I’m Mistress Nightmare, the Queen of Whoreslop, but also known as Marie Krueger. 

I’m an author of the erotic, dark-themed, and yandere-natured genre, meaning that my fics will often include graphic depictions of non-consensual sex or sex with dubious consent. 

Typically, I’ll write oneshots for either FEM or GN readers. Otherwise I write mostly character inserts. But! You can also find the occasional fanon material among my posts. Fandoms I’ve written the most for include BNHA and JJK, but others are to be expected.

Anyway, welcome to Whoreslop Nation! Hope you have a good time!

Cat reader x wolf hybrid x human master with themes of jealousy:

Polar bear brothal owner x bunny reader:

Yandere neighbour eavesdrops on an enlightening conversation:

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

Divorced pro-hero Bakugou x nanny reader:

You might have made the wrong call hitting it off with your neighbour:

The Master had found you on the steps just outside the entrance, all alone in the pouring rain, near hypothermic and starved—on the verge of death, apparently—with eyes so big and sad he just couldn't bear the thought of leaving you there. 

But instead of calling hybrid control as one ought to do when coming across untagged strays, your droopy ears and whiskers had him compelled to bring you with him, inside, into the apartment.

Dog had of course wrinkled his nose at once at your intrusive scent, then marched right over to assess the situation. That’s his job, after all—an upstanding guard on neverending duty. Not that you looked as though you could pose much of a threat—no tiny cat could, when up against a wolf hybrid like him. No, he would sooner tear you to shreds than let you get even a single scratch on him. And yet, there was something suspect about you. Sure, with your coat matted by the rain, sticking to you tightly, contouring every curve of your feline musculature, you were a sorry sight to behold, no doubt, but you were hardly what he’d call starved.

No… With keen eyes like his, he could spot it plain as day, you were no sorry creature in need of charity. Rather the opposite. Everyone knows street cats are bad omens with secrets woven into their undercoat—most likely riddled with ticks and lice too—as well as all sorts of ill intentions they were best left without. 

I’ve also noticed this happening sometimes, but I’m not sure what triggers the difference...

When I copy-paste them from my writing program, they always appear like “this”

However, sometimes when I edit the post on tumblr and rewrite the quotation mark they’ll appear, as you say, straight, like this "

The same goes for ' used in contractions like you’re and it’s.

BUT! Lately, probably due to some recent update, that’s only if I don’t trigger the transformation by hitting space or writing something to succeed it.

I’m not sure, but if you’re using the phone app, that might be it. I use tumblr.com on my laptop, and yeah, recently it’s not been a problem

You're question isn't rude at all! It would take a lot more to make me uncomfortable.

The noncon/dubcon and cnc genre will most likely always suffer from criticism such as this. But, even though I dislike it, I don't necessarily think that it's entirely a bad thing. Everything should be seen with some amount of scrutiny and be held accountable for its effects and influence.

Horror movies such as the Saw series or Terrifier, among others, indulge in and very nearly fetishize extreme mutilation and gore. War and crime movies, even those that are meant to be docudramas, often romanticize and glorify brutality. While other movies do the same with other taboo themes such as alcoholism, substance abuse, suicide, mental illness, poverty, etc.

This is problematic in the way we see it has a negative inspirational effect, inciting similar activity and the celebration of such activity. Regardless, we continue to explore the dark reaches of human psychology because we have a healthy need and a right to do so. And most of us, at least those capable of critical thinking, are able to distinguish fiction from reality, rendering these problematic tropes as simple thought-experiments—no more, no less, just fantasy.

As a purely erotic and/or psychological horror trope meant to arouse or to be thought-provoking, noncon/dubcon erotica is no more inherently problematic than any of the aforementioned tropes and genres.

It is, however, once noncon/dubcon migrates into standard Romance—a shift we see now more than ever as as a consequence of #booktok trends following Dark Romance—that it is significantly more worrisome, as that's when the so-called normalization, glorification or romanticizing of toxic traits takes place. Packaging harmful dynamics in traditional "happily ever after" romance without nuance, aids in distorting boundaries and providing horrible qualities for women to admire as well as awful role-models for men to aspire to be, especially when it caters to a younger audience through teen romcoms and high-school themes and settings.

Yes, this is problematic.

However, it's not make or break. We just have to be vigilant. As creators and consumers of noncon/dubcon and cnc erotica, we have a responsibility to understand what it is we're actually reading/writing and for what reasons we're interested in it. Romance is it's own genre, as is noncon/dubcon and cnc erotica, and they should be regarded respectfully as such. Meaning, we should be very careful when we borrow tropes from one and mingle them with the other.

That's not to say it cannot or should never be done. Just that when it is done, it should be made very clear, both through content warnings, marketing, and overall representation. And, as these are extremely adult themes requiring an adult's ability to separate fiction from reality, I also think the mingling of these genres should be kept out of teen romcoms, or at the very least be watered down tremendously, or otherwise be retained purely for mature audiences.

You mention using noncon/dubcon and cnc eortica as a way of coping with past trauma. I've actually addressed exactly this quite extensively in a previous Helpdesk Edition: On Noncon/Dubcon as a Kink, so I'd advise anyone who's interested in more reasons behind why people enjoy the genre to check that out.

In my Helpdesk Masterlist you'll also find related discussions regarding similar topics, such as,

On what benevolent sexism is:

On the Born-Sexy-Yesterday Trope:

On aversive vs erotic noncon fantasies:

On the bully trope:

I'm in no way a psychologist, and I would never claim to have any such expertise when it comes to this. Everything I write is purely taken from a standpoint of being an experienced author of noncon/dubcon and cnc erotica, and should be regarded as such. Meaning, take my words with a grain of salt.

The Professor was a well-kept man in his late forties. And yet, despite his efforts to look the part, he was still rather out-of-character—with features more attuned to those of a seasoned army man than any boring old don.

Tall and burly, he stood behind the lectern in straight, motley grey slacks and a belt gilded with a squared silver buckle—blinding in all its polished glory yet nearly inappropriate in that it wasn’t a boxer’s tacky golden champion belt. On his feet, he had a pair of brown leather shoes—in attribute to the belt—shined and pointy to the extent that they seemed somewhat too neat to be stylish and instead became unbecoming of a man with his rugged looks.

A plain white button-up shirt was tucked past the belt into the motley grey pants—and would have made things even worse—were it not for how the fine blend of cotton and silk clung in such a nice snug fit around the thickness of his upper body, stretching quite flatteringly upon his muscles and fitting him almost like a second skin—leaving very little to the imagination.

Furthermore, something about his face made wearing glasses seem all the more wrong. Yes, his jawline was cut rather handsomely in the rift from his neck, along with high cheekbones defined in that brutally masculine way that seemed reminiscent of old Greek statues carved to perfection. Still, there was something left off—something which evaded the perfection donned the image of old Greek Gods but otherwise obtained the look of a battle-worn gladiator. Studying him in favor of his subject, one might imagine he’d taken quite a few punches back in the day—something that, in turn, made the plain frameless rectangles leveled on his crooked nose seem all too symmetrical—too nerdy. Sometimes, sitting neatly settled atop his head within the inch-long ashy hair kept there—clipped in a strict military cut—one of the very few, or perhaps the only aspect whatsoever, of his choice wardrobe that seemed somewhat fitting.

Tough and rugged-looking men don’t suit the tailored look of a tight-ass. They ought instead to wear tough and rugged-looking clothing—red flannel, combat boots, and the like—that compliments their brutish features rather than making a mockery of them by dressing up in such strict, stiff attire more befitting of a dull librarian.

But he was married—a commitment one might suspect to be the culprit in why he chose to dress the way he does. Maybe the Missus preferred the vanilla pedestrian style—maybe she enjoyed making the man look like a successful author instead of the average professor that he was.

In any case, it all looked too forced—not just out of character, but uncomfortable for said character where he stiffly stood itching his throat under the collar and the noose-tied tie wrapped around it. He always seemed displeased—a deep furrow between his brows as he lectured, pointing to the board in frustrated explanation of the subject—always giving a heavy sigh each time a student raised their hand after bitterly having asked the hall if there were any questions.

He didn’t even seem joyed for the end of the day—rolling his sleeves down again and buttoning them up snugly around his wrists, doing the same with his collar before tightening his tie back in place—as though straightening himself out before driving home to his nagging wife.

These were the thoughts you pondered instead of paying attention. But as it were, thinking of the professor and his life was your only solace. In complement to your daydreams and reveries of him being fit for a fight with red gloves pulled on over bruised knuckles—ready to punch lights out—his lectures also gave a feeling of being stuck in the ring. And as one of the professors unfortunate students, you are utterly knocked out cold at a loss at the end of every round, without the slightest clue how any of the other students manage to keep getting up. All bright-eyed in the morning, you’d think caffeine ran through their veins. Their pens held steady at the ready, scribbling notes as though racing to the last page, eager to start a fresh new journal. While you sit there with eyes large and fingers hovering hesitantly over the keys of your laptop, hopelessly scanning the large green chalkboards full of white in hopes of keeping up—trying your very best to make any sense of it, but ultimately left as just a complete and utter question mark at the end of every lecture with an open unsaved document calling out for help on your screen. 

Which is what had led to the incident.

No amount of research is ever too much.

However, there is such a thing as too much use of said research. Meaning—don't describe everything. A few solid details go a long way, and hit harder than long drawn-out explanations of unnecessary exposition.

Capturing the atmosphere, or the "feeling" of a place is the most important thing.

For me, I always like to think sitcom—keep the locations to a minimal, as well as utilize universal situations and places such as library, cafe, bar and such. Of course, supplement these with needed details to establish atmosphere, but allow yourself to let them do the heavy-lifting for you. At the end of the day, your reader doesn't really care about what art is hanging on the walls. Unless it's important to establish something fundamental about the location.

To keep it authentic, I'd advise you to pick out a French high school, or browse an array of them from the specific area of France your story is set—find out if it's in the city or the country, look at pictures, study the architecture, making note of the surrounding buildings, whether it's stores, apartments, parks, busy streets, or a quiet area. This information has an effect on what your characters do before, after, and during school—whether the grocery store is far away, if they have easy access to local transportation methods, do they live close by and if so does your idea of their living-situation make sense according to the area, etc. Think everyday details.

That also goes for knowing the climate. What's the weather like? How cold does it get? How warm does it get? This effects what people wear and their everyday choices, activity, and overall mood.

If you're looking for more specific details to color your story, I recommend reading local forums and reviews—this way you can get some real solid insight from the people actually living there. For example, find out what students, parents, and teachers think about the school—this'll allows you to gain understanding of that specific sub-culture.

Other than that, I'll warn you against using stereotypes and cliches—they feel cheap, and are a good way of letting your readers know that you don't actually know what you're writing about. You want to keep it realistic, not romantic. Watching some french movies and TV-shows set in high-school could be smart, just for you to get an idea of what student life is like there—make note of what structural and cultural things are different from your high-school, and what things are the same.

Personally I don't like to write things I don't have any experience with. This is something my professors taught me. If you can help it, try not to go too far into the great beyond, unless it's somewhere no one has every been before—like wonderland. Meaning, try to base everything in something you've done or seen. Even if you haven't actually had this or that exact experience in exactly that area for a scene you want to write, you should use somewhat similar experiences you've had to guide you in ways of knowing what a character thinks about, what they notice, and how they behave in that sort of location and situation, etc.

Another thing you should ask yourself is why France? If the story can happen anywhere, you might want to switch location to a place you're more familiar with, unless there's something specific about France you need in order to make the story work. I often write from the American or British perspective, rarely Japanese, as I'm more familiar with the laws, customs, and culture of America and Britain, and find that they have the type of settings I need in order to write the types of narratives I want to write. Most all writing is situational, so make sure you've picked the correct location where such situations can occur.

Last piece of advice, few things should be listed or explained. Of course, when setting up a scene, you're allowed to describe that scene. But after a character is introduced, their whereabouts and such should mostly be conveyed through their day to day thoughts and actions.

Show, don't tell—that's how you do good exposition.

just hit 40k!

crazy

maybe i was being too poetic in my last post. but if a bite is described as being toothless, it implies that it isn't really a bite at all.

Rabbits are born sluts. 

That much has always been clear. Damn useless creatures except for one thing—being used. They’re everywhere, in the several hundreds, easily hunted, easily trained by carrot and stick, and easily broken when put under it.

And you, you’re the same, a dime a dozen among the other dumb bunnies in the burrow. You’re not any different. 

And yet, from where he stands atop the mezzanine, lording over the pleasure den down below, his own empire, time and time again his eyes stray from admiring his rich guests and the cold cash they spend on his fluffle only to land on you.

At its core, I'd say it’s closest synonym would be obsession. But then, obsession can have many different causes from which it arises as well as spiral out and have all sorts of diverse effects.

And with this,  yanderism is, to me at least, very multifaceted. Meaning, I see it as a very ambiguous and versatile trope that can be a lot of different things depending on what angle you take. 

Let’s say you have a character that for certain reasons has abandonment issues, making them build big walls and never let anyone close in the fear that they’ll leave or be lost, which in turn leads them to latch onto the very first person who’s able to make them lower those walls. That’s one flavor of obsession—which I can then see spiral into feelings of paranoia, extreme jealousy, possessiveness, and overall desperation, codependency, and addiction, even holding the person accountable through vulnerability debt: a feeling of requiring the other person to take responsibility for having made them lower their guard in the first place.

Another flavor of obsession is a character finding and falling head over heels for someone with traits they find impossibly endearing, entertaining, or useful. This type of obsession will then have different effects, such as feelings of ownersickness as well as coveting and controlling behaviour and micro-regulation, and even a desire to harvest or isolate that person for what you desire about them and keep it all to yourself—such as their kindness, innocence, beauty, etc... This type of behavior can stem from solipsistic possession: a mindset where someone wants to be the entirety of a another's universe. It can also arise from agoraphobic possession: a severe form of control rooted in a deep anxiety about the outside world "contaminating" or "spoling" what they have, and thus needing to protect them and contain them like a precious object.

Then you have obsession as a result of investment. Say a character has spent a lot of money or time on someone, and feels now they’re owed, making them come to the sordid conclusion that they own that person. This will also be followed with controlling behavior, but not because of ownersickness, but due to their own rigid worldview: they’ve invested in you, and so you can’t just leave without paying up. Of course, there’s other underlying reasons beyond this excuse of capitalism—since people don’t normally keep things they've bought if they no longer want it just because they own it. Rather, it's the very fact that this character is trying to leave even after they’ve been given anything and everything they could possibly desire, that in turn makes them so desirable. The mentality becomes as follows: if you can’t buy something with fame and riches, it must mean they’re priceless.

Of course, you have less intense yandere traits. I think love in and of itself is obsessive by nature in the way of how you want a person to be yours. As such, love in itself is quite yandere-esque on it's own.

Other than that, there’s often also a lot of delusion happening. Depression and trauma can also be reasons behind the development of obsession, especially when supported by feelings of loneliness.

Then, of course, you have different personality disorders such as narcissistic personality disorder as well as antisocial personality disorder, formerly known as psychopathy and sociopathy, defined in short as someone lacking in normal empathy—both of which are often utilized when creating a yandere character, especially one who doesn’t see the world or view people like most others would. Here, obsession can arise as a from of identity cannibalism: where a person feels a profound sense of inner emptiness or lack of their own positive traits, such as warmth or innocence, and will try to fix this by "feeding" on another person—kind of like a vampire.

In the end, obsession can arise through many causes and have different effects all depending on the characters and their dynamics, and so, I can’t really ascribe yanderism to any singular mental illness, as it would be, in any case and as discussed, a multitude.

Sorted trashbags in one hand, keys in the other, he’s just locking up to go toss them when he hears you coming in downstairs. 

You’re his neighbour. Or, well, he’s not sure what you call it—is it still a neighbour if you live under him? Anyway, he’s seen you around a couple of times, at the grocery store around the corner or when you’ve come stumbling home late at night, drunk with your heels in hand, but you’ve only greeted each other through nods and small hellos, through which he’s decided you’re kind of cute.

“No—like—he was nice and all—really nice.”

Sounds like you’re on the phone, probably with that girl he’s seen you invite over where you’ve both carried up two wine bottles each, giggling and chatting just like you’re doing now. Your best friend, he’d wager.

“Yeah, I know, and I do!” you drawl insistingly. “I do want a good guy. It’s just… I don’t know… I don't trust a guy that’s good all the time, you know?”

He didn't mean to start eavesdropping, it wasn’t his intention, but now he’s stood there a moment too long that descending the stairs and meeting you halfway would just be awkward. Especially since it seems to be a somewhat private conversation considering what you announce next,

“You know… like—we had sex right and it was just so… ugh, like… too sweet? Like—it was just kind of vanilla is all.”

And so, he continues to lurk, listening to you and how you’re struggling holding multiple bags, probably with your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear while simultaneously climbing the stairs.

“I don’t know…” you continue indiscriminately, rummaging through your bags—most likely looking for your keys, as well as the right words, it would seem. “That’s when we’re supposed to let our demons out, you know?” 

His brows raise at that. Demons, huh? What an interesting exchange he’s overhearing.

“I can’t trust a guy without any demons,” you declare. “Like—how can I trust him to handle tough shit if he’s scared of fucking me, you know? Like, at that point it doesn’t matter how nice you are…”

You’ve stopped outside your apartment now, still looking for your keys if the sounds of you huffing and puffing are any tell, dropping your grocery bags to the floor to better free your hands.

“I am a feminist, you little shit! Like, I appreciate how nice and respectful he was on the date, but when it comes to the bedroom, you’re supposed to drop all that and act out a little—like I was saying, that’s demon-time—where he’s allowed to manhandle and I’m allowed to enjoy it without it saying anything about us as when we’re back in the real world!”

Metal clangoring in the staircase signals that you’ve finally found your keys. But something on the other end of the line halts your movements, making you exclaim,  “Ugh, you really think so?”

There’s a silent pause as you listen, posted outside your door as though you’ve forgotten your pursuit of entry. Lucky for him. He knows he’s crossing a line, but at this point he doubts he’d be able to go to sleep without hearing the rest.

“No, like, of course there's nothing wrong with ‘making love’ if you’re into that—but honestly, personally, I think I might literally throw up if I have to go through that again,” you proclaim, a little dramatic perhaps, before further whining, “Like, I just want someone to fuck me. And by fuck me, I mean, I need my entire body put in a state of shock. Like, is that too much to ask for?”

He swallows thickly at that—eyes big, knuckles whitening, wringing the trashbags in a tight-knit fist—feeling like a god, up above, hearing your prayers from below, downright begging for something he’ll be more than eager to give you.

Your key slots into the lock, and you start making your way inside with the last piece of gossip he’d be granted that day.

“Sorry, babe. If it were up to me, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. But unfortunately, she isn't in the business of handing out second chances.”

He almost lets you hear him scoff, but manages to remain undetected until you close your door behind you before saying, “Don’t worry. I won’t need one.”

You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy. 

The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.

“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.

Did you get fucked up yesterday or what? 

Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right? 

And yet, by the looks of it, you must have. 

It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.

You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.

“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”

Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room. 

Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.

“Where the fuck am I at right now…”

You've been working for the Bakugou’s for about a year now. 

The madam, Mrs. Bakugou, has always been a strict employer, never quite satisfied with even your best effort.

You feel a little ashamed admitting you’re grateful you don’t see her a lot with how often she’s away on vacation—even though it makes you feel bad for Junior. 

Surprisingly, it’s Mr. Bakugou who’s the more reasonable out of the two. He may work a lot, but he tries his best making it home before dinnertime. And though he isn’t much of a talker, he’s at least cordial with you. Overall, he’s a good employer. Never outright saying thank you, but always tacking on a bonus to your salary as a silent acknowledgment of your hard work.

Or perhaps it’s a silent apology…

They argue a lot. Insults. Threats. Accusations. You name it. With their differences in lifestyle, it isn’t so surprising, even though it isn’t publicly known. You’d been made to sign a confidentiality agreement your first day. Back then, you’d thought of it as simple standard procedure, but you’d soon find out how necessary it really was.

Through unwilling eavesdropping you’ve pieced together the story about how the two of them ended up married, and it’s not a particularly nice one. 

You're on your way home in the dark. 

It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge. 

Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.

Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.

You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.

Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there. 

But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.