Slip

slip

Feitan x Reader drabble // word count 1.5k

In which you dream about someone you shouldn’t, and talk in your sleep.

Tags/Warnings: yandere, kidnapped reader, mention of blood and gore (past and imagined), knives, implied noncon, implied threat of death (to reader), implied murder (not reader), reader is gonna be fucked up over this forever

A/N: first time writing this man, not sure how I feel about it but it’s either post or stare at it forever

As always - 18+, read the tags, if you don’t like the tags then don’t go below the cut. Thank you and enjoy.

There is a knife against your throat, and you barely know how it got there, much less why. You didn’t do anything. Didn’t run, didn’t try to shove your tormentor away, didn’t tell him that you wished he was dead, or worse. You wouldn’t have had the time to do these things, even if you wanted to. You hadn't been awake for a second before his hand stirred from where it had lain on your waist. And now - the blade twitches, slightly. It doesn’t press quite hard enough to make you bleed, but certainly enough to make you picture what would happen if it did. If it kept going, long past the point where red rivulets stained the threadbare sheets beneath you.

A small noise escapes your mouth. You get nothing in response. It takes time for Feitan to speak, when there’s something on his mind.

It’s taking too long, even for him.

Last night, you thought you were safe. He kissed you, after meticulously washing a stranger’s blood out from beneath his nails. He watched you fall asleep, kept a hand on you until exhaustion finally forced you to nod off in the early hours of the morning. The strange affection he gives you is worse than any cruelty you could imagine, but not nearly as bad as the thought that somehow, you’ve managed to lose it. There are no words in your mind, now, only scattered images of what might happen, what you might become, the barely-recognizable thing strewn out across the floor -

“What were you dreaming about?” Feitan’s voice is dull and quiet, as always. Like he’s asking you this over breakfast, and not on what could be your deathbed.

You don’t remember, and you don’t answer. There is no air left for you to speak. 

“What were you dreaming about?” he repeats. It’s almost the same voice, but there’s a hint of urgency, now. The barest hint - but you’ve grown used to interpreting the faint indications he gives you. “Talk.”

“I don’t”- You gasp, but seem to take in nothing. “-don’t remember”-

“You were talking when you were sleeping.” 

Statements like these are dangerous. He expects you to understand what he means, always. He does not like to elaborate.

“I…” You screw your eyes shut, try to forget where you are just enough to remember where you were. “It was night. In the dream. And I was…” Oh. No. You can’t say that part out loud. Never, ever, ever. When you open your eyes, your vision is blurry. They close once more, of their own accord. “I was sitting with someone. Talking.” Someone. Someone has no face, no name - you pray that he’ll let you leave it at that. That he won’t ask for more.

“You said…” His face is close to the back of your neck, and yet, you cannot feel his breath on your skin. “When you were sleeping, you said I love you.”

Your stomach threatens to infringe upon your throat. You curse your sleeping mind for giving you something beautiful to dream of, and for letting it slip out of your mouth. Beautiful things do not survive here, and your mouth is always better kept shut. 

“Who?” 

You’d think, in your present situation, that you wouldn’t have enough room in your head to feel terrified for anyone else. But you do. Terrified enough to try something stupid. 

You’re sure Feitan can feel the tension in your body, the instinctual way it readies itself for a fight (you would lose instantly) or an attempt at escape (you wouldn’t make it an inch). “It wasn’t about”- you choke on your own breath, try again. “It wasn’t about anyone real. Just a dream-person.”

“Bad liar,” he accuses. You do not protest. It was pointless to try. 

And yet, you try again. You know that your answer matters. Enough for you to force more lies across the blade that still presses against your skin. “Someone I used to date. A long time ago.” Really, it was only a few weeks before Feitan….found you that things ended. But time is subjective - it certainly feels like a long time has passed since then. 

“Oh.” If he suspects that you’re lying again, he doesn’t say it. But he does tend to leave a lot of things unsaid. 

“He”- You suck in a breath as the knife twitches again. The movement is not an accident. It’s never an accident - his hands are unnaturally steady, when he wants them to be. “He ended things. I don’t think he thinks about me anymore.” This needs to be true. He needs to believe that it’s true, or-

“But you still think about him.” 

Your stomach churns. “It was just a dream.” Technically not a lie, either. You’d have to say no for it to be a lie.

Feitan pauses for a moment. You’d have expected him to be furious, to take this out on you in some unimaginably awful way. Instead you hear a single sigh, feel it soft against your skin. “He let you go.” He sounds almost confused, his muted voice drawn out just enough to make his resentment clear. The knife turns slightly, and this time, you’re not sure if it was on purpose. “He must be stupid.”

You bite down on the inside of your lip, sharp and hard enough to tear a bit of the lining away. It’s awful when he says these things. Words that could be sweet, if you removed everything around them.

“I can’t control what I dream about,” you whisper, almost too quiet to be heard. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” He withdraws the blade, swings his feet off the bed - the floor, decrepit as it is, should creak when he stands, but it never does. “You don’t need to tell me anything else.”

You know better than to be relieved, so you turn over, to your other side, and fix your gaze on the floor. Watch him carefully, indirectly. You listen, your breath almost as silent as his, as he picks up his jacket from the end of your bed, puts it on. 

And he smiles. His face is covered, but you see it in his eyes. “I can figure out the rest.” 

The rest. 

Your heart hammers, but your blood stands still. Frozen in your veins. You know why he’s put on his jacket. Why he’s leaving. Where he’s going.

The knife still dangling from Feitan’s hand catches a shard of your reflection, a smudged picture of a terrified eye that disappears before you can look any closer.

The rest. Name, face, address - all too easy. There are clues in your confiscated possessions, in the place where you used to live. 

It’s as if the knife is still held to your throat. No. It’s as if your skin has already broken beneath it. You do not think in words. You think in gory pictures, infinitely clearer than the haze you see before forcing your eyes shut. Your blood, mixing with what you’re sure will be on that blade by day’s end. Skin-gushing-red-bones-out-something being buried, dirty hands returning to you, staining your face, your clothes, the things underneath, silent breath coming alive, painfully soft in your ear -

You open your eyes. You want to scream at him to stop, to stay. But your mouth stays shut.

“I won’t draw it out.” For a moment, he looks down, and you swear you see his face color. Like he’s said something overly sweet, and can barely stand it. “I promise.”

It’s enough to make it real. Enough to unseal your lips. “Don’t…” You should be yelling. But it’s all you can do, finding enough strength to make a near-silent, desperate appeal. “Please. You don’t have to. I’m not going to - to run. To him or anyone else. I’m not gonna do anything. I don’t - it was just a dream…”

“Stop.” His smile drops, eyes narrow. Voice even quieter than usual, deathly calm.

You go silent. Perfectly still.

“If you keep trying to save him, I’ll break my word. I already want to.” 

You forget how to breathe. 

This can’t be a choice you have to make. This can’t be in your hands. There are words in your head, finally, and you can’t say them. 

You have to say them.

“I’m sorry.” 

"Okay." He stares at you for far too long, unblinking. For seconds, or maybe hours, or maybe days - they’re all the same, to you, now. “It’s okay.”

No. He is unforgivably wrong. Nothing will ever be okay again. You’re in some other world, in your mind, and it’s going to take more than you have to yank you out of it. 

You can barely see him in front of you. His voice reverberates strangely in your head. But when he moves, it’s like your senses pull themselves together. You realize that your eyes are wet, that a tear is rolling down the bridge of your nose, that you can breathe after all, but only in ragged gasps…

“You look…nice…when you cry.” He drops his gaze once more, tugs up on the cloth that covers his face. His smile is back, creasing the corners of his eyes, and it is the ugliest thing you have ever seen. “Wonder if he thought that, too.”

Blink

L x Reader drabble // word count ~800

In which: you are disturbed by the fact that L kisses with his eyes open, and make the mistake of asking him about it

Tags/warnings: vaguely defined nonconsensual relationship, noncon kissing, L puts his finger in reader’s mouth, L being generally weird

A/N: Death Note was the first anime I ever watched, I fell hard for it, it’s good to be back

“L.” You are sitting on the floor, because your bed is the only other option, and it is occupied.

“Yes?” He is crouching on the very edge of your mattress, as if he’s about to dive off, bare feet curled against your blanket, arms draped over his knees.

“You kiss me with your eyes open.” You meant it to come out as a question, but it ends up as a statement. This is not effective - unless you ask something directly, he doesn’t seem to know that you’re asking at all.

“Yes.”

“It…” Telling him that it’s strange will not be effective, either. He’ll make you explain why, and then he’ll explain why you’re wrong, and he’ll sound so sure of himself that you’ll believe him. So instead, you try again to ask. “Why?”

He tilts his head. He’s leaning far enough forward that he might just tumble to the floor - you picture this, and hope that it happens. “If you know my eyes are open, that means that yours are, too.”

“Only for a second.” Suddenly, you don’t like that you’re sitting, that he’s looking down at you. It feels a bit too on-the-nose. “I opened my eyes for a second, and you were staring.”

“You should be used to me staring by now.” To your horror, he pushes himself from your mattress and lands lightly on the floor. “It’s a good thing. I stare at people I like.” He smiles slightly. “I stare at people I hate, too. But you shouldn’t have to worry about that.”

He’s directly in front of you before you have the sense to stand up, sitting in his usual bizarre manner, face thrust a little too close to your own for comfort. “I’m staring now.”

As if he needs to point this out - it’s not like you could fail to notice. You fix your gaze firmly on the ground.

“Would you like to close your eyes?”

You bite the inside of your lip, and shake your head.

“I’m considering kissing you,” he says flatly. “Would you like to close your eyes now?”

“No…” It’s such an odd question, as many of them are. It’s also odd how you always end up answering his, and he never really answers yours.

With a precise hand, he catches you beneath your jaw, lifts your face to his. He tilts his head, and watches your eyes. His hand lingers, fingers curling slightly, testing the way your skin shifts beneath them. “You blink less when I’m close to you.”

“I blink less when I’m freaked out,” you retort. It feels good to say - but only for a moment.

“I know.” He presses forward slightly, and you get the awful sense that you’re being examined, every detail of your face being read and carefully noted in some file lying open in his head. “Your pupils dilate, too. But that doesn’t only happen when you’re scared.”

Maybe you should have closed your eyes. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“It happens when you’re excited, too.” He doesn’t sound excited when he says this. His voice is flat, as always. But he raises his thumb to your face, and pulls at your lower lip, and you know that his tone means nothing. His nail is long, and he slots it between the clenched rows of your teeth, and presses delicately on your bottom incisors, like he thinks they might fall out if he pushes too hard. “Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

You don’t pull away. Instead, you do the only thing you can do. Glare until his thumb falls from your mouth. Seal your lips, and swallow hard. Open them back up, and speak in a voice too quiet for your own good. “If I was excited, that would mean I liked this. I don’t.”

He stares at you impassively, for so long that you begin to count the seconds as they pass. Then, the smile spreads agonizingly slow across his face, and he leans so close that you feel your eyes cross, so close that his lips nearly brush against your own. “You blink more when you lie.”

He squeezes his fingers hard against the side of your face. Your lips part before you can stop them. And then his other hand is in your hair, and his lips are pressed against your own, and his tongue is darting into your mouth -

And you close your eyes. Not out of instinct, but because you don’t want him to see whatever might lie behind them.

imo not all of this is correct but the stuff that is correct is Very Accurate

tagging: hmm how about - if you wanna do this consider yourself tagged :))

cosmic persona quiz

tried this out and the results were kind of super accurate, so i wanna know everyone's too, naturally :p

tagging: @euseokz @lisztomqnia @pradadoie @explicitlyfine @peachsayshi @tetsuskei @tetzoro @scarabrat @kentoangel @fyodorloveclub @sleepygetou @saeue @fedyenkas-main @nkogneatho @zorosdimples @gojoath @kannra21 @izvmimi @likelilacwine @angelcent @st4rlingz @shujistars @missworld1994 ++ everyone interested ♥︎

I find it very funny that although I created this account with the intention of writing filth, my most popular fic is the one with zero smut in which a character freaks out over the mere existence of lingerie

hi! will there be a part 4 to your spring cleaning series? i’m kinda addicted to them now 😭🙏

Hi, I’m so glad that you’re enjoying my work! I do want to write a part 4 at some point. I have a couple other things I want to finish first, though, and I haven’t had a ton of time for writing lately, so it might be a while. On the bright side, I have another Alastor WIP that I think I’m going to be able to finish today, and I think that y’all who like Spring Cleaning will enjoy this one as well :)

gosh i gotta say that feitan fic was so well done, the prospect of feitan being so invasive about something as trivial as dreams. I could only imagine what it would be like if the reader had a diary stashed away somewhere and he found out how you REALLY felt about him. All of the pages where you make fun of his height, or how disgusting you find him, the string of insults and rude nicknames you’d give him, euuhhggg, his reaction certainly wouldnt be pleasant to deal with but it only enforces the contempt the reader harbors towards this man

Thank you thank you :)

A fun thing about this idea: anything you have is likely provided by him. That notebook you keep stashed away was a gift from him, and what did you do with that little token of kindness? You betrayed him. What a terrible, terrible decision.

Also, I think that he is one who takes great satisfaction in making the punishment fit the crime, so in addition to anything else he comes up with, you are definitely getting stabbed with the writing utensil you used to put these thoughts on paper. He’s not giving it back, either, but maybe you can use your own blood to scrawl out a couple more insults. Would that make you feel better?