dark!Clark Kent x fem!reader • landlord au • blurb smut • obsession-coded • dubcon-adjacent • the resident 2011 vibes• he’s gentle but not sane

he’s not asking for money, he never was

the thing is clark doesn’t need your rent, quite frankly you could go months without paying a dime and he wouldn’t care. he’d still come and fix your sink the second it drips, and come personally deliver your mail to you. he’ll still leave groceries in front of your door whenever he “accidentally” buys too much of his own . while still calling you sweetheart in that soft voice, like you’re something fragile.

you honestly don’t know what to call this anymore. the way he’s so mesmerized by you and touches you. you do know that it’s something that’s on the brink of being unhealthy. because he fucks you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

he’d do anything for you.

and tonight he wants one thing in return.

“you don’t have to pay ever again,” he whispers, thick inside you, arms locked around waist squeezing you as if he’s afraid you’d vanish. “ill take care of you. I always take care of you, don’t I?”

you nodded, eyes rolling at the back of your head. he does take care of you, maybe too much for you liking. and you should tell him to stop.

but you don’t.

you can’t. not when he’s making you feel like this.

not when his mouth is hungrily pressed against yours, his voice breaking while he tells you how good you are for him. how he’s wanted you since the day you moved in.

how you were meant to be his.

“you don’t need anyone else. just me. i’ll give you everything you need.” he grunts out, pushing in you even deeper as your moans grew. tilting your head back you leaving your neck exposed , clark didn’t waste any time immediately latching his mouth on your soft skin, sucking and biting. the bed creaks as the headboard knocks into the wall, his body is so big—so overwhelming and gentle in a way that feels scarier if he were too rough.

but you’re not scared.

you should be.

you should’ve never let it get this far. not after that first night, not after the second, and not after you heard him whisper your name when he thought you were asleep. the red flags were already there, practically being waved in your face that it was something off.

“i think about you all the time,” clark breathes out, bringing you back into reality. “you’re mine. you know that, don’t you?”

your whole body shudders.

you want to say no.

you want to say i don’t belong to anyone.

SMUT FIC RECS 🗡✨️ 18+ MDNI

A skilled bounty hunter whose identity is based on never showing his face. Power. Restraint. Conflict. With him it's always complicated and intense, it feels gooood, it hurts. Dare I say, Din could have been made for intimate fanfiction. I've tracked down some "kinky" or dark smut fics because deep and dark just seems to suit him also, no? Most fics listed here are Din x female reader except where marked - that's what I could find. I note (variations on or deviations from this pairing), [why the fic made the cut if it's not obvious] and [if the author tagged as dddne - dead dove do not eat - explained here].

Kyle’s laugh is so nice. He smells so nice. Everything about him is so nice. You’re so glad he’s friends with your boyfriend. You giggle as you tip further into his side and he catches you.

“Oh you’re flying, babes,” he purrs, kissing you between your eyebrows.

His lips feel so nice, and your body is so warm and heavy that you don’t question why he’s kissed you at all. When he drags a thumb over your lips, you can’t help the shiver that rolls through your whole body. Somewhere off to the side, Simon laughs.

“Helpin’ y’self, Garrick?”

Joan Ferguson x Reader

summary: It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. But Joan Ferguson doesn’t believe in breakups.

*****

It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. Why? Because while her possessive nature was seductive when you first started dating, it eventually became toxic.

Suffocating you in a way that was no longer "sexy." It began under the guise of protection: her demanding your passwords and full access to your accounts. Then, it evolved into her picking apart everything you said, constantly doubting your faithfulness.

It all came to a head when you realized that loving Joan Ferguson meant accepting her version of "oneness," which required abandoning your privacy and merging your mind entirely with hers.

So, one night…

Joan is at the kitchen island, elegantly de-seeding a pomegranate. She’s wearing a white silk robe, looking clean and composed. A glass of dark red wine sits untouched nearby. You walk in late. As the door thuds shut, the tension in the spacious living room makes the air feel suddenly cramped.

“Three hours and twelve minutes. I hope the conversation at the pub was riveting enough to justify the… tactical silence? Or did your phone coincidentally die the moment you stepped inside?” Joan slices through the atmosphere with a smirk, not once looking up from her task.

“I was just out with Sarah, love. I didn’t think I needed to provide a minute-by-minute transcript. It’s Friday; I believe I'm entitled to some time on my own.”

Joan stops. She sets the knife down with a soft, metallic clink and finally looks at you. Her expression is one of amused pity. “Sarah. The one with the wandering hands and the mediocre intellect? How refreshing for you.” She offers you a sarcastic smile.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, knowing this won't die down anytime soon. “She’s my friend. And I’m tired of this interrogation every time I breathe air you haven’t filtered first.”

Joan chuckles softly. “Darling, if I were interrogating you, you’d be sweating, and I’d be much less charming. I’m simply curious why you feel the need to keep little... pockets of your life tucked away from me.” dropping each line with a light and tender tone.

“It’s called privacy, Joan,” you cut her off.

“No, it’s called deceit wrapped in a prettier ribbon,” Joan responds bitingly, her tone dropping into a dangerous register. She begins to walk toward you, her movements slow and deliberate.

“I am not deceiving you, Joan! How many times do we have to—”

“I saw the way you tucked your phone away when I walked into the room this morning. Like a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. It’s beneath you. And frankly, it’s an insult to my intelligence to think I wouldn’t notice the change in your pulse every time you get a notification.”

You try to control your voice, but the weight of this repeating pattern is too much. “My pulse changes because I’m scared of how you’re going to react! I changed my passcode because I wanted one thing, just one thing! that was mine.”

Joan stops inches from you. She reaches out and grabs your shirt, jerking you forcibly toward her. Her eyes are razor-sharp. “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. That was the agreement, wasn't it?”

You reach for her wrist, trying to pry her fingers from the fabric. “You’re suffocating me.”

With a dry, sarcastic laugh, Joan pulls you so close that you can feel the heat of her words on your skin. “Oh, don't be so dramatic. You said you loved me. You wanted someone to see you, to REALLY see you. Well, here I am. I see everything. I see the thoughts you haven’t even had the courage to voice yet. And now, suddenly, you don't want me?”

She shoves you backward, her hand still tight on your collar, forcing you to retreat as she advances. “Why would you want a 'private life' unless you were planning on filling it with someone else? Are we not enough? Am I not providing enough... stimulation for you every night we fuck? Do I not protect you from the world? And that... 'friend' of yours? Sarah, wasn’t it? Does she love you better than I do? Does she fuck you better?!”

You are crying now, the sob breaking out of your chest. The sound seems to snap Joan out of her heated rage. Her eyes instantly soften into a look of calculated fear and regret. She lets go of your collar, her hands shaking as she tries to smooth out the crumpled fabric of your shirt.

“Oh, honey… 

Honey, I’m sorry… 

I’m so sorry, baby…”

Your chest heaves with sobs.

“I was just scared,” she adds softly, leaning down to look you straight in the eye. She cradles your face in both hands, her thumbs tenderly wiping the tears from your cheeks. She plants several soft, lingering kisses on your cheeks, your eyelids, and finally your lips.

When you finally gather your strength, you take her hands and firmly pull them away from your face.

“I can’t do this, Joan. I’m leaving.”

And so, yes. you broke up with her. 

For the last three months, Joan replayed her memories of you on a loop. She thought of that night at the bar. she didn’t "do" bars, usually finding them unsanitary. But she went because you asked.

She remembered being crammed into that vinyl booth, watching your head tilt back as you laughed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a genuine, unguarded moment, and you were laughing at something she had said.

Then there was the time you walked side-by-side down the grocery aisle after a grueling day at work. She remembered the rare, cooling sense of peace she felt just being near you.

She thought of the night you had a nightmare and she calmed you, holding you in her arms until you fell back asleep. In the silence of that room, she had vowed to herself that she would never let anything hurt you; she would kill a hundred, or a thousand more just to keep you safe and happy by her side.

She remembered the sweet, gentle kisses you exchanged before heading out, and the ones you shared after making love until you both drifted off.

Until Joan couldn't take the silence anymore.

Now, her living room is dimly lit. She wears the same white silk robe from the night you left. It’s a choice that feels less like a coincidence and more like a ritual. Seated perfectly upright on her gray leather couch, she swirls a glass of whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light before taking a measured sip.

The only illumination in the room comes from the cold glow of the television. 

On the screen, she is watching a tape of the two of you having sex.

The footage is high-definition, captured from a fixed, elevated angle. It is a recording you both consented to making, yet in this light, it looks like evidence. It is intimate, rawly so. The sounds of the video fill the silent room: the friction of skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and then, the specific sound Joan has bookmarked.

“Joan… please… Joan,” you say on the recording, your voice thin and breathless.

Joan’s thumb hovers over the remote. With a subtle click, she jumps the video back ten seconds.

She watches you again. More specifically, she studies you. She observes the way your fingers dig into her back, the way your head throws back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, and the way she sinks her teeth into a love bite just under your jaw. She fixates on that "needy" hitch in your breath, the one you always tried to hide, but that she always managed to draw out.

“There it is,” she whispers against the rim of her glass before bringing it to her lips.

She hits play. On the screen, the climax of the video peaks. Your voice is a frantic whisper, muffled against her neck, but the words are unmistakable: “I love you. I love you so much. I’m yours.” On-screen, Joan kisses you tenderly, her tongue brushing against your lips in a slow, skillful possessive claim.

Joan hits PAUSE.

The frame freezes on your face. Your eyes are fixed on her, your expression shattered by pleasure and complete, utter surrender to HER.

She stares at the frozen image of your vulnerability. Her expression isn’t one of sadness or heartbreak; it is the look of a scientist confirming a fundamental law of nature. A small, chilling smirk touches the corner of her mouth.

“Three months of silence. Three months of 'privacy,'” she says to the empty room. “But we both know you're just playing a part right now. This 'breakup' is just a performance.”

She gestures broadly to the space around her, the silent, immaculate house where you no longer live with her. “This... is just a stage. And I am a very patient director.”

She presses the LOOP button.

“...please… Joan… I love you… I’m yours…”

Joan closes her eyes for a moment, letting the audio of your submission wash over her like a prayer. She takes another sip of whiskey, settling in to watch the loop for the twelfth time that night.

18+

Yandere!Hunter/Assassin x Reader

warning: Dark content, Noncon/Dubcon, Power imbalance, Naive Reader

word count: 2.0k

Heavy trigger warning. Don’t read if you’re sensitive to them.

Summary: Severed bodyparts, a meeting with Dazai and the meaning behind Belladonna. ..

Pairing: Mafia! Osamu Dazai x Fem! Reader  Author Note. This is Part 4 to: If only you’d hold my hand and continuation of Foot In Your Mouth Work count: 1.8K Warning: Dark content including angst, violence, mention of pregnancy & abortion, cursing and toxic relationship, hint at self-harm, You’ve been warned, And with those words: Enjoy!

One, two, five.

You counted at least five severed limbs through a crack in the door leading to the backrooms of the abandoned French clinic. You didn’t need to open it and go in to know the massacre inside consisted of broken bones, shattered skulls, and deformed bodies. The kind of morbid display only a wrong date with gravity would create. Quick, often painless, but disturbing enough to leave a vivid message for anyone daring to go inside. Survivors? You knew Chuuya better than that. If there was a survivor, it’d be someone mangled just enough to give the illusion of being salvageable, the kind of injuries where the person dies on the way to the hospital, reminding doctors, police, and lawyers why the Port Mafia was never to be trifled with.

No mercy for those who cross its path.

You doubted your shaken nerves and uneasy stomach could handle the sight, and you’d rather not be associated with crimes you didn’t commit. Instead, you closed the door, wiped your fingerprints from the handle, and headed back the way you came. Your mind counted: steps, breaths, and random numbers just to keep moving. You had to get back to the hotel before Dazai returned and-

Your thoughts cut off as the stench of cigarettes hit you. Pungent, strong shit that no one but the dirt-poor mine workers smoked. And Chuuya. When he was stressed, angry, and murderous, that is. And he did look about ready to gnaw the cigarette between his teeth to dust, shifting the half-burned butt just enough to puff out smoke like an orange-coloured locomotive. He leaned against the driver's side of the sleek, loaned car. The passenger door was wide open: an obvious invitation for you to get your ass in and not cause more trouble.

You contemplated saying no, especially after what he had said, calling you nasty things like 'suicidal' and 'stupid'. But the more rational part of you held back from flipping him off and going your own way. Even you realized you needed to get out of there as soon as possible. You could, of course, call a cab and hope no one had called the police while Chuuya slaughtered a clinic’s worth of people. On the other hand, a cab driver was a witness, and there was no guarantee a mortal would drive you back fast enough to reach the hotel before Dazai. And then there was Chuuya: a guaranteed, safe ride. With no witnesses but a load of shitty company and even shittier air.

You felt drained. 

The kind of drained that came with realizing you were fucked no matter what you did. The type of exhausted that made you struggle to set one foot in front of the other. You barely made it, collapsing into the squeaky vinyl seats in an awkward mess of limbs and exhaustion. As if it was your first time sitting in a mafia-run car, you barely stopped yourself from jumping and hitting the ceiling as Chuuya kicked the door shut a little too violently, leaving an unmistakable shoe-shaped dent in it. A moment later he got in, after tossing the rest of his smoke into the street and almost immediately pulling out another.

The idiot clearly didn’t care if the French police caught him. Cocky, self-centered, know-it-all-

-the bastard actually lit another smoke as if the speeding car was some kind of gentleman's club. You gagged and covered your face with your hands. You swore you heard him chuckle and mutter something about you being a troublesome brat as cars swarmed and blasted their horns at his god-awful driving. The kind of driving that send you tumbling around the backseat like an unsecured bowling ball.

“You know, I’d raise that brat inside you like my own,” Chuuya said so quietly you practically missed it, just as the car came to a jerking halt that sent you flying forward, bracing against the front seats to avoid hitting the dashboard. You stayed there for a second, noticing he had taken you to some kind of pier with grey water sloshing at the edges. Dazai leaned against the railing, face buried in his phone instead of being at the book signing hours away. You had about thirty seconds to process that odd image before your stomach twisted again and you flinched back from the front seat. Two steps out of the car and you were doubling over.

“Fuck’s sake!” Chuuya cursed. He was out of the car in seconds, his hand gripping yours to steady you. You felt him slip something into your pocket, a tracker of some kind? A ploy to make Dazai jealous?

The second you could, you pushed yourself away from him and went towards Dazai. The last thing you needed was for Dazai to jump to conclusions and assume you left the hotel to be with Chuuya, a thought that made you want to gag all over again. “Dazai—”

“I’m disappointed in you.”

You felt your cheeks flush red as shame and anger swelled inside you. Dazai was not using a pet name, not even your name, as if you were some common member, meant he was angry. No, he was fucking furious. And over nothing. “It’s not what you think, yes I left the hotel room and I’m sorry—”

“—I think it’s about time to reevaluate your usefulness to the Mafia.”

“What?”

“I need a subordinate with a clean sheet, so you will go to the port police and introduce yourself as the right hand of the Port Mafia, and admit to 138 murders, 312 cases of extortion, and 625 cases of fraud,” Dazai stated, not once looking at you. He just briefly raised his hand, his finger pointing towards the police escort at the end of the docking area, before placing his hand back on the railing.

It took you a full thirty seconds to realize where you actually stood: on the riverbank leading out to the deep waters surrounding the lonely island fortress of the Meursault. The Meursault. Not just a funny French name, but the kind of prison that made Alcatraz look warm and homey. The list of crimes, though, made you laugh. Murder was not your style.

Your laughter died quickly as you realized Dazai was serious; this wasn’t a spat between lovers but an order from boss to subordinate. “And why would I do that?” Your voice was loud, half an outrageous laugh, half disbelief.

Dazai’s lips pulled up into a half-amused, condescending smile that made you want to slap him. “You could, of course, walk away,” he said extremely slowly, as if you were too dumb to understand unless he stated the obvious. “But the Mafia doesn’t take kindly to attempts on the life of one of our own. A million or two is a decent bounty for harming the next Executive.”

He glanced at you just then. No, not at you, but at your stomach. At the child you were positive was growing inside you. Damn him for meddling with your care. Fuck him for already planning for the unborn child to be in the Port Mafia. To surpass him. A done deal in his mind without even consulting you.

You gaped at his audacity; Dazai looked back over the waters before you could argue. “I heard Meursault offers decent prenatal care. Unless, of course, you get the chair. But your Port Mafia rank and the list of crimes you’ll claim should keep you relevant enough to be merely locked up. Consider it my parting gift.” Dazai pushed himself off the railing, dropped a file at your feet like some dog barely worthy of scraps, and walked past you towards Chuuya and the car.

“No! Wait, you can’t do that!—” The words died in your throat as you saw him get in the backseat. Chuuya shut the door behind Dazai and then got in the driver's seat. Neither looked at you, as if you hadn’t spent your entire youth with them. As if you weren’t Dazai’s lover, Chuuya’s fixation, and one of the only damned Mafia members who could get away with pretty much anything.

Not this time, a nasty voice in your head whispered. You ignored it, watching the car pull away with a sinking, gut-wrenching dread. You had two options, and neither guaranteed a human quality of life. Not for you, not for your child. Running would mean disobeying Dazai and ultimately facing every Port Mafia member you’d lived with, grown up with: subordinates you trained, newbies you teased, superiors you admired. People who knew your thoughts and weaknesses would be tracking you down for the bounty on your head and the possibility of appeasing Dazai. But surrendering to the police for possible protection went against every fiber of your being; not only that, but it would require the level of guessing and mind games that were on Dazai’s level. To keep yourself relevant enough and lie about crimes you didn't commit just to stay alive until you had a better plan—

But maybe Chuuya would still help. He had offered. Right he put something in your pocket, you were certain. Maybe he slipped a tracker or a list of safe houses you could go to. He offered to take care of you, of your child. Maybe it still wasn’t too late to take him up on his offer and—

In your hand lay a handful of berries. Black, puckered, sweet-smelling, with a small leaf attached. You knew exactly what they were, and your heart dropped to your feet. Chuuya’s final mercy for you wasn’t shelter or another offer of warmth; it was to expand your options and offer you another means to play Dazai’s games.

You just didn’t know whether you had the heart to do it or not.

—-

It was silent in the rental car. Chuuya’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly the leather creaked with every turn. He was desperate for a smoke, several. Desperate to use his ability, or at the very least to beat some sense into Dazai.

He did nothing of the sort. Not with Dazai’s sharp eye staring at him through the rearview mirror, as if considering whether to shoot him on the spot or not. “Didn’t expect it of you Chuuya, to give her belladonna. Clever. Almost poetic,” Dazai said as the car finally came to a stop outside a flashy-looking casino. Dazai didn’t miss the way Chuuya’s hands tightened further on the wheel, the leather cracking under pressure. Chuuya didn’t speak, not with Dazai’s gun trained on his back far too casually. “But there won’t be a second time of you getting into my private business, right Chuuya?”

The gunshot barely startled the hectic crowd outside: smokers, casino-goers, and party people waiting for a good time. Dazai exited the car and slowly walked into the bright lights, towards money, and dancing girls as if he hadn’t just shot his best friend.

As if Chuuya wasn’t doubled over, gripping his side from a not-fatal but hurts-like-a-bitch wound.

And as if, every time since that day, whenever Dazai called a girl ‘Belladonna,’ he didn't bring up memories of you. Didn’t raise questions for himself or Chuuya about what happened to you. As if ‘Belladonna’ wasn’t a way for  him to keep Chuuya on a short leash, a reminder of what would happen if he tried to get mixed up with Dazai’s private business and another Belladonna, again.

Though the last part is a story for another time.

Author note: Merry Christmas & Happy New Year to everyone who's come across this chapter and everyone who still follows this blog <3 A bit dark start of the year but I still hope you enjoyed it!

For my part, I am happy to say that this is the ending that I envisioned for this mini-series and it's a relief to start the year with having the final chapter I was so scared of writing and publishing finally out. With that 'Where the name Belladonna comes from' is finally complete. Whoop Whoop!

Pro Tip: If you wanna know when my next update is, view my updated blog in the website view. At the bottom there is a timer set for the next fic.

𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 | 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑹𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏 | 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 | 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔