from your victim’s body.” He swipes his thumb through the track of blood and brings it to your lips. “Go on.”

You take his thumb into your mouth, sucking the blood off his fintertip The metallic taste floods your tongue and you can’t hold back a small moan. When you pull away, Murdock is looking at you with a hunger in his eyes, as if in some kind of trance.  

“Murdock?”

He swipes the knife from your hand, setting it aside, and pushes you with a hand on the center of your chest. The back of your knees hit the bed and you go tumbling back onto the mattress. 

“I’m sorry, darling. I’ll let you have your fun another time, I need to wreck you.”

He climbs onto the bed and forces your legs open with a hand on each of your thighs, sliding into the space between them. You can feel his cock, already hard beneath the hotel robe he’s wearing. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Murdock leans down to whisper in your ear, “I’m going to take you apart. Piece. By. Piece. I’m going to…what was it you said earlier? I’m going to have my way with you and I want you to be taking notes in your head for the next time you try to ‘switch things up’. Do you understand?”

You simply nod up at him and one of his hands shoots up to wrap around your throat, applying just the barest hint of pressure. 

“I want you to use your words now, darling. Answer me.”

“I-I understand.”

“Good. Now, let’s begin, shall we?”

#murderplier x reader #murderplier x reader smut #murdock x reader #murdock x reader smut #murdock killinheim #west writes #nsft #according to plan #smooth criminal #tw knifeplay #tw bloodplay #tw choking

[huntinglove]

Boys with bloody noses 💙

Girls with bloody fists 💙

People with bloody lips 💙

Seeing someone's skin being coated in shiny fresh blood 💙💙💙

#✯ oh my #nsft #mdni #bloodplay #cw bloodplay #tw bloodplay

[weirdlyhornyforegos]

Oooomg Murdock lets you such the blood from his victims before he kills them. Also, aslo imagine he's bloody from a fresh kill and you clean him up. I'm ahving many thoughts -West

Yes yes exactly!

Just the perfect pair! The two you hunting together, sharing victims and all that romantic stuff

Also yes, a perfect thought. Helping him clean off all the blood, taking your time as you make sure to get every drop ;)

I too am having many thoughts

#westanthewaterman #ask #murdock #tw bloodplay

[a-weird-writer]

yato kami licking my finger cuz i got a papercut

"Yare yare. So careless, allow me to so politely assist you."

Yato no Kami is discrete. Why shouldn't he be? A dark noble of devilish delight and merit, surrounded in fallen blood, dead and alive. Pools of red follow his footsteps, the lingering rot and withering deaths of weaker Enshyoujo. Brethren at his beck and call, obedient and violent as a beast can be. He controls a whole world, winged and armed to the teeth, ready to feast at the slightest raise of his hand.

Regardless of his past misdeeds, he likes to steady himself. Keep balanced, fair but carelessly free. For his lover and the sake of his intelligence.

Minor Warning; Yato no Kami being Yato no Kami & mild suggestive themes. Spoilers for Yato's seal (Blood, blood drinking & bleeding. Paper cuts. Hints at sadism, gruesome vampire being a gruesome vampire.)

It's impossible for him to take anything too seriously, making light of the most ridiculous situations. Life is a game to his humble self, a role to fulfill. Goal reaching, to seek the pinnacle of life's potential, live as much as possible; pawns to play, foes to harm. It's simply natural to cling to happy memories, to establish yourself to pleasure and meaning.

Being an ancestral god of vampires-a lord amongst their kind-doesn't exactly lighten the overwhelming weight of his presence, nor should it be so quickly glazed over. Not that he bothers concealing it.

Yato is honest and open about his endless appetite, especially when it comes to his favored one's blood. His cravings are indeed a bother, but he minds not, for he trusts himself to never be too suffocating to his maidens. He was born with them and makes no light work of how willing he acts on them but is more than strong enough to control himself whenever or wherever he deems fit.

Blood is an important part of who Yato is, long past anything even remotely human. But he has no intention of ever wholly losing himself, not to be a creature of voiceless whispers, endless wandering and meaningless destruction.

So, when you accidently cut your finger and so innocently ask for a bandage, Yato restrains-yet can't help but jump at the chance to indulge. As merciless creatures like him always do, moving and entangling themselves in a furious cycle of addicting pleasure. Roaring like lions, drooling at the sight of carnage.

Teeth drop, lips moistened by a sharp cruel tongue. An eagle watching mice struggle in their long talons, a tiger preparing to hungrily pounce at an innocent elk. His irises narrow only a mere inch, burning an invisible hole in your hand. Tainted, barely noticeable by a fool not paying attention. Flicked delicately across a smile. Tasting the smell in the air, a void within hungers, delighting in its freshness.

His voice is unwavering despite his true intentions, deep as night and black as the abyss, glazed in the purest malice known to man. Greed and malice quake his throat, erupting in an earthly rumble so quiet you can't properly hear it. Meant to pick apart and brash forward. Reflecting the bitterness of an oncoming storm, a calamity swelling. An aftertaste of you can't describe, behind the grey clouds at the center of Skies' natural disruption. It's mark upon the Heavens, immortal, lasting.

Deciding-determined to give something else Yato no Kami insists is far more helpful.

His smirk, thin and small, is one of pleasure. Of a sweet sourness, leaving a bad taste in your mouth. A pale shadow, dark in its wisdom; sincere, overcoming. The upward twist that never reaches his eyes, a sharp contrast to his nature. And it intensifies as he eyes your cut, devouring your sight. Trained on the life resting in the depths of your finger, peaking out so very slightly. An ocean of nourishment and nutrition.

His gaze looks so simple, divine and knowing. Fast to crush, consume all unfortunate enough to cross its path. The gentle wave of dark lashes, water resisting oil, deadly darkness, capturing red. No light exists in his remorseless vanity. Only being, the deep purity of his instinct; You know better, throughout your countless encounters with the supreme monster bewitching you-how to truly look someone in the eyes. How to unveil the secret of their gaze, the windows to their soul. Assuming Yato still had his.

Little do you know Yato doesn't have secrets, there is no reason to hide his truest self from anyone or anything, curious or opposite. There is no bigger underlying principle, Yato no Kami simply is because he wants to be.

He won't foolishly deny his inhuman greed for your skin, (Especially since he knows when you can tell, reading your expressions like reading a picture book, like it's hard?) if questioned. But you seem to be burdened-thinking there is more to Yato then he is already showing, and he supposes you aren't exactly wrong to assume such of a creature of the night like him.

It is right to be fearful of things you don't understand, to try and grasp the mysterious tides of the unknown. If humans didn't fear things as much, they wouldn't have grown so advanced and paranoid. Fear is a critical tool for survival.

The fluid so rich and fresh beneath the surface of your flesh. So red, so inviting. Blood speaks volumes. Talks so dirty and filthy in desire. As mentioned before, Yato bothers not to mask his intent, but he does bother enough to hold himself back in certain situations.

And the restraint is useful of course. And someone needs to clean your mess up. It helps a great deal most times, to not completely bite off your finger as he welcomes its sliced tip onto his tongue, excited to have a taste. His grip on your hand is careful and slow, purposefully treading lightly to both avoid truly antagonizing his beloved and to tease you as well as himself, to savor the moment even more before it's ruined.

Sensing the second it threatens to drip, waste away like dirt on the floor, he doesn't allow it the satisfaction of an escape. Nor will he allow you to look away. See and observe as he feasts, how beautifully the skin reacts.

Hook, line and sinker. Blood is his nature and rituals require sacrifice. To take life, play games, one must be as cunning as he is. While he roams outside the well, while he can say something about it, your blood shall yield. Where's the fun if he can't properly savor it?

His tongue so wickedly licks before your blood can wiggle another inch, flowing smoothly upon your finger, still frozen in shock in such an erupt action. Skin flushing in his wake, pausing to cherish and lavage in his defined pursue of your taste.

Every flavor, every patch of skin, every offering, drunk empty. As Shuten Dōji enjoys his wine, Yato no Kami obviously happily devours your fluids to the absolute fullest.

Delicate and fluffy to the touch, his tongue drinks everything it touches. Not only your blood but your flesh as well. His saliva coating behind each lovely stroke, leaving a reminder of where he's been, drying the single moment he departs.

Can't have that now, can we? He doesn't even give you a minute to gather yourself, to actually respond to his strange offer. His sudden weird, urge to 'help' you out.

How sad would it be? To break by his hand?

But where is the meaning in that, dare he wonder? There is a corrupt energy, recklessly flying in a caged frenzy. Miasma of ruby red, the stirred emotion of a pure vampire. The cracked veins, spreading like an infectious plague, rage inhuman blood. The vicious moons burn like embers, an infernal flame, absorbing the cut like it was last vulnerable thing they will ever see.

His smile-unchanging-holds true and tells no lies.

For Yato no Kami is, after all, a simple monster acting on purely instinct.

#ask #anon #anonymous #yato no kami #yato #onmyoji #tw vampire #tw blood #tw blood drinking #blood #tw bloodplay #kinda? i mean hes a vamp god so it should be obviously implied. #tw mentions of violence #tw death mention #tw mentions of death #tw suggestive #but it's nothing big or bad #i know i always say this but look out for edits i might do it more later #shock to no one #but really yato is not a nice man #hes a warning all onto himself #as well as a bunch of charas i write for #take it as you will #yato no kami x reader #onmyoji x reader #reader insert #tw paper cuts #does that need to be a warning? #there are not really spoilers but kinda? just vague things for you to fill holes in yourself if you play the game

[zorosdimples]

pls talk abt the blood i wanna hear ur thoughts on it im literally handing you the mic HERE! 🎤

on choso’s blood specifically, or just blood in general?

my fixation with blood is long-standing, and i’m not entirely sure why i love it so much; i think it stems from the fact that there’s something primal and raw about blood. it’s your very essence—like cum—except it gives you life. the blood pumping through your veins is proof that you’re alive. allowing someone to see and feel and taste your blood, whether it’s through menstruation or other means, is incredibly intimate to me. it’s beautiful.

not to harp too much on love as religion, but communion—through transubstantiation—is the act of eating the body of christ and drinking his blood. to taste someone else’s blood because you love them… AH! that’s a form of worship.

choso may be half-cursed spirit, but he has blood, which really solidifies (in my mind) the half-human side of him. humans are fragile and get hurt and bleed. he bleeds. you bleed. blood doesn’t scare him, and if you’re with him, it probably doesn’t scare you. why not indulge in every part of one another, lifeblood included?

mutual worship with choso makes me insane <3

#tw blood #cw blood #tw bloodplay #cw bloodplay #love as religion #choso <3 #༄ kae’s mailbox

[angelskillingme]

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

[whumblr]

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

[alasxaa]

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