why am i so in love with fear?

Marie's Collection of Erotic Thrillers

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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