Yandere Feitan Portor - Tumblr Posts

The Swan.

Yan Feitan x F Reader.

Synopsis: You can’t believe your eyes. He came back for you, or you at least think that is him, from the silhouette of the shadow coming down the stairs.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence/some gore, kidnapping, a mention or two of Chr*llo, implied body transformation (not on the reader), implied cannibalism, minor character death, and manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Psycho by Mia Rodriguez

Enjoy the Silence - 2006 Remaster by Depeche Mode

First Love/Late Spring by Mitski

Twisted by MISSIO

Oblivion by Grimes

Chasing It Down by Mother Mother

Killshot by Magdalena Bay

Bernadette by IAMX

Bad Things by Cults

Mastermind by Mindless Self Indulgence 

“The healthy man does not torture others.” – Carl Jung

*~*~*~*

The machete in your hands, underneath the cold running water of the sink’s faucet, looked like an amalgamation of silver coins or chains glued together and attached to a metal pole. You would have thought as much too, if the man looking over your shoulder was not there, if your glasses hadn't been shattered on the ground by his boot. He would make you clean the mess up later most likely, with a dustpan and broom you could hardly see regardless of whether it was night or day. He always made you clean up around here in some way, this moment you somewhat expected because of that, but you hadn’t because there was blood on it.

Even though it was so dark, because it was nighttime and your captor hadn’t bothered buying any sort of lamp or another possible source of light, you could still clearly see the crimson combining with the clear water and soon fading away into the drain. He made you touch it too, so you could clean it properly.

The blood was so much stickier and thicker than the water, so much warmer, with a smell that lingered in the air, and little droplets of it clinging to the very walls of the sink, desperate to not dissolve.

Feitan didn’t kill whatever poor unfortunate soul was locked in the basement in front of you. You suppose that was somewhat a mercy on his part. But the blood on the machete was still fresh and not dried up, as was the blood on his jacket. The sight of him coming up the stairs, the large blade behind him thumping with every step and staining the rotting wood, is a sight you will never forget.

“Make sure it is fully clean.”

The way he spoke made you jump a bit, leaving something akin to a snicker leaving his covered mouth. He never talked really to you, only communicating with a hmph here and a swift pull of your ear there. If you were disobedient he would usually break a finger or slam your head against the wall until there were bruises all over your face. Him breaking your glasses, though, was something that you did not expect. Perhaps you were sort of asking for it because no successful escape results from trying to poison a captor with a lethal amount of sedatives when it was clear the captor in question was beyond anything human.

The mug of watery black coffee was still in the back of the so-called kitchen, cracked open from Feitan throwing it onto the table in a fit of absolute rage. 

Maybe you should have thought first as to whether or not he would have noticed that his medical cabinet was broken into because you didn’t lock it back up.

He hurled insults at you, deeming you foolish, before striding towards you with haste. 

In a swift motion, he snatched your spectacles from your face and forcefully discarded them onto the ground. He then proceeded to ruthlessly trample upon them. In countless ways, you were his complete antithesis. Spontaneous, driven by emotions... utterly vulnerable. On most days, you obediently abide by instructions, rarely daring to challenge them. Or, at least, you have learned not to, the lesson of absolute submission was drilled into you faster than any hammer or screwdriver would.

You inquire with a tone of utmost innocence, or at least with the greatest semblance of innocence that you can summon.

You still hold onto hope that Robert will come back for you, with police or weapons or at least a concrete escape plan. Even if Feitan’s movements and behavior were far from any ordinary human, surely a bullet to the head would still be enough to kill him or be enough to restrain him.

It's hard to decide which is more disheartening: the ceaseless anticipation and longing for even the slightest indication of Robert's return to save you, despite the passing months, or Feitan's relentless assurance that nobody will come to your aid.

There is still a cuff on your ankle, a reminder of the chain in the basement from many moons ago. It took a lot of work, but you finally got out of there after earning yourself a stool to sit on, warm microwaved dinners instead of frozen ones, and once even a book. Stephen King's Misery, the irony not lost to you, the pages slightly wet when it was first given to you, as well as the signature on the front of the cover.

Anastasia Tayegg, it said, though the ink was bleeding out and making the white as snow page a burnt silver. The book, the air, everything, is thick with the stench of decay and sewage, it lingers in your nose and clings to your throat. The foul odor is acrid, sharp, and overpowering, overwhelming all other senses. It creates a thick atmosphere in the air, something that is almost tangible in its potency. It is a sickening smell that clings to the nostrils and coats the throat in a foul film. The smell is rancid and vile, something that causes an instant reaction of disgust and revulsion. 

*~*~*~*

It is dark and dingy, with only the faintest gleam of light that seeps in through the tiny little cracks of the shattered glass lantern attached to the ceiling. The walls are thick and damp, and the stone that composes them is cold and damp to the touch. The room is filled with a musty scent of mold and rot, a combination of dampness and decay. The air is stagnant and the place feels very claustrophobic. The air seems to shimmer from the moisture that hands in it and it seems like a very quiet and very dead place.

At least it would have been very quiet and very dead, if not for the rotting corpses in the chairs, the blood that stained the walls and floor, and your quickened, panicked breaths, cries, and talks you have with yourself. The talks are about anything; your former life, Robert, water… you would talk about anything if it meant you weren’t alone with your thoughts and your mind.

The once shiny links of the chains on your wrists have now lost their brilliance and luster and are coated with a thick layer of rust which has seeped through between the metal links, causing them to grow stiff and rigid. They no longer move freely across the flesh that holds them captive, and they dig into the flesh, causing the pain to radiate deep into the body. The chains are heavy and the rust acts like sandpaper and chafes at your wrists.

Your hands have been bound and have been trapped for what feels like ages and the skin around the wrists has turned red and inflamed. The air is damp and heavy, a thick layer of stagnant moisture that has settled around you; your throat is dry, and your stomach is hollow. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in what feels like forever. You are alone and in pain, your hands bound and the cold metal cuffs digging into your wrists, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly into the dark around you and just hope and pray that Robert will come back for you.

As you stare blankly into the dark, a single tear slides down your cheek. You can’t help but let the fear and desperation flow through you. With every passing second, you grow more and more afraid for yourself and for Robert, desperately wishing he would come back for you.

As the moments stretch to hours, you begin to fret over the idea that something may have happened to Robert, desperately praying that he returns, and soon. He is the only thing keeping your spirits alive and the reason for you to keep going. It is hard to stay hopeful, but you don’t give up on Robert, his strength and bravery are what keep you going. Despite your leg being infected and all the pain you are going through, you are praying and hoping he returns and comes to save you.

You know that he will do anything and everything he can to get you out of this place, out of this hell.

You trust him, you know that he can and will do it. You just need to hold on a little while longer, just a little bit more patience, and he will come for you. The only reason he didn’t bring you with him is just because of your leg, right?

You hear someone coming down the stairs, slowly, growing louder with each step. They seem impossibly loud and echoey in the cold damp air, and the rustling sound of clothing scraping along the walls seems to amplify the sound tenfold. 

It seems like the footsteps are taking forever, and that they are just getting louder and closer, as if whoever or whatever is coming is dragging their feet with every step, making it that much more intense. But you know who is coming down, the only one you ever see alive anymore, down here, in the dark. You are not scared of being alone, not anymore, you are scared of having unwanted company.

The man who locked you and Robert down here, after you two begged him for shelter from the rain, without even really using his strength. 

The man has a face reminiscent of a demon’s. His wide grin is filled with malice and cruelty, with sharp teeth that seem more like fangs. His narrow eyes are cold and predatory, always analyzing and always scanning his surroundings, you most of all, for your horrified facial expressions. He moves with a natural grace and an easy, casual manner, but under that exterior is a terrifying presence and a ruthless personality that is not afraid to kill or hurt someone without a second’s hesitation. The cuts and bruises all over your body are concrete proof of the latter.

“Perhaps there is still some use for you.” He steps closer, on the cracks of the floor below. “I don’t mind having an assistant.”

*~*~*~*

Ever since Feitan claimed you as his “assistant,” he imparted numerous teachings upon you. Among them, you discovered that the human body possesses an astonishing resilience, enduring unimaginable pain without succumbing to death. Even those who are deprived of limbs, eyes, and tongues persist, their existence marked by incessant torment, their pleas for respite falling on deaf ears. Regrettably, mercy is simply not within his repertoire. But something you have learned more than anything is that Feitan has made you a murderer.

Sometimes you were the one that did the finishing blow, with blood-soaked, shivering hands. Feitan seemed happy then, patting you on the head as a reward for a job well done. An act of fondness. Sometimes you told yourself it was for the better good, because to disobey Feitan meant a fate akin to a death sentence. Sometimes you told yourself that you had no choice and that your body may as well be a puppet on a string. 

Both things you told yourself were bad enough and simply brought worse things in you. You are just like him at the end of it all.

You almost like killing them. You almost like killing them because for the first time in months or years or however long you have been held captive in that basement, you feel the presence of power.

You are both repulsed by the reality of it and also thrilled by the sense of control it gives you. The feeling of power and control is intoxicating, an adrenaline rush that you never expected, and yet it seems to call to you all the same. It is a thrill to you like you have never known, akin to nothing you have ever experienced before. It is a twisted sense of pleasure and satisfaction you get by taking the life of someone else, and yet you cannot help but feel guilt for that same pleasure.

What would Robert think?

…

The dinner table is set up with the most care you think Feitan could ever show to an inanimate object that was not his knives or swords. Not that it was ever used in the first place, as you usually ate alone in your bare-bones room, the only place where you sometimes had any privacy. There were a few napkins and a water bottle in front of you, with Feitan’s side having the same. The difference was while you had plastic utensils, your captor had real, metal ones. If you didn’t know better by now, you would have been tempted to take his knife and stab it into his jugular. But you do know better now, so you don’t try to do such a foolish thing anymore. You would not get far anyway. In the end, maybe you would be the one who gets hurt. That is what usually happens anyway, whenever you act out of line. 

“Well? Does it look okay?” Feitan asks, his eyes gesturing towards something in the center of the table, something that looks like a larger rotisserie chicken in a bed of plastic and aluminum foil. Steam comes out of it along with the smell of cooked poultry. You wonder where Feitan got it from because he certainly does not know how to cook if the microwave dinners and chips you are always given mean anything. Not that you would say anything about it. You would rather not get on your captor’s bad side, his temper was already as explosive as it was. You were just happy to finally be eating something new for once.

“Yeah.”

“Which part do you want?” At his seemingly normal question, you point to the breast. You always liked that type of meat over thighs and drumsticks because they have much less fat. Much more delicious, in your opinion. “Hmm. Why?” 

Of course, you have to explain yourself. There is never a moment when you don’t have to. Whether that would be what your favorite vegetable is to why you dislike bugs. He once put a centipede on your forehead as you slept and you screamed as loud as the people Feitan tortured in the cellar. 

“Less fat and less likely to fall apart completely.” 

Seemingly pleased with your answer, he grabs his knife and starts cutting, soon placing a large piece on your paper plate. He hated doing dishes, and so you always were forced to do them. As much as Feitan loves getting his hands dirty with organs and blood, soaked bread crumbs were too much for him. You kind of found it funny. Not that you would ever tell him, you don’t want to be hit in the head and called stupid again. 

“Enjoy your food.” It sounded sort of like a threat, like an order to enjoy this moment as much as you can. You would prefer anything to microwaved pudding mixed with dethawed that was reminiscent of a forbidden fifth state of matter, more unholy than plasma. 

So, you do.

“How is it?” Feitan is simply poking at his plate, it was ironic since whenever you refused to eat he called you ungrateful and threw you in the basement for an hour or two. 

“Good.” You don’t know if his smile widening was a good or bad thing.

“I got it from a friend.”

“That’s… nice.”

“He helped me hunt him down himself.”

He?

You accidentally drop your fork onto the floor, the sound making you jump slightly. You bend down to pick it up, as you do not want Feitan to throw your plate out for making a mess again. 

…It is best not to think about it too much. 

Yan Phantom Troupe + Hisoka + Illumi / Darling Asking “What Am I To You?”.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, implied violence, not SFW implications for Hisoka because he’s a creep (and a mention of M*lluki in Illumi’s section I’m sorry for your loss) and also for Nobunaga because he’s bleh, Nobunaga threatens to take out your teeth for biting him it's up to you whether or not to believe him, and manipulation.

Word Count: 4.5k. (literally how lmao)

*~*~*~*

Chrollo

“Hm…” The sound goes on for much longer than what you would have liked or at the very most could handle without sneering, the crescendo in his voice rising and rising like tulips sprouting from soil. “Hm…”

His tone was barely a whisper at first, but it soon evolved like some hideous, god-forsaken species outcasted to a deserted island or planet. If you did not have your forks and knives taken away for trying to pick and cut off the cuff and chain attached to your ankle, a consequence from last week’s horribly executed escape attempt, you would threaten to stab your eardrums if he didn’t actually answer your question. But part of you thinks that he would only find it funny, and simply hum for twice as long as he has already planned to. Or would he be petty about it, and a second cuff and chain will appear on your ankle along with having your only friend, a silver spoon, taken away? With Chrollo, you do not think you will ever be able to fully tell.

“Please answer me,” You decide on responding with a musical note of your own, a drone. It seems to be the safest option, all things considered. You stare at the soup in front of you instead of at him, playing with the idea of counting the precisely cut vegetables and small rings of pasta. You would have entertained the thought of throwing the boiling bowl at him, but you now know that his speed is beyond what you could ever hope to achieve. 

You would never get that far, would you?

You would have to wait until he is gone for the time being to even be able to step on the welcome rug by the door. You managed to convince him to finally buy you hairpins yesterday, and they are safely tucked away in the corner of the table next to your side of the bed, hidden underneath a pile of neatly folded silk pajamas until further notice. 

“Well, what do you think you are to me?” He asks, brushing his foot against yours underneath the dining table. It takes everything in you not to move your chair away. That would only make things worse, wouldn’t it? Or would this just further make him see you as an adorable little thing because he knows you would not get that far, not with the cuff and chain on your ankle and the several locks on the door and him here right in front of you? 

Again, you cannot tell. When can you ever? Could anyone ever read him, you wonder?

His porcelain dish is already empty, with but a few drops of red broth and a few herbs swirling about. He moves his chair forward and gently grabs your hand, his thumb massaging circles into your palm. You don’t know whether or not to answer his question.

This life is like a torturous game of chess, and you aren’t a player at all. It is up to Chrollo to decide whether or not you are worthy of being a pawn or queen or king, and where you go.

Is this all you will ever be?

His fingers rise to your cheek as he stands up, the touch so light it is hard to decipher the intentions of it. Comfort? Ownership? A statement?

Without thinking, you shut your eyes and lean into it. You coo. You coo like a dove, a baby bird, something so small and fragile in the face of a predator that wants nothing more than to take off its wings so it can never fly away. Perhaps the predator in question is the parent of the chick, never wanting it to leave the nest and explore the big, scary world.

Is this all you ever will be? A helpless, silly little thing stuck way up high with no way down, something cute and small that needs to be protected and cared for because they cannot take care of themselves? 

You finally look up at him and he leans in then. He coos back at you, and you want to go back to closing your eyes and trying to stop hearing whatever he will say as a response to your refusal to answer. But you can’t.

So, you think of an answer, something that would make him happy but also not have you speak too long because you don’t want to speak at all. You just want this to be over with, you just want Chrollo to for once respond to your question instead of rebutting with one of his own.

You don’t have a choice, as always.

“Something to possess,” Your voice is soft and hoarse because you never use it aside from when you cry. “Something… someone to keep for your pleasure and your pleasure alone.” He coos again. It is sweet and sticky and latching onto you like thick honey or candy. 

“You’re halfway there.” There is an unspoken praise in the air, one so nectarous it’s suffocating and you almost can't breathe. It is like Chrollo’s hands are on your throat, squeezing and squeezing until you pop like a balloon. There is no escape.

He turns and gets his fingers off your face, but the feeling of freedom is quickly taken away by the sound of Chrollo’s footsteps approaching you. 

“I suppose I see you as both above and below me at the same time.” He says. You want to run but he’ll catch you in no time before you could even execute the idea.

He is behind you now, grabbing your arms and tugging as your chair squeals and squeaks like a lamb cornered by one who will soon sell its tender meat. You want to scream like one because you too are cornered by someone who will never let you out of here alive.

One of his hands smoothly moves up like you are a violin, lightly pinching your chin and forcing you to look up at him. You just hope there is no encore after this. You hope that in the future there are no such things and that he will just answer your questions and be done with it, but that is so foolish of you, isn’t it?

“You are human and have humanity,” He murmurs, his eyes wider and more intense than you ever had seen them before. “And I would love nothing more than to steal that away.”

Nobunaga

“You’re so silly, you know that?” You recognize the rhetorical nature of the question and choose not to answer. This causes Nobunaga to toy with the thigh-high socks he insisted you wear after returning from another day of thievery.

Every time you tried to express yourself verbally, you were met with a laugh, a gentle touch, an embrace, a peck, or... something far more dreadful than any of those gestures. You preferred to steer clear of that type of affectionate act for as long as you could, even if it meant just a few days. It would be a noteworthy achievement. Of course, Nobunaga's libido would never wane, as he shows no mercy unintentionally to you and intentionally to anyone else in his life.

The way your food is placed on pink plastic plates with little sections of where to put vegetables and where to put a small dessert for a job well done of eating all the food, which is always raw or burnt to a crisp. The pastel frilly clothes you’re forced to wear always show too much skin. The threat to remove most of your teeth if you bite him again. The way he keeps touching your thighs, pinching and groaning and-

Nobunaga never answers your question, resuming to hand-feed you some severely undercooked cookies he baked himself. Well, you scooped the dough at least, and that’s the most you’ll ever do in the kitchen while you are held captive.

Still, raw cookie dough is better than burnt in your opinion.

Just like delusional Nobunaga is much, much better than angry, heartbroken Nobunaga.

Your broken pointer and middle fingers are proof of that.

Feitan

“...”

He blinks; once, twice, thrice… and then you stop counting. It’s pointless anyhow, he is most likely not going to answer your question yet again.

As anticipated, Feitan walks away wordlessly, descending to his basement without a single step on the stairs being audible.

Just as you believe he has vanished, he creeps up from behind, clutching an object in his palms, causing you to nearly shriek. He would find amusement in that if you did. Whenever you engage in any action he deems foolish, he chuckles. It is the closest semblance of happiness you have witnessed from him, his snickering. 

“...Here.”

With trembling hands, you accept the concealed object from his grasp.

“...Well?” Feitan asks, raising his eyebrow, his coat hiding what is most likely a smirk of some kind. “Like it?”

Huh? It's... a ring, from a fancy jewelry shop that you had been setting aside money for. This shop happened to be the priciest in the city you grew up in, with all of its items being highly sought after.

“I do.”

Happiness is like the rarest star in the universe to you now, and you will never let it go, now that you have it once again.

“...Glad.”

After a few moments of silence, Feitan is the one who speaks again as you stare at the jewel’s beauty.

“Do you want the finger that came with it?”

(machi, hisoka, phinks, shalnark, franklin, shizuku, pakunoda, bonolenov, uvogin, kortopi, and illumi under cut!)

Machi

Somehow, Machi’s posture becomes even more tense. But it does not stop her from still pouring the pot of instant ramen into your plate, though hers remains empty.

In silence, she puts some edamame, still cold from the fridge, on top, along with some spinach and carrots.

With her bare hand, she pulls out one of the soft-boiled eggs from the bowl of ice water, rolling it on the table until its shell cracks and she takes it off. She then, along with the egg and vegetables, puts some seaweed on top.

When you lean in closer to the utensil drawer, Machi opens it before you can.

She doesn’t ask you which chopsticks you want. She already knows your favorite one by now. The wooden ones with purple handles with white rabbits on them. Hers are plain.

She puts yours in one hand and your food in the other, walking to the kitchen table and putting both down. It’s winter now, and so she makes you drink tea nonstop and thus has a cup of it in front of your chair too.

“…Do you think I hate you?” Her voice, while still cold, has an emotion in it this time; worry. “I don’t, I really don’t. I promise you.” With that, she cracks the other boiled egg and puts it into her empty bowl. “I promise.”

You feel horrible for asking. You just wanted to know. You never know what she is thinking, that is why. But you feel horrible. Now she does too. Both of you, here, in silence, pondering whether or not the other despises you.

“I know, I just… wanted to make sure.” You don’t know if you are lying, and neither does she.

She takes good care of you. But she also ties you up when she has to leave, and one time she had to take out the syringes when you got too aggressive.

So what exactly are you to her?

Hisoka

Hisoka, still standing over your sitting form, puts his right hand on you, squeezing it just barely enough for it to sting.

“Aw, come on [First], lighten up.” If it were possible, with his words Hisoka grows twice as large as he was before he said anything. “I still have lots to teach you.” He chuckles as his long nails, sharp enough to be daggers or a ferocious beast’s teeth you think, dig further into your shoulder. The message is clear. You’ll never be rid of him, as much as you try to.

Even now, when you move to a secluded village on the other side of the country, for just the slightest chance he would leave you alone.

Your basket of berries and herbs is still next to you, a reward for all the foraging you did just before Hisoka showed up again.

“I did your leaf-in-water test already for you.” Just before you ran for the hills, you finally gave into Hisoka essentially begging you to test what kind of Nen user you are, claiming that you were now his pupil. “The water tasted sweet. I’m a Transmuter. That’s what you wanted to know. There is nothing else you can do for me, you know I am no fighter.”

Hisoka nods, and you think that this is it. Maybe he will finally leave you alone and you can go about your life without knowing anything else about Nen. But instead, Hisoka sits next to you on the grass.

He takes a berry from your basket and squeezes it between his fingers before it turns into a sticky mush.

It’s red.

“I know, but there are other things I can indeed teach you, can’t I?”

You don’t want to know what he means, you don’t want to know what he wants to do to you, but before you can stop him he is already on top of you, pushing you behind the bush you were picking rose petals from. You kick and scream at him to let go and cry, but he, as always, is so much stronger than you’ll ever be. 

“This will hurt for a bit, but I promise you’ll feel very good, and you’ll want more.”

Phinks

Phinks stops pressing the buttons on the remote and stops reading the little synopsis on each of the shows he was thinking about watching with you, or each of the movies. You were not paying attention, instead looking at your fingers and playing with the dry skin by each nail.

He sets it aside, placing a hand on the back of his head and gently scratching. His gaze falls to the floor, and you follow suit.

He exudes nervousness. This comes as no surprise, as Phinks has always been one to shy away from openly displaying his romantic desires, as odd as it were to you when you were first brought here.

“Uh. Why do you ask? Isn’t… it kinda obvious? Um… you know I’m not exactly cut out for all this sappy bullshit… I… I… Um. Just… just forget it, okay? Just know that I see you as my partner… Wait, oh God, that sounds so bad…”

He keeps stuttering as he tries to explain everything. But, as funny as it would have been if you had known him outside of being your stalker and now current captor, his words only make you feel more hopeless.

Shalnark

He puts down his phone and stands up from his armchair. You’re in your pajamas, the fluffy pastel pink ones, standing in the doorway to Shalnark’s office area, where there are many computers and such on the walls and his large desk.

“Aw!” He murmurs, then gently pinches your cheeks upon approaching. He playfully rubs his nose against yours. Trying to distance yourself, instantly regretting seeking an answer of any sort from him, yet as always, his overpowering strength prevents any escape.

“C-Come on, Shal…” The nickname sometimes works when you ask for some dessert or a game of some kind, so maybe it will work in a situation like this too. “I wanna go to bed.” You nearly whine as he stretches your cheeks out further. 

“But I still haven’t answered your question, sweetie!” He exclaims.

“F-Forget it.” You mutter, looking to the side. “It’s fine. Really. Get back to work.”

But he does not let go.

“Let me answer! Hmm… you’re so cute, like a kitten. You sure snuggle against me in bed like one!” Shalnark chuckles, and you can smell a mix of coffee and oranges in his breath. “So maybe… that’s the best analogy for it?” Some mint too. “Something to cuddle with? Something to keep safe.” He boops your nose. “Something too silly and adorable and airheaded to live on their own.”

You’re not sure if his words are supposed to hurt you or cheer you up.

“Yeah, I think something like that works!” After what seems like an endless amount of time, Shalnark releases his grasp on your face. “Just look at you.”

“O-Okay.” You murmur, turning away and attempting to make a beeline for the bedroom, regretting ever opening your mouth. “Sorry for asking. Good night-” Shalnark grabs your arm, making you stop moving before you even start. 

“Come on, cutie! Spend some time with me. We can even play Wild World together again!”

He points to your 3DS, a rose gold color, and then to his, which is dark violet and covered in stickers referencing popular memes he saw on the internet. At least he has never made you see some particularly gruesome scene in the horror games he plays late at night out of impulse.

Franklin

As your words hang in the air, a silence so profound that you begin to question if he even registered your message, you find yourself fixating on your unfinished meal. Contemplating the merits and drawbacks of broaching the topic once more versus letting it go, you suddenly hear him put his cup of coffee down with a clatter as he almost slams it by accident.

“Where did this come from?” He asks. His tone almost seems concerned, you think, concerned for how you think of him when he is always so quiet or concerned for how you think he thinks of you, that one day he will simply not come back and find someone else more willing.

Franklin does not seem angry, not that he ever was. He is trying to appear neutral, to not scare you, like you were some sort of stray cat who he has yet to earn the trust of.

Though you don’t bite or scratch, you do hide from him.

“I… just want to know why you did all… this.”

Your eyes go everywhere, from the pots of plants he brought you recently by the barred windows to the blinking light above the stairs he promised to fix soon to Frank Herbert’s Dune laid across the couch next to your blanket. 

“Franklin, since you claim to care about me… why can’t I go outside and be free?”

After a few more moments of silence, you look up at Franklin. He looks remorseful almost, from his visible frown to his eyes almost being closed to the way he does not look at you. Something akin to pity blooms in your chest.

“...Because unfortunately for both of us, I am… selfish, and you are too much for me to lose.”

Just like that, the pity dies similarly to the vase of flowers in the middle of the table.

Shizuku

You don’t know whether or not she will respond while knowing what you are and what she is. A captive. A captor. But you doubt it because every time she comes back she thinks you are here of your own volition and that you love her just as much as you know her.

Sometimes, you wish that you did, because whenever she sees you she looks at you like you were a gift that she had wanted for years.

Sometimes you wish that you did because that would make things oh so much easier for you. She sometimes forgets you are here, sometimes still goes to your actual home, and panics when she sees you are not there.

Shizuku merely chuckles, hugging you tighter. Perhaps she even forgot the slap she inflicted upon you earlier today for daring to say that you hate her, making you fly across the room.

“My love of course, silly!” Sometimes you hope that one day you will forget everything too because you envy Shizuku for never being cautious.

Pakunoda

“[First]...” Pakunoda’s eyes meet your own, one of her hands holding onto a chocolate-covered strawberry from the box she just got. Her other has a presence above one of your own, a presence so light you hardly recognize it is there.

She looks regretful and concerned.

The look fills you with so much guilt you immediately apologize and put the back of your head on her lap once again. It always works.

“You do know I care about you deeply, right, beloved?” Her long nails glide over your hair, making you close your eyes to calm yourself. You hope that look is gone because you aren’t sure how much longer you can take it before you break under its pressure fully. “I really do.”

You know she does, but it does not make the first days of your capture, which feels like an eternity ago, feel any less real, as much as Pakunoda denies the more horrifying parts of it all.

“I know, Paku.”

She smiles at the nickname.

The strawberry approaches your mouth, and you bite into it. Dark chocolate, you think this one is. Pakunoda loves her strawberries, but she loves parfaits just a little bit more. Maybe, to get her to forget your question, you can ask her to get some and feed them to her. 

Soon, you fall asleep. Pakunoda opens her book back up after closing the box of sweets. 

With one hand she caresses your hair, and in the other, she turns the pages of her novel. She loves evenings like this.

“I love you…” She murmurs, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “One day… you’ll love me too, fully, right?”

Half asleep, you agree without thinking. Once again, she smiles.

Bonolenov

With a sigh, he turns his head, momentarily interrupting your question. However, he quickly resumes dancing before you, delighting in your observation of his favorite pastime. Although you are unsure of the specific style of dance he is performing, you are confident that Bonolenov will soon enlighten you, taking the opportunity to boast about his expertise in this particular art form.

Listening to his animated explanations is always entertaining. His frequent rants make you feel as though he is a close friend rather than your captor if only that were true. Despite the circumstances, he treats you with kindness and respect. He believes that housing you in his home is an honor and privilege, a sentiment for which you hold some gratitude.

“A lover, because I do love you. You are simply wonderful to be around, after all.” In an alternate existence, were he not involved in criminal activities such as theft, kidnapping, stalking, and multiple murders, you might have developed an affection for him. This is due to your awareness of his deep affection for you and the kindness he exhibits towards you.

So you say such.

Bonolenov stays silent for a little while after that, along with the dancing that he often enjoys doing. Instead, he gazes through the windows, adorned with steel bars, and tenderly places small tokens that he knows bring you joy upon the table in the kitchen.

Uvogin

“Huh?”

Uvogin stops punching the claw machine, turning to you. It’s a mess, all because you said you wanted a corgi plush from it. But is it your fault, when you wanted to win it fair and square?

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is. You know Uvogin is never one to have coins in his pockets. But, then again, he always seemed to have money when he was placing bets with Troupe members, especially with that Nobunaga person.

He seems confused, albeit he is hiding it behind a smirk. In one of his hands, covered in little shards of glass, is the stuffed animal you wanted.

“Come on, [First]!” He laughs, delusionally proud of himself. “I’m your boyfriend!” He wasn’t, but you would never voice that.

“...I-I know. But still… Do you like me?” You make an effort to convey your thoughts in the most diplomatic manner possible, being cautious not to provoke Uvogin's anger. Despite never having witnessed Uvogin's wrath, you remain steadfast in your desire to avoid it at all costs.

His smile widens.

“Of course I do!”

He presents you with the cuddly toy, having meticulously removed all the splinters of glass embedded within it.

“Do you really?” You ask, thinking of the time he threatened to break your legs if you ever attempted to run away from him again. He wasn’t even angry as he said the threat. 

At another one of your questions, Uvogin says yes. But does he really? Or are you just something to hoard?

Do you really want to find out, you wonder? 

Your heart tells you you don’t.

Kortopi

He turns his head, confused. It is one of the few expressions you can decipher from Kortopi because of the many strands of hair covering him. At the sight, you bow your head down.

He steps forward, and you step back.

He stops moving. So do you.

He retreats. You don’t speak for the rest of the day. You were used to it though. Kortopi hardly ever talks to you, but you don’t think he means it to be rude.

“Everything.” He mutters, standing above your bed. You sleep so peacefully, something you never were when you were awake. “You are everything.”

Illumi

Gently, he puts his teacup down with a little clatter of the saucer as he does so.

“Do you think I see you in a bad light, [First]?”

You simply look down at your teacup, smelling the lavender and chamomile to try to calm down a bit before answering Illumi.

The query has plagued your mind for an extended period. The exact duration remains elusive, as the days have merged into an indistinguishable blur. No matter your actions, pain will be inflicted upon you by someone, regardless of your conduct. Perhaps it will be Illumi's mother, administering a slightly sublethal, tasteless toxin with a syringe. Or it could be Illumi himself, subjecting you to days of confinement in a food and water-deprived closet. Regardless of your behavior, the inevitability of suffering looms. 

With the intent of prolonging your exposure to the morning birdsong and granting yourself additional time in the garden, you opt to respond.

“N-No.” You lie. “You… keep me around to be molded into your perfect spouse, I know that, it is just… just…”

His smile sends chills down your spine, surpassing even the terror of Illumi's younger brother once launching into a lewd tirade about you in your presence.

“That is all there is to it; nothing more, nothing less.”

You sip the tea finally, and the burning sensation in your throat does not bother you anymore.

pretending to be dead in front of hxh yans. because why the hell not?

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, and implied violence.

Word Count: 900. (this was only supposed to be 400 😭)

*~*~*~*

Chrollo

Chrollo will know right away. There is no doubt about that. Even if he was in another room and just happened to walk in through the doorway as you flopped on the floor like a fish.

He will probably hit you up with a "Darling, get up or we won't go to the museum tonight" or something like that. He likes using this carrot and stick technique quite a lot, but with his own spin on it using his manipulation tactics. He will lure you in with a reward for behaving yourself or take something away when you are bad.

If you continue this charade despite his threats, he will attempt to entertain you for a bit. Maybe he pokes you with the end of an umbrella or something, or mockingly weeps your supposed death. Eventually this will annoy you so much you will surrender.

His response is directly proportional to why you did this. Did you do it for attention? He will gladly give it to you, with reading to you and handfeeding you your favorite food, still warm from its takeout box, or maybe he even attempted to make it himself (though, if the dish doesn't come out as planned, as his perfectionism is a huge part of him, he will throw it out before you even find out he cooked something in the first place).

Did you do it so he would actually think you are dead so you could sneak off to freedom? Well, expect him to tease you about it from this point forward, but nothing serious happens. Unless you attempt to attack him and actually prevail, usually his punishments are bare to none.

Nobunaga

Nobunaga is many things. Being in touch with reality is definitely not one of them. He already sees you as a fragile little baby, so trying to play dead in front of him will cause him to have a panic attack of sorts.

He believes your entire act, as bad as you were doing it. He cries and caresses you in his arms. His crusty, dry lips, unholy body odor, and his utterly disgusting breath will be the only reasons you will ever reveal your cover.

He reacts to you being alive as horribly as you expect. He will start yelling at you, scolding you like a toddler who snuck into the cookie jar and not a captive trying to get back to society once more. If he was already in a somewhat bad mood, like you rejected his advances for the umpteenth time, and he got annoyed at you playing "hard to get" again, expect to even be sent to bed without dinner or dessert. Horrifying, right?

But, then again, dinner is always raw or burnt. You are sometimes convinced Nobunaga is trying to poison you to further immobile you, so you won't attempt to escape further. Maybe this whole playing dead thing was successful, in its own way? You would rather eat pebbles than the halfway cooked rice Nobunaga puts in your pink plastic plate.

Feitan

Feitan just stares at you, not blinking. He already knows what you are trying to do. He already has a staring problem, observing everything you do, from drawing to looking outside the small, barred window in your room, so his reaction, in all honesty, does not surprise you one bit.

He will just go about his day. Feitan is an expert on the human body, being the Troupe's lead torturer and all, so he knows the difference from when you are faking being sick (or in this case dead) from when you are actually sick (a possibility from both the escape attempts and the fact that Feitan's little cabin in the middle of the woods has no heat or air conditioner. He says he does not need it, so he does not recognize it as a problem).

As always, he says nothing. He only sees this as a little bit of a tantrum you're having, and lets you have your way for once. When you eventually give up or when he has had enough of watching you, he'll leave the room to do something else.

But nothing bad happens to you, shockingly. But there is major emphasis on to you. If you have refused to admit defeat, he'll torture yet another poor unfortunate soul in his basement, their screams much louder than usual, and you will break at one point or another, either asking Feitan to stop or going to your room to put your pillow (which can also be a weapon with how hard it is) over your ears.

Machi

Machi, similar to two of the three assfarts, knows exactly what you are doing. But, like Nobunaga, she still worries, although she does not show it, and she also scolds you.

But, unlike the rest of them, she tries to listen to you after she shakes you into revealing yourself. She wants to know why you did that. If you say to try to escape from her, her heart will be broken once again.

Machi may not be the most emotionally understanding, but she does in fact try, although what she does after this incident is largely the opposite of what you wanted to happen. Even though her intentions are good, in her opinion. She will become more present in your life, bringing home more gifts for you and trying to hug you whenever you ask, although she will never initiate it herself.

She hopes you won't do that again. She'll tell you as such. She was not trying to manipulate you with the increase in gifts and consensual touches, but you will feel so bad you won't attempt such a thing from that point forward.

Jaws.

Yan Feitan x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Feitan’s sense of humor is as you expected.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence against bugs lol, there is someone in the basement but that comes with the FeitanPackage™️, and kidnapping.

Word Count: 500.

inspired by these headcanons by @holydayaria <333 (if you want me to take this down, please let me know!)

*~*~*~*

Feitan, whenever he is not angry at you or someone or something else, anything else, is not as bad, but he still has his horrible moments.

This isn’t the life you wanted, in any capacity, from the heatless nights where you are shivering under a blanket thin enough to be a sheet of paper to when you are forced to sit on your tiptoes for hours on end when you are disobedient, which is quite the umbrella term when it comes to Feitan’s rules, which are both hidden and not. Or right now, when the dead mosquitos, still smelling of both blood and bug spray, are on your food, their eyes looking up at you like you were a god, with their proboscises flattened and covered in blood. He finds it funny, as he stares at you from across the small dining table if his snickering tells you anything, but you certainly don’t.

You are more disgusted than scared right now, and isn’t that a good thing, kind of? At least Feitan is trying to joke around, as cruel as his said “jokes” can be, and not pulling on your ear. So, you keep quiet, so you can retain this veil of somewhat funniness for a bit longer.

You pluck the mosquitos one by one out of the microwave dinner until little splotches of blood are all that remain. You then, with your plastic fork, try your best to take out the bits stained with red, placing them on your napkin. But after a few more moments of looking down at the food, you close your eyes and attempt to take a bite, when Feitan suddenly grabs your wrist.

He’s… scolding you for attempting to eat such a thing and risk getting sick, and should you be grateful?

After a few reprimanding words, he sits back down, taking the tray along with him, saying that he will eat it because he doesn't like wasting food.

At least you are not being forced to eat it, and you become ever more grateful when Feitan says he will let you eat the leftovers (unseasoned chicken tenders and fries) that he brought back after a mission of hunting down someone, a witness of something or another, someone who is now in the basement. You know not because Feitan told you but because in the dead of night, when you were supposed to be asleep, you heard something go down the basement stairs with a thunk with every step, along with a groan of pain.

The microwave beeps several times, too loud and always somehow smoking regardless of what is put in it, but you take out the food and sit down to eat it.

When you see a centipede dangling right before your eyes, you scream, and Feitan, as always, reacts by snickering away, not eating his food at all.

Morningstar's Road.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan Feitan.

Synopsis: Your routine is average, to say the least. But due to Chrollo’s orders, Feitan cannot snatch you up yet – so he simply mirrors your behaviors instead for self-satisfaction. His boss does so too.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, a few suggestive actions, manipulation, some descriptions anxiety/depression for the reader, animal death, and violence/some gore.

Word Count: 4.4k.

*~*~*~*

Feitan is so close to you that he can just about hear your beating heart. He could only see the back of your head, hair loose and surely will be knotted by the morning sun, but he can smell you whenever he is this close.

You always smell so nice, but for some reason, you smell even better – of that floral-scented oil you put on your neck and wrists before you go to bed. Maybe you added extra because it is the weekend.

You are on your right side – the fetal position was always your favorite – and hugging a plush that resembles your childhood cat. This was typical behavior for you; you had cried for days when your older sister called to say he had passed from old age. You weren’t weeping anymore, but you were when you saw the stuffed animal near the window of that dollar store you pass by daily on your way to work. You named it Silky, the same as the real thing, and tuck it in whenever you are in and out of bed. Feitan somewhat wished he could get the same treatment, to be in your arms as you sleep and to feel just a hint of your comforting warmth.

Feitan brought his own blanket.

It isn’t pastel pink like your sheets or your pillowcases or your pajamas and it has holes from moths and years of being stretched as he grew and his fights came to have higher and higher stakes.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time he was stabbed were just under the giant white skull pattern, although since most of the blanket is black it wouldn’t show even in the brightest of lights.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time it was stolen are still there too; on the bottom right corner.

“This type of nen won’t last forever, Fei.”

Feitan turns his neck, his bandana doing little to hide the slight scowl on his face. “I know.”

“Now, now… I never said you did not.” Chrollo responds while giving a small smile, still having the Bandit’s Secret in his right hand while your diary is held in his left. He turns to the next page while Feitan goes back to snuggling up beside you.

If Chrollo had a third arm, he could have the rest of your coffee you didn’t finish and left in your fridge. There is a lipstick stain, the color of that tint you often sport when in your office space. A light taffy color, he muses. 

Very fitting.

“I simply wanted you not to fall asleep too slow or too deep, we do have to leave by dawn after all.”

Feitan said no answer. Chrollo is used to that – a little too used to it, maybe, but Feitan has always stood out from fellow people from Meteor City even by the Phantom Troupe’s standards.

“Same oil?” He asks, and on cue, Feitan gives a loud sniffing sound.

“Yes.”

“Cute.”

Around your waist Feitan’s left arm lays, and his right hand holds the blanket tighter than a noose.

If Chrollo were to guess, if Feitan had a third arm he would put two of its fingers on your lips to feel how soft they were. Chrollo had done so before, but his friend hadn’t. He almost chuckles at the irony. The member of the Troupe the most intimate when it comes to matters of anatomy and torture felt that his fingertips having pink on them was a line he could not cross. It’s almost funny in a way. It’s adorable.

“Boss.”

“Hm?”

“For just a while,” Feitan starts. His tone is shy, like a little boy about to ask his classmate crush for their hand in marriage. “Can you read it to me?”

“‘It’?” Chrollo teases slightly, yet he knows what Feitan is talking about.

“The thing in your hand.”

“‘Thing’?”

Feitan huffs a bit and follows it up with a sigh.

“The… diary. Please.”

*~*~*~*

I think I’m getting worse and wondering if I have ever been happy with myself.

There is this girl that sits at the desk across from mine, Lyra is her name, and I don’t hate her by any means.

I just wish I was her, you know? She gets along with everyone in our office, Her hair is always nice. She has only been here since February and has already been promoted to the status it took me three years to get. 

Don’t get me wrong, she is incredibly nice and I always have a few laughs with her from time to time. Maybe it’s just my insecurities getting to me.

I wonder if sometimes she has similar thoughts when with other people, or even me if that were possible. I know she has a habit of procrastination and has a record of not handing in her work until a few days or weeks later – those are qualities I don’t have, but maybe she doesn’t feel anything negative about herself.

I’m known as the quiet and sweet girl at my job.

I’ve always had a bone to pick with the title, in a way. All my life that is what I was labeled as. People come to me for advice, and it does make me feel good, but I wish I could be a jokester like Lyra too.

That’s all I have… at least for now, I guess. I’m going to drink tea with honey and go to bed.

May 8th

*~*~*~*

The duo entered through the front door this time. You were gone tonight, as evidenced by the messy pile of umbrellas and house shoes that flooded the entrance, so they could break in without much sneaking around. They know where you headed to – and for now, Chrollo orders Feitan not to slit the man’s throat and gouge out his eyes. Your boyfriend, the only one of your past romantic interests not yet dead. Francis.

He’s quite the simple fellow as Chrollo had noted. Feitan was only focusing on where his organs started and ended when they both saw you with him near midnight months before.

“Not yet.”

Chrollo turns his head and looks down at Feitan as they walk down the hall. 

“I know you’re still thinking about it, but your actions may cause our plan to fail.”

No verbal response, though Chrollo notices how Feitan’s steps get slightly louder.

“Fine.”

“Are you saying you’re fine? Or are you still agreeing to not go haywire on the man yet?”

“New one.”

“Hm?”

“New word.” Feitan’s nails retract slightly from your walls as he rolls his eyes. “Hay… wire.”

His hand stops at a photo of your dead cat framed on the wall – he’s a kitten in this one, with his first collar and teenager you hugging him – but your face is cropped out.

He moves the hand away from it for just a few steps. Chrollo finds it polite of him – as polite as Feitan can be with others, anyway.

At the same time, they consider bringing the photos you took off your walls and onto whatever penthouse walls Chrollo has rented out for the next few months or so. It would be cute seeing smiling pictures of you all over, especially since you’ll be switching locations soon enough, and in turn, that expression will soon enough become rare. 

But when Chrollo thinks about the idea further, a problem arises. Your photos aren’t focused on you. They’re focused on your friends and family. You are always in the corner or hidden behind someone else. It’s of your own volition. Chrollo is sure of it. Perhaps he can get Shalnark to work his magic on them and ignore the teasing. Feitan would do nothing more than threaten to bash in his teeth, as with friends he is nothing more than a ‘grumpy wet cat’ – those are Shalnark and Uvogin’s own words. Not Chrollo’s.

“No.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll cut ‘em,” Feitan suggests while putting his sharp nails on your bedroom’s door frame.

“How do you intend to do so when there’s near nothing to cut out?” Chrollo asks. Feitan goes silent until he sits on your bed.

It’s still unmade. You must have ignored that chore list of yours again and opted to work extra hours instead.

Chrollo sits down at the small part of your room that is clean; your desk. It’s mainly used for just reading and video games, hence why the only two things not neatly in piles are a book and your computer. Shalnark told them both the password, but neither of them had decided to tread into that territory for multiple reasons. Firstly, neither of them knows a single thing about the internet and simulations. Secondly, Shalnark can just get whatever information they need without them looking inside it themselves anyway. Thirdly, they already know you enjoy wholesome things on there – the opposite of what you’re reading, if the books on your unfinished read pile mean anything to Chrollo – so there is no point in venturing for unneeded facts about you.

You’ll surely tell them yourself one day. 

Eventually. In maybe weeks. Months. Years. 

Eventually.

It’ll feel like forever and a day if you decide not to talk to either of them. Chrollo and Feitan have agreed without any argument that if you want something, you will ask them. Nicely, of course. 

Broken fingers aren’t necessarily something people flaunt. 

You wouldn’t brag about being forced onto a lap for hours out on a balcony either. 

You’ll eventually tell them. You have to. For your sake.

Eventually. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

“Fei. I promise you that this will be worth the wait.”

Feitan shakes his head, scoffing. “Will it? It would have been easier to just grab her and run.”

“I know,” Chrollo leans in a little, putting his elbows on his thighs. “I know. But you’ll lament it. I would have too if I had agreed with you to go down that route.”

A stare is the response.

It isn’t anger, Chrollo knows that much.

No. 

In all the years Chrollo has known Feitan, Feitan has never gone back on his loyalty to him and the Troupe.

But. But.

Chrollo hasn’t ever seen him have such a concurrence when there is still such division in his eyes.

“Are you sad?” He asks.

“No,” Feitan replies, looking at your cat plush instead of his leader of the full moon outside.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

*~*~*~*

Francis lives outside the city in a farmhouse. It’s up a tall hill with no pathway aside from little rectangular stones here and there – and if you ignore the animals and their housing, people would think that the place is deserted.

Feitan and Chrollo make their way to the white picket fence surrounding the chicken coop. They continue to bite down into the soil for worms or leftover grain. All female. Only three were brown; the others were smaller in frame and white.

“I’ve heard his eggs go for high prices in markets,” Chrollo grins a little. “Maybe I’ll raise some chickens of my own in my later years.”

Feitan raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was joking, Fei.” He clarifies.

“Ah.”

Feitan continues to walk with his hands still stuffed into his coat pockets. 

Chrollo looks at the farmhouse up at the top of the hillside. The lights are still on, meaning you were most likely still up and about in there.

The rooster resting on top of the mailbox makes eye contact with him for a few moments.

“Don’t scream,” Chrollo murmurs, his words sweet as sugar.

“What?” Feitan asks, not even bothering to turn around.

“I’m talking to the rooster.”

“[First]’s rubbing off on you too much.” His friend rolls his eyes and makes sure not to step on a twig.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how these animals look at us.”

“They’re animals now. What came before… that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Maybe to you – but I find it intriguing.”

“Talk later,” Putting his hand on the fence gate that leads to Francis’ garden, Feitan turns his head for just a moment. “Near. Quiet. Look.”

For once, Chrollo is the one that does the nodding.

The gate gives off a little squeak as it is opened. It reminds them of Francis’ prized pet pig Annie – though she is only allowed to be inside.

There are all sorts of vegetables and some fruits back here. Cucumbers, chili peppers, watermelons, corn, tomatoes, peaches, pears. They’re all in pristine condition, and so are the flowers growing in pots near the far-off window sills.

Feitan considers giving you the daisies. 

Chrollo considers giving you the marigolds.

They both look at the pig’s head hastily buried under the soil, her ears still popping out and facing the moon. Despite the interment being new, perhaps even being dug today, flies have already spread to the top part of the head and ears. They’re happy you didn’t see her because that would be quite an awful gift from your boyfriend.

Francis is probably happy too, not that they care.

From what Shalnark was able to gather from someone who barely has any social life, Francis moved here from another country about four years ago. He acquired this farm and its land almost immediately afterward. 

From a lottery, Shalnark had explained to them. Or an inheritance. Either way, man’s life is going pretty dang good. Too good, actually, because my senses are tingling too much.

Shalnark was right in that regard. Francis may adopt animals from time to time from farmers’ markets, but a majority of them suddenly appear a few days or weeks apart. There were three white chickens he had purchased. Then after a month or so, there were twelve. The three brown ones came all at once one day.

“Where’s Annie?” They hear you ask as you open one of the windows to get some fresh air. “She usually runs to the door to see me…”

Using hatsu to conceal their presence, the pair aren’t detected among the plants.

“She ran away.”

Feitan almost snickers at your boyfriend’s answer, looking down at the flies and corpse rotting beneath his feet. He didn’t mind the smell of rotting flesh – he has almost always enjoyed it since he was in his teenage years.

Chrollo’s feet don’t dig into the soil – he has opted to instead stand on the few pieces of stone that are by the cucumber plants. He makes a note to go to the laundromat after this; even though it has already been the third time in a row this week alone.

If he can convince Feitan, they’ll steal some things from your place to wash up too – Francis has always been touchy, after all.

“That’s weird,” You say worriedly, not looking into the garden anymore but instead inside; to Annie’s little bed huddled next to the window. “Did you leave the gate open?”

“Yes, I’m still rather upset about it but I’m sure she’ll be found soon.”

Soon. Chrollo grins a bit as he closes his eyes, imagining the moment he’ll save you from this man. Soon isn’t enough. No. This…

This is the moment.

This is the day.

This is the time.

“Feitan.”

“Hm?”

Francis will die today. Or tomorrow maybe, Chrollo isn’t completely sure.

“Don’t make it too bloody,” He instructs, getting off the stones and onto the dirty tiles of the garden’s path to the back door. “I’ll focus on her. We’ll leave the others alone.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Feitan.”

Feitan looks confused for a moment. If Chrollo were someone who hadn’t grown up beside him, he wouldn’t have noticed the small millisecond of his friend showing emotion. ‘For what?’ He wants to ask. 

Chrollo knows it. He knows it so he answers the silent question. “For being more vulnerable with her and I. [First] seems to have rubbed off on you too much too, huh?”

“I don’t like your jokes,” Feitan replies as he stuffs his pockets even more – perhaps to hide his balled-up fists. Whether they were made from the hatred of Francis or the annoyance of everything else is up to interpretation. No one will be getting an answer anyway, even Feitan himself. “You’re very happy lately.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Chrollo’s grin widens just a smidge more. “We’re about to rescue a princess.”

From that look, he knows Feitan agrees with his reasoning and is happy as well.

*~*~*~*

“You’re beautiful, darling.”

You’re laid out on Francis’ bed. It’s rather large for a room this size, but it is comfortable to undress on. You picked a periwinkle blue dress today with buttons on only its top front side. Francis wanted to help but you declined. You don’t decline a lot of things, especially when it comes to him. Francis is annoyed by that but he tries not to let it show. He hides a lot of things from you.

“Thank you.” You sheepishly smile, a light flush on your cheeks as you start to undo your buttons.

“Of course,” You’re his favorite by far. You aren’t stuck up or are with him just for his money. You’re so nice to him. You’re so sweet to him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, honey.”

You aren’t like those whores, those sluts, those fucking cheap little bitches.

“I’ll take it slow since it’s your first time and all.” He promises.

You look up at him.

Your frown is just barely noticeable – but noticeable enough for him to see.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks.

“Lyra’s still missing… I’m worried.”

“Why?” Francis asks, getting more annoyed the more time you spend covered up. “Why are you so worried about her right now? It’s not the time for that.”

“I don’t know,” You look at the open window, cool air still blowing in along with the slight scent of flowers. “I really don’t, I just… have suddenly gotten a little sad just now.”

You’re shivering a little.

“Ah, you must be cold.” He deflects. Having only his shirt on now, he walks up to the windowsill and looks at the vegetable patch. With both hands, he pulls the window closed. “Better?”

You must not have heard him, because you keep playing with your buttons instead of being fully undressed already.

“Could you…” 

Ah. You did hear him, but you seem concerned for something else. That’s fine, as long as you aren’t playing with him and will soon attempt to run away. 

“Close the curtain? Please? I’d really… appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Francis replies, his smile returning to his face. “Anything for you. Just get comfortable, pumpkin.”

The wicked thing came all at once before either of you could blink. Shards of glass flew into Francis and into the bedroom walls. Francis screams as his bleeding hands are quick to go to his eyes, his fingers attempting to get the glass shards out of them before his vision is gone for good. In front of you was a stranger in a suit – he pushed you out of the way in a fraction of a second and onto the floor. The bed had shielded you and him. 

“Are you alright?”

You’re too shocked for words, peeking from behind the bed to where Francis is still screaming.

In front of him was a man in all black stepping on the back of his head with one of his feet. The soles of his boots seemed lodged into Francis’ scalp, and it takes you a moment to realize why. There were spikes on them; not that you could see them much because of how hidden they seemed to be right now. They’re silver judging by the color of their slight sparkle, but the rusted kind. No. Maybe that’s just the bloodstains.

The feeling in your chest is so horrible like you’re very sick. There’s pressure on your heart. It’s strangling you, despite the taller stranger’s grasp on your shoulders being so pleasant. So tender.

“What are you doing?” You screech. The sound doesn’t make either of the intruders flinch. Francis does instead. “Let go of him!”

The shorter man doesn’t look at you, opting to wedge the spikes of his shoes further into Francis’ brain. You try to get up but the man in the suit pulls you back down, shushing you as you protest and cry. “Don’t… it’ll be over soon. I told him to be gentle, you see.”

“Gentle?” You repeat.

“Yes, my dear.” One of his hands rises from your shoulders to where your eyes are. You struggle some more and the stranger whispers something in your ear. “Behave – I can always tell Feitan to torture him the amount he deserves if I wanted to. I know he wants to.”

You deflate and your eyes are forced shut by his palm. “Please stop… I don’t know what we did, just please-”

“You didn’t do anything,” The other man – Feitan if the taller man had named him right and he wasn’t just some assassin he hired; he said his name so tenderly too like he is an old friend – interrupts you. “He did.”

You feel like you’re about to throw up all the wonderful food you just ate. Chicken pot pie, beef tenderloin, roasted pork belly – it all feels like it is about to release from your throat and onto the wooden planked floor below.

“Oh dear,” Another hand covers your nose and mouth. Instead of blood you now smell cologne – sandalwood and amber. “Can you please hurry up, Fei? She looks like she’s about to collapse.”

*~*~*~*

“It’s a wonderful time to be alive,” Chrollo says as he puts the key into his car’s lock. It’s embedded with little multicolored jewels – he had commissioned some artist to customize it for him a week or so ago while Feitan went into your home on his own. “Or at least a wonderful night. Wouldn’t you say so?”

You’re in the passenger seat. You fell unconscious after Francis’ barely alive body got its fingers broken one by one. Some of his blood got on your skirt, but Chrollo is sure that the laundromat will fix that just like the workers will fix his clothes. As long as he pays them enough or threatens them enough. The latter would be more fun for Feitan but the former would let him be seen as a kind patron. Whichever way the coin flips. 

He doesn’t blame you for fainting. If he hadn’t been born in Meteor City and hadn’t been raised in a constant state of fear and a constant battle for power over others, he would most likely do the same. 

Feitan is in the back, silent. His hands now have gloves on them and are now brushing through your hair.

“Should we make the pit stop or go straight?” After the second question, the car’s lights turn on.

“Bed.”

The car starts moving into the barren street. 

“Alright,” Chrollo chuckles a little at the insistence in Feitan’s tone. “We can get some of [First]’s clothes tomorrow then. She’ll probably sleep throughout the day.” 

He doesn’t explain why because they both already know the reason. There is a short chain attached to the main bed. Depending on your behavior early on, it will either lengthen or become briefer. 

There are also some syringes in the mirror vanity that Feitan asked him over and over to keep in case of an emergency. He doubts there will be any real threat where they would have to use them. 

Feitan doesn’t. Feitan doesn’t doubt many things.

“Blankets too.” 

Feitan doesn’t ask for many things either, much less demand them.

“Ah,” Chrollo makes the left turn as his fingers tap on the steering wheel. It’s a song you enjoy listening to on your avenue home. He knows you aren’t listening to it but that doesn’t matter right now. He’ll continue to do so until your mind associates the tune with small controlled adventures to and fro and not you having a life of your own. “All of them?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You don’t say that word very often,” He teases, looking at the flat glass mirror overhead.

“Hmph.”

Putting his hand on your thigh, Chrollo continues to drive while still glancing upward now and then. 

*~*~*~*

Your heartbeat has calmed down. Feitan is now able to look at your face as you sleep. 

You look at peace now. When he had placed you on the bed, your eyebrows furrowed for a moment – perhaps your subconscious being afraid – or disgusted – by him.

The flowery scent of your perfume vanished long ago and has been replaced by a stinging one. Feitan doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

Unlike the bodies of those who have died by his hands, Feitan places the white blanket on top of you gently like you would shatter if he was just a tad bit rougher. 

Well… Body bags don’t really count as blankets, do they? They are meant to be ripped open and stuffed full of parts no wandering soul hopes to find.

Chrollo decides to break the silence. “After she adjusts a little, we’ll leave. Or you can stay if you want. I can carry her things on my own.”

Feitan turns to look at him.

“Pictures.”

Chrollo sighs. “Alright. But we’ll get Shal to edit them. No cutting.”

“...Tch. Fine. Silky too.” A thumb is pressed against your lips. After it is lifted, there is a light pink that covers its print.

“It’s a pretty color, isn’t it?” Chrollo muses, hanging his suit jacket on the edge of his sofa as he holds his book. “I’ll try to get the same shade for her when she runs out of it. Though I suspect it will be a while before then, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Feitan states, rubbing his thumb against your lips more. “She will always be pretty to me.”

“Never took you for the romantic type, Fei.”

“Hmph.”

Oh I love this profile of this sadistic man. The thought process behind what he does and why he does it is great. It’s kinda cute how much he would care, though I wouldn’t wish this treatment on my worst enemy.

Yandere! Feitan Portor General Profile

Yandere! Feitan Portor x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, murder, mentions of torture, mentions of Feitan carving his initial into you, mentions of masturbation, stalking, jealousy, threats, Feitan tortures a man in front of you, I stand by the (semi) soft creepy yandere Feitan agenda and I will not be swayed otherwise, this got super long I'm so sorry, I'm also delirious as I'm writing it so hopefully it makes coherent sense/is consistent, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

DARLING PROFILE:

Empathetic

In general, Feitan finds his attention drawn by a darling who is almost the complete opposite of himself.

He wants someone sweet and caring, all soft and squishy and warm. He’s never found this particularly attractive before meeting his darling, but there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re always trying to help those around them, fruitlessly asking them to vent about their feelings, to use them as a supportive shoulder. 

It makes him scoff, rolling his eyes and wondering at how impossibly naive his darling can be, but even he can’t deny how nice it is to have someone by his side, a human presence that’s steady and calm and understanding. It makes him feel good, a warm sensation bottling up in his chest and threatening to explode out, and although he’ll never really come clean with how he feels for you (at least, he never will verbally), a darling who can kind of read his rather emotionless face would be a very, very big attraction for him. 

He just wants a darling who can understand him, even if his rational brain loathes the idea. An empathetic darling is sure to draw his attention, if only because he’ll be mildly revolted and intrigued by how they can be so selfless and so foolish. 

Submissive 

Feitan doesn’t want a feisty darling. 

He doesn’t enjoy having to tame his lovers, and although he’s never really had a lover, he gravitates towards someone who is more naturally submissive and willing to follow direction. 

He already feels powerless enough in the situation, frustrated that he doesn’t really have any say in how he feels. It scares him, quite honestly, if only because he doesn’t like how easily and quickly he’s jumping to conclusions where his darling is concerned, more than willing to jump through any hoop necessary in order to get what he wants, in order to make sure his darling is safe and isolated from every other man on Earth. 

He likes knowing that his darling will do what he tells them to; it builds a layer of trust that makes Feitan go feral, and for every ounce of trust his darling gives him, he’ll try to return it as full heartedly as he can. He likes that he’s fully in control of his darling, and particularly if they were to be submissive in more… intimate aspects of the relationship, he’d be absolutely smitten.

He just wants his darling to revere him and believe his word as the word of God, and the moment that happens? 

He’s only falling deeper into obsession, his desperation for them growing with every beat of his heart, getting harder and harder to swallow until he gives up, jumping head first into every swirling, dark, lecherous desire he harbors. 

Soft

Of course, Feitan’s darling doesn’t have to have a softer body, but he can’t deny that there’s something enticing about a darling who is physically quite soft. Whether that’s rounder features, a plumper figure, or even a soft, demure voice, it all entrances Feitan. 

His darling is something of a dream to him, because he’s never really believed that someone that stereotypically weak could ever really survive in this world. He likes how his darling feels, the touches he sneaks late at night when they’re sleeping sending sparks up his spine and serving as fuel for when he’s unbearably horny, his hand around his cock not nearly enough. 

He’s prone to fantasizing about his darling, slipping into daydreams of his they’d feel in his lap, how they’d look with their ass up and face pressed into the mattress, how they’d feel so good wrapped around him. He just thinks it’s oddly endearing, and a darling who fits these characteristics would help initially draw his eye - he just thinks they’re pretty, a polar opposite to him, even going so far as to playing into some of his more protective traits. 

Of course, he’d rather die than admit any of it, but he’s interally a bit soft for his darling - they’re just alluring in an almost primal way he can’t describe, but he can’t fight it. He can’t fight anything when it comes to his darling, as it turns out, and soon Feitan will decide that he doesn’t care. 

After all, once his darling steps into his life and stays there, nothing at all matters - how can it, when he’s decided that they’re his, his woman to keep and admire and touch and fuck? 

(It will take him a very, very long time to get comfortable with either of the last two options, but the desire and sentiment is still there, if the frequent raging erections he gets as a result of his darling is any indicator.)

Talkative 

This trait is one of the things Feitan loves and hates most about his darling. 

He enjoys listening to them talk; he himself isn’t particularly fond of conversation, nor is he particularly talkative towards his darling in general. And so, a partner who is capable of filling the silence between them sometimes is something that makes Feitan grateful, if only because hearing the sound of their voice makes his breath hitch. 

And when they talk to him, all their attention aimed solely at him? 

Well, how can Feitan not be flattered, not feel a bit prideful that they’re spending their time directing all their focus and thoughts around whatever small question he prompted them with? He just likes listening to his darling go on and on, even if the topic doesn’t interest him much. However, the downside of this trait is that it creates a rather ugly combination with his tendency to grow jealous. 

If his darling is talkative with everyone, it’s sure to extend towards the men they meet, who just stare at them like they’re a slab of meat waiting to be devoured, all of them eager to get their hands on them and destroy what Feitan has claimed as his own. It’s infuriating, if only because it means that they’re interacting with others, putting themselves into a position where they could develop feelings for another man or be put into harm’s way or overhead something they shouldn’t have or any number of things. 

It becomes a massive liability, and one that Feitan is so, so very aware of. It irritates him, and as much as he loves when his darling is chatting with him, he’s not so approving when they're with others.

And so, it’s really in his darling’s best interest to reign in the conversations with anyone else - unless they want to see their blood splattered all over the walls, hear their cries, feel Feitan’s red soaked fingers grasp onto their arms and force them to see the results of their chattiness. It’s in their best interest, and they’ll learn that soon enough. Hopefully. 

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Distant 

There’s a part of Feitan that genuinely hates you for making him feel the way he does. The constant pounding of his heart when you’re merely mentioned, the throb in his chest when he’s gone too long without seeing you, the nervous twitch of his fingers when he thinks about what you’re doing, what other man you’re thinking about… 

He hates how paranoid you’ve made him, how so much of his time and energy goes into you. It’s your fault that he’s always distracted, that he’s not able to fully focus on his work anymore because he’s only able to think of you you you. It’s frustrating, and honestly it initially wards Feitan off from getting any closer to you - he doesn’t like the way he feels around you (that’s not true, but he needs it to be), so he’ll stay away and ignore you. Maybe that’ll get you to stop smiling at him so kindly, to quit asking him how his day was, to stop looking so pretty while you hum and make yourself dinner. 

As time passes, slowly this hatred diminishes (or at least dulls), instead replaced with a desperate, pathetic need to be around you; he just can’t keep himself away from you, no matter how hard he tries. It’s demoralizing, embarrassing beyond belief that someone like you could get his emotions so twisted, but it’s reality. 

He tries to fight it at first, believing himself to be above such stupid human emotion – he doesn’t need you, he’s a criminal and has never needed love or anything of the sort. And yet, each and every time he tells himself to not trail behind you as you walk to the grocery store, his resolve holds out for roughly five minutes. By then, there’s unwelcome thoughts drifting through his mind about what you’re doing, whether you’re talking to anyone, if you’ve managed to trip like you always do and scrape your knee. 

(There’s even a small, very small part of him that wonders whether you’re buying foods that are nutritious for you, or whether you’re doing your usual junk food spree. A thought pops up in the back of his head: him beside you in the store, scoffing as you place chips into the cart. He’d replace them with fruit, mumbling something about you being so stupid, only to see you smile at him and thank him, telling him how grateful you are to have him watching over you. His cheeks feel hot at that, and he buries his face deeper into his jacket, grumbling under his breath.) 

He’ll try to stop himself from circling back to you, but each and every time he finds some excuse of why he should be watching you, of how you aren’t really capable of taking care of yourself without his watchful gaze. It’s patronizing, more than anything, but eventually he’ll stop trying to fight it, submitting entirely and allowing himself the concealed pleasure of watching your horribly mundane life. 

He’ll need to be around you, constantly, but he’s still not willing to let his emotional guard down. No, you’ve done enough damage just simply existing - you absolutely cannot know how deeply he feels for you, how wrapped around your pinky finger you have him. Not only would it eliminate any semblance of leverage he holds against you (in order to stay above you, that is), it also showcases just how far the extent of his feelings for you run. 

And frankly, the thought terrifies Feitan – he’s never felt so strongly for anyone before, not even in the context of hatred or pleasure at their suffering. He’s in over his head, wading through waters he's always scoffed at and dismissed, and suddenly he’s finding himself nearly drowning, head always buried just under the surface. 

So he steels himself, grabbing onto any shred of control and power he can against you – he grabs on and clutches on, strong fingers frantically staying attached so that he doesn’t get blown away and truly drown. And even in the beginning of your captivity, Feitan won’t change the way he’s so detached. He’s purposefully putting distance between the two of you so that he can remain in control of the situation, in control of you, and – most importantly, and most concerningly – in control of himself. 

Because frankly, Feitan doesn’t trust himself around you. He doesn’t trust the way his body just does things, how any rational thought leaves his brain the moment your eyes meet, how fingers are already lifting up a bit to reach out touch you, to brush away stray pieces of your hair when you’re within a few feet of him. 

The biggest way he maintains this control is by not giving you a whole lot of attention, aside from one stark, grave exception: his dark eyes are constantly watching you. He’s always just sort of staring, his expression blank as he observes you, motionless and still. It’s unnerving, terrifying you initially and only slightly calming down as time passes, but Feitan doesn’t care much. 

He doesn’t necessarily want to interact with you, but just watching you allows him to be in your space, to be beside you, to smell you and listen to your breathing. You’re kept in one large room most of the time, and he’ll often sit in the chair in the corner and just stare. He’s not talking much, not trying to touch you or hurt you, but you almost wish he would sometimes. 

He just doesn’t understand what about you it is that attracts him so deeply, that’s morphed him into this lovesick fool, and while he initially tries to understand, eventually Feitan gives up, because does it really matter? 

Does it really matter how he became obsessed with you when you’re locked up in his spare bedroom, duct tape covering your mouth and an expressionless, frozen Feitan watching you with his heart practically bursting out of his chest? Does it really matter if he pinpoints exactly when he developed his love for you when you’re looking at him with those pretty tears in your eyes, whispering out a thanks as he sets the tray of food down in front of you? 

It really doesn’t, now that his feelings for you are formed and solidified, now that they can’t be changed or reversed. So while he’ll never be the most accessible and sympathetic to your feelings, rest assured that Feitan really does love you in some fucked up way - he’s just unorthodox, incapable of properly expressing himself to you. 

But actions speak louder than words, right? He’s always thought so.

Obsessive 

Because Feitan is relatively quiet and secretive when it comes to his feelings towards you, it’s difficult for you to really pick up on this aspect of him. You’re unlikely to ever truly understand just how much he feels for you, the sheer depth of emotions you cause him. 

He won’t ever tell you what’s going on behind that expressionless facade of his. He doesn’t tell you how oddly adorable you are when you’re sleeping in the early mornings, curled up in the corner of your room with your eyes shut and lips slightly parted, looking so soft and sweet and weak.

 He’ll never make you aware of how his breath hitches ever so slightly when you make eye contact with him, even if it’s shaky and you look away too quickly, his spine tingling because fuck, your attention feels good. 

You’ll never know why his foot is tapping lightly when you’re eating in front of him, the way those annoying nerves eat away at his stomach while he subconsciously wonders if you think he looks attractive today. (He’d trimmed his hair a bit, feeling it was too long and interfering with his work - do you like it? Did you notice? He’d hesitated a bit with the scissors earlier, brows slightly furrowing, dark eyes glancing at your sleeping form.) 

He’s very cryptic, and this tendency to keep you out of the loop of his personal thoughts and feelings can cast a shadow on his more obsessive tendencies. That is, before he’s stolen you away from the world, Feitan did an extensive amount of research into you. He does nothing on a whim - he’s a calculating man, and once he’d finally come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you weren’t going to disappear, he was scouring every resource possible to garner your information. 

He’s got access to all kinds of personal knowledge about you - your search history, for example. It’s a bit unexpected, if Feitan’s being honest - you’re much darker than he’d expected, the things you read about making him quirk a brow, his interest in you only deepening because hmm, seems the little sheep may be a bit of a wolf inside. 

He’s getting Shalnark to hack into the camera of your phone and computer, the stream of footage easy to access as he cleans his tools, blood washing away as you smile and laugh at some comedy you’re watching. 

It’s stupid and at first he pretends to find your laugh annoying. But then he sees the way your cheeks get all full and round as you smile, your eyes crinkling up, even the way you wheeze slightly when it’s really funny. 

(Briefly, he wonders whether you’d find his dry sense of humor entertaining.)

He’s got photographs of you from his time spent trailing you, and though they’re a bit blurry and not as focused as he’d like, they’re still something nice to pin to his wall, keeping his favorites beside his bed. He’s never had trouble sleeping, but something about looking at you as he drifts into slumber makes him rest more soundly, wake up more refreshed. 

Once you’ve been trapped with him for long enough, however, Feitan’s front of careful indifference to you will slowly begin cracking. You’ll never see fully through him, but you’ll catch the way the corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly when you snuggle into the blanket he gives you one day, noticing how you’ve been shivering incessantly at night. 

(He won’t tell you the blanket was freshly stolen, that he’d made sure to take one with the softest, thickest material he could find, and even in your favorite color. It’s just a coincidence, so don’t read into it.) 

You’ll realize he’s slowly inched closer to you the longer you watch the television program Feitan turned on earlier, your spot on the couch feeling smaller and smaller as Feitan’s hip eventually brushes yours, neither of you acknowledging what’s happening. 

(You’ll never know how badly he wants to reach out and touch you, to freely run his hand up and down your thigh, so trace your collarbones, to feel just how soft your body is.)

It all makes him feel weak, pathetic, disgusting, but Feitan can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about you, and he can’t pull himself away. His pride won’t allow him to fully succumb to the thoughts and desires about you that are constantly swirling through his mind, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, that they aren’t bothering him constantly. He’s secretive, and maybe it’s for the best that you don’t know how many nights he’s spent with his fingers wrapped around his cock, his pale cheeks rosy as he imagines the way you’d like tied up with hickeys he made spanning the insides of your thighs. 

Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know how often he’s (begrudgingly) held the extra pillow on his bed close to his chest, dark eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tightens his arms around it.

(No, he wasn’t imagining it was you – he’s a touch starved man, and everyone has urges, right? It’s just coincidence that the pillow casing is one he stole from you, that he never washes it because it smells like you, that he nearly loses his mind when he almost gets a drop of blood from a victim on it.) 

It makes it much easier to scare you into what he wants when you don’t know - you’re much more complainant this way, malleable, willing, and Feitan likes it that way. Sure, having you fall in love would be ideal, getting your obedience through a genuine desire to please him, but at least this way he can keep a piece of his pride intact. 

This way, you’ll never realize the power you have over him - how he’d be willing to wipe out entire towns for you if you so much as mention it. You’ll never understand just how he needs to have you - to have you for what, you don’t know, but you can sense the odd sort of desperation coming off of him. 

You can feel it in the way his fingers grip you just a bit too tight, the way his eyes linger on you just a tad too long, the way the smallest, most embarrassing little whimper falls from his lips when your hand touches his. 

He’s good at hiding it, but everyone makes mistakes - just don’t pry too hard, because Feitan still needs to be the one in control, and you’ll quickly find yourself learning much, much more about the short man than you’ve ever wanted to know. Namely, that the only thing worse than him staring at you is him ignoring you.

Protective  

Although, it will take you a very long time to see this side of him. Initially, Feitan’s feelings towards you are that of mild interest, mild disgust, and mild indifference. 

Mild interest because he had, of course, noticed that you were pretty, what with your soft lips and doe eyes, your figure and the lilt of your voice. Indifference, because Fietan was sure there were a thousand other people just like you on Earth. And disgust, because you were so visibly weak and unable to fend for yourself, like an animal waiting to be slaughtered.

 And yet, the more time he spends around you (maybe a long job has him centered in the same city for a few weeks, and you work at the little store he gets his meals from, or some other service job that brings you in contact regularly), the more complex these feelings become. His interest becomes peaked because you’re not just pretty, but also entertaining to talk to, handling his dry jabs well and even daring to throw back some jokes of your own. (He never laughed, of course, but a wry smile sat underneath his jacket.) 

He’s still a bit indifferent, but not when you’re helping other customers or smiling down at your phone. (Were you texting someone? Your fingers were moving, implying typing – what were they saying that was making you giggle like that? What could he say that would make you giggle? Why does he care?) 

But the starkest, quickest change of heart that Fietan experiences in how he feels about your strength and abilities. Of course, you are weak. Even if you can use nen, even if you know the basics of self defense – Feitan is sure that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, cleanly, easily. (He’s sure because he’s thought of doing it before – never seriously, just a fleeting thought, something that only briefly passed through his mind when he was still resistant to his attraction towards you – it was promptly expelled after that familiar sinking, uncomfortable feeling started up in his gut, but still.) 

You’re embarrassingly weak, really, and as much as he tries to make himself ignore it or to simply stop caring about it, he can’t get it out of his head. He can’t seem to stop imagining you getting hurt, doing something stupid or careless and tarnishing that pretty skin of yours. 

He can’t seem to stop imagining the way you’d take a corner too fast and slip on your own feet, tumbling to the ground and ending up with a sprained ankle or a scrape across your knee. 

He’ll be sharpening a blade, blood stains caked onto the metal, and suddenly a flash of what your blood would look like staining the material makes him freeze for a moment, black eyes just a tad bit wider, the muscles in his arms and legs taut because there’s something sickening about the thought, something malicious and just carnally wrong. 

He can’t help but imagine how you’d fare against someone like his coworkers, whose strength is difficult to handle even for an experienced nen user. How would someone like you fare against someone like Uvogin? Someone like Shizuku? Hell, even someone like Kortopi? 

(Upon first meeting Hisoka, a very sudden and very intrusive image of the clown slicing a card clean through your throat flashed through his mind, and he’d nearly reached forward and ripped out the taller man’s heart at the thought, a purely instinctual response that left him more shell-shocked than he’d care to admit.) 

He knows you wouldn’t stand a chance, and while he doesn’t want it to bother him, it does. It does, as much as he tries to forget the mental images or assure himself that you deserve getting injured for being so weak and helpless. But he can’t just sit still and let it pass by, if it were to ever happen - and so, Feitan’s protective tendencies begin manifesting. 

They’re small, for the most part; making sure to keep his torture tools as far away from you as possible, just so that there’s no chance of you accidentally tripping or running into one or being stupid and getting any ideas. 

He’s making sure that you’re under his watch as often as possible, becoming your second shadow and stalking you every free moment he can spare, just in case someone unsavory crosses your path. 

He’s making sure that all your locks are working every night, compulsively checking them even though he knows they’re still good. 

He keeps his protective tendencies under wraps, making sure that they’re subtle and just ambiguous enough that you won’t pick up on his intentions. Because while there’s something appealing about you knowing that he wants you to be safe, he would rather you not find out just how extensively he watches you, just how much he cares about your wellbeing, deciding that it’s yet another potential opportunity for you to manipulate him. 

And of course, he’s embarrassed - he briefly considers requesting help watching you from a Troupe member or two, only for when he’s aware for long periods of times on individual jobs, but eventually he chickens out, too scared to have to explain why he wants Pakunoda to keep an eye on you.

 He’s not embarrassed of you, per se, but rather the extent to which you affect him. And even once he’s stolen you away (an action which has roots in his paranoia for your safety), those protective tendencies are still firmly in place. He’s not a good cook, but he still tries to provide you with somewhat healthy foods, even if they’re undercooked and limp, bland and just overall unappealing. 

He’s by no means an interior designer, but he’s getting you a somewhat soft, thick blanket, making sure the one pillow you have isn’t covered in stains or lumpy. It’s all subtle, nearly unnoticeable things that you’d have to be very perceptive to catch onto - but to Feitan it’s all important, because while he may still resent you for turning him into a lovesick fool, he’ll be damned if he lets you starve or be uncomfortable.

It’s stupid and he knows it, grumbling to himself the entire time he’s doing something to prevent hurting you, but it’ll always get done - and if you were to ever notice it, to thank him? Feitan would deny your allegations, telling you to shut up and eat your food, all the while the tips of his ears turn pink and his heart flutters because you noticed. 

You noticed the way he takes extra precautions for you, the way he thinks of you and your wellbeing, even having the gall to thank him for it… 

Don’t bring it up again or he’ll grow angry, but the pride sitting in his chest at your words is enough for him. It’s enough for him to know you see him, that you’re paying attention to him, that you appreciate all he does for you - it’s enough for now, at least. 

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Feitan is, unfortunately, a bit prone to jealousy – as someone who is aware that he isn’t the best option out there for you, the acknowledgement that there is a multitude of other men that deserve you more and could likely land you never fails to get past him. 

He’s so, so aware of the fact that you likely don’t like him, that stalking you and planning to kidnap you likely doesn’t earn him any favors. He knows he’s fairly quiet, and while it’s mostly a fear of mildly embarrassing himself that bars him from actually interacting with you, it only pushes Feitan to worry that you only see him as a strange, unfamiliar man. 

It’s likely that you think of him as nothing more than an acquaintance, a man who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with you. And so, the minute that another person tries to flirt with you, to look at you and think of you and speak with you, the insecurities over how you perceive him are blooming in his chest, growing and blossoming into full blown panic, because what if you fall for another man? 

Of course, Feitan has absolutely no problem eliminating the threat, even enjoying taking the life of such a worthless man, but he can’t help the way fear grips his heart, cold and stabbing and brutal, because while he may be icy and difficult to approach, a stone face that leaves little emotion o be seen, Feitan wants you so fucking badly, to the point that it genuinely hurts. 

And while he isn’t all that soft towards the beginning of his obsession (and really, even once you’ve been ‘living’ with him for a while as well), he does honestly want for you to return the feelings, to love him and care for him, to want to be with him and enjoy your new life by his side. Ideally, he wants you to fall for him, to see him and smile, to have your soft skin pressed against his rougher, more callused skin, your hands cupped in a firm embrace, a soft hug, a kiss against the lips and short, whispered words of trust and acceptance. 

Of course, it’s makes him feel so damn pathetic each time he gets caught in a daydream where you’re smiling and laughing with him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and telling him he’s handsome, but try as he may, he just can’t allow another man to steal the opportunity to make you theirs. 

He wants to be the only one in your life, the only man you see and think of and talk to, and quite honestly Feitan will succeed – his profession is death after all, and he’s a master at stalking his prey, locating their weaknesses, seamlessly killing and annihilating his target before they even have a chance to fight back. 

And so, once his jealousy is triggered, the poor man’s fate has already been decided. Feitan’s never been particularly merciful, and where you’re concerned, this trait only grows - it feels good to kill whoever dared to speak with you, like some sort of cathartic release of all the emotions he’s been bottling up, all the anger and desperation and self-loathing and yearning trapped in his chest. 

It feels good, euphoric in a way he can’t describe, and so he’s quick to jump on any man posing a potential threat to your status as single and ripe for Feitan to claim. He’s a trained killer, after all, and who is he to waste away a perfectly good target? 

When the man in the black dress shirt approaches you in the grocery store, Feitan’s eyes narrow. The shorter man had been trailing you all day, watching you go about your weekly errands, and the tri-annual trip to the grocery store had been your last stop. You’d managed to evade any male attention today, a fact that had Feitan simultaneously sighing in relief and growling in anger. 

And yet, here you are, dressed in a rather provocative set of leggings that have Feitan’s eyes absolutely glued to your supple ass, matched with a slouchy, oversized sweatshirt. You’re cute, he begrudgingly admits, and it seems the stranger agrees. 

Feitan’s standing in the next aisle over, staring through the holes in the shelving to see the way you tap your chin and scan the aisles of bread, searching for the perfect loaf. You don’t seem to have noticed the man slowly walking up to you, his eyes visibly scanning up and down your body. Feitan scowls, black brows drawing tightly together as he debates what to do. 

On the one hand, there’s not much he can do - you’re in a public grocery store, and he doesn’t particularly want you to notice his presence. And yet, he can’t just let this man approach you, speak to you, look at you, now can he? He grits his teeth, steeling himself to just watch for now, and jump in if the time is right, if he feels the man goes too far. The man clears his throat, making you jump and look over at him, the suave smile he sends you making your own smile falter a bit. 

Which bread’s best? He’s asking you, and you answer quickly, naming your favorite brand and which style you like best - Feitan’s scowl only deepens when he realizes you’re telling him the truth. 

The man nods along, before his smirk turns smarmy, one eyebrow cocked up as he asks which rolls are best then? I’m thinking they’re yours. 

You blanch at that, disgust written across your face as you awkwardly laugh and inch away, but Feitan sees none of that - how can he, when he’s already moving, already grabbing the man by the neck and sprinting down the aisle and around the corner, all too fast for you to see with the naked eye? 

You’re confused, unsure of how the man just suddenly disappeared, but his comment left you shellshocked and lost at what to do, so you quickly grab a random loaf and anxiously push your cart away, trying to put distance between you and wherever the man had ended up. 

Meanwhile, Feitan’s got the man held against the back wall of the grocery store, fingers wrapped around his neck and a cold, menacing look in his eye. 

Bastard, he grits out, tightening his grip and feeling the way the man panics and scratches at his fingers, trying to rip them away. 

Disgusting, she is mine, didn’t your mother teach don’t touch what’s not yours? Feitan’s shocked he hasn’t just slaughtered the man yet, but there’s something in his heart telling him to prolong this out, to let the man suffer, to make this as slow and torturous as possible. He wants the man to bleed, to scream and sob and beg for his mercy, for being stupid enough to even try to seduce you. 

Feitan’s angry enough that his breathing is uneven, his muscles occasionally flexing without his permission, the rage simmering in his veins nearly potent. He can’t stop replaying the sight of your disgusted and uncomfortable look, the fact that this scum caused you to feel such an emotion making his skin feel hot, his fingers eager to steal the man’s life. 

He smiles as the man wheezes, the lack of oxygen making his face slowly take on a purple hue. What’s wrong? Can’t breath? 

He squeezes once, harshly, roughly, and the man splutters, spit dribbling down his chin and getting onto Feitan’s wrist. He scoffs. Filthy, disgusting. Die. 

And then the man is being stabbed with his sword, not once, not twice, but again and again and again, until holes and wounds decorate the planes of his chest, blood flowing down in rivers onto the dirty concrete floor. 

The man is dead within a matter of seconds, but it’s not enough for Feitan. He’s quick to throw the body to the ground, kicking and stomping and mutilating the body until its unrecognizable. He’s still breathing hard, his fingers shaking, and he finishes it off with a spit at what was once the man’s face, a scowl thrown his way. 

Pathetic, he says, dark eyes closing for a few moments as he looks to sense your familiar presence, already on your walk back towards your apartment. Feitan gives one last, firm kick, before taking off, the urge to have his eyes on you once more making him rush even quicker than normal. He’ll spend the rest of the evening watching you, like always, but this time he’ll pay more attention to your face. 

You’ve never looked at him the way you looked at that man, all scared and revolted. 

You’ve never tried to get away from Feitan, never ran or panicked or anything of the sort. Pride swells in his chest at the knowledge that you like the dark haired man more than that mangled corpse; you’d choose Fietan over him, he’s sure. 

And as you slip under your covers, a soft look on your face as you drift to sleep, Feitan can’t help but slide open the window, slipping into the bedroom and coming up to stand beside your unconscious form. 

Would you choose him over other men? 

If given the choice, would you want him? 

He’d always choose you, his heart always coming back to you no matter what he does or how he hates it - and one day, he’s hopeful you’ll feel the same. One day, you’ll be just as stupidly, pathetically, frantically in love as he is. 

He sighs, the corner of his mouth twitching up. Someday, you’ll be all his. 

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It takes Feitan a long time to resort to kidnapping you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but rather that it’s never been a priority for him. He’s reclusive, and because it takes him so long to sort out his feelings for you, stealing you away was certainly not at the forefront of his mind. 

It takes him so long to even admit to himself that he cares for you, and that process alone takes anywhere from a month to three months, and only then does the stalking begin. Only then is he allowing the feelings for really grow, to fester and brew in his chest until he’s insatiable, desperate to see you and be in your presence. It takes him so long to warm up to you that he just simply doesn’t have the time or forethought to consider taking you for himself - that is, until his protective tendencies begin coming into play. Once he starts actively caring about your safety and wellbeing, little thoughts begin springing up in the back of his mind. He’s chastising you mentally for staying up late, the hands on the clock moving past hours he’s comfortable with. 

He doesn’t like when you lay in your bed scrolling through that damn phone of yours, the bright light bad for your eyes and making you delay sleeping for as long as possible. It makes him angry (if not hypocritical, seeing as he himself only gets roughly four hours of sleep per night), and before he can even stop himself he’s thinking of how he’d make you fall asleep if he was with you, prying that phone out of your hands and telling you to sleep now. 

He doesn’t like when you walk home alone at night, as if you’re practically asking to be mugged or assaulted or killed, which is why he has to follow you, begrudgingly hiding in the shadows and trailing you as you meander back to your apartment. 

You’re stupid, is what you are, and as time passes, Feitan becomes more and more shocked at how lightly you take your own life - how can one single person be so careless? How can you be willing to eat food so close to the expiration date, or look both ways at the sidewalk just once? You’re helpless, truly, and it pisses Feitan off. 

It makes him mad, if only because he’s trying so much harder than you are to keep you safe, and isn’t it unfair to him? Isn’t it awfully inconsiderate of you to make him spend so much time looking after you, doing everything for you because you’re so damn incapable? It’s a negative view and Feitan doesn’t really blame you, only convincing himself he does in order to make him feel better. It’s an excuse to help him feel like he isn’t as attached as he really is, a way to help alleviate some of the embarrassment he has regarding his feelings for you. 

It’s pathetic, he thinks, but then something happens - something bad, something Fietan had hoped never would. Somehow, an enemy of the Troupe had discovered you. Maybe he was too preoccupied by keeping his eyes on you that he missed the stranger’s presence, unknowingly leading them directly to you. 

Sweet, weak, defenseless you. 

Time is frozen for Feitan as he returns from Troupe work, slinking to your apartment and letting himself in the front door, knowing that although it’s horribly late, you’re surely freshly asleep - except, the door is already ajar, and Feitan feels his blood run cold. There’s someone here. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend or enemy to you - why the fuck is there another person in your home at such an ungodly hour? 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and for a moment Feitan feels pure, absolute panic - you’re incapable of warding someone off, especially if you’re asleep, and although he feel sense your presence, there’s a distinct aura coming from your bedroom that isn’t yours. He’s quick to rush in, dark eyes narrowing when he sees the figure over your bed, a man hunched over and about to touch you - 

His sword is slicing through the man’s neck before he can even blink, head dropping to the ground with a dull thud and blood pooling where it lands. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, brows pinched together and his grip on the sword hilt tight. 

His gaze flicks to where you’re still sleeping peacefully, utterly unaware of the man standing beside your bed and the lifeless corpse bleeding out onto your floor. He’s got no choice, really - there’s something ugly stirring in his chest, something big and bad and painful, and he’s reaching out and scooping you into his arms all too quickly. 

The man surely was after Feitan - he’d looked at him with recognition, and Feitan can only swallow and tighten his grip on you ever so tightly, hopping out your window and taking off into the night, the makeshift home he’d been residing in lately eventually coming upon the horizon. 

The whole event spurs Feitan to believe that relocation is really the best option - his enemies are aware of you now, and who’s to say more won’t come knocking? How does he know you won’t be targeted again, those with vendettas against the Troupe knowing that someone weak and such an Achilles Heel like you would be the perfect revenge? 

He doesn’t, and so although he’s grimacing and slightly worried to have you under the same roof, he sets you down on the hard mattress, giving you a few glances before closing the door, sighing to himself and hoping you wake up soon. 

Feitan, once you’ve been stolen away, is mostly just an enigma to you. 

He’s so painfully unexpressive, so difficult to interact with that you’ll be left to wonder just why he stole you away, why he even bothered to take you when he seems so utterly disinterested in you. He doesn’t talk to you - outside of a few clipped, short commands, he’ll hardly ever let you hear his voice. 

Particularly in the beginning of your captivity, he would listen to your crying and begging to be released silently, his eyes slightly narrowed before a small, curt stop filled the room. 

He’s never given you any sort of an explanation for why you woke up in his home one day, even when you ask him over and over again. He’ll only look at you, dark eyes fixed on your face, before telling you to go to sleep, you need sleep and promptly shutting and locking the bedroom door. He’s entirely unwilling to really interact with you in any meaningful way - except, it’s not because he hates you, or because he’s simply biding his time to kill you. 

You may think that, fear swimming through your veins every time you see him, but it couldn’t be further from the truth - he’s not interacting with you much because there’s a part of Feitan that’s honestly afraid to. It makes him feel stupid and pitiful, but every time he tries to ask you a question or tell you something, the words just sort of die in his throat, his tongue frozen in his mouth even as he tries to move, tries to interact and get you to just look at him, dammit. 

Honestly, he’s embarrassed to speak to you - he’s been watching you for so long, acting as your shadow and seeing you so natural and perfect and raw, and he’s grown used to having a front row seat without having to do anything. He’s not used to you being able to see him or hear him or even know he’s there at all. It’s scary to have you be aware of him, placing him in an uncomfortable position where he can no longer simply watch you or long for you from afar - no, now, as much as he hates to admit it, he cares about your opinion. 

He cares about how you view him, how you perceive him, what you think about him. He wants you to think he’s funny when he tells cutting jokes, and generous when he gives you bowls of semi-cold soup. He wants you to find him attractive, catching your eyes settling on his body or your fingers running through his ebony locks. 

He wants your opinion to be favorable, but despite how strong this desire is, the fear that you’ll find him weird outweighs it. He knows it’s stupid, but he’s terrified that you’ll think he’s strange, a freak, some sort of monster if he talks with you. He’s scared he’ll say something wrong, something to scare you or offend you, and while he may be a mass murderer and an atrocious man, there’s something about the way your eyes would get all glassy and teary, face contorting into disgust as you physically recoil from him that makes his gut wrench, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He’s too awkward and nervous to speak with you - and so, he resorts instead to the staring, to the watching, to the observing. It’s what he knows best, after all, considering that was how most of his time was spent before kidnapping you. This is better; he has control in this situation, and he won’t accidentally slip and say something that bears too much truth, that lets you in on too much of what’s going on in his head. 

There’s less room for error if he relegates himself to minimal verbal and physical interaction, and while he aches to reach out and touch you, to feel the softness of your cheeks or the texture of your hair, he’s restraining himself. Just the mere thought of your skin against his gets him shivering, but it’s quite easy to overwhelm him; he’s not used to being the recipient of your attention, and while it feels good to have you looking at him and attempting to start conversations, it can get to be too much for him very quickly. 

It’s easy enough to answer trivial questions; things like what the food is that he placed in front of you (doesn’t matter, it’s good is all he’ll answer with) or inquiries into why he wears that same massive coat all the time (warm and my favorite color). 

Those are easy enough, not breaching too close to anything personal or anything that you could use against him. But the more complex questions, or - once the Stockholm Syndrome eventually kicks in and you’re so lonely you’ll happily converse with your kidnapper - compliments? 

As soon as the words slip from your lips, a simple your eyes are pretty or a I hope you sleep well makes him stiffen up a bit, lips parting ever so slightly under that cowl of his, before he’s quickly darting out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He has to take a few moments to collect himself, his ears and cheeks feeling hot because god, you were looking right at him, and you’d even said his name. 

(He spends the rest of the night in the basement, compulsively cleaning and recleaning his torture tools over and over, trying to distract himself from replaying your compliments over and over in his head, ingraining the sound of your voice and the tingling warmth he felt into his brain. Everything is sparkling clean by the time he’s done, a few hours having passed, and yet he’s spent the whole time thinking of you, letting you plague his thoughts like you always do.) 

He just can’t handle having all of your attention on him like that, and although he gets better at it and more used to it as time goes on, he’ll still be very skittish. He’s like a feral cat; he’ll stalk and watch, staring at you with beady eyes from the corner of the room while you try and act natural, only to scamper away when you try to reach out and pet. 

You’ll be starved for human contact as his captee, but aside from the lack of any sort of touch, you’ll find that being stuck with him is actually not too bad - he feeds you a decent diet, and lets you live in the spare bedroom of his home. He’d even cleaned everything up before you arrived, a preemptive measure he underwent one night when he couldn’t sleep, both his dreams and thoughts revolving around you. 

(There’s still bits of dust and a spider or two in the corner of the ceiling, but everything smells not terribly musty, and you don’t notice any mysterious stains on the sheets, so it could be worse, right?) 

He leaves you to your own devices more often than not, just on the condition that he can be present, whether you’re reading a book or sleeping or doodling with some art supplies he stole for you a while back. He’s not too demanding, but eventually the Stockholm Syndrome will get to you - you will eventually start wishing he’d do more than just look, even when he comes home with blood speckling his jacket.

You’ll grow to wish he would sit just a bit closer to you, so that you could feel his body warmth or a brush of his skin against your own. You’ll hate yourself for endearing your captor, but you don’t have much of a choice - Feitan, while terrifying and absolutely capable of killing you in more ways than you can count, is strangely sweet in his own way, even if it takes you a while to notice it. 

He’s not buying you flowers or declaring his undying love to you, but he is leaving small, insignificant gifts on your nightstand, maybe a small pastry that you love, or even a small, pretty little jewel he managed to snatch away from the goods Chrollo said were communal among the Troupe from the latest heist. He won’t ever say anything about them, and if you bring it up to him he’ll either ignore you or deny their existence, but he likes leaving them there as a token, as some way of quelling the intense desire to please you that wells in his chest.

It’s the only route he can allow himself to take, because that way he doesn’t have to confront you, only looking at your sleeping face. You always look so peaceful and pretty this way, all the lines of stress and worry smoothing away - you look how you used to, before he stole you away, back when his infatuation first started. 

And as he gently, carefully, hesitantly sits down beside your sleeping form on the mattress, he can’t help but gulp harshly and slowly, ever so slowly, reach out and rest his palm on your leg, the sheets separating your skin. He’ll keep his hand there for a while, dark eyes appraising your form under the covers, before exhaling shakily and standing back up, making sure the jade he’d brought back for you was securely on the bedside table, right in your view when you wake up. He’s not a bad captor by any means; he just has trouble expressing himself, walls built up too highly and too thickly to ever really knock them down. 

And you’ll get close - as close as you can, at least, as time passes. Feitan will eventually warm up to you, but he’ll never be particularly loving, particularly obvious with his feelings for you - he’ll always be a lovesick fool, but he’ll be damned if he lets another soul know that. 

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Feitan doesn’t particularly like hurting you. Of course, his career rides on his ability to harm, torture, mutilate and extract information out of even the worst criminals and agents, and for the most part he enjoys it. 

There’s something about the way he can elicit screams and tears out of others that gets him giddy, the smile stretching across the part of his face covered by his jacket as wide as can be. And yet, for all the enjoyment he derives out of hurting others, seeing you harmed, bruised, crying and begging isn’t nearly as fun as Feitan had expected. 

He’s not really sure why, but for some reason seeing you looking at him with so much fear dancing in your pretty eyes makes his gut wrench, an uncomfortable feeling sitting at the base of his throat while he mutters something demanding you to stop looking at him like that. It makes him feel weak, frankly, that you have this effect on him, but he can’t help it – early on into your captivity with him, he tried to settle your disobedience by physically harming you, but he got as far as leaving a rather large carved ‘F’ right over your heart before your crying got to him. 

He couldn’t lift his hand as you sobbed below him that day, your wrists bound by leather cording stained with his previous victims’ blood. Your eyes were puffy and glassy, snot dripping from your nose and pathetic little cries and begs for him to stop tumbling past your quivering lips. 

Frankly, Feitan was embarrassed for you. But more than anything, he was pissed – his hands were trembling, the switch knife grasped between his fingers frozen, his dark eyes wide as they stared down at you, guilt flashing through them the longer you sniffled and shook, the sight of you in pain with your pretty red blood dribbling down your collarbone simply too much. 

That day, he cleaned your wound, packed up his torture gear and locked you into your designated bedroom, all without a single word, mostly because his tongue didn’t seem to be working. But the shaky gasps stumbling from his lips as he stared at his own two hands later that night were enough to make him realize he hates to see you in pain, particularly when he’s the cause.

It’s confusing, irritating, scary, even, that you have this effect on him, but try as he might, any thought of physically harming you from that point on makes his stomach twist, bile rising up his throat and nausea hitting him square in the chest. 

But trouble, of course, arises; he refuses to physically harm you in most cases, but he still will only tolerate absolute obedience from you. You can’t simply walk all over him, he won’t let you – you need to listen to his instructions, follow his rules, eat the food he gives you, smile at him all pretty and warm, and let him sneak into your room and hold you when you’re fast asleep in the middle of the night, just as he starts craving. 

Feitan needs you to be obedient and submissive to him, and so how can he mold you into the perfect, obedient partner without laying harm to you?

The solution, as it turns out, lies in making you absolutely believe that he will hurt you, despite it not being true. 

You don’t need to know that the thought of making you wince or scrunch up your face in pain makes him physically hurl; no, you’re much better off thinking that he’s simply playing nice, waiting for the right moment to strike and leave you broken and bleeding. He’ll allow you to believe that he’s constantly ready to punish you, because then you’ll have some incentive to follow his words and rules, and to do what he believes you should do. 

And why wouldn’t you believe it? 

You know what Feitan does – he makes no effort to hide the torture tools scattered across his basement, and while you’ve only been down there once (the initial carving of the F), your imagination can conjure up plenty of scenarios of what goes on in that damp, dark basement. 

The fact that he has hurt you leads to you staying mostly in line – you’re more than aware of what he’s capable of, and although it slightly pains Feitan that you think of him as a monster, it’s for the best. It’s better for everyone when you’re well behaved – when you simply follow his orders and do what he wants you to, no matter how strange it makes you feel. 

You probably aren’t particularly fond of eating in front of him, but he’ll be sitting at the other end of the table as you carefully, hesitantly, twist the strands of pasta around your fork, your gaze flickering from the slightly undercooked noodles to your captor and back again. 

You probably don’t really like sleeping while he sits in the corner of the room, that stupid jacket pulled up over his mouth, making the only part of him visible to your drowsy self those damn eyes – and his hands, of course, with just the slightest touch of dried blood under his nails. You’re probably not particularly a fan of any aspect of being his captive – and Feitan carefully controls this. 

However, on the off chance that you do act up, that liquid courage flows through your veins and you cross him, you’ll quickly grow to regret it. Feitan still won’t hurt you – not physically, at least. 

But others? 

Well, it’s not hard to get Chrollo to give him someone who needs to give up some information, to set up the basement and make sure you get a front row seat as he makes the knots tight around the man’s wrist. It hurts him, really, to see the way your face contorts into horror as you watch him break bone after bone in the man’s body, but Feitan can’t stop looking at you. He needs you to be watching – you have to see what he’s capable of, even if he doesn’t really want you to know. 

You have to know that he’s serious when he tells you that you can’t leave, that there’s nowhere in the world you can run to where he won’t find you. He rips the man’s nails off, a finger at a time, just to make sure you understand that his touch can hurt – but maybe, some part of him hopes, you’ll realize that when he touches you, his touch is only ever gentle. Or at least as gentle as he can be. 

It’s all to make sure you understand that he’s utterly, absolutely in charge – his word is law, and while he craves for you to love him, he’s willing to compromise with just your respect and undivided attention. 

It’s not ideal, but as he watches the way tears stream down your cheeks and your body heaves and shudders with your sobs, he can’t help but slice the knife into the man’s thigh deeper, send the punch to his jaw harder. 

He has to keep you in line – this complicated, doomed relationship he’s forced you into is the only thing that makes him feel that strange, fluttering feeling in his chest, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go. He’ll be damned if he lets you go – even if you think of him as a monstrous, sadistic freak. 

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t; it doesn’t matter, because you’re never getting away.

OVERALL DANGER:

8/10

The danger that lies with being Feitan’s darling is much more mental than physical. By all means, he’s not the ideal captor – he’s a criminal and mass murderer, torturing people for a living and liking it. And yet, there’s something about you that tones down the more deranged, violent aspects of his personality - he’s by no means soft, but he’s rounder at the edges, less rough and bitter and cold. 

He hates himself for falling in love with you, for having allowed you to worm your way into his heart and settle there, plaguing his every thought and dream with your face, your voice and laugh and smile and god, your body - 

He blames you, initially, but as time goes on and his feelings only grow stronger, harder to suppress, he finds that it doesn’t matter. You’ve already staked your claim on his heart, and there’s simply nothing he can do to stop what’s inevitable. 

Kidnapping is imminent with him, but it really does take him a long while to actually go through with it; you’ll have a long period of freedom from his clutches where you’re living your own life, with him only controlling it from the shadows rather than blatantly, like when he’s stolen you away. He’s not particularly needy, only demanding that you stay in his line of sight, but there’s something more terrifying about the way he’s always watching you like a hawk watches its prey than simple touching would be. 

You’re thankful he hasn’t forced himself on you or even forced any kind of affection, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that you miss human touch, that you almost wish he would reach out and hold your hand, press a kiss to your lips, slip the ratty old t-shirt he’d given you over your chest.

You’ll find yourself growing stir crazy under Feitan’s rule, growing desperate but still too scared to confront him, because his intentions with you will remain ambiguous at best - he hasn’t killed you yet, so you must be important to him somehow. You’re not sure, but the longer you spend with him, the less you’ll care until eventually you’re actively dreaming of the day when he finally, finally touches you with those cold fingers and lets you out of that bedroom you’re locked up in. 

Feitan loves you, in his own sick, twisted way, and the sooner you realize that the better - maybe you never will, but Feitan will always, always be there waiting, his gaze never faltering once from your figure. 

You’re just too mesmerizing, after all - and Feitan’s never been particularly good at denying himself what’s his. 

I swear this man will prolly want to do it any damn chance he gets like it’s a wrap for your holes

And also why did I lowkey feel but for the sociopathic murderer/kidnapper for feeling like he was getting teased by her like omg

what would be a yandere like feitan's reaction to his darling squirting the first time they finally are intimate?

Tw: squirting, virgin Feitan, no protection, implications of stalking, Feitan is insecure, Stockholm Syndrome, you're very sexually pent up and the months of being stuck with Feitan and only Feitan has really affected you, one extremely brief mention of vore, Feitan walks in on Nobunaga jerkin' it, fem reader

Listen, I know this is wistful daydreaming, but if we're being honest here, this would never happen. Feitan is a stone cold virgin; the kind that's never even willingly watched porn - or, at least, any porn not featuring a grotesque amount of vore, questionable consent, and moans so high pitched and frequent that it might actually be screaming. That, coupled with the fact that he's so awkward and nervous around you - especially in the context of sex - results in, frankly, less than mediocre sex. At least, the first time.

But it's fun to fantasize, so let's discuss!

Feitan knows what squirting is - loosely. He's heard about it before, sure, and accidentally walked in on Nobunaga doing something that really, really should've prompted him to wear headphones and lock the door. He's aware of what it is, but it's a combination of surprise, confusion, and a sudden and suffocating wave of arousal when it actually happens that leaves him with wide eyes and his lips slightly parted - the closest thing to shock you'll ever see on him.

There's surprise, because Feitan had been so hesitant the whole time he was touching you. He'd bent you over and practically shoved your face into the mattress, too busy staring at the curve of your ass and your pussy to really notice the telltale signs of his nerves. He wanted to seem confident, dominant, knowledgeable, but there's this ever so slight tremble in his fingers as he runs them up and down your sides, this hesitation in his hips when he's fucking into you, this sense of anxiety surrounding him because he really, really needs you to like this as much as he does. And the first time you come - because it takes much, much more than once to squirt - Feitan's honestly shocked.

He's heard how difficult it is to make women orgasm (mostly from Phinks and Nobunaga who, frankly, aren't particularly reliable sources of information), and the fact that he'd managed to do it with just his fingers, some eye contact, and a few careful, purposeful rubs at your clit has him feeling equal parts amazed and proud, because he did that. All those months of stalking you, watching you touch yourself and analyzing the speed and positioning of the toys you used has truly paid off. He's boastful, and it helps boost his confidence just a bit and lessen the tension in his shoulders.

Because now, he doesn't have to worry about making sure you like this. You came, so you'll want to do this again - and now, he can come without feeling pathetic because he's only just moved on from fingering to fucking, and it's been about a minute but he's already ready to burst.

But then you come again, and Feitan freezes up again.

This isn't supposed to happen. He's suspicious, now - there's no denying that your muscles spasmed around him, you cunt fluttering and sucking him in, and your cries and the way you trembled and writhed are certainly convincing. But how did you reach your high for a second time? He was just fucking you; quick, rabbit-like thrusts while he half-heartedly rubbed at your clit, and surely that's not enough, right? He starts to wonder if you're faking it - maybe you're a really good actress, and maybe he shouldn't feel so confident that he was actually able to do it and make you feel good.

He's hesitant to keep going, but he'll be damned if he doesn't finally get to come inside you, so his hips start moving again.

But then you come for a third time, and Feitan decides that you must be making fun of him. There's no fucking way he's making you feel this good - his insecurities (things that've been buried for a very long time, and things that he tries not to think about) come rushing to the surface and he crawls back to that closed off, distant persona, effectively rebuilding any sort of barriers that he's managed to break down between you for the last few months of your captivity.

He's literally pulling out, his expression turning sour (though his cheeks are bright pink from exertion, pleasure, and embarrassment), shame creeping up his spine along with anger because god, is he really so bad at this that you have to pretend to such an extreme degree?

But then you're reaching out behind you, your sweaty hand wrapping around his wrist, your voice strained and breathy as you look back at him and say no, please, give me more, please Feitan! And it's difficult, really, for him to decide what to do - on the one hand, he won't stand for having you humiliate him like this. He's a fully grown man, your captor, an internationally feared criminal, and the one indisputably in charge. But on the other hand, you're begging for him, asking him to stay inside you and keep making you feel good, and he's never seen you look at him with such yearning, such honesty, such need.

He'll scoff under his breath (though there's no malice) and settle back into you, his hips rutting noticeably faster, balls clapping against your clit over and over again, his eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure begins mounting fast, almost too fast.

He wants to hold off, to prolong this feeling - this warmth, this soft, fluttering feeling in his chest because you want him, but you just feel too good, the friction and warmth of your walls making it impossible for him to hold off any longer.

Except, right as he nears the edge, his eyes going wide then fluttering closed again, his lips catching between his teeth and his breath getting heavy and harsh and labored, he feels it.

It's wet, it's warm, and it's foreign. It's like something is spraying him, right on his balls, dripping down his thighs and leaving him sticky. Immediately he jerks back, cock slipping out of you, concern and discomfort making him stare wildly down at your shaking hips and ass, only to freeze.

There's this clear liquid gushing from you, landing on him while you tremble and shake and - he's now realizing - you're practically screaming his name. Your voice is strained and your face is pressed into the mattress, your arms having gone limp as you babble and cry out. He can't move, even as it peters out, your whimpers getting quieter while your shaking stays.

You squirted.

You just fucking squirted.

Because of him, and the pleasure he was giving you.

That's not something you can fake. He doesn't care how good of an actor you are - that was real. That was for him. He was making you feel good enough that you'd just done something he was mostly convinced was only possible in porn - all because of how good he was making you feel.

You can't see him, but suddenly you feel him - his cock is in you, hips moving so fast you can only gasp and let out something between a yelp and a gasp. He's fucking into you so fast that it's leaving you dizzy and disoriented, the aftershocks of the pleasure making your fingers and legs feel numb. You're shaking again, a constant stream of cries falling from your lips, but he doesn't relent.

How can he? You - the woman he thinks he's in love with, the woman he's spent literal months fantasizing about and thinking of every waking moment - and your body just showed him exactly how he affects you. You just showed him how badly your body craves him, how he makes you feel, how much you need him.

And as his orgasm descends upon him, his hips moving at an animalistic pace, uneven and stuttering, the sensation of warm cum flooding you only heightens the sensitivity running through your system, your brain feeling like mush and your muscles limp.

And Feitan, as the pleasure fades and the liquid coating his thighs starts to dry, can only heave, his chest rising and falling quickly. He's still staring down at you, dark eyes studying the curve of your back, your pretty ass, the way your hair is messy now from being rubbed up against the pillow your cheek is smooshed up against.

You're pretty, he thinks, in a way he hasn't really thought of before. Of course he's attracted to you - it's something he's tried to deny for months and has only recently really fully accepted - but something's different now. You're different.

You're different because you want him now. You showed him that, even - just how badly you crave him, just how much his touch affects you. It makes him giddy, this boyish, weird pride and warmth swelling in his chest, and it has Feitan rushing to the bathroom, wetting a rag (the rag is stained pink from previous hand washings, the blood mostly having been removed but the color remaining) and returning with quick footsteps, too fast to be considered normal.

He pauses for a moment and simply stares - you're still out of it, ass perched up in the air and face buried into the modest pillow, your legs still shaking, and he can see the remnants of both you and him. He can see his cum leaking from your quivering little hole, white standing out against your skin and a glisten coating the inside of your thighs from your little show. It makes him swallow, the wet rag in his hand feeling refreshingly cold against his body - his body that's growing much, much too hot.

The sight might just be enough to get him slotting himself inside you again, really working at your clit and maybe even pinching your nipple, his lips at your ear and voice husky, dark, strained as he tells you do that again, we won't stop until you do it again.

In short, although he's initially skeptical, Feitan really, really likes it. It gives him the vailidation he's craving, because it means that he was successfully able to get you feeling good, and this means you'll probably be eager to strip down and spread your legs for him again. And just that thought alone makes him jittery, his fingers tapping against his palms and his weight shifting from one leg to the other because god, it felt so good to be inside you.

It makes him feel proud and more comfortable around you, to the point where it's frankly a massive positive boost in your relationship. He's a little less nervous and jumpy around you, and he'll get more confident with touching you in general - whether that's sexual, intimate touches, or even just interlocking your fingers or idly resting his hand on your thigh.

It's a step in the right direction, surely - but be warned, once it happens, Feitan is expecting it to happen again. Every time. No exceptions.

And you - who'd really only even managed to squirt because it's been months since you've been touched in any way by another human being, and the Stockholm Syndrome has kicked in now and almost makes you like him - will have to deal with an insatiable Feitan.

Good job, you've created a monster.