redstripstrawberry

[redstripstrawberry]

So I've been thinking of writing a series about different types of yandies we all know and love for a loong ass time now.

(I kinda made my own head cannons from the story "Infected" by LTmayx on Wattpad. CHECK IT OUTTT it's hella good).

So the world building is quite simple and similar to LTmayx's: everyone's a yandy. Unlike how the traits of a yandere are diseases that have become normal, they're just inherently natured within that world. The difference is what type of yandy they are. Blues are protective, green are possessive, reds are obsessive, and white are sadistic. But there's rare type that most people tend to be wary about: the clears. And that's you! 🫵

How lucky to be in a yandere world where you have no inherent traits of being a yandy like all the people around you! Being a clear means tough luck; you won't get the superhuman strength most people grow up to have to care for their beloved, nor will you have any talent in all bodily senses. You're just normal :(.

Which also if someone's on to you, it's very unlikely you'll win. You're too weak and too disadvantageous to do anything about it. You're at the whims of whatever type that took you, so good luck!

I want to write a case by case for each type haha, with different protagonists ofc. I already have some ideas worked out for my fav type, protective hehehe. Just need to actually do the writing. ( ´Д｀)=3

Also, do give LTmayx's fic a chance. There's a secret club, college settings, childhood friend trope, friends to enemies to lovers(debatable lol), murder, creepy obessive shrines, REVERSE HAREM, stalking, character building, 4 different endings with 4 different guys, all kinds of shit! Take a look! My Wattpad days are showing lmao.

Anddd another note: I will revamp my oc, Mason. Reading back my debut fic back cringes me tf out lmao.

[redstripstrawberry]

hellloooo redberryy!!

long time no see. how are you doing?

Lmao I'm so sorry this got left in my inbox •́ε•̀٥•́ε•̀٥

Doing good actually! Honestly I forgot I had this account for a while hahaha. I would keep writing more, but honestly, it's been some since I'd had an idea/inspiration for writing things. Not busy, just that I had writer's block?? I'm just a lazy ass mf when it comes to writing lmao

I'll try to put something on soon though, maybe a genshin fic since I'm fully obsessed with Capitano rn after Natlan's trailer release hehehe ლ(´ڡ`ლ)

[redstripstrawberry]

AISJAJHS HAHAHAHA

Me too, but that's because it's my ego that makes me this way lmao

I imagine creep yandere to be attractive, he’s just a pathetic guy that brings dead animals because he has no sense of what’s romantic, what do you mean a dead bird isn’t cute?

People that have no clue of his reputation are quick to hit on him, and then as soon as he starts talking about taking picture of skulls in forests and looking for dead animals to preserve, they immediately want to get up and stutter out a lame excuse to escape.

At least you don’t ignore him? Sure you treat him with disgust but it’s not enough to deter him, he’s just a pretty boy who’s just a little too dense to get that you don’t like it when he brings dead critters to your door.

When you finally knock it in his head, he’s a little defeated yes, but he gets it, and now he’s collecting flowers and gorgeous shells that he thinks you’d like.

Sure he has to change his gift habits but at least this means you let him into your house.

You’re actually talking to him too!

“So, did you make this yourself?” You say surprised, shifting the flower crown with three of your fingers to look at it from all sides.

“Um.. yes” The suspicious amount of hesitation in his meek voice is eyebrow raising but you don’t ask about it.

He actually just paid a kid to make it because he has no grasp on arts and crafts if it doesn’t involve dead things.

Just a very pretty and dumb guy

[redstripstrawberry]

The untold suspense in here is soooooo unreal. Magnificent.

protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)

halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.

a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.

Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.

You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.

You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.

That’s not important.

What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.

(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).

He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.

He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

The thirtieth of October.

You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--

“I love Halloween.”

You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.

Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.

“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”

His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.

(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”

Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.

He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).

You shrug helplessly.

“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”

His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”

You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--

You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.

How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?

He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.

He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.

“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.

“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.

“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.

It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.

You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.

You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.

The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.

You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.

“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”

You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.

Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.

There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--

You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.

(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).

The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.

“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--

He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.

“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”

Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).

This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.

“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”

You swallow.

“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”

You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.

It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--

“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”

You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”

He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.

“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”

You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.

You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.

Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.

“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.

(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)

“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.

You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?

You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.

“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”

Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.

“Don’t you trust me, angel?”

Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.

“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.

“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”

Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.

“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).

He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.

One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.

“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”

You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.

You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.

You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.

Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.

It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.

It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.

There’s a sound from outside.

You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?

Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.

A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?

Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;

“Trick or Treat!”

Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.

A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.

(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).

But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--

One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.

You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.

“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”

“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”

“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”

Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.

But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.

“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”

Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.

“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”

Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.

“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”

The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .

“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.

It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?

But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--

The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.

“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”

You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.

You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--

The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.

There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”

He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.

(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)

His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.

It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--

“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.

You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--

He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.

“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”

[redstripstrawberry]

I think I reblogged this, but Imma do it again so all of y'all can read it once more

Thunderstorms at Night

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Finally! The sweetest and most patient @genuinelydisappointed commissioned me for this piece, and I hope you all enjoy the final part of wife and husband <3

WARNINGS: graphic detailing of injuries, mention of needles, yandere Capitano, mention of murder, marriage, mention of nsfw, 4k words

It is raining outside. 

The quick realisation comes to you moments after waking up, though you’ve yet to open your eyes. It is the gentle pitter patter against the windows, the stream of water cascading down the drain, that makes the rain obvious nonetheless. It soothes you, as it has always done. This was the kind of weather where you’d be permitted to run toward your mother’s chambers and cuddle up, feigning a fright for thunderstorms you’d never really possessed. 

And yet you still ran, and cried, just so your mother would sigh and pat the bed, allowing you comfort and safety in her arms. 

Rather slowly, your eyes do blink open, though they shut just as fast, realizing it is not even close to dawn yet. 

Keep reading

[redstripstrawberry]

1. A Promise | Yandere Oc x Reader | Mason

Warning: Yandere Themes. Includes stalking, obsessive thoughts, kidnapping, drugged reader, mention of torture, amongst other things I know you’ll quite like considering if you still clicked "Keep Reading". 

Summary: You wake up in what seems to be a basement, meeting your self-proclaimed husband.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The stubborn, god-cursing sink is leaky again. Somehow, it always manages to loosen even though you tighten it every other week.

You roll over in your bed. You can fix that when the sun's out.

Clink-clink. Plink. Plink.

Stupid pipe. You're half asleep but that sound is so piercing in the early morning silence.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

You're gonna have to call the landlord. Gosh, but it's still dark out and you’re hurting for money nowadays. Can’t you just take a break, universe?

Plink. Thud. Creak. Plink.

Debating whether to wake up in the morning is a common occurrence for you, but you decide to let yourself rest for now. The problems can wait until the sun rises. Somehow, your body is quite sore from the day before.

Plink. Plink. You turn to your other side. Clink-clink. Plink. Thud. Creak. Plink. Thud. Creak. Plink.

Wait. Sore from doing… what, exactly? And that sound?

A creak of an open door jolts you awake. You sit up immediately, looking in the direction of the sound.

“I was scared for a moment there.” The man chuckles in relief as walks closer, “Thought I put too much, but it seems I was just impatient. Are you sore? You were asleep for quite some time, and the mattress I have down here isn’t quite the best.”

The man walks closer, setting down a tray of what looks to be your breakfast for the day on the table in the middle of the room. You retread to the corner where your bedside touches the wall, the chain on your ankle clinking as it moves with you. Eyes wide as you look at your new ankle chain.

The man sits down at the table and welcomes you to come sit with him. Your eyes dart between the man and your surroundings. Dark brown hair, dark tan skin, green eyes. The room itself was all made of concrete, and there was a small horizontal window near the ceiling. There's another room attached to this one, but you can't make what it's supposed to be under the one light that shines in this room. Is this a basement? You feel his eyes on you.

He continues to speak in a soft, gentle voice.

“Well, it’s not the best, but hopefu—” the man corrects himself with a chuckle, “soon enough, when you get better, you’ll be able to go upstairs and rest in our bed! Much softer, I’d say.”

“Who are you?! Why am I here? What did you do?!” is what you would shout, but his smile is so unnerving that you lose your words.

He inspects you from afar, taking note of your anxiousness. “I’m not going to hurt you, darling. I don't think I'm ever capable of doing so, really."

You try out your luck and ask your first question. “Who are you?” It's more of a demand than a question with how it came out of your mouth.

“Eat first while I talk, why don't you? The drug makes you crazy with hunger," the man chuckles, "I'd know.”

Your adrenaline masks your hunger greatly. You stay put though, the thought of eating something your captor gave you makes you even more anxious.

“It’s not like I poisoned it or anything. Look, I'll even taste it for you.”

He smiles as he chews. You still stay put, still taking in what happened since you woke. It's setting in now, that anxiety and panic.

“Well, to start off,” he says, looking mildly disappointed at the food, but switches his mood as he looks up to you, “I’m Mason. Your husband.”

You looked at him, wide eyed.

Are you going to be a sex slave of his? Is this some kind of sex dungeon? How did you even get here? Didn't you lock the door before you went to bed? You weren't even sure. Tracing back your steps doesn't work when you don't fucking remember anything.

“I just want you to know that I'll treat you well, better than myself, obviously, as my spouse only deserves to be happy," Mason smiles with that creepy, hollow smile. He stands to walk over to you, both hands raised and outreached. He approaches slowly to not startle you even more.

Tears are about to fall from your eyes, and you scream out, “Please, let me go home! I don't want to be with you. I don't even know you," you speak, but the tears make your voice choppy.

Mason approaches the bed, kneeling down, with his eyes softening even more if you haven't noticed it before. You push further into the corner, pushing the comforter with your feet to form a pathetic barrier. The chains clink loudly as you do.

“Honey, please understand me. I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to abuse you in any way. We're gonna be a simple, loving couple; because we're meant to be. We're lovers!” Mason fumbles with his words, and hand gestures wildly, trying to appear unthreatening. “Gosh, this isn't going how I expected. We're supposed to celebrate today together, albiet you getting used to your situation. You're with me, there's no need to be afraid, you're safe.”

His reassurance slip in one ear and out the other. You're too scared to understand, he sees. Mason climbs onto the bed, still moving as slowly as he can. But the way his eyes focus on you, unblinking, it feels like he's stalking you down. The smile doesn't make it any better.

“The police are gonna find me and jail you if you do this. Please just let me go,” Your begging is more forceful. “Please. I w-won't tell a-anyone.” You're full-on crying now.

“The police aren't gonna do anything, because I took care of it; in the same manner that I'm going to take care of you: devotedly careful. You're just confused right now because it's a new thing you need to get used to and understand, dearest.”

Like you, your words go in his ear and out the other. You jump forward to push him away, trying to make your way to the door. Mason grabs you tightly, pulling you towards his chest. You fight against him, sobbing, but he restrains you easily. You're exhausted, too hungry, and too emotionally drained to fight back. All you could do is measly push him back. The drug still has its grip on you.

Mason hugs you tight like he's squeezing you. “I know you're very confused right now, and you don't know what's going on, but I need you to know this,” he pets your hair, “you're being manipulated, by everyone close to you. Your friends, your coworkers, and even your DAMN family. Their manipulation conditioned you so much, you don't even realize how much they've hurt you.”

He continues to try to comfort you while you're in his lap. Kissing your forehead, petting your hair, and holding you tightly so you can't get away. The physical affection Mason gives you makes you cry harder. You can't accept this to be happening.

“But don't worry about them, darling. I've taken care of them too. They've hurt as much as they've hurt you.” He nuzzles your head. The sound of exhausted weeping fills the basement-like room.

“They don't deserve the mercy of such a caring angel such as yourself, so I tried my hardest to make them suffer. Obviously, I let them live so they can feel the pain of losing you, amongst other things."

You don't know if you're grateful Mason didn't kill anyone or furious that he hurt them.

“We don't need to think about those people anymore, though. We don't need to care about your career, or making enough money for rent. We can focus on what's REALLY important, me and you."

Locking you in with his legs, Mason rubs his thumbs under your eyes, but it's a pointless gesture. You push his hands away, more tears flowing down your cheeks. He goes back to smoothing down your hair, albeit now with some stronger restraint on your fighting body.

"I can focus on you. I'll protect us from all of them. Every single one. No one will hurt you like the world has done to you. Not when you have me. We will get through this, my love. It'll be ok.”

You shout out, “Please, I just want to go home. Let me go, you're fucking psychotic!” Your fight is coming back, trying to hit, claw, bite your way out of his grip. The bleeding of his wounds doesn't deter him away from you for a second. He's just too strong, too much of a manic to care.

“You are home, first of all, and I know the basement sucks but I'll let you go once you're better. It's a promise, darling. You'll be able to walk inside the house, cook your delicious food, and do all sorts of things.”

As fast as your fight began, it diminished as quickly. The adrenaline wore off as he subdued you even tighter. You couldn't even move a limb, much less than a finger. He gives your head a kiss.

“But for now, I'll feed you. I'll wash you. I'll take you to the bathroom. I'll do everything you could ever need. Now, and forevermore.”

Mason cups your cheek in his hand and directs you to face him. With your red, teary eyes, you gaze into his. His piercing stare makes you worry about what's to come.

“It's a promise, my love."

Nothing he says comforted you in the slightest. It feels too much like a bad dream. But the pain of his hug and the redness of your chained ankle says otherwise. Mason sensed you calmed down, lessening his grip ever so slightly. You try once more, and with all your strength, you push yourself out of his grasp.

Running, but still wobbly from the aftermath of the drugs, you make your way to the table, knocking down chairs to slow him down, and trying to reach the door. Of course, you don't make it. You fall almost immediately after feeling a stab behind your thigh.

Mason injects a clear liquid from the syringe he embedded in you, and you fall into his arms. He puts the empty syringe back in his pocket. It's getting dark pretty quick.

"Until you get better, I'll take care of us. I'll take care of everything."

[redstripstrawberry]

Haven't posted in forever, but I'm dealing with high stress skool.

Working on an oc as well, so tell me how it goes once I actually fucking start to finishing it lmao

Thanks ♡

[redstripstrawberry]

Mood for the past 6 years-

I’m obsessed with himmmmmm (Jumin han)

[redstripstrawberry]

Yay!! A tag game!!

Apparently I'm also a water writer though I'm not too sure if it fits ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Personally I think I'm more of a fire writer since most of my works deals with the character's emotions rather than the story building type hehe.

I have absolutely no idea what MCD is, your guess is good as mine..

Join in with the game, @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-romanticaa @hotpinkmoon @ddarker-dreams and anyone else who wants to see what their writing is like!

Happy new yearrrsssss ヾ(｡>﹏<｡)ﾉﾞ✧*。

What Element Writer are You?

Got tagged by @druidx to use Uquiz to figure out what elemental writer I am.

Fire Writer

You burn. In the night, under the hot sun, you burn. You shine in the darkest nights, bringing to your readers an immortal fire. No one is able to portray feelings better than you. Emotions burn your characters, making them matches in dark rooms, lighting up everything, and burning from their own hands. Your best is shown in short stories, where the flames of your character’s souls can burn brighter than ever, and become ashes. Your stories hold the most passionate love, soft sighs whispered against a lover’s skin, and the neon lights of a night club. Pain is your second name, and you don’t mind it. Wars, betrayal, yearning, a/b/o and enemy to lovers are your favorite tropes. But when you decide to comfort, the fierce fire that burns in your soul becomes the warm hug of a blanket in a cold day. Established relationships, per-relationship fluff and medical fics are great at showing this softer side of you. Keep burning, and show everyone how hard a fire can burn, even in the coldest of the nights.

Tagging @friendlyneighborhoodcapricorn, @ksbbb, @carefulpyro, @queenbee2o3 and anyone else who wants to do it :)

[redstripstrawberry]

HEARTBREAKING: Poor girl has to get out of the soft warm bed even though she is so so so so comfy

[redstripstrawberry]

It's a relief to find this blog it is unusual to see someone write about Dangerous fellows Can I suggest a Drabble about the friendship between Ethan and Lawrence?

Because for Ethan to allow himself to be manipulated something had to have happened.

I would like to know what they thought about each other when they first met and how that friendship developed (canonically in the game).If it accidentally looks half shipping or not betterAlthough there is no problem if it is only in friendship

Uhh unfortunately I am not an analytical blog for Dangerous Fellows haha..

But here's my thoughts.

I assume that they just met in dire situations like how the player first met the group. Lawerence was probably the one who pitched the idea that they should stay together as a group bc of survival benefits, and Ethan agreed to that logic. I would think Lawerence saw Ethan as muscle and him as the brains, very black and white, while Ethan was more intact with his human side. That's just a guess.

Also, instead of "manipulated" I think the more fitting word for Ethan's relationship to Lawerence is obedient. Ethan's memories do tell that he's skeptical about Lawerence but holds off suspicion because he doesn't want to start anything. Ethan's not a confrontational guy, but he doesn't sit idly either.

I have not throughly played all routes, though I have seen the endings. These are just my guesses. Lawerence is a bit of a wacko isn't he lmao

[redstripstrawberry]

Everytime you post, I feel giddy

Opened,,, a expression request on instagram,, I'm sorry my first alhaitham fanart look like that. But unhinged kokomi is also there so!!

Here's the ref!!

[redstripstrawberry]

BRO WHATS HAPPENING

I'M

I'M TURNING

🐕

On the watch

[redstripstrawberry]

What's happening with the porn accounts following me recently-

I doubt y'all are reading my fluffy stories about fictional men being either crazy or diabetes incarnate.

I swear I shall do away with your account on sight. On sight!!!

[redstripstrawberry]

This was very sexy of you to write this out for us writers ♡

Thoughts On Writing Male Yanderes

Many character traits aren't "owned" by any particular gender. This being said, our gender often informs how we explore life, and the ways we were raised. The beginnings of the yandere tropes were based off of women taking to heart the "Yamato Nadeshiko" trope, and going insane over it's pressures. If you want masculinity to play a role in the story, try to address how masculinity might shape the character, like about the types of pressures men might face, and how they handle them.

In some ways, it will give them power & privileges, but in other ways, being a man might disadvantage them. An example being men often don't really have their gender to fall back on in the way a woman might for their abuse of the darling (depending on the abuse obviously). Men are often seen more as protectors than women are, so that might be an aspect to play with. Depending on how your society works will also depend on how gender fits with your darling. Is this a time where men were thought to be "uncontrollable" in their urges, or is this more a more modern time with more feminist ideals? Is your yandere gay, and if so, how does society see being gay? Is your yandere trans, and if so, how does society view being trans? Let some of these expectations also frame how your darling sees the world. Even in historical settings women were taught some ways to avoid abusive men, granted they had decent people around them, if they didn't, then maybe the darling might have patriarchy's expectations in them as well. Even now, many women have at least some of patriarchy's toxic teachings in us. Let that dynamic of how the darling sees the yandere's behavior & their expectations of gender play off the yandere's expectations of gender & the darling's behavior. Is the yandere gender conforming or not? How does that play into how he interacts with people? Is he a different person with the darling than he is with other people? If so, why does he do that?

One interesting thing is that men are often taught to be less social than women, so often this is why men can sometimes expect a lot of emotional labor from their partners, because they don't have another outlet. This could be interesting to explore in a yandere story.

Many of these questions are also interesting character questions on their own, and may answer a lot. Gender often shouldn't be the be all, end all, but it is good to note it as a factor.

[redstripstrawberry]

AKDBAHSKAHAOWGEOWVKSJSAILOVEHIMABHEOWGWKVEKWVSKA

Let's debate.

[redstripstrawberry]

I AM LOOKING RESPECTFULLY SIR

😳😳

Il Capitano, my beloved harbinger