#give me a darling whos completely fine with their yandere beloved and adores them all the same | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keilemlucent · 3 years

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(nsfw) ✧ (dark content warnings) ✧ (minors do not interact)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

wc: 1.7k

warnings: abuse, noncon/dubcon, yandere, vomit due to illness, delusion, reader is definitely not mentally well, brief description of injury, hawks is Not nice in this, reader has difficulty eating,

a/n: uhhh it’s 2am, time to post dark drabble lol!! i love like.... deep yandere stuff. when darling’s already been In It for awhile and worn down. mwah. chefs. kiss. anyways, here’s my take!

You want to know what rain tastes like.

Is it different than water from the tap? You had asked him one day. He chuckled but didn’t give you an answer. Just an easy deflection, something unrelated to pull your mind from the outside.

It is easier this way.

It’s so much easier to draw the curtains in the morning. Damn the sun, damn the light— You can take vitamin D supplements and pretend you don’t mind how dark the apartment is no matter the time of day.

It’s easier to ignore the multiple locks (seven. you count them sometimes to pass the time) that are bolted into the door. The time it takes him to open them with all their tumbling gears and thundering clicks is the preamble to his comings and goings.

You know to rise from your damn-near sacred spot on the couch to greet him. You go to him with a kiss on his cheek, and to give him hug so hard, it hurts. You can’t tell if it’s from the strain of your arms around his, or the pressure of his embrace around you. You don’t particularly mind either way. It’s the reminder you need that as empty and dark as the apartment is, he’ll always return.

Always.

You lock your hands behind his back, clasped below his wings. Routinely, you bury your face in his chest while he sways you. He asks about your day, but he isn’t listening. You don’t think so, but you don’t mind. Nothing you say means much, and every day is the same. You sit on the couch and stare at the floor. The walls. The ceiling if you’re feeling more adventurous.

You stopped watching TV alone months ago. No matter what you watched on Keigo’s big, sleek television, it was just a reminder. An awful, unavoidable reminder that the world is quite large, and you weren’t apart of it.

You couldn’t be. You were locked in place— one, two, three, four, five, six, seven — in the little apartment. Wasting away, as much as you tried not to.

...

“You need to eat, baby,” Keigo coax. He holds a deep spoonful of soup to your lips. It smells divine, like chives and cream. “Just a little. For me?”

‘For me.’

Your inability to stomach anything is his problem, just as much as it is yours. That’s just a fact.

“I don’t want to get sick again,” You squeeze your hands. There is a semblance of comfort in the action as Keigo inspects you. Searching.

It isn’t a lie. Your stomach growls and rolls, and it has been all day. Keigo has started to always leave ample leftovers in the fridge in the case you’d actually want to eat them. And you do. Sometimes, you even try! Really try. But the end result is always the same. Your head ends up dangling over the bowl of your toilet while you wretch and writhe.

Acid stings your throat for hours.

Despite Keigo’s... previous treatment, he seems genuinely concerned about this development. You’re hardly able to keep anything down, despite being well otherwise.

(You’re so unwell and have been for so long, he can’t begin to see it. The bruises are perpetual. The scars that you didn’t have a year ago are fixtures he can’t remember you without. The constant tremble you carry is from the drafty apartment, not from the deeply instilled fear you carry. The one he had branded (literally) onto you. Into you.)

(Fucker.)

You shake the thought off and open your mouth and accept the bite. And Keigo, bless his heart, is sweet enough to not shove the spoon to the back of your throat. He lets you suck the soup from it, quietly praising your work.

You manage to eat half the bowl before shaking your head, tummy already twisting in the worst, most familiar way.

Keigo gives you pills then. Four of them, all slightly different colors and shapes. You don’t know what they do, and you knew better than to ask (you’d gotten slapped across the face the first and only time you tried.)

The fourth pill is new, and Keigo, graciously, tells you that it’s for the nausea. That a special doctor is helping him help you. Isn’t that wonderful?

You’re so, so lucky.

(You hurl the next morning once the meds wear off. Your hands shake and your slam your fist into your temples. Begging. You’re not sure to who. Maybe to yourself. Your body. Crying for your wretched form to just stop hurting you. If you weren’t sick, things would be better.

Maybe, you’re begging Keigo. For help. To make it stop. To take care of you and coo that things will be fine as things are so completely not find that you can’t comprehend it. But he is the one who decides when you hurt. Shouldn’t he be able to make this stop?

Maybe you’re begging him to unlatch those — one, two, three, four, five, six— seven locks so you could dash into the world. Scream at the first person you see that beloved, pro-hero Hawks is so beyond deranged and fucked up. Maybe no civilian would believe you. But you were the evidence. You bore the slashes of his feathers. The perpetual imprint of his fingers on hips and thighs. You even had a brand on the bottom of your foot. K-E-I-G-O.

Maybe, you’re begging to whatever god you once believed in to kill you. You don’t care about the means. Be it your hand, or Keigo’s, or random chance.)

You spew into the murky water and try to forget.

...

Keigo’s special doctor comes by. You see the two exchange hands by the door when she first arrives. A flash of bills and coins. Paid off, part of you perks up. The doctor won’t talk about Hawks’ little captive. You’re sure it’s a handsome amount, based on the neutrality of her expression as she takes you in.

To care so little about something like you is hardly a surprise.

She examines you, collects some blood and other samples. Prescribes a few more medicines that have long and complicated names that are hard to pronounce. You try to forget them. You’re happy to be quiet. Sit next to Keigo while he wraps a wing around you and rubs your back in little circles. He’s warm and good, unlike the rot in your stomach.

Keigo praises you once she leaves, wrapping you up in him, scarlet feathers and all. Kisses your cheeks, telling you how well you did. How you didn’t falter, didn’t scream, didn’t let her touch you too much. How you were so perfect for him. You deserve a reward!

He treats you to fresh sheets and more kisses. The kind that feels like how lovers are supposed to kiss. There isn’t too much teeth or tongue, just slow, open-mouthed pressing that makes your tummy flutter in a good way (for once.)

“Isn’t this nice?” Keigo hums against your lips.

You nod, barely eager but not apprehensive either. Treading lightly on a carefully, self-cultivated path between wanting and revulsion. As good as it feels, you don’t want to give him. You don’t remember how.

His lips trail to your neck, to your collarbones. He pushes up your shirt and only leaves little pecks over your nipples and chest. No wounds that draw blood. No hickeys that last weeks.

You don’t realize you start trembling until Keigo has to grip your inner thighs to still you. So, he can coo blessed, little reminders.

“This feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I always make you feel so good.”

“You deserve this, all of this,” he says before pressing his lips to your clit. You’re just wet enough for him to fuck you on his fingers. Enough that when he bullies the bundle of nerves inside you, you coat his fingers in slick and whine. Your voice breaks, over and over, and little, unwanted tears leak into your hairline.

Keigo ignores them as usual. You can be so dramatic.

And Keigo, ever gracious, let’s you shatter on his fingers. Doesn’t make you beg, just whispered hushed adorations as you come undone on his tongue. He hardly toys with you after, and instead lets you fall into the sheets. Properly spend, though not exhausted.

You still shake, but that’s okay. It’s manageable.

Keigo cleans you up with a silken cloth. He wipes between the swell of your breasts, down your navel and to your cunt. His feathers ruffle as he does his work, clearly focused. There’s no speaking during it, only watching and observing.

“Thank you.” You speak without prompting.

Your words are dry and underused. Your lips feel chapped, and your vision is hazy in the dark of the bedroom.

Keigo gives you a smile (full of white-hot pride), clicking his tongue, “Of course, dovey. You deserve to feel good for me. I want you to. I like you like this.”

(He carries that same sentiment that no matter your ‘post-fuck’ state. Whether you’re twitching and dumb from overstimulation. Whether you’re bawling from pain and holding your hand over a too deep, ‘accidental’ wound. Whether your expression is blank, lips ajar, and face tilted to the ceiling.)

You can only agree with him.

What other option do you have?

...

(The doctor calls the following week. Keigo speaks to her in hushed tones from his office, muffled and stern. You only catch pieces of it.

“They do not appear to be suffering from anything specific illness.” The doctor pauses. “The weakness, fatigue, shakiness, forgetfulness, and nausea all seem to be tied back to prolonged anxiety. Constant surges of adrenaline that have pushed them to this point.”

Keigo doesn’t bother asking the source.

He knows it.

(And honestly? He seems a little proud.)

You return to settle on the couch. Ever practiced, you turn towards the door and find the locks.

One, two, three four—

That four one wouldn’t be too hard to pick, would it?

(You’d already tried months ago. It was just a chain lock, but Keigo had nearly snapped your wrist when he caught you trying to tamper with it.)

Five, six, seven—

Your stomach rolls and your hug your knees, still managing a smile when Keigo rejoins you. His wings flex, and he flashes you a golden smile. His phone is locked and in his hand, and you know he’ll ignore it for the night. He’ll wrap you in his arms and smother you with his wings.

It’s better this way, you remind yourself, turning from the locks.

#salem writes #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw dark content #tw yandere #tw vomit #it's vomit from illness btw #tw self injury #please lemme know if i miss a tag #hawks x reader #yandere hawks #i might delete this or repost to my side blog sdklfjla #we will see #for now it is here

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hoerror · 4 years

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Blog Promo

I'm pretty bad at introductions so this might be a mess but, you can call my Blair. It's not my real name but it fits well with my theme. I'm new here and have no idea of what the hell I'm doing.

If you can't tell from my blog already I am completely obsessed with yanderes and the universe surrounding them. I'm also very big on horror. I made this blog mainly to talk about my garbage ocs and meet other people and their ocs, hopefully. I'm an introvert dealing with my own inner trauma and anxieties but I am a pretty laid back and easy to talk to, just a little rough around the edges. This is way for me to cope with my mental health and insecurities and trauma.

My ocs are more interesting than me and hopefully people will take interest in them but if not that's fine too. I just want to have a place to write and post about them. I have a lot more ocs but I only wanted to post one for now in case, I don't know, people didn't react well to it?...even though yandere is home to the twisted lmao.

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Name: Silas Damarion

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Age: 25

Height: 5'8"

Sexuality: Pansexual

Occupation: CEO

Story: Silas is the Ceo of the Demarion Agency. After his parents sudden and mysterious death he was appointed the position of CEO to the surprise of no one. Silas is the youngest of of his siblings having three older brothers. As the youngest of his siblings he was doted on by everyone and had everything handed down to him on a silver platter. The apple of his parents eyes and the source of his brothers affections. Whatever Silas wanted growing up he was given. His family smothered him in the finest of luxuries that most could only dream of. All throughout his life he has been praised by all who know him for his intelligence and natural leadership. This praise of course went to his head which caused him to develop a superiority complex and the worlds most inflated ego. To Silas, he was better than everyone and there was no one who could touch him. He might as well thought of himself as a god.

Personality: Silas Damarion to the public is a charismatic man who is able to charm all with something as small a smile, a wink, and a wave. He was born with a silver tongue that pulls people in and makes them submit to his every command. Silas likes to reel people in, butter them up, learn everything there is to know about them - family, aspirations, insecurities, etc, etc. He hones in on these things to use to his advantage. He loves nothing more than to build people up and break them down piece by piece. He loves putting people in their place and showing them who in on the top of the world.

Likes: Money, Fame, Attention, Sex, Traveling,

Dislikes: Being Ignored, Being Disrespected, Lower Class, Disobedience, Children

Yandere Type:

Clingy:

- Silas is very clingy. He wants to (HAS TO) be the only one his darling has eyes. He needs constant affection and cannot stand to be ignored. If you even think of showing someone that isn't him the slightest hint of attention he becomes enraged and that person becomes as good as dead. There is no such thing as privacy when you're with Silas. Every waking moment of your life is spent with him and only him. Kiss your friends and family goodbye because the only one in your life from now on is Silas.

Manipulative:

- Silas is a master at manipulation. He will make you question anything and everything. He will guilt you, he will shame you, he will break you apart and leave you to pick up the pieces, watching in sick satisfaction as you stumble along the way. He uses his status and money against you - showering you in luxuries and wealth while stripping you of any financial independence so you have no choice but to depend on him. Without him you're nothing. You have no family, no friends, no money; you're nothing. He's used that silver tongue of his to ruin the lives of those who got in his way and he has no problem doing the same to you. It doesn't matter what other people think of you - his is the only opinion that matters.

Physical and Psychological Torture:

- Behind Silas's business persona he is downright cruel and manipulative. He treats those beneath him like dispensable tools that he's quick to get rid of whenever he bores of them. He enjoys causing people physical and mental pain -- it's his biggest turn on. Nothing excites him more than seeing someone sniveling on the ground as he stands over them. No one is safe from his torture, not even his beloved little darling, in fact the abuse they face is much more grand than anyone else. You're the most beautiful to him when you're groveling to him on the ground, skin covered in bruises old and new, and tears streaming down your bloodstained face. He adores it. The sight of you crawling to him so very desperate for his praise and approval, begging and pleading for him gets him immediately hard. He'll let you suffer for a while before fucking you senseless (don't expect him to be gentle) to point you're on the verge of passing out. Only when he's had his fill of you will he get you the proper attention you need and even then, he’ll be counting down the minutes until he can do it all over again.

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In short I hate him with a passion but would gladly give him the gluck gluck

Also maybe recommend me some blogs to check out! I’d love to follow people :)

#Yandere #Yanderecore #Yandere Community #Yan core #Yandere OC #Yandere x reader #Yandere x you #tw: yandere #Yandere oc intro #tw: manipulation #tw: abuse

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