why am i so in love with fear?

Marie's Collection of Erotic Thrillers

Other:

Sideblog, for reblogs and trashposts: @yanderenightmare-reblogs

Backup site, if Tumblr ever vanishes: AO3

And still, the Master had wrapped you in a fuzzy towel and fed you milk on his lap like a wounded babe. He even went so far as to give you a decent cut of fine meats—which otherwise belong to him—a treat reserved for when he’s been an extra good wolf. You hadn't done a single thing to deserve it, and yet, he’s the one who’s admonished by the Master and ordered to go away and give you some space. 

You’d then been dressed in one of his shirts, given one of his beds and blankets, as well as a whole of five of his toys—his very favorite among them, no less. It’s nothing short of ridiculous. A wretched street urchin like you, as well as a dime a dozen mixed grimalkin, given the fine luxuries meant for a pure-bred grey wolf like him.

Safe to say, from the moment of your arrival, Dog did not appreciate the company. He doesn’t like the entirely silent way you strut about the house as if you own the place. He doesn't like how you can withstand sitting in the sun for hours without getting the least bit overheated. Nor does he like how you’ll sit and watch the rain as if you’ve summoned it with some unknown spell. But more than anything, he absolutely hates the coy way your snake-like tail coils around the Master’s wrist when you sit on his lap, purring as you knead your paws against his thigh. 

All the while, he’s left entirely neglected. The Master won’t even so much as scratch his ear when he’s got his hands full with you. Not to mention how you look so smug about it too—lips curling up all sly, as you bunt the flat width of your nose against the Master’s chin-stubble, eyes blinking deep and slow, pupils fat, getting yourself so comfortable as you sink against his chest, making use of him like a bed.

Lazy and no-good, that’s what you were. Napping anywhere it suits you. They’d leave for a walk and come back three hours later only to find you in the same exact spot—all harmless and peaceful. Or, at least, that’s how it would seem. 

The Master just calls you his sleeping beauty and further spoils you by buying you your very own princess bed, solidifying your adoption with a grand hurrah—getting you cat cupcakes and a brand new assortment of toys—though fails miserably at making you put your collar on. 

And still, instead of punishing you, he does the opposite, utterly infatuated by you to the point where he can’t help but find all your little rebellious ways entirely adorable.

Meanwhile, Dog remains unconvinced…

It’s suspicious—a full-grown cat like you doesn't just show up without knowing there’s something to be gained. You’re nothing but a leech that’s had the luck and audacity of entering his home, thinking you can replace him. And his poor Master is too good-hearted to see it. 

But no worries—vigilant guard that he is, he’ll be sure to protect him. He knows you’re up to something—he just needs to keep his eyes peeled and his ears sharp, and he’s sure he’ll figure it out before you even know he’s on to you.

And just as he suspected, there you are—leaving your bed to go creeping around the living room in the dead of night while everyone’s sound asleep. 

Or, almost everyone. Not him. 

No, he’d been waiting awake, expecting you—ever ready to catch you red-handed. In what exactly, he doesn't quite know yet—you’re just wandering around by the looks of it, silently eyeing the decorations like you’re in a museum.

He’s not sure what to make of it, but it’s strange nonetheless. And so, he decides to seize the opportunity to arrest you with a harshly put “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Your tail poofs up thrice its normal thickness where you snap around at the sound—the first authentic reaction he’s seen from you so far.

“Dog,” you state, less in greeting and more so in registration for having found him there, glaring at you in the dark with heavy arms crossed atop his solid chest. Your pupils, slim like a reptile’s for only a split-second before bleeding out like ink into those very deep pools he’s certain many have had the misfortune of drowning in.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” You feign bashfulness with a confidence that betrays you, slinking across the floor, up to him with that coy smile of yours that has the Master fawn all over you.

But he’s not the Master, and your feline guiles are no match for the gut-instincts of a sophisticated canine such as him.

“I asked you a question,” he bites out with a rudeness that has you stop in your tracks, just shy of brushing your tail under his chin. 

Discouraged by the looks of you, the obnoxious thing swings in front of you instead, where you proceed to hold onto it all sheepishly as you try your charade again, “I was just…”

He might have enjoyed your efforts if he found you even remotely appealing, but lucky him, he doesn’t, leaving him with no patience to humor you. “Just what?”

“Exploring a bit,” you excuse with a bite to your lower lip, still not giving it up as you turn around again and walk back to the mantle he’d caught you by. “Curiosity killed the cat and all that, as you know. I’ve never seen so many things in one place, it’s just so—”

He groans, beyond tired of your lost-kitten performance, demanding, now once and for all, “Drop the act.” 

You whip around again at the sound of his bark, still as a statue as you listen to his growl, “Tell me what you’re up to, or curiosity really will have made your end.”

You stand still for another moment, your tail raised high and waving slowly from side to side behind you while you think. And then, with another blink, your inkblot eyes become as thin as slits once again.

“Oh, fine.” Your voice is different, no longer soft and kittenish, but deeper and sultry as you laxly raise your hands in surrender. “You caught me, you nosy old hound.”

Your entire demeanor alters on the spot, raising your head high instead of disarmingly low, finally acting your age rather than some sorry kit. He’d known it all along, and still, it’s an unsettling thing to behold—makes his hardened gaze adopt a look of repulsion like he’d just watched a snake shed skin.

To which you roll your eyes. “Geez, don’t get your silk PJ’s in a wrinkle.”

You crack your neck, then continue to do a big stretch to complete the transformation—at which point your posture changes into a more dignified presence as opposed to the harmless little ball of fur you’d disguised yourself as.

It only further serves to freak him out. 

Noticing it, you scoff once more, repeating yourself more directly, “Relax, will you? Psh—actin’ like I’m a demon or something.”

He’s not so sure you aren’t.

“Hmph—it’s not like I’m here to steal your spot on the couch or anything,” you say then, addressing his exact thoughts like you’d been reading his mind—sporting this patronizing resolve as though mocking him for even thinking that taking his place next to the Master was ever something you’d want in the first place. 

You seem to scoff at the very idea, denying having any such desire, saying, “All I want is three meals a day to tide me over for a while. Nothing more.”

Making your way back over, you flash him a sneer and a snicker, “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your shampooed fur before your next spa-appointment.” 

This time, you go through with it, ending your insult by brazenly swiping your velvety tail against his throat as you pass him by, going back to bed with a final sentiment, “All you gotta do is stay out of my way.”

Meanwhile, he’s silent. Offput by you more than usual, concluding he’d been right about everything all along. You really were just playing them—preying on his Master for a meal-ticket. 

Did you really think you could get away with doing it right in front of his face?

“Tch—insolent.”

The second before you’ve made it too far, he wraps his fist around your tail. 

Caught off guard, you yowl loudly, with knife-sharp teeth flashed at him in a hiss, followed by a low growl—ulike any sound you’d made before. More befitting a lioness rather than a tiny domestic-type such as you—especially with how easily he catches your throat in his other hand, thrusting you hard against the nearest wall like a ragdoll. But then again, tiny pups have always been more bark than bite.

“I suppose filthy alley-cats like you aren’t accustomed to my kind,” he seethes, tightening his hold as you sink your needle-like claws into the taut muscles of his arm—seemingly in some desperate attempt to get him to release the hold.

Pinned up like something ready for slaughter, your only hope is crossing your legs behind his back to keep yourself from getting strangled by the deadweight of your own body. And yet, despite it all, there’s a grin stretched wide across your face, with your voice full of mockery, snickering whilst struggling to breathe, “And what kind is that exactly? Fancy yourself an apex predator, do you?”

He blows steam out of his nostrils, displaying his own set of fangs—tough canines that are far better built for snapping bone than yours. Insisting, “I am an apex predator.”

There’s another raw chuckle in your throat, simmering against his palm as you continue to mock,  “Pft—don’t make me laugh, you’re nothin’ but a stuffed animal. Keh—a soft couch dog, eating out of whatever hand that rubs your belly. It’s pathetic.”

His hand squeezes harder, and you grin even wider, forcing out another heckle, voice raspy under the pressure, “Easy there, big-guy. Wouldn’t want your Master getting the wrong idea.”

He’d been so wrapped up in you, he hadn’t picked up on the noises coming from the masterbedroom—door now open, with him coming through, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a groggy, “What's going on out here?”

Your feet hit the ground soundlessly once his fingers detach from your throat, not wasting a second before you’re lying straight through your teeth again, “Sorry if we woke you, Master.” By which time, your eyes, along with your voice as well as the rest of you, have all reverted back to that soft and cuddly meekness again. “I had a nightmare is all. Dog was only comforting me.”

“Oh—” the Master yawns, scratching his happy-trail, none-the-wiser just like you intended. 

Dog opens his mouth, about to expose you as the conniving trickster you are, but then the Master’s attention pans to him, smiling, “How nice of you dog—m’ glad to see the two of you getting along,” and any word he’d meant to say falls flat.

You hide your giggle, whispering under your breath just loud enough for only him to hear, “Good boy.”

Fists balling, he’s not quick enough to pass a growl before the Master continues, now with his kind eyes set on you again with an offer, “How about you come stay in my bed, kitty? I’d feel bad letting you sleep alone if you’re having nightmares.”

It all happens before he can get a word out.

“Really, master? Thank you so much—I'd love to,” you gush, a spring in your step as you rush over, wrapping your hands around his arm with a deceptive purr and big round eyes looking up all adoringly.

The saying becomes all too true… You’ve got your claws in his Master, and he’s left standing where you left him—tongue caught by the victorious smirk playing on your lips as you disappear behind closed doors he’s never once crossed, with only a dismissive “Goodnight, Dog.” to keep him company.

—

Humans are such suckers. 

They see a cute little face and can’t help but let their saviour-complex get the best of them. It never ceases to amaze you how foolproof it is. The master really just welcomed you right in. Hadn’t the sense to hide away his valuables or anything—just let you roam around freely like he had nothing to lose.

Dog might have been onto you, but just as suspected, he proved to be no problem in the end.

Humans are a dumb and gullible bunch, but in the end, dogs are far worse off. Bred in their image into subservient slaves, glossed over by being given the moniker of man’s best friend. A meaningless balm. And yet, they’re dumb enough to buy into it—thinking it makes them man's equal. 

Poor Dog, with that hatefully envious way he glares at you any time the Master shows you attention. As though you’d ever want to be at the beck and call of anyone else other than yourself. Disgusting.

Dogs will never make any sense to you in that regard—big, strong, smart and yet so eager to please their human masters. It’s nothing short of sickening.

Truly, they’re so stupid you very nearly pity them.

But oh well, not your dog, not your pound—or however the saying goes. That’s what you think at least as you bag all the shiny trinkets in a duffel bag you’d found in the closet—anything that might have some high value at the nearest pawnshop. 

Living in whatever shelter pleases you, being able to move freely as you wish is far better than the gilded cage of having to cater to some overlording human—getting plucked and preened and clipped and all types of bullshit. No thanks.

“You’ got soft paws for a street-cat.”

It’s the same as last time. Your tail poofs as though from static shock, with a jolt stabbing the small of your back, making you whip around before you can think. 

Eyes, cut-like slits down the middle, you blink to reset yourself then shake your head at the familiar pair of folded arms before scoffing with a sneer, “Tch—caught me red-handed, have you?” 

Truly, ridiculous. Who does he think he is, standing there like he’s the town sheriff? A dog's ability to shrink the world into fitting inside tiny apartments will never cease to astound you. It's so naive you could cry. 

Instead you laugh, “What, you want a treat? Hmph, maybe you should go boast to your master about what a good little lapdog you are—perhaps he’ll finally let you sleep in the bed for once.”

He matches your scoff, “And give you the opportunity to run?” acting as though he’s arresting you. Further mirroring you by shaking his head and grinning back. “I don’t think so.”

He really prides himself on being in control, doesn’t he? Tunnel-visioned fool. So preoccupied with chasing you down that he’s forgotten his original goal of getting rid of you.

“Tch—” Suppose you’ll have to remind him. “Com’on—that’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it? Me, gone in the night, never to be seen again.” You hold up the duffelbag for him to assess, filled with replaceable nothings, stating, “It’ll only cost you a few trinkets—it’s practically free by your expensive standards. Bet you won’t even notice what’s missing.”

It’s an agreeable offer, you think. A win-win. And still, he shakes his head.

“I’m not letting you leave.”

Your eyes narrow, assessing him for a moment, giving him time to rethink it. But no, dour to no end, he remains stoic as though there’s nobility to be found in it. 

“Geez. Those with the most are also the most stingy, after all...” 

Sighing deeply, you have to roll your eyes.

“Fine then, I can tell when I’ve exhausted my welcome.”

You drop the bag with a low thud, and throw up your hands, accepting the defeat with knowing it was nothing worth fighting for. “Keep it—there’s not exactly a shortage of houses to rob. Maybe I’ll be a little choosier this time, and pick one without a mangy mutt on my tail.”

Without further grief, you start making your way over to the window, though still somewhat fretting over what a grand waste of time it had all proved to be, wondering whether there was still enough time to stage another con tonight or if you should take the loss and go sleep it off somewhere. 

You’ve just about decided when Dog sidesteps you, blocking your path.

“Like I said, kitty,” he continues. “You’re not leaving.”

Something about his tone and the way he stands makes your ears draw back on instinct. Suddenly feeling very small.

You swallow thick, followed by your fur bristling harshly—poofing up in an effort to make you bigger, though succeeding terribly at becoming anything remotely comparable to his size. 

You've squabbled with dogs before—but out in the streets you’ve had the opportunity to climb higher and faster than they can reach. Here, though you’re sure you’re speedier and if not that than at least more agile, you still don’t have the room to make use of those advantages.

“Careful, Dog.” you warn, recognizing you’ve got little better to do. “I might have been a bad cat, but I bet your master won’t be too happy to wake up and find my blood on your claws.” 

Perhaps, if you appeal to his need for the master’s approval, you could manage scaring him into submission. And so, you hold nothing back, “He’ll probably send you to the pound on the spot—get you a needle shot in your spoiled ass, then watch you die in your own piss and shit like the dumb animal he sees you as.”

It might have been a bit of overkill, but you’d say the situation was dire enough to call for it. In any case, it should make him back away with his tail between his legs.

Or, at least, that’s what you'd expect.

But instead, he chuckles. 

Utterly unphased by your words, by the looks of him. He just shakes his head, saying, “You really have the foulest mouth on you, you know that?” He grins—patronizingly so, as he tips his head up and slants it, looking at you sideways. “But I suppose I would too, if that’s all I had.”

Something about the nocturnal shimmer of his eyes and how they flash makes you aware how you were fighting an unwinnable battle, triggering the remaining choice of fleeing.

But it quickly proves just as fruitless, where, within the split-second of your attempt, he catches you as if having pinpointed the exact moment you’d bolt.

“Com’on now, kitten, mind the silk, won’t you?” he mocks, simpering at the sight of your claws tearing into his pajamas as he tackles you onto the floor like prey, with derisive words telling you “There’s no need to be so hostile.”

You keep struggling in spite of it, even when trapped beneath his much bigger frame and his much stronger paws. 

Eventually, he manages to capture your wrists, stapling them above your head.

“Who said anything about killing you anyway?” he jeers, lowering his head to your neck and reveling in the way it makes you squirm in fear of the lethal bite he could invoke if he would so choose. 

But no, it seems he intends to play with you first.

“Now-now, I know I’ve been unfriendly. And I’m sorry about that…” he whispers, sniffing out the hints of terror lacing your scent like it’s something to relish. Sighing with elation as he declares, “So let me make it up to you, hm? It’s long overdue, but better late than never, right?”

You keep quiet, caught in the trepidation, with only your heart giving voice to your panic, beating furiously within your ribcage—breaths increasing in their speed, frantic now, as he licks the inside of your ear and feeds it more cruel sentiments from the tip of his tongue.

“Let me finally give you a proper welcome to the family.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the feeling of being on the very last of your nine lives, imagining getting ripped into like a piece of meat. The only part of you left able to think somewhat clearly is spending its final moments praying for it to be quick.

But no such end ever comes—neither gruesomely hauled out nor quick and painless.

The heat of his breath retreats, lording over you with a different objective than robbing you of yours.

“Not sure how you kittens go about it, but…” he pulls your wrist and turns you over onto your stomach, nailing it to your back with your arm twisted up between your shoulder blades. 

Bent over you, now from the back, his voice returns, wreaking warmth through your ear once more. “Allow me to teach you how we mutts get it done.” 

His other paw then takes a firm hold of your hip, lifting you up onto your knees until your back becomes a curved slope. 

Ass pressed flush against his crotch, greeting the profound swell of it—it’s only then that his true intentions dawn on you—utterly unnatural as they are.

“We’ll see who the real stuffed animal is,” he imparts as he wraps a fist around the root of your tail, giving it a rude tug that has you mewling. 

“When I get to using you like a fucking toy.”

♡ BNHA – Dog Bakugou or Shoto & Master Deku ♡ JJK – Dog Gojo & Master Geto, Dog Sukuna & Master Yuji or Megumi ♡ HQ – Dog Tsukishima & Master Yamaguchi, Dog Kageyama & Master Hinata, Dog Bokuto & Master Akaashi ♡ BLLK – Dog Reo & Master Nagi, Dog Rin & Master Isagi ♡ DS – Dog Inosuke or Zenitsu & Master Tanjiro ♡ GA – Dog Zanka & Master Enjin

FAVORITE IN SUSPENSE

Punished for trying to run away from your yandere captor:

♡ PUNISHED

Creep captor dresses you up like a doll and takes pictures of you:

♡ DOLL

FAVORITE IN HYBRID AU

Polar bear brothal owner x bunny reader:

♡ PREYING ON THE HUNTER

FAVORITE IN OMEGAVERSE

You're sent to an omega institution for behavioral correcting:

♡ THE OMEGA INSTITUTION

Behemoth dominant Omega x tiny Alpha reader:

♡ UNNATURAL ♡ PART TWO

FAVORITE IN FAIRYTALE AU

JJK—Hunter Gojo traps Nymph reader in the woods:

♡ FORBIDDEN FRUIT

You become the spoiled prince's personal maid:

♡ FARM ANIMAL

FAVORITE IN MONSTER

Elf reader captured and gangbanged by orcs:

♡ THE PILLORY ♡ PART TWO

FAVORITE IN DYSTOPIA

Poly yanderes with captive reader in apocolypse au:

♡ THE BUNKER ♡ STAYING

FAVORITE IN COMEDY

JJK—Sorceror reader teasing imprisoned Sukuna:

♡ INSUFFERABLE

FAVORITE IN MATCH MY FREAK

Modern cannibal Sukuna kidnaps reader to eat, but then...

♡ LIVESTOCK

FAVORITE IN BREAKUP

You break up with your sorry-ass gamer boyfriend. He does not take it well:

♡ GAMER-RAGE

FAVORITE IN BULLY

Jock bully asks you to tutor him:

♡ NERD

FAVORITE IN YANDERE

Your college roommate rubs you the wrong way:

♡ PERFECT STRANGERS

Your toxic ex-boyfriend tracks you down years after you ran away:

♡ CAN'T RUN, CAN'T HIDE

FAVORITE IN PSYCHOLOGICAL TORTURE

Your roommate is an incel:

♡ INCEL ROOMMATE

Yandere captor punishes you after you destroy his gift:

♡ FIX IT

FAVORITE IN STALKING

Old loser classmate is still hung up on you:

♡ GLOW UP

FAVORITE IN KIDNAPPING

Strange Yandere keeps you locked inside his playroom:

♡ THE PLAYROOM

FAVORITE IN CRAZY

BNHA—Yandere Bakugou kidnapped quirkless reader:

♡ HYPOCHONDRIA ADJACENT

JJK—Overprotective twin brother Satoru:

♡ TWINS

FAVORITE IN STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Witnessing your own mental state descend into Stockholm Syndrome:

♡ GONE MAD

FAVORITE IN PHILOSOPHY

JJK—Asylum patient Mahito x psychologist reader:

♡ EAT

FAVORITE IN "BAD" READER

Pretty reader x virgin loserboy:

♡ VIRGIN BOY

JJK—Okkotsu Yuta x mean girl curse:

♡ MEAN GIRL

FAVORITE IN AVERSIVE NONCON

You're a sex-slave out on lease:

♡ SEX ROBOT

No, because this was way too hard and I'm way too indecisive, but here you go, some of my favorite fics in no particular order. some are chosen because I love the way they read, others because I love the concept so much...

A naturally protective, intensely responsible young man—Aizawa—whose gross, isolating power—Shinso—and immense psychological trauma eventually burned him down into a cynical, system-hating nihilist—Dabi.

♡ Kenjaku — AFO & Dr. Garaki rolled into one

Kenjaku is an evil mastermind like AFO, but instead of sharing AFO's desire for pure political control, he possesses Dr. Garaki’s twisted, joyful, and highly eccentric obsession with mad science—treating the apocalypse like a fun passion project.

♡ Yuuta — Amajiki, if he was Deku

Yuuta starts off exactly like Amajiki—shaking, terrified of his own power, socially anxious, and wanting to hide from the world. But his core is like Deku's—a wish to protect his friends which allows him to override his anxiety and become an unstoppable powerhouse. As well as possessing more "main-character" energy.

♡ Nanami — Aizawa, with some Iida energy

Nanami is basically Aizawa if he worked a desk job as a corporate slave. They share the exact same exhausted, cynical, "I am doing my job because it must be done" pragmatism. The Iida energy comes through in Nanami's strict adherence to rules, professionalism, and his wardrobe and grooming.

♡ Megumi — Shinso, with Dabi energy

Megumi has Shinso's quiet, tired, stand-offish introversion and tactical mind. However, similar to Dabi, Megumi also carries a dark, deeply suppressed self-destructive streak, giving him an underlying, dangerous, and crazy "burn it all down" energy.

♡ Toji — Aizawa, with Dabi energy

Like Aizawa, Toji is a tired, pragmatic, logic-first fighter. But instead of being a hero, his energy is more aligned with Dabi's—completely detached from family, living in the dirt, deeply cynical, and radiating the aura of a dangerous stray dog.

♡ Naoya — Bakugou, with Overhaul energy

Basically all of Bakugo’s worst traits—the explosive entitlement, the bullying of the "weak," and the fragile prodigy ego—weaponized with Overhaul’s clinical, look-down-your-nose elitism and deep, systemic prejudice. Plus added misogyny.

♡ Choso — Dabi-coded, with Shoto charm and warmth

Dabi-coded in the way of being a seemingly heartless tragedy obsessed with his family. But while Dabi's obsession is hatred, Choso's energy shifts after encountering Yuji into Shoto's quiet, earnest warmth. He also has Shoto's same blunt, slightly socially awkward, but deeply sincere and lovable protector energy once he accepts you.

Anyway!

This is just a very quick and easy way to get a loose grip on a character. Once you start writing them, with this loose identification in mind, the character will start to grow into its own as you get more comfortable with your own understanding of them.

Additionally, once you start viewing characters this way—taking one character and putting him in the shoes of another—you'll find it can be a great source of inspiration as well!

Also! It can be hard creating a story from strach with a character you've never written before. One tip is, of course, to read fanfiction other people have written to see how they tackle it. But personally, I'll find myself swapping out the character while reading one of my old fics.

For example, reading a Bakugou fic as a Gojo fic instead.

This way, you'll understand what you think is similar and different. Which will help you gain better control of the character.

♡ Canon, Fanon & OOC

No fanon or "head-canon" can ever be regarded as actual canon, no matter how many fans agree with it. Only the original source material written or green-lit by the author is canon in the end.

And so, yeah, I've never been too concerned with presenting as canon, as that's not possible or my goal.

Of course, I want my fandom characters to be somewhat recognizable, but at the same time, I find a lot of fun in seeing how far you can stretch that characterization—altering their personality or circumstance to the point it's almost entirely OOC—out of character.

But I only do this with characters I feel like I have a very solid grip on. It might sound pretentious, but for a character to remain recognizable, even after you've changed fundamental parts of them, requires that you know that character through and through to the point where you can surgically remove and switch those things about without completely killing them.

So, I'm not sure If I have any solid tips regarding that, other than to get it clear in your head who the character is to you, and then see what happens when you play it up a bit by giving them different circumstance—such as putting them in a different au, giving them another job, supplying them with a new personality trait, trauma, need, etc—and them see what happens.

You, like any other student that night, celebrated the mark of your first exam. But while most of your peers were in high spirits, you drank for completely different reasons and became a little something somewhere between tipsy and drunk much faster than everyone else.

The party was nearing its end and simultaneously or consequently—whichever came first—the end of your tolerance when the professor had been kind enough to come to your aid. He’d been watching you for a quarter-hour—in slight unease. Acting almost as though he was chaperoning the party, he stood posted against the wall with arms crossed, watching you dance and stumble around like a kid after too many carousel rides. He waited until you were practically hanging off the wall before deciding he ought to do something about you.

You thought you heard him say he was taking you home and closed your eyes with a nod, then felt yourself being pulled away by the warmth of his weighty hands steering you by the shoulders—a secure feeling that made you surrender to the drowsiness of your tiring eyes…

It must be a little while later when you feel teased with the offer of waking up again. Though still too heavy-lidded to accept it, you continue to snooze.

The professor, however, was wide awake. With not a drop of alcohol in his system, he was stone-cold sober and much too aware of your current state to his liking.

Your fully exposed thighs, too drunk to pull themselves together decently, left you to sit in a lewd spread like an open invitation—while your short dress had ridden up and situated itself around your hips, giving a slutty peek at the hot-pink lace thong you had on underneath. 

It was a short spaghetti-strap slip—ill-suited for reserving any type of dignity—tight over your curves and loose in the dip of your breasts, giving a tempting show of them—and everything else for that matter—to anyone who’d look.

And the professor was looking. He couldn’t stop himself despite somewhat feeling he ought to. It didn’t seem like you were wearing a bra, and the thought of you only wearing two articles of clothing made him both so hot with rage and hot and heavy at the same time. He couldn’t believe you’d leave your house dressed like that—like a hooker protecting her corner with every fine curve she had to offer.

The professor gave a curt sound of disapproval as he felt the space in his pants grow taut. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he put both hands on the wheel. Trying to gather some semblance worth of integrity and control with knuckles whitening in the pursuit—wringing the helm in strained fists.

You stirred with a moan at his side soon after, prompted to wake by the array of teeth-sucking clicks he made with his tongue, as well as the hot motor hums and frictional feel of rubber burning on the old road beneath your seat. 

Eyes opening to the passing flashes of streetlights out the window, you blinked a couple of times and gave another string of dulcet moans in a lazy effort to rid yourself of grogginess before your vacant gaze settled on your current situation—spheres widening just a bit upon the sight.

A somewhat sheepish look replaced the former accents of sleep while you pulled your dress back down under your ass and, with an abashed bow of your head, slipped him a small smile of the apologetic sort before giving your lips a soft bite—curling your fingers into your palms atop your lap as if to silently say both thank you for helping me and sorry for causing trouble.

And then, perhaps out of humiliation or an attempt to cut the awkward tension—at least somewhere between having about eight or something shots in your system and probably also due to the pressure of the looming F you got on your last paper—and in light of all those times you’d spent in class assessing the man you currently sat beside—you figured it would only be funny if you offered to suck the professor's dick in exchange for an A.

And it probably would have been left as just an inappropriate joke—one you might regret when waking up in the morning or when walking into class on Monday—an embarrassing drunk slip of the mouth, a young and dumb mistake you’d tell your friends about and laugh. That was all it was supposed to be, and that was all it was—at least for you.

But the pressure at home had been getting to the professor lately… 

You see… the professor and his missus hadn’t had sex in months.

If and when his wife comes on to him, he’s grown prone to excusing himself by saying he’s too tired after work. He doesn’t know when he lost interest, but the burden has him going away to the cabin on the weekends, saying he wants to hunt and fish and that she should have the house to herself and invite some girlfriends over.

He's kept the divorce papers in his briefcase for weeks already but has yet to hand them to her. Sitting down and telling her was one thing, but he didn’t really see what good it would do to separate now in their old age—it would only be a headache that would ultimately defeat the purpose. It’s not like he plans on remarrying—so there isn’t really any reason for them to split.

But… if all he needed was a good enough reason… cheating with a pretty young thing less than half his age was as good as one comes… or at least it felt that way at the moment…

You hadn’t noticed the strained space in the professor's lap—nor the shifting of gears as he rerouted with a sharp turn. Busy in the tipsy giggle of your inappropriate remark, you weren’t aware he’d unbuckled his belt and buttoned up his slacks in the driver's seat with the hurried rush of someone who’d been waiting for the starting pistol to have its trigger pulled. 

Much like in class, you weren’t paying attention in favor of amusing your own emptyheaded thoughts. Meanwhile, one moment, the professor was driving you home—when at the start of the next, he’d already pulled off into a nearby parking lot with a strong fist riddled in your hair and his meaty thickness pouched in the wet pocket of your cheek.

His weighty arm, riddled with old muscles, was stationed heavy atop your spine, hindering any second thoughts that might have surfaced when tasting the bittersweet salt of his erection. Whereupon the jerkish feel of you coughing for air around the intrusion, the hairs beneath his sleeves rose as though in reverence—veins flexing along his limbs, rushing with blood like never before. 

He threw his head back with a deep sigh, then proceeded to bounce your little drunk head up and down his length—burrowing deeper inside your tight amateur throat until your pretty lips kissed the unruly curls on his base—unable to recall the last time he’d had a hot mouth like yours on him while groaning with the loud rust of a man old enough to be your father.

He hadn’t jacked off in weeks. It always seemed too sad to do it in hiding—the thought alone just made him tired. But now, his gruff sounds devolved into even gruffer growls as he fucked the very back of your throat on repeat with the aggression of someone who’d had a long and trying year—keeping your head in a complete lock—cock not once slipping out when running your mouth like a drill.

You gripped his tough thigh while your thoughts lost the battle for your brain to the cock robbing you of breath. But if he noticed, he chose to ignore it—holding you through it until you stopped gagging and struggling—until you relaxed and went slack from the lack of air—until your eyes rolled back and drool spilled in dribbles down to where his nutsack clenched at the feel of your braindead moans strumming his shaft like a cord. 

And then he burst. One thick fat load followed by a series of further spurts, draining his balls inside your mouth—having lost all his reservations to moaning loud and truly until the very last drop was squeezed out onto your tongue…

It was as if a heavy fog had just lifted when he found his bearings again. 

He untangled his hands from your hair shortly after, freeing your throat as he let you up for the air you’d been deprived of—lungs hitching on desperate breaths while you were left hung up on the taste coating your mouth in something seedy, sticky, and thick. Too shocked to swallow, you just let it drip down your chin instead, with something akin to a whimper.

He wipes it for you with an outstretched hand holding an embroidered pocket-handkerchief—another one of those silly wardrobe choices you knew he wasn’t responsible for.

And then the two of you wind up simply sitting there, left reeling in the wake with no words to breach the silence—as if you’re both too afraid to put words to what had just happened and what it meant.

But then there’s a curt clearing of a throat, followed by a grumble of words, “I’ll see to it that your grade is revised.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Enji, Iida, Natsuo, AFO, Mirio ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Toji, Higuruma, Kusakabe ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Daichi, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Ukai ♡ CSM – Kishibe ♡ BLLK – Kunigami, Baro, Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ HxH – Leorio ♡ WB – Sakura, Umemiya, Hiragi, Togame ♡ SD – Sakamoto ♡ GA – Enjin, Zanka

♡ Bullies & other College Tales ♡ FEM/GN X M INSERT masterlist

Part two, three, and four of this fic with smut available here, along with sixteen additonal short erotic thrillers:

Marie's Collection of Erotic Thrillers

His hunters had come back with you a month ago in a cage of a few dozen others. Dwarf rabbits—nothing special. Cute though, like any other bunny breed.

You didn't need any taming nor much training. You were the first of your batch to make it out onto the floor. In fact, he’s sure you made record timing if only they kept track of such things.

But you’re not broken. That would suggest there was something there for them to break. No, with you there wasn’t any pride or dignity for them to strip away. You were just slaphappy from the get go, showing no defiance, going with the regime like resisting wasn’t even an option. Of course, it wasn’t an option. But most animals, even docile ones such as rabbits, will put up some type of fight, however meaningless. You, however, remind him more of moon jelly—no matter the harsh waves, it’s still going to continue to do what it always does and drift along like nothing matters.

He’s never seen anyone be so casual about being treated like dirt. Looking at you, it doesn’t make any sense to him.

He’s well-aware of how plenty among his slaves try to fake it the best way they can, eager to avoid the bitter bite of unsatisfactory customers, while some have had their bodies trained for so long they enjoy it now—but in either case, he’s still able see the defeat and animosity behind their painted expression, if not anything at all. Others who’ll play along all sweet and nice such as you do ultimately prove themselves to be dumb little things who thought that if they could just bide their time with good behaviour, they would somehow make his handlers lower their guard enough to create an opportunity of escape, only to test their luck and fail miserably or come to the conclusion that such an opportunity would never present itself, then be left with nothing but that same catatonic look of utter brokenness.

But there’s none of that in your eyes. You’re not trapped in the moment like the others, nor do you hoard any such silly agenda as trying to escape it.

For you, it seems somehow like you’re simply at ease with it. It’s almost as though it falls natural to you, but he’s not sure what to call it. You’re just… happy-go-lucky about it—like a doll come to life, programmed to do what a doll does—eyes round and blank like two polished marbles, only ever looking far off into the distance as though you can’t see the things around you. 

At the same time, he gets this annoying feeling as though you’re seeing something no one else can.

In all honesty, he’s got no idea what you are. And it bothers him like you would not believe.

Which is why he’s decided he needs to keep you closer. Friends and enemies and all that. Though, he doesn’t find it prudent to give you so much credit as to call you his enemy as that would imply you pose a threat. Still, he doesn’t enjoy things he doesn’t understand, and you, well, even though you’re nothing scary, he’s taken by this desperate need to put his finger on you for some reason. And to do that, he figures he’ll just put you under his thumb and be done with it in the best way he knows how.

He’s certain he’ll feel better about it all after he’s had you beneath him. Then, all these thoughts he’s been having will be proved as nothing more than a waste of time after he’s reduced you to what he knows is true for all bunnies. Prey at his mercy, and nothing more.

The girls that get handpicked for the mezzanine are usually all on their knees trying their best to earn their keep and not get sent back down to the den where customers get to do what they please with them any way they want. Being on the risen floor is like a blessing in that way—a chosen few, honored ones, saved from the fray below given an opportunity to please just one man instead of a dozen a day. 

Typically they’ll be rare breeds, red-listed, and now, even though you don’t stand out as anything special, mundane dwarf rabbit that you are, you’re going to be one of them. You should see it as a fucking godsend.

And yet, you don’t seem to grasp the value of it in the slightest. 

Two girls a little way from you are putting on a show for him, kissing and touching each other all for his viewing pleasure. Despite their performance, from where he sits on his comfy throne of pillows and throws, his eyes look past them onto you where you’ve placed yourself before the balustrade, peacefully staring passed it into the thin air, beyond the cesspit below, ahead at something unknown like always.

Only this time, he demands to have his answers.

“What’s got you looking so pleased?”

It seems you hadn’t noticed his approach, and yet you don’t spook by it either, that way your head slowly turns, looking up at him for the first time with those very big eyes, to where he looms above, stone-faced with his hands down his pockets.

Being a polar bear, he’s used to his size and presence invoking fear in everyone around him. It’s a natural response to the largest predator. He’s always viewed it as a sign of respect. A fact that everyone knows he’s not the one you should test your luck against.

You, however, don't regard him any differently than you would a fellow bunny. Giving him no signs of being in a rush to please him. You just stare, as though waiting for him to explain himself.

“You seem like you' got something you’re looking forward to.” His voice is brisk, demanding, “I want to know what it is.”

You blink then. Slow in your answer—way too slow to understand the dire situation you’ve landed yourself in, or maybe, simply unbothered. He really can’t tell, and it’s beyond frustrating at this point—trying his very hardest to read your mind and failing so miserably in the pursuit he has no other option but to wait oh-so-patiently for you to indulge him.

“We’re getting stew for supper today,” you say at last, looking back through the guardrail at his workers, flooding through the gate on the ground floor, carrying sacks of potatoes over their backs.

His nose scrunches at the prospect. You're really looking forward to that slop? Suppose you have to be that humble when you’re at the bottom of the food chain. Even so, he hasn’t heard any single one of his bunnies, of which he’s had hundreds, ever show any type of enthusiasm regarding the food.

“You like stew?” he asks. Patience tested, but curiosity unsated.

You shake your head then, a small smile of all things gracing your face, contradicting yourself, “Not really.”

His brows furrow. Is this a game or something? If so, it’s not amusing. His teeth grind. “Not really? Why are you so cheery then?”

You look up at him once more, blinking again, both like you’ve never really thought about it as well as though you think it’s obvious—so obvious that you find it odd to even be sparing it a thought.

“Well, you see… When there’s stew, they serve carrots on the side. And I really like carrots.”

You look back to the potato sacks just in time to catch sight of the crates of carrots now being brought in, and the smile on your face as you watch them is unlike anything he’s ever seen—warm, excited, blissful even. 

Affronted by it, he leaves you abruptly, thinking an expression like that has no right in a place like this. 

Content slaves are never a good thing. Content slaves forget that which they are—slaves. They start taking what little they have for granted. They become ungrateful, and demanding, and then the uproars happen. That’s it. That’s what he dislikes about you. That’s what’s been making him so uneasy. You don’t beg or scramble. You’re nonchalant, and that type of sangfroid is nothing short of insolent. What’s worse, it could inspire others.

He won’t have that. 

You think you have something to be happy about? Perhaps it’s time he reminded you—you have nothing.

He regards you keenly from the mezzanine, watching you enter the dining hall down below. The spring in your step is pitiful to behold and so is the dead still you come to when you're wandering eyes can’t find the tub of chopped carrots usually on display right next to the potatoes.

You keep the metal dinner bowl to your chest, this tiny rumple between your brows as your eyes become more searching the farther up the line you get. And then, when it’s finally your turn, you cock your little head over the display, voice softly inquiring to the workers on the other side, “Are all the carrots finished already?”

“No carrots today. Dietary restrictions. Boss-man’s orders,” is the strict reply that returns, given like a slap to the face.

“Oh…”

You blink then, as you do—that very empty type of blink like you’re resetting yourself the way he’s seen you do with other customers.

And then, just as always, you slip right back without a hiccup. “I guess I’ll just have some potatoes then.”

It’s disappointing. He’d thought for sure you’d give him a little more grief than that. But no. You even tack on a polite little “Thank you,” after being served, before hopping out of line like there was never anything more to be wanted.

You don’t make moves to sit with any of the others, he notices. Instead, you make your way alone up the stairs to where he is like you’ve already accepted the mezzanine as your new place.

He’s not sure why, but for some reason he hides himself so as not to spook you into going somewhere else. And from behind the coverage of a pillar, he continues his stalking, observing you as you sit yourself in the same spot as before, in front of the balustrade.

You proceed like earlier to look through the bars down at the burrow below. It’s empty and quiet now with everyone busy in the dining hall, and he realizes he’s never actually spared it a glance during supper before. It’s a strange sight. Like a battlefield after the battle.

You don’t eat in a mad hurry like the others. Actually, it takes five minutes before you even touch the potatoes, and when you do, it’s one piece at a time, calmly, taking your sweet time, like you’re trying to enjoy yourself. 

He finds himself wondering if you’d eat carrots the same way. And before he even knows it, he’s standing right behind you once more with the same question as earlier.

“What’ you looking at now?”

And just as before, you don’t spook by his presence. This time, you don't even bother turning to acknowledge him as though you might have known he was there all along.

“The burrow,” you answer. “How different it looks when it’s empty.” His thoughts exactly. “It’s sort of peaceful like this, don't you think?”

No. Peaceful is not the word that came to mind. “I think you’d have to be mad to find peace in a place like this when in your position,” he states plainly, as if in an attempt to shake you out of whatever sordid outlook you were trying to impose on him.

“That might be,” you agree, a soft smile gracing your face. “But I think… you have to find beauty in the dark when you can, or else dark will be all there is.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end listening to you go on, “It’s like, sometimes good madness will save you from bad madness. You know?”

“No.” And that’s the problem. He doesn't know. He has no fucking clue. And he’s starting to realize it’s not because you’re withholding the answers.

“Why aren’t you upset?” he asks then. A fair question, he thinks. But you only look at him oddly, making him explain once again just like you did earlier. The gumption of you is unbelievable, he thinks as he supplies the requested context on your behest, “I took away the thing you were looking forward to. Typically, that would make someone upset.”

You look as though you still don’t quite understand, but then a light breaks across your face. “Oh, you mean the carrots?” You don’t seem any more upset by understanding he’d removed them on purpose to punish you. Instead, you just give your head a tiny shake. “It's not in my right to question your methods. Besides, it was only a small thing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His fists ball at his sides.

“But I didn’t.” Your head tilts, gesturing down at your tray. “I should have told you I liked potatoes. Then you’d have taken those away instead.” You then snort with a giggle, but he doesn’t get why or how you would find it funny. 

And again, he’s left with the same question. “Then why aren’t you more upset?”

You think about it for a moment—a moment like another eternity to him. 

“Well, I… I am upset…” you admit—the smile on your face positively unnerving. Perhaps you really have gone crazy. But then that would mean you were crazy from the start, from before ever even coming here. “But… I wouldn't last very long if I let my life fall apart over carrots. That would just be silly. Wouldn't you say?”

He swallows thickly, trying to stifle the many foreign things he’s feeling inside, finding that he can’t exactly argue with your answer, even though it makes little sense. People get upset over smaller things all the time. 

Just look at him and how upset one bunny is making him.

He turns away and starts walking then, muttering under his breath, “Silly, indeed.”

He goes to his bedroom alone that night. Some of the chosen had tried cheering him up, but they all failed miserably—so bad he had to throw them out. You were not one of them. No, you made zero effort trying to earn your keep.

He knows you’d come if he called for you. You’d have to, and you’ve never been one to refuse a direct order. Still, somehow, even though he’s the one with all the power, having to call on you makes him feel like you’re stripping him of it.

The next couple of days pass all the same, with you continuing to drive him up his own walls.

At this point, he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why. Lounging on his throne, his chin resting on his palm as he appraises you with jaded eyes. Having come up with a new strategy—if robbing you of your small delights doesn’t enact a response, maybe he’ll have better luck in spoiling you instead…

“Eat,” he says, but like always you don’t seem to take it like an order, standing there, in front of the big platter of carrots he’d had his workers bring up. 

It’s not the same kind they serve with the stew—flecked and spotted with mold, boiled to get rid of the bugs. No, these are quality. Crisp, bright, freshly plucked and washed just this morning.

And still, instead of throwing yourself at them, you have the nerve to act calm, asking, “Where’ the other girls?” while looking around like you’d feel ashamed starting without them.

“They’re for you,” he clarifies, sanctioning your approach.

Still, you stay put. Chewing your lip with your buck teeth. “Is that really okay?” 

He can’t believe it. Are you really feeling guilty—in a place like this that only ever takes and gives nothing back?

No one in their right mind would be asking about others when standing in your shoes. He knows for a fact that all the other girls you seem so concerned with would have been halfway finished gorging that platter without sparing you a single thought.

Suppose he’ll make it easier for you. “Eat it all, or I throw it out.” 

With that, a new smile takes your lips—one of which he’d not seen before or expected—small, bashful, coy, like you’re having a different conversation than the one you’re having. Bowing your head with a soft-spoken, “Thank you.”

You’re quiet as you eat. Slow with it like you’d been with the potatoes. Taking your time, enjoying yourself, savoring it, eating like he’s not right there observing you. It’s like you’re back in the wild. You, an oblivious little thing in a carrot field, and him, stalking you through the long grass.

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” he questions after a while.

“Ask about what?” you wonder, peering up at him from where you sit.

“Why I’m being nice.”

You seem to find that funny. “I don’t ask you why you’re cruel.” 

That’s fair, he thinks. Though he’s never really thought about it like that. 

And then you say, “I’m sure I’d have little luck understanding the mind of a man like you anyway.”

“A man like me?” he repeats, finding it interesting—wanting to arrest you on it. “And what kind of man do you think I am?”

It’s a dangerous question—you seem to understand that—taking your time to answer it just like you were with the carrots. “I suppose… a confusing one.”

You’re not wrong, though it’s a cleverly safe answer. He’s sure you’d have liked to have said something different if only it weren't for the likely threat it would pose to your life.

“Do you want me to ask?” you say then. And this time, he’s the one waiting for you to explain, looking at you with a halfway raised brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He scoffs. You’re proving to be a little more cheeky than what he was expecting. “I’m fattening you up to eat you.”

You laugh again. This time from your chest, bursting with it. He’s not sure a genuine laugh like it has ever rung out through the chamber. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever even heard one like it whatsoever.

“Well, it’s a pretty good final meal.”

He dismisses you after you finish. 

Days pass without the two of you speaking. And he, stewing in it, is more confused than ever.

He used to lord over his palace like a king, fuck all day and watch his subjects with gold coins and power in his eyes. Now, he can’t remember the last time he spared even a single glance over the mezzanine without it being to look for you. He still hears the squeals and sighs of pleasure. But he can’t even picture the scene. No, his mind is otherwise busy.

Busy doesn’t even cut it. Plagued might. Yes, he’s plagued by you.

Plagued by you and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. It’s a joke. He’s never been one to edge himself. But now he hasn’t fucked in ages. And you’re to blame.

What’s the matter with him? All his life, he’s known what’s been what. People like to complicate things, make it sound like more, make it sound different from what it actually is. They romanticize and they fetishize, but at its core, it’s always been basic. Bunnies are weak and easily broken, and deserve to be treated accordingly. There’s nothing more to it than that.

He’s going to find you, and when he does he’s going to do to you what he should have done from the very start—break you like the weak and breakable thing you are.

“Know your place, slut,” a catty voice bites out. “You might have been popular down on the ground, but up here, I'm the fucking favorite.” 

From behind the pillar he witnesses the scene, forgetting his objective. Five chosen ones all stand in a ring around you, who’s pinned to the ground by three others, two holding your arms down and the last of them on top of you with a fist wrapped tightly around the root of your ear. She’s got something in her hand—a shiv, fashioned from some scrap-piece of metal with unknown origins—pointed with a poke up under your chin, looking just shy of drawing blood.

“If any of us see you trying to take my spot again, I’m gonna fucking gut you from cunt to belly button—understand?”

You don’t say anything—unable to with the make-shift blade threatening to slice your throat open. But your silence is an answer in and of itself, if it weren’t interrupted by him clearing his throat and stepping into view.

“Master–” all eight of them gasp, those standing shuffling away with a bow whilst the three others remain deadly still, waiting for his verdict with eyes wide.

“Get up. All of you,” he says, passing his judgement swiftly, not giving any one of them room to plead innocence or condone their crimes with silly reasonings, “There’s customers downstairs in need of attending. Go make yourselves useful.” 

A wave of displeased moaning followed, nearly amounting to a protest. Even so, their disgruntled pouting was premature. He wasn't finished. 

“And once you’re done, you can all stay down there.”

Pouting turned to pleading fast, all of them shaking their head with hands clasped together in prayer, “But, master, please—she had it coming, she never does anything, she—”

“One more word,” he stops the tangent, closing the gap with a slow saunter, standing multiple heads taller than all of them, even the one who thought herself so high and mighty just a moment ago. He makes sure to return her look of entreaty without mercy, saying, “And I’ll be the one gutting you.”

They all scurry shortly after that, tears in their throat as they hurry down the stairs.

You get up to join them—never one to make the wrong assumption, probably thinking he’s one to tar everyone with the same brush. And normally, he’d do just that, because in his eyes, there’s no telling people apart in any other way aside from separating product from customer, with himself being the only outlier. But then came you.

“Not you, Carrots,” he says, stopping you. “You stay right there.”

You remain still as he approaches. You don’t flinch, your eyes don’t flitter—it’s utterly uncanny, he’d believe it if you told him you were without senses, like a ghost.

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

It’s the question that’s been on his mind since you first showed up here—not a lick of resistance in you.

“I’m not fond of pain,” you answer. “So, I try my best to avoid it.”

His teeth grit, very nearly growling. “You have a bad habit of not answering the question being asked.”

You chew your lip, looking as though you’re not quite sure how to explain yourself. “Well… fighting it would only make it worse, wouldn’t you say? And besides… I don’t want to do to others what I don’t want being done to me.”

So, you believe in karma. That’s an interesting mental state—not one he’s ever understood too well. It’s always seemed like a comfort to those who don’t have the strength to take their own revenge, hoping that some higher power will do it for them. Utterly foolish.

“Also, we bunnies have a saying,” you continue, now with that unseemly smile of yours. “If you’re at first getting fucked, you might as well try to enjoy it.”

Something violates him at that—a chill of all things. Thinking, that’s not karma. No, not at all. He doesn't know what that is, albeit an even odder mental state.

“Though… I don't think most of us take it to heart,” you add with a small laugh.

It makes no sense to him. In fact, it shocks him like you’ve just pulled out a knife and stabbed him with it. And yet, he thinks he might finally get you now. Any moment might be your last and you’ve accepted that as a fact of life. The same way he accepts and expects his stomach to growl, you accept and expect yourself to be the one to sate it. 

You’re the only one so far. The only one to successfully internalize that truth without breaking under the pressure.

“Will you bring the girls back?” you ask then, seemingly taking his silence as an invitation, and using it as an opportunity to think about others as if you can afford it.

He doesn’t know why it angers him the way it does. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Like always, you don’t quiver under his growl like others would have. No, instead you keep insisting, “It’s cruel to send them back down after—”

“I thought you said you didn’t question cruelty.” he cuts you off.

And still, it’s like you don’t even care. “Well, I'm only asking because… it sort of feels like my fault, is all. I don’t want to be the reason they’re punished—”

“I’m not punishing them for you,” he interrupts, affronted by the mere suggestion. “I'm punishing them because they were cocky enough to think they could create a hierarchy not governed by me.”

He picks the shiv up from the floor, holding it up and inspecting it with a grimace like its very existence is an insult. 

“Tch—I should have killed them, and you’re asking me to save them.” He shakes his head, then finds your face again.

“You wanna know what bores me more than anything? When beggars start thinking they can be choosers.”

Gracing your jaw with the blade, he sneers. “Do you think you can be a chooser?”

And just like expected, you reset yourself with a blink, then utter a passive, “No.”

“And that’s why you’re up here, and they’re down there.” 

In all your time together, he hasn’t once touched you, but within the next passing second he’s got your small body caged in his, trapped between himself and the balustrade where he always finds you, sitting, staring, thinking about things hidden from him.

“You’re the only one who gets it.” Knife cast aside, he uses his paw instead, dwarfing your chin and cheeks as he aims your head out to look across the den below. Fangs by the lop of your ear, blowing on the soft fur with his whispers, “You’re the only one who understands the laws of true wilderness. The rightful order of things. You know what you are and have accepted your place—made nature your common sense.”

Your feet dangle below, toes gracing the floor just barely, slipping in their stance where he has you hoisted against the guardrail, clutching onto it with your hands—knowing if he’d let go, you’d go toppling over. And yet you don’t fight back. Knowing it’s all out of your hands, you remain just like putty in his.

“Look at them,” he continues, a disgust in his voice and in his narrowed eyes, spitting, “They all think they can be something different. Prey thinking they can hunt the hunter. Hunters thinking they can be loved by that which they hunt. It’s all false.”

He slips his hand from your chin to your neck, keeping a firm hold, though not squeezing, just enough to feel your pulse on his finger.

“You and me, we’re the only ones who see it for what it truly is,” he murmurs. “And why… I’ve decided I’m not gonna fuck you…”

His other paw, which up until this point had been holding the guardrail just shy of yours, now lifts and places itself over your heart, feeling it beat in his palm as he continues, “No, you deserve more respect than that… Which is why… I'm gonna give you the honor of being my first live kill.”

Betraying yourself, your heart does, nearly to his surprise, skip a beat upon him confessing his intention. But of course, despite your seemingly perfect composure, it would be utterly unnatural were it to remain steady. In the end, you really are just prey after all.

“I’m gonna give you more carrots than you can eat,” he resumes, now forgoing your ear, nuzzling your cheek instead. “Then, when I've finally fattened you up enough, I'm gonna eat you whole—live and kicking.”

Swallowing thickly, he chuckles under his breath, setting you down on your own two feet again. Leaving your body cold as he begins walking away, with his final sentiments being, “And then we’ll both at last be done with this farce and become what nature intended.”

Weeks pass, and you remain alone on the mezzanine. He doesn't bring the old girls back, nor does he enroll any new girls either. It’s just you and him, in a silence so loud it’s gutting. And still, you’re fed a platter of carrots every day, and you never fail to finish every last one.

He doesn’t touch you again. No, instead, he maintains a distance. You catch his gaze linger though, just like it has since the beginning—on you while you eat, while you mind your business, even while you sleep, you’ll hear the low rumble of his breath, stalking you. It’s as he’d said, like hunter and prey.

Also now, on his throne, watching you where you sit, by the balustrade, looking outward at the burrow. No one wants to be there—not the girls, and not the men who come to see them either—they might think they do, but the truth remains...

What they want can’t be found here. 

You're starting to realize that yourself.

Only one remaining carrot medallion on the platter by your side, you finish without further delay then follow it by cutting the silence, “You’ve been fattening me up for a while now…”

You then turn your head back, flashing him your signature smile from over your shoulder.

“Is this the part where you finally eat me?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at you like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Do you want me to run?” you propose then—not sure if you’re trying to make it easier for him or perhaps harder. Whatever the case, you can't take the stalemate any longer.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to stand still?” he mutters back. No mockery in his words. No humor in it at all.

You shuffle around to face him better, still smiling even though you know it probably doesn’t look too convincing anymore. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter either way. You’d be much quicker. I wouldn’t get far.”

His voice seems tight, suggesting, “I’m sure you could if you tried.”

You sigh then, “We both know that’s a lie.” 

And then you get up, chest getting tougher the tighter your throat snares, making it hard to breathe, and so you take a big one and release it just as sharply, scoffing, “Besides, I don't think my heart would be able to take it. I’d die from the ache before you could make the kill—and I wouldn't want to spoil the fun.” 

You place yourself about halfway toward him, before his throne. Submissiveness being your only weapon, you present yourself just so, linking your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll just stand right here and close my eyes if that’s okay.”

You hear him get up. You’ve always been so good at turning everything off, but right now you’re just not able—feeling the burn of salt swell up beneath your eyelids, pressing for release. You don’t want to let them, but they escape despite that, trickling down your cheeks.

You’re not afraid of dying. You’re not really afraid at all. That’s not it. It’s not fear. It’s something far less reasonable than that. Something audacious that couldn’t care less about the circumstances, even when it makes no sense. No sense at all. 

His finger brushes your cheek, catching the wetness and wiping it away. You don’t open your eyes, but you feel the air from his breathing reach you, getting warmer with his approach, soon on your lips.

“Don’t,” you object before it can happen. “You said so yourself…” Voice a soft croak, sniffling, “It isn’t natural for prey and hunter to mate.”

You hear him swallow thickly, abiding by your words as he mulls them over again the same way the two of you had done now for the last month since your first meeting.

“I know…” he says at last. Voice no louder than just for you to hear, very nearly desperate, “So let’s forget about it. We can pretend, can’t we?”

It’s tempting, but too fickle. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“So, what can I do? Tell me.” His paws brush your arms, carefully, without claws. “What do I have to do to make you mine?”

“Well… that’s a question you have to ask yourself, isn’t it?” Your eyes peel open, meeting his. “It all depends on one thing.”

You appraise each other like that. Him, waiting for your conditions, and you, feeling your heart rift for reasons beyond being prey before a predator, as you state the ultimatum, “Do you want my fear? Or do you want my love?”

You bite your lip and look down, as though planting your foot. Even though you know what you’re asking is an affront to nature, it remains true nonetheless, “You can’t have both.”

There’s a pause. Your heart beats out of your chest, fearing what to expect—a bite or something entirely different you don’t have the nerve to name.

“You’re right…” he says at last. “Hunters don’t mate with prey.”

The beating in your chest ceases—gets cut loose and drops. You knew it all along and yet that does nothing to ease the desolation it leaves behind. 

A hooked finger slips under your chin, lifting your head.

“It’s a good thing we’re both hunters.”

The bite finally comes then.

Hungry, yet entirely toothless.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar—though not familiar in the sense that you remember going home with last night—no, that is still a complete mystery to you as you keep appraising at him, hoping to somehow trigger your recollection. He's got more tattoos on his upper-body, some hiding beneath the apron he's sporting—thick tribal-like markings you're not sure if hold any significance, but are sure as fuck very memorable. And still, none of it proves to be a good reminder. Other than that, he looks clean-shaven, with newly washed hair hanging in wet bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.

Left choking on a “What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair quick. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar—with the only viable option being to bash you body against the walls and prey you were just having a psychotic break

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested.

Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start begrudgingly piling up your plate.

Chewing gingerly on a scone, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s what this is, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi first is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out again, this time with a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, none of them had ask to use the jacuzzi either.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild interest, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way—at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask through a mouth-full.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello?” You swallow harshly, impatiently insisting, “What’s so funny?”

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, seeking answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t really buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it. Given the man’s your cannibalistic captor, you shouldn't exactly be goofing around with him. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as getting out of work by faking a sick-day.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind—he’s not your therapist, after all. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual, abstinent or scared he might actually grow attached while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to inspect your livestock safeguards. Everything seems to be in good—nay, perfect—condition.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time—a suggestiveness in your tone, and on display in the upturned corner of your mouth.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You roll over on your back again at the boring response, expelling your frustration with an harsh exhale while staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you, and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your belly-button.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s beyond boring, making you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump at that, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food—right in front of him, no less.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something else, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—a frozen pizza—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard there before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a muted clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him any further to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”