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marcyvamp1re-blog · 5 months ago

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SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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yandere-wishes · 1 year ago

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Normal People: "Why did u start writing Yandere content?"

Most Yandere Authors: "I wanted to express my dark desire for a forbidden romance through a creative medium. Forgoing social norms to create a love that is most cruel yet utterly true. To appease the lethal love that lays dormant within my bones, rattling me with its yearning for freedom. To show the world a love that is hideous, dangerous, yet wholly profuse. The sort of love only found under a moonless sky. A romance that can kill and heal with the same hand. To fashion ballads of broken hearts and damaged minds trapped in a waltz of shimmering hearts."

Me: I want to get kidnapped so I won't have any responsibilities.

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chococolte · 10 months ago

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Your sagau zhongli is my fave! Devotion is soooo good he's so good!! If he were offered a reward, what would he ask for? He definitely deserves good things for being such a dedicated worshipper

word count. 1.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, sagau + cult au shit, religious themes, g/n reader.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. hi guys......... sorry i took so long to write this, and im so happy you like my characterization of him!!!! it means so much to me!!!

Your praise.

Zhongli has rarely ever wanted.

When he was young, still arrogant and born of war, Zhongli didn't want— he took. He had no need of envy or desire. What he could not have, he would get in time. Immortality comes with an infinite patience.

If he was still that god, flippant and self-important, maybe he would demand some sort of compensation. Some sort of recompense for past agony.

For as long as Zhongli's lived, he has never wanted; not in the way a mortal yearns for their lover, or the way a dog longs for its owner until it whines. Never in any way that mattered, never before he met you.

Zhongli has had eons to become used to the loneliness that so often encompasses him. And now, knowing that you breathe the same air as him, he's become rather acquainted with the ever consuming desire to nestle close to you, like ink caressing every pore of canvas.

His desire runs through him— barking and loud, rapid and frantic— but when faced with you, a whisper, whimpering in the dark crevices of his ribs. At times, he comes close to asking you to hold him, but decorum and propriety keep him in place, tight and tense.

Liyue was built knowing your gaze followed him. Its foundations set, earth molded, and its rivers bent, hoping they would be fit to your liking. His every breath spent chasing after your favor, desiring to be remade in your image, to be exactly what you want him to be. Afraid that, when finally met with you, you will not like what you see.

Zhongli has rarely ever wanted, and rarer still, has he ever feared.

It's a mortal's fear. The fear of their lord displeased with their harvest. A boyish fear, made up of desperation and the fear of disapproval; one he shouldn't feel, one he should feel no familiarity with. One he suspects many have felt when within his own presence.

When you ask him what he would like in return for all of his efforts— a reward, you say— Zhongli feels his breath seized from him.

Zhongli lived much of his early life against you. At every opportunity, he rebelled at what he thought was a cruel god. Imperious and charged with Guizhong’s death, he would have demanded answers.

For him to have lived while those he cared for perished without a moment's repose, for him to have survived every moment of cruel war when each breath was like a whip against his lungs— he deserved to know, if you were as real as Guizhong so staunchly believed, why he had lived in her place.

Yet, despite centuries of tempered rage, Zhongli has become content to live as nothing more than your servant.

He tells you he wants for nothing. That all he desires now is the simplicity of being beside you; the escape of your laughter, where there's no need to concern himself with anything other than you. He tells you he only wishes to know how to take care of you better, how to align himself with your tastes and desires.

"I insist," you say, and Zhongli realizes it's a command. His mouth turns dry, and every word settles on his tongue like heavy weights, dead and still.

You stare, and his breath hitches, his heart a swell in his chest. Zhongli thinks of every answer, how your reaction to any could either breathe life into him, or leave him broken. How, for a moment, he amuses himself with the idea of asking for your touch— the cusp of your palm on his cheek, your fingers against his spine; how he could ask, and how you might favor him enough to do so.

He then thinks of asking you for reassurance. For affirmation of forgiveness for the actions in his youth. To finally have the certainty that he hasn’t failed you, and maybe, the confirmation that you may care for him.

“Forgive me for my impropriety, Your Grace,” Zhongli begins, voice light and breathy. His hand rests on his chest, fighting the urge to dig into his skin, hoping to calm the pounding of his heart. “But… if I may, I was wondering if I had done right by you?”

You sit inertly in silence for a moment, and Zhongli wonders if it’s on purpose, some sort of punishment for daring to ask such a thing. You had no reason to reward him, and he had been blessed enough to hold your attention for longer than a moment. He had no right to ask for your thoughts, not so directly.

He thought he knew that. It was why he followed you, why he made sure your every request was completed to the highest standard. If you mentioned the taste of your tea being too bitter, or sweet, or that you’d rather he prepare something else for you entirely, he would rush to follow your word. Even if he had been the one to brew it, even if it was him who cultivated the leaves, even if he thought it would be to your liking.

All he needed was to be helpful. All he needed was you. Within you, was his salvation— within you, was love itself. Without you, the once great Lord of Geo was but a fragmented elemental wisp of energy, only ever calling your name.

A spike of adrenaline rushes through him, fear and anxiety denying any sense of hope. All he hears is the solitary sound of his heart in his ears.

“You have only ever done good by me.”

Zhongli’s heart lurches, heat rippling through his body. You say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and his mind feels dizzy at the implication. The ground sways, and his feet feel light.

“You deserve more than that, I think.” You step forward, and Zhongli is so lost within his own thoughts, he takes no notice of your sudden increase in proximity— but his breath still quickens, and red still coats the apples of his cheeks.

“Kneel,” you whisper, and though you say it so softly, it's as though the sky had been torn asunder with the speed he responds. Zhongli’s mind still feels far away, but he hears your orders as if spoken directly into his ear.

He drops to his knees, no care for whether he does so elegantly enough. All he can focus on is the weight of your gaze, and the way he's the only thing under it.

“Do you want me to praise you?” You trace his jawline with your finger, still speaking in a soft, unhurried tone. “Do you want me to tell you how much of a good boy you are?”

Zhongli inhales sharply, fighting every thought that screams at him to eagerly lean into your hand. He stares up at you, russet lashes fluttering and amber eyes swallowed by adoration and worship.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he whispers hoarsely.

Your thumb swipes over his lower lip, and a whine rises to the back of his throat.

“My good boy.” Zhongli’s entire body shudders, his chest heaving. A shaky breath escapes him. “You've been waiting to hear that for so long, haven't you?”

He whimpers, then nods in a way he hopes doesn’t come across as overeager— quickly bereft of any sense of propriety, or care for whether or not he’s making a fool of himself. All he can concern himself with is how close you are, how easily your scent renders him still, how quickly he borders on senseless.

You smile at that, and he bites his tongue to stop himself from whimpering.

“Do you want me to tell you how grateful I am?” Your fingers move across his neck, brushing against his Adam’s Apple, watching it bob as he gulps, trying to keep himself steady and not fall against you. “How you're my favorite?”

An ugly sound rips from Zhongli’s throat, and it's one he's instantly ashamed of. Every part of him feels bare in front of you, laid out messy and without decorum. The mask he’s worn for eons steadily breaks, and every one of his veins and bones scream out for your warmth.

The Lord of Geo wouldn’t have ever allowed himself to be so vulnerable. He never would have amused himself with the thought of pleading for anything, or kneeling and falling apart because he was treated softly— least of all, of being so desperate to know that you love him; that you favor him.

Zhongli, now without his Gnosis, is as mortal as the men he used to lord over. And perhaps it’s his newfound mortality that moves him to lean into your hand, frantically trying to meld your fingers against his skin until his flesh is like clay inlaid with your fingertips; hoping that you’ll rebuild him until he fits your desires, and tell him again that he’s proven to have done good by you.

Every thought is a prayer, another hymn, another psalm.

“Am I? Your favorite?”

His voice trembles, and breathes into a soft whisper. Zhongli doesn’t mean to sound so desperate— he doesn’t mean to be so greedy— but his soul has never felt so full before. His mind is so mired by your touch and voice that he doesn’t realize his lack of formality, or how he might come across as arrogant.

He wants only to think of you, and so he does. Nothing else matters.

“Yes.” You chuckle, and his heart speeds up at the sound, fervent. “Why would I want anyone else?”

Zhongli whines, and faintly, through the blur of fanaticism and worship, thinks that no matter what you asked of him, he would do it without hesitation.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #sagau #cult au #sagau zhongli #yandere zhongli #cult au zhongli #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere male #yandere male x reader #male yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere #self aware genshin au #self aware genshin #gender neutral reader

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zerocoded · 1 month ago

Text

hm. so. homecoming wings spoilers, be warned.

i just finished caleb’s branch on the main story and i’m actually crying? i’m not going to talk about the little holes they left on the story because the game was never about scratching the player’s itch of writing excellency like a book would do…

but why did our farewell with caleb sounded so bittersweet? like we actually “lost” our childhood bestfriend or the idea we had of him and there is no comfort after that. that is just there, in plain sight: we are not happy with him and we let him go in weird terms. them leaving things as they were pissed me sooo much! but again, i must consider the cards and extra content after that happened… so we are actually in good terms, or something like that.

infold really put the yandere behavior on him and i love it! at the same time, they let us feel that teenage loving side of him to ease a little (and confuse) our brains.

the sleeping pills??? the “sit back” voice??? the “i want to protect you so much that i’m ok with being the bad guy in your head as long as i keep you safe”???

🔊 THE CUP SCENE. YES. OH MY GAWD. and then his reaction like “are you finished?” after that- LORD HAVE MERCY. his battle attire, animation and lines are my favorite now! (after lumiére ofc)

caleb is so hot and his memories and cards are so unique!!! you get that feeling of first love and intimacy only the mc’s trope with him can give us. AND HE IS CRAZY ABOUT US AND IF YOU DONT LIKE THAT I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU. cause you’re missing out on this guy.

what really got me was his yearning, his trailers really gave us that and i’m glad it wasn’t just trope bait. he looks disheartened when he sees that we are ACTUALLY pissed at him. and when he goes to ruffle our hair and then stops his hands when we’re saying goodbye? OH NO MY SHAYLA.

this was me yapping. i’m not disappointed at all, the 3.0 version is full of nice features. it’s a shame the game is mostly a scam, but who am i to complain right? i’ll watch everything on yt later <3 CALEB YOU’RE SO HOT PLS GIVE ME A CHANCE.

anyways, live laugh love caleb.

#ᴢᴇʀᴏᴄᴏᴅᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʟᴇʙ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs #love and deepspace #caleb x you #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x mc #lads #caleb fluff #caleb fanfic #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #caleb

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ozzgin · 4 months ago

Note

(Since I think you’re taking requests. If not, feel free to delete.)

But in the spirit of now having yandere circus and October coming. Which ones of the Yandere circus would be the most willing to let me do their circus makeup.

Circus 🎪 anon-

All of them, really. They all love you terribly and would never say no to anything. Though I had a thought involving Pantalone, so that’s what I’ll be writing! :D

Content: gender neutral reader, implied self-harm, obsessive behavior, prompt: Aftercare

Pantalone exudes confidence. He is, after all, a master of the trapeze, one of the top acrobats the Night Circus has ever seen. Everyone is left with an open mouth upon seeing his impossible performance. The public loves his fearless act of defiance.

When it comes to you, however, he’s a deplorable miser.

He’d never show it to you, of course. To you, he’s flirty and cheeky, always making you blush and taking care of your needs. Oh, but how terribly he yearns for your affection. The anxiety scratches at the back of his head, haunting his sleep, plaguing him with doubt.

He’d do anything for your love, for your attention. If only you’d have your eyes on him alone. If only the circus had no one but him and you in it. He hates the other artists, he despises the way they look at you, he loathes the fact that you’re so kind to everyone.

Sometimes, his jealousy becomes too much.

“How is your face so scratched?” you ask, noticing the deep, red lines blooming on his features. “You don’t even have-”

You stop yourself and glance at his stumps, then sigh.

“Would you help me with my makeup,” Pantalone requests meekly. He glances at you with pleading eyes filled with desperate need.

Then, he nods towards his lap, and you follow obediently. His dearest Columbina.

“I think tonight will be another success,” you say, trying to cheer him up.

“As long as you’re there to watch me.”

[Navigation] | [Ozztober Masterlist] | [Yandere Circus]

#ozztober #yantober #doodle #yandere circus #yandere #yandere x reader

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hoseoksluna · 6 days ago

Text

RUSE | jjk

pairing: yandere!jungkook x strategy!oc (feat. police officer!taehyung)

genre: smut; angst

rating: 18+

summary: due to his reasons, jungkook wants to reciprocate what you've done to him, but what he doesn't know that you're always one step ahead.

word count: 6.2k

pin: strategy

warnings: dark content not to be romanticized — stalking, manipulation, gaslighting, smoking, stray animal, mentions of cum eating, trauma, ptsd, depression, metal anguish, fear, anxiety, male masturbation, disgust, post nut clarity, gun, mentions of female oral sex and sexual intercourse, mention of rape, lack of hygiene.

FORMAL WARNING: jeon jungkook written in this work is a figment of my imagination and does not reflect the living person and his family.

luna’s note: oh my babies, i didn't have much time to write throughout the week because i've been so busy, stressed out and tired. i wrote this rly fast today, but it actually wrote itself. i myself was surprised when i wrote the end of this chapter and i need to talk about it, so hit my askbox as soon as you finish reading. ENJOY MWAH. <3

past chapters: STRATEGY ; SCHEME ; masterlist

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster,

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Jungkook didn’t sleep a wink that night.

As much as his hands yearned to clean you off his cum under the hot steam of a shower and his lips to kiss yours in order to shift the moment into an atmosphere of tenderness, he didn’t do any of those things. Like a person bereft of any blood, any worth and any purpose in life, he stood there, outside of the bubble of your self-indulgence while you consumed, quietly in your frantic pursuit, the sticky beads of his passion for you, which he splattered your body with. Your gaze didn’t wander off to see where he’s gone—you weren’t concerned about his empty hands at all. Instead, you stared at your own, licking them off, and then, like him, you got off the bed and hit the shower without so much as glancing back at him.

You didn’t even leave the door open. If you had done that, he would’ve crawled on his hands and knees like a needy cub and pawed at your legs just to get a droplet of water, cascading from your skin, upon the bottom of his lip. But you didn’t. You didn’t care for him at all. And because of that, there was nothing left for him to do than to pick up his clothes, get dressed mid-walk, and slam the door behind him so harshly that he felt the reverberation of his rage crawling across the muscles in his arms like spiders. Back and forth, back and forth—like the motions of his cock that slid in and out of you just a moment ago.

He didn’t hope you heard it. Hell, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind because as soon as his finger pressed the elevator button, it was burdened by a certain memory that penetrated it like a body of water breaking open the wooden constitution of a boat. While what he felt for you as an individual in that moment was something akin to hatred, what suddenly budded in his soul for that swollen pearl of lasciviousness and for that tight hole below, which leaked so much liquid sweetness that he still felt it coating his inflexibly stiffened dick… it unequivocally contradicted it. In his heart, he knew that the dreams flooded him because he had fought them and repressed them for so long, but the logic of the matter was useless to him. The overlay of your pussy eclipsing, at last, over his mind, was so cosmic, dotted with the stars of your arousal, and so paralyzing that he didn’t know when the doors had opened and when they had closed, when the transportation took him down and when the air finally hit his lungs. His fingers didn’t rummage through his pockets for his cigarettes—he stared at absolutely nothing while perfectly seeing your cunt that he fucked. Yes, cunt. The word that you deserve after what you had done to him. The shiny folds. The clit that he rubbed, licked and sucked until you gave him your orgasm. And the tight hole that falsely welcomed him behind the pretense of adorably needing him.

The other half of him, which was ruled by his anger, was heightened. He clenched his fist, yearning to express that emotion laced with his frustration through the act of breaking something. He saw red, but he saw pink too—the pinkness of your flesh, and within that second he perceived that he wasn’t an amalgamation of you and him, but that he was a mere dusky particle of chaos, a bundle of confusion, lack and abandonment. Unloved, unneeded in the right way, fruitless and purposeless, an instrument of lust—a spear hardness that got you off, and nothing else.

Jungkook was fuming, but at the same time he relived the memory of him rubbing his nose on your clit while his tongue slipped in and out of you, and the split drew his tears to his waterline with such harsh, painful hardness that he closed his eyes just to soften the pain. And had it not been for the bright streams of his car headlights digging into his eyelids, he would’ve sleepwalked like this home.

He had left the door to his driver seat open, and the edges felt soothingly cold as he gripped them for support while getting inside. He didn’t close them because he longed, now that he was partly outside of the dream, for the equally cold spring air to filter through his lungs. Soak up the heaviness and the nicotine he’d shared with you, exchange it for absolute lightness. The tears burned behind his eyes, pushed against them, and they would pour out and spurt down onto his cheeks, had a small animal not made a soft noise somewhere below him.

A shivering, sodden ginger cat placed its round paws against the threshold of the car.

At first, Jungkook nearly soundlessly gasped. A desperate, yet saddened huff of air escaped his mouth as he looked down and saw that fragile body freezing due to the aftermath of the rain. And then, his heart ached so much that he picked up the animal with careful hands—as if he were handling a baby, he slid his hands under the armpits of the cat and cradled it to his chest. From this close proximity, he studied the state of the furry friend while he caressed its head. And upon noting the scratches across its brow and the bridge of its nose and feeling the jagged bones of its ribs under his hand, Jungkook discerned that it was as broken as him.

A friend in need, indeed. His pain multiplied, and the dam of his emotions burst apart. Like the debris fell, he fell as well. Burying his head into the wet fur of the still shivering cat, he wept. He wept for its misfortune and low living conditions, and he wept for his own, too. There weren’t many differences between them. And the more he wept, the more the cat settled down. His bitter tears warmed its cold body, eased up its shivers, and it rested against his shoulder and the crook of his neck until it began to purr. And then the services of utmost kindness and love were exchanged as the cat’s feline murmurs of comfort soothed him and paused the cascade of his tears. As if telling him—don’t cry anymore, you have me.

Evocatively, Jungkook sensed that he bonded with the cat. More than he ever bonded with you, and something whispered to him that the furry friend would never treat him the way you did.

A torrent of logic surged through his mind. While he may have picked up the cat in a moment of weakness because he needed the relief from the emotional pain he experienced, it didn’t mean he was quite willing to let go of it and let it go back to its old life of desolation. The cat clung to his neck, and that alone gave him the strength to reach over and close the car door shut. To turn on the heater, not for him because he was burning under his clothes, but for the poor animal. Abel Tesfaye’s voice boomed through the dark interior of his car, but Jungkook turned down the volume until he eventually shut it off entirely. He longed for the cat to be undisturbed, especially if it alone longed for him back.

He couldn’t get it off his neck, and that alluded that it was his now.

He wanted to place it on the passenger seat beside him. Roll the seatbelt over its small body and clip it shut, securing its safety. The cat, however, would not budge, and would actually sink its claws into his throat, ever so gently, if he would try, after the millionth time, to pry it off. It wasn’t until he was halfway home that the kitty began to softly snore and, using all the tenderness he was capable of, Jungkook used the opportunity to place it on his lap. The cops didn’t see, his phone didn’t ring—all went smoothly.

You didn’t haunt his mind.

He carried the cat upstairs, holding its butt for support as he diligently put it back to its original position on his shoulder so it wouldn’t notice it was moved. It slept so soundly that it didn’t stir awake even when he set it down in the corner of his couch and covered it with the only blanket he had. He wondered how long it had searched for food that it was so exhausted, and the tears rushed back up his eyes with their bitterly hot temperature that he couldn’t handle. He caressed its head again, kneeling on the carpet in front of the couch, careful not to touch the wounds it had. Thought about how he was going to take it to the vet the next morning. He had saved up enough for your future to now spend it on the animal, and he didn’t feel one ounce of regret that you were never going to see that money.

The kitty would, and it would appreciate him for it.

Jungkook traced its fluffy ear and even in its deep sleep, it twitched in response. He cooed and pondered how he was going to take care of it and pour all of the love he had for you into it until his eyes became heavy. Then, he got up and ritually took off his clothes in order to take a shower—but when he stood in front of the tinted shower doors, he realized he was standing in front of his greatest enemy.

And it is at this present moment that all the memories are hurled at him like bullets.

But they’re not of the lustful kind, the blazed snippets of your femininity that were strung together in his mind as soon as he flung your door shut. They’re of a sinister kind, reminding him of what you’ve done. And the shower represents some sort of portal that holds the heartless hazard of him reliving the pain again if he were to step inside. All because you ate his cum and left him barren, overlooking or plainly ignoring his own sensitive needs and taking a shower without him after he thought what you and him had was more profound than the casualness you showed.

Jungkook takes a step back. His heart thumps, and the tears that have been threatening to pour out in the last minutes stain his cheeks in immense fear.

Fear of the pain. Fear of the heaviness. Fear of… you.

The teardrops form a rivulet upon his clavicles, trickling down his empty heart that feels full at the same time. Full of love yearning to be given out; full of love ungiven to you.

He doesn’t know how he does it—gather the courage to wipe his cheeks down with his palm and use the same hand to plunge deep into his chest somewhere and grab the bunny of his love. Kneel on the tiles and lead it to jump out of his hold in front of the shower. Turn around and refuse to watch the way the innocent and the sinless herbivore tuck down its ears, tilt its head up and beg him not to leave it behind.

This is the first time it hears it speak. Please, please. Such subdued, little tone and how great of a power it bears. Still, Jungkook grabs the door knob and as gently as he can, he clicks the door shut, ignorant to the last part of the plea that he shall never hear again.

Wearing nothing but his black Calvin’s, which are sticky and uncomfortable, he walks into the kitchen where he washes his hands. Pulling out a plate of eggs and a tube of spam and pouring one and a half scoop of rice into the rice cooker, he fixes a quick dinner and doesn’t hesitate to grab a small black teacup plate, the smallest he has, which belonged to Taehyung once. He had broken it and Jungkook fixed it for him, but hyung never wanted it back. Still to this day, whenever Jungkook looks at it, he wonders why he never took it back. He traces the glued split fracture before he tenderly tears the spam for the kitten and places it on top of the unseasoned scrambled eggs he made for it. With both of the plates, he walks over to the couch to see the animal still folded in a deep slumber.

Jungkook thinks if a human slept in the same position, his heart wouldn’t melt as much and he wouldn’t feel so much for it, especially now after he got rid of all the love he had.

Setting the plates down, he sits beside the kitten and folds over it just the same. Petting its head, he’s adamant to wake it up, the picture of its fatigued and starved body very much vivid in his mind. It can sleep peacefully for the rest of the night, but it needs to eat now.

“Wake up, baby.”

The pet name reminds him that he’s never checked for its gender. In the moment of weakness, it wasn’t important to him, he didn’t care and he didn’t need to know. But if the animal is supposed to be a part of his life now, he should know for the sake of a deeper bonding. It should have a name as well.

Jungkook rubs his nose in the especially sensitive and soft place of its head—right below its ear. “Are you a little boy or a girl, hm?”

He’s guilty to think that he’d rather prefer it to be a boy after what happened tonight. That he overall considers the option to be safer rather than if the kitten was a girl. His heart constricts, and he fights his own feelings for the sake of it because it doesn’t deserve it. It shouldn’t matter.

“Your food’s getting cold. Wake up.”

Despite the fact Jungkook used a singsong pitch of tone, the cat doesn’t budge. Still it breathes evenly, the blanket lifting and falling under his chest, and he thinks it's time to pull out the big guns.

Reaching over for its plate, he picks up the smallest piece of the spam and brings it to its nose. The kitten sniffs it, quickly opens its eyes and lifts its head, confusingly searching for the source of the delicious smell. It doesn’t get up like Jungkook expected it would, and it looks at him like it makes sure he’s the safe person it chose before it slowly nibbles on the meat. Jungkook feels the tears rush up again and his heart does a somersault as he feels the kitten’s teeth and its gentle scraping on his fingers.

And somehow this time, he doesn’t stifle them back.

Freely, he lets them out, but the unrestrainment to his emotions causes him to sob with all the violence that was stored in him for so long. It scares the cat however—it gazes up at him with a parted little mouth, drawn an inch back from his fingers—and he regrets it. Terribly, terribly he regrets it.

“No, I’m sorry. I won’t cry again,” he apologizes to the animal, wiping down his face. “Enjoy your food. I won’t interrupt again. Just eat.”

And he pushes the rest of the piece of meat to its mouth. The cat sniffs it before it hesitatingly takes it again, and Jungkook is ready to give it the tiny scrambled egg as he watches it chew, choking on the surge of tears and the lump in his throat. Once it swallows, it denies the egg and instead gets up on wonky, sleepy legs, waits for Jungkook to lift his torso and once he does, it walks over to his lap and settles into a position of a loaf of bread.

Was that to comfort him? A tear and a cry escapes, which he quickly muffles with a palm over his mouth, and he distracts it with the scrambled egg that it willingly takes. And because it can’t see him, he silently weeps. Because it eats, because it so evidently comforted him, and because it chose him in the middle of his loneliness.

The kitten doesn’t finish its plate. Jungkook’s own dinner has gone cold, but he doesn’t mind. He picks up the cat and returns it to its former position, but it surprises him by rolling over onto its back, showing him its flat, skinny belly. Jungkook immediately remembers one of the short videos he had watched in the past. He himself never grew up with any animals, let alone a cat, so he never knew how they worked, but as a little boy he always longed for one non-human friend—he’d gaze with a certain kind of jealousy at neighbors who’d walk their dogs and as he got older, he’d satisfy his longing with videos. And the recent one he saw, it explained how cats show their vulnerability and sense of safety with their owners by showing their belly.

He doesn’t hide his emotions. This is all he ever wanted all his life, beside the sight of the sea. With a tear-stained hand, he rubs its belly. And there he sees the gender of the kitty—as if it showed it to him, as if it could see the contents of his anxious thoughts and it decided to smooth them out.

The cat is a girl.

A faint line of disappointment courses through his veins, which is then smoothed out, once again, by the purring she exudes. As if she was saying—don’t worry, I’m not a human, remember? And for that, Jungkook kisses her belly, sinks his thanks into the fur, which slightly stinks. He doesn’t want to contemplate where she lived all this time. Not that he can—because a greater problem resurfaces.

If he can’t wash himself, how will he wash the cat?

Many thoughts of many faces swirled in his mind while the kitty girl snored.

Jungkook didn’t realize the sun had unraveled its light across his street until one of its beams, streaming through the window, landed on the wounds of the animal. She stirs awake, peeking with one eye open, which soon closes back again as she stretches her jaw in a big, long yawn.

He held her the entire night. Sometimes, he would press his ear against her heart just to get answers to his unending questions. There, he would doze, but he would never fully sleep like her. Sometimes, he would caress her; sometimes he would just keep his hand on her while he tried to figure out what the next day and the following trajectory of his shared life with her shall look like.

He did figure it out, and Jungkook thinks that somehow, in her dreamland, she radiated her smartness to him through transcendent waves of a human-and-animal relationship. There was no evidence of heaviness in terms of the decisions he made, and while he did feel the pinpricks of the pain poking through his heart when he thought about the events you made happen in his life, he also felt good in the long run. And he’s sure he has the kitty girl to thank because she kept him company and because she saved him.

He feels the need to share it all with her, now that she’s awake.

“Good morning, baby,” he intones, coaxing out her purring, which showers him with shocks of muted joy. “Did you sleep well?”

She stops her purring, jutting out her tongue just to clean her paw that she was laying against all night. His heart twists, its jagged parts piercing his lungs.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, fondling her head and her ears. She stops her cleaning just to gaze back at him as if she was double checking that this was reality, that she didn’t dream about her rescue. His lungs bleed at that. “We’re gonna go to my friend’s place downstairs and Appa’s gonna scrub you clean. He needs a shower, too. I’m sorry that we can’t use mine.”

His heart doesn’t allow him to expand on the reason, not quite yet, and he’s relieved that the kitty continues doing her thing without pressuring him. He’s so used to your ways that the silence feels more than rewarding—something way beyond that, incapable of being confined by the walls of the human, worldly system. He smiles at her, his eyes getting teary again, but the violence of his emotions has quieted. He kisses her head, over and over again, making kissing sounds that do bring back the memories of what he did to your lips and cunt last night, but they’re so faint and so powerless that he’s able to tune them out. He doesn’t want to imagine what his morning would look like if he didn’t have the kitten to distract his thoughts, and so he continues kissing her until a certain matter floats up.

“What is Appa gonna call you?”

The kitten purrs, drifting to a serene morning nap, ignoring him or rather giving him the reins. Jungkook did think about this matter, but he couldn’t figure out a name that would flow out of his lips for her with an ease such as the pet name. He planned to have a conversation with her about it, but it seems as though she’s too sleepy to pay attention. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

“Are you Appa’s baby?”

The kitten sighs, and that’s good enough of an answer for him. Baby, it is.

He leaves her to nap while he goes to make his morning coffee. Stronger and blacker than usual. Yesterday lies inside the pit of his stomach that is empty of all food, having ingested the little he ate, and he wishes to scald it with the dark liquid and burn it with the ash of his cigarette, and that’s precisely what he does, suppressing the memory of the rising ash of the cigarette you smoked while he ate you out.

He smokes three of them while he’s at it, lost in the realm of his thoughts. Baby is taken care of, but there’s the lingering matter of you that won’t let him be, simmering somewhere low within him even through its faint temperament. Does he ghost you and live a placid life with Baby, never driving up to your street or through the streets of Hongdae to protect girls better than you—or does he take his revenge? Take your schemes and adjust them, make you pay for what you’ve done?

This is a silent dead end that he faces, but something of a kind, hopeful nature whispers to him to leave it be for now. But if the matter of you won’t leave him be and he’s asked to leave it be in reciprocation, then he’s relatively inclined to be radical and ruin your life.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t punctuate that thought—he truly leaves it be for now, despite the fact that the idea arouses him. His sack feels heavy, having only orgasmed once yesterday when he usually needs to do it at least one more time in order to secure his sexual well-being. When the memories of your pussy haunted him, he was too numb to be aware whether he was hard or not, but now, now that numbness is slightly swept away from him as if it were a fabric of silkiness draped across his body. His cock stiffens, and he senses that familiar pressure in the low of his abdomen, and he sighs, overcome by lust that he can’t say no to.

He checks whether Baby is still sleeping and once he sees her resting, he makes haste.

Carefully shutting the door behind him, he wraps his fingers around the bottle of lotion to his right, which sits upon his desk. He plops down onto his bed, his body situated in the middle of the mattress while his legs are perched on the floor. He tugs the material of his boxers down, his cock springing free, sticky with dried crumbs of your virginal blood. He closes his eyes at that, willing the pain to go away, refusing to go through it again, and instead he focuses his mind on his own personal ruse.

Stealing you away to a place far away. Lots of ropes. Lots of lube in the right places.

Jungkook fists his cock. His veins throb under his hand, but the stickiness of your residue and all that blood gives him an icky feeling. Normally, he would wash himself before doing this, but because he physically can’t, he fixes the issue with a great amount of lotion. He spreads it all around with both hands, letting out little breaths and gasps of pleasure when his fingers squeeze the right spots. All is increased by that overspilling creamy substance as it begins to squelch like your cunt did—and Jungkook sweats and pants for air. And allows himself to form a mental image of his ruse.

He would tie your wrists up around the headboard of a bed he never slept in and never shall. And while you would try to shimmy out of your panties, he’d only pull them up higher. Squirt an overwhelming amount of lube on his cock and slide it inside from the edge of the fabric. Like this, he would moisten your cunt. He wouldn’t touch it, he wouldn’t rub it. Only start fucking it like this, using your femininity, holding your panties in place and also tightening it around his shaft. He’d shock you and he’d disappoint you, giving you a taste of your own poison.

He would count how many times you came like this when you weren’t allowed to, and just as many times he’d punish you because you were such a little bitch that didn’t deserve anything.

There his fantasy paused. His chest shudders, his pleasure on the cusp of the peak. He doesn’t know how he would punish you without spanking you because he didn’t want to encounter his father again, but the idea of it, the idea of it being different nearly makes him come.

He lets go of his cock. His shaft pulsates, reddened and milky. Drops of his precum slither down, melting into the thickness of the lotion, and he’s so out of breath and his vision is swimming so much that he has to rub his eyes with the back of his hands, devoid of the makeshift lube.

And then it comes to him and his manhood asks for him again. One hand wraps around his thickness, the other clutches his full balls. And it’s so perfect, so smart and exactly what you deserve that when he begins to move again, the orgasm feels as though it’s about to fasten around him. He speeds up his movement, concentrating on the tip of his cock, and the idea plays out over and over again on loop. He whimpers needily, bucking his hips into his fist as he massages his sack, eyes squeezed shut, the image of it so bright and so impeccable that it almost makes him feel as though he were soaring.

What he would do to you is that he would—

A scratching on the door yanks him out of the flawlessness of the dream. But his body is still there, and despite the fact he stopped the movements on his private parts, he comes so hard that his torso is pushed back onto the mattress, his cock leaking so much of his cum that it bathes him in white. The pulsation is vivified, amplified, worsened, and while he should be experiencing a celestial relief that would cleanse out his spirit, he’s strapped down by a guilt so boundless that feels more awful than he did before. All because Baby is scratching the door, asking for his presence.

He should’ve been with her, deepening her sense of safety, not fucking his cock to the thought of sexually using a person he hates.

His orgasm is ruined, no aftershocks of pleasure run through his body, stained with so much fucking cum that he’s disgusted by it. Post-nut clarity hits him, putting salt on his wound, and he’d much rather die right now than get up and live with the fact that he’s a sorry case of a human being. He can’t catch his breath, the sweat lining his body is aggravating him, and the heaviness returns to him.

No redemption for him, no saving because despite the poison absorbing his system, he still wants to follow through with his ruse. He was steered to let this be, but he simply can’t.

“Just a second, Baby.”

Jungkook wipes off the cum stains with a bunch of tissues and tucks his flaccid cock back into his dirty boxers, cringing all the way through. He hurries as he opens the door to find the ginger kitten sitting on her butt, looking up at him. He can’t read her emotions, he can’t tell if she’s asking questions, and he’s ashamed to take her into his arms. Not after what he’s done, not when he’s so soiled.

And he takes his gaze away from her potential disappointment when he turns around and leaves her there, opening his closet to get dressed as quickly as possible. And he’s not ignorant to the fact that she won’t step inside, as if the ghost of his sin prevented her from entering.

Rightfully so, Jungkook thinks.

“You have a cat? Since when?”

The sound of Taehyung’s deep voice outright irritates him as soon as he hears it. His hyung had scowled at him once he opened his front door after Jungkook ringed it, but his distasteful expression dropped the second his brown pools noticed the small, unnerved orange kitten in the crook of his arm.

Jungkook had to grit his jaw and push through after he got dressed and Baby meowed at him from the threshold. The act alone of putting clean clothes over his dirty body squeezed every last ounce of life out of him, and the fact he had to pick up her up and touch her with his sinful hands, cradle her to his dishonorable chest revolted him. His mood plummeted down, and even the softness of her fur couldn’t lift it back up.

It didn’t help that Baby didn’t like the change of scenery. She started fidgeting and tried to escape out of his arm as the darkness of the hall enveloped them. The song of his door locking behind him scared her and as her fear spread out, she cried so loud that Jungkook had a hard time quietening her down. His fast paddling down the stairs stole her attention from it and decreased her cries, but her body wasn’t still and Jungkook really wanted to die.

And now he wants to strangle Taehyung for asking a stupid question, but since he’s asking for a favor, he puts on a fake smile whilst his eyes remain dead. Baby buries her head in his breast, her claws digging into the muscle there.

Upon seeing the feigned kindness, Taehyung steps aside and Jungkook walks in.

His apartment is a mess, stacked full with strange decor, take out food and cups and bottles of different unfinished soda. The first thing Jungkook’s gaze lands upon, however, is the rumpled police uniform thrown over a chair right in front of him, and his stomach turns over, bile rising up.

A dead dream, indeed.

Just yesterday, it was the greatest thing he longed for, and today he shall never venture out into the evil streets of Hongdae. He’ll never take care of the girls seeking adrenaline, and his fist will never break bones of the little pussies who take advantage of their enthusiasm. He’ll never probe Taehyung's real cases of crime and he’ll never sit in the passenger seat of his own police car. And he’ll never ever again dream about wearing that uniform.

The tears don’t reappear, but a thick layer of sadness adheres to him, gouging out a hole inside his chest, where his dream can rest for all eternity and where the funeral for it can take place. Jungkook will be the only one present.

He hears the shuffling of Taehyung’s feet and Jungkook pulls himself together, forcing himself into the reality. Taehyung asked him a question, and even though it exasperated him so much and he’d much rather just wordlessly take a shower and leave, he turns around and answers it, playing a role because there’s nothing left for him to do.

Taehyung can’t know about this pain. No one can.

“I found her yesterday,” Jungkook says, truthfully, willing strength and a steady façade to his voice so Taehyung doesn’t pry in something that isn’t any of his business.

Taehyung comes to stand beside him. A question is wrung into his features that is let up a little when he looks down at Baby. Both of his hands are in the pockets of his silken carmine pajama pants and one of them raised to pet Baby’s head. Distrustful, the kitten buries her face deeper into Jungkook’s chest and respecting and honoring her wishes, Jungkook maneuvers her and upheaves her to her favorite place, swallowing the memory of you, too, having favorite places on his body. Baby almost crawls to his neck and Jungkook lets her, stroking her back.

“You found her? You didn’t rescue her?” Taehyung asks, slowly, and it’s pissing him off that he’s asking so many questions and that he can’t retort back like he’d wish to.

He sighs. “Sort of. She came to me when I was about to drive away from… a friend’s house. She’s a stray and I took her.”

Jungkook swelters under his clothes, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. Taehyung studies him and the whitely dotted orange fur of the cat, contemplating the information he was given. Jungkook dislikes the principle of him assimilating his personal business to such an extent that he’s ready to open his mouth and just outright ask to do what he came here for. But Taehyung is faster, and he’s not quite satisfied with what he got.

“Have you taken it to the vet yet?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Not yet, but I’m about to. This is actually what I came here for—”

“You should’ve taken it as soon as you decided to keep it. You don’t know how sick it can be. What did you feed it?”

Jungkook fully swivels to face him, cocking his brow at the absolute disrespectful tone he used. Anger pricks his fingertips and he no longer wants to be here because he knows that the longer he stands here, the more he’s going to be affronted and Taehyung is going to make him feel like a small child. Mirror shards of his father begin to be placed on Taehyung’s unkempt form and Jungkook is aware that this is a test and that he needs to fight.

“First of all, it’s a she and second of all, I know what to do—”

“Where were you last night?”

The question catches him off guard, diminishing the fact that his speech was interrupted again. Who is this person and where has his friend gone? Why is everyone against him and why does no one seem to love him? Is he that unlovable, that worthless?

Jungkook sucks in a breath through his teeth, cognizant of the fact that he can’t stay here any longer. “What’s it to you?”

Taehyung rolls his shoulders back, his oversized sleep T-shirt clinging to his prominent muscles. He looks down at his feet before he brings his gaze back to him, biting his bottom lip briefly. Jungkook feels as though he’s being investigated, and he doesn’t like that one bit.

“You smell like sex. Who did you fuck last night?” he questions, his tone low and deliberate. Jungkook’s heart sinks, his mind blanking out at the personal attack. “I saw your car parked in front of my girl’s house on my patrol last night,” he adds, mentioning your name, firing a gun at that unlively flesh that a ghost of you is holding with him. “At first I didn’t believe it until I checked the license plate and found out it was yours. And then I called her, many times, but she wasn’t picking up her phone. I’m sure you’re the reason why.”

Jungkook’s lungs cease to function. His body goes into a state of numbness and his mind spins, his vision scattered with a lusterless kaleidoscope of stars. The memory of a ringing phone that he foolishly thought was his own slinks into his eardrum, where it begins an orchestra of madness and bloodshed.

And it gains volume when the ghost of you that he saw develops into a true human form.

You emerge out of a room, wearing a lacy robe that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your breasts show through, your stomach and the cunt that caused this all. The long bell sleeves conceal the end to his existence, and it is soon revealed when you lift a hand, around which a gun rotates, and place it on Taehyung's shoulder.

“This is the guy that stalked me and raped me, Oppa.”

This is the end of him, but what will happen to Baby?

BACK to masterlist

#divider by d-oie #bangtanwhq #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #kpop smut #jungkook fic #jungkook series #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #jungkook angst

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averycutesalamander · 3 months ago

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pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

#sal.txt #this one was a toughie but it was fun!! (and way longer than i thought... oops lol) hope my answer was satisfying haha #goddddd you just know he looks so hot when he's so furious that it consumes every drop of his reasoning. guard dog privilege and whatnot #also i had a dream a few nights ago where i got kidnapped by boothill #was that a cosmic coincidence or did you hex me #boothill x reader #boothill #x reader #reader insert #gn reader #yandere #hsr #honkai star rail #yandere hsr #angst

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bettymylove · 1 year ago

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Heya dropping off a request !! Can you write a fic with bully mattheo and draco who hates the reader for being with the golden trio and mostly harry ?? They both hate seeing you guys all mushy in public and even get jelous of ron hugging you and God the rage they feel seeing harry pin you up against a wall and kiss you so they just snap . full dark yandere mode . Thank you in advance :)

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader x draco malfoy

content: read the askk<33

a/n: a part 2 maybee, if people want it!

rage, fury, and anger were just some of the emotions draco and mattheo were feeling, and have been for a while.

you were theirs, they talked to you daily, which was more like two boys being mean to you but to them it was the highlight of their day, they only teased you so they could talk to you.

you, however had decided to choose the so very popular, golden trio, whenever they spotted you, you were always with them, always touching them in some way, it made their blood boil.

just last night, they had seen you hug ron after he had won the quidditch match and they yearned to be in his position.

but surprisingly, ron wasn't even the biggest of their problems, you and harry had taken an interest of a special kind to each other.

they noticed the looks both of you gave each other, but they also saw the looks you gave them and they were nowhere near similar.

they both hit their peaks when they saw harry with his tongue down your throat while you were pushed back to a wall.

it was late in the afternoon when you found yourself walking in one of the scarce corridors, when all of a sudden you felt a hand pull you back, pining you against the wall and putting a hand around your mouth so you couldn't scream.

you soon recognized the man, mattheo riddle, your long time bully along with draco malfoy, "well, well, well isn't it our little girl?" the blond boy spoke up and soon the hand covering your mouth was removed but you didn't say anything.

"don't you think you're being too much of a rebel, doing what you were doing with potter" mattheo spoke this time.

"how do you know that?" you asked, you were frightened but you know the only way they bullied you was with words.

"we always have an eye on you" he said, tracing his finger down from your lip to your chin, hooking his fingers to have you look into his eyes.

"don't you wish that was us, instead of little potter?" draco spoke in a low voice, moving slightly forward.

you were embarassed on how quickly you were getting wet, and you knew they were aware of it, they knew everything about you, better than yourself.

and you knew right there in that moment, when you slowly nodded that this was going to be the end of you.

mattheo's lips met yours and you slowly sank in them, while draco was kissing your neck from the back, you felt like you could reside here forever.

soon mattheo's hand slipped down until they reached where you needed them the most, he started going in and out as quickly as you could and all you could do was grab draco's hair as he was making out with you.

soon you finished and he put his fingers in your mouth to let you taste yourself, "if you want more, you know where to find us"

#slytherin #draco malfoy #harry potter #theo nott #enzo berkshire #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagines #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo x you #mattheo x y/n #mattheoxreader #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x reader smut #x reader #chitasmut

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angelsrcute · 8 months ago

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Haloo :D im wondering if u r taking requests now but if u r can u write a fyodor with immortal female reader ? It would be wonderful if u can can but u can ignore this request if u want to

“ But can't you see my dear? I am your doppelganger ♡”

⌗ A LOVE IMMORTAL SUCH AS MINE, WILL COME TO ME, ETERNALLY. 𐙚˙��.˚

(´∀｀*)ε｀　) ౨ৎ N–sfw content !! ; Dom!Immortal!Vampire!Fyodor + Sub!Immortal!Vampire!F!Reader ➜ cws: Modern au, Jealous!Fyodor, Vampire themes, fwb → lovers, alcohol mentions, biting, unprotected sex + use of lube, tit play, overstimulation, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), slight Yandere!Fyodor(?), Soft!Fyodor.

꒰ † ੭ — this ended up being my longest fic ever, lol, 1.3k words!! I am taking reqs! + a lil inspiration from olgami, it's such a good webtoon. (人´∀`)♪ Translation: "Мышка" (myshka)

When humans age, they die and pass on to the afterlife, don't they? Death was something that never came to you, ah immortality, such a cool thing. It was more like a curse to you, humans coming and going, years passing by but still no one seemed to notice the same face walking among them for all these decades. Faces unrecognisable as you try to remember their names, their relation with you, not that it mattered anyway.

Relationships were a nuisance, blink and they're already gone, dead, as you stand in their funeral. It was a really funny thing, oh how you wished you could die instead of watching your loved ones die.

Fyodor Dostoevsky. Not a famous name for humans but for vampires, they say he's the oldest vampire to ever live. Have you ever met with him? You did, decades ago, in his bed, in his mansion, fyodor needed some relief and so did you.

He was the one who saved you from your death, why? Because he thought you were interesting. He'd take care of you and teach you how to hunt, how to kill people and make sure no one finds out. He seemed like a lonely man too, house deep in the woods, living all by himself.

The other vampires though, had this bloodlust, to kill him, to become the lord themselves. Everyone clawing at any chance they get, to paint their fingers red with his blood. You never understood their reasoning, what's so good living a life like this?

Dressed in the finest silk and jewelries, he liked seeing you in white clothing the most. He said it made you look like a saint, the saint that brought some change to his boring life. He definitely wasn't a fan of other vampires eyefucking you at meetings. Well, they'd end up going missing anyway.

Cleaning up after him was annoying, why did he have to be so busy? that also playing the piano as he drank wine. Blankly staring at the body in front of you as you clean the floor, muttering curses at him.

It didn't take long but you fell for him, yearning for his touches, but you could never confess, fearing it would ruin your relationship. Your body burning like fire as he kisses you, snapping his hips against you, dress ripped off and discarded on the floor.

“You liked that dress? I'll tell them to make one for you again, money isn't a problem for me.”

Cold slender fingers playing with your nipples as he decorates your neck with bite marks, drawing blood from them. Tongue darting out to lick the blood as he whispers about how sweet you taste to your ears. Your nails digging into his shoulders as your eyes roll back from pleasure, his hands holding your leg up at this point.

Everything was going smoothly until one day he disappeared, without a single word. All the other vampires went crazy over this fact. Some were happy thinking he finally died, some just disappointed that they couldn't be the one killing him.

You returned to Russia after a lot of years, travelling all over the world, everything was different to you, with the years, technology also grew, like for instance, this human was staring into a phone. Bumping into you and not saying a single apology but they had the audacity to curse you instead, calling you blind.

Well, guess you just found yourself dinner, how lucky. Hiding the body with no effort, muttering to yourself “The world would be a little better without people like this.”

You went down an alley, there was a nice bar here, you remembered. Entering it, you took a seat after ordering your favourite drink. From the corner of your eyes, you could see a stranger coming up to you, sitting beside you, “I've never seen you around here, darling, do you need some help? I know a really nice place around here–”

The man went on rambling about nonsense, poor attempts at flirting, and why is he even talking about himself, you don't remember asking. Quietly sipping on your drink as you ignored the stranger. The stranger, though, seemed offended, “Hey I'm talking to you, whore, if you don't want attention, dress up more!”

Now that part really got on your nerves, what were you supposed to wear, a long ass winter jacket? You could just pretend to play along and just kill this guy, not even interested in drinking his blood! But someone else's voice stopped you, a voice too fucking familiar.

It was none other than fyodor, you watched as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you by his side, eyes narrowing at the stranger with a smile, “It's really rude to flirt with someone's lover, don't you think? You'll walk away from here and remember nothing.” The guy on command, got up and left the bar, the people in the surrounding, definitely didn't care.

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Мышка.” He chuckled, as if he just met you yesterday and not decades ago.

“What the fuck? Where the hell were you for all these years!?” You shouted at him, burning a hole into his face with your glare, “Of course I'm surprised, am I not supposed to be when you appear like that? God!”

“Let's discuss it somewhere private, shall we? I know a hotel nearby.” You hated how composed he seemed to be, but still followed him, giving him a chance to explain himself.

“I was a bit hurt, dear, why didn't you tell the man to leave? or were you interested?” He asked while sitting down on the bed.

“Is that what we're talking about? Give me an explanation, fyodor, where the hell were you?”

“A bit busy, don't mind me, I had business that needed to be taken care of.”

“That's it? You could've at least told me a goodbye! or sent letters.”

“Ah, but that would give away my location, wouldn't it? I didn't want any disturbances, but enough about me, where were you? I couldn't find you in my mansion.”

“I was travelling, and I did not see a point in staying there if you weren't there but you really had me worried, you know?” You sighed, sitting beside him.

Well this was supposed to be meeting up with a past ‘friend’. So why did this turn into a fucking session? According to a certain someone, he wanted to make up for his mistakes!

Currently between your thighs, lapping up your folds like he hadn't eaten in years, savouring the taste like it was his favorite meal. He teased your clit with his tongue, gently flicking it, before sucking it into his mouth. Your moans and whines were music to his ear, he could feel you were close, his tongue speeding up to make you cum.

“F-fuck…gonna cum–” You stammered before cumming, lewd slurping sounds filling the room before getting up and kissing you, slipping his tongue in your mouth, making you taste yourself. A string of saliva joining your tongue after he breaks the kiss, he definitely likes seeing you like this— face flushed, hair disheveled, neck decorated by pretty hickeys by him.

You don't remember what round it was, all you can feel is the way he keeps fucking his cum back in your cunt. Sweat glistening on your body as you can't help but let out whimpers due to overstimulation, “T-Too much, fedya…slow down–”

“I'm sure you can cum for me again, my dear.”

He kisses your tear soaked face while rubbing soothing circles on your clit to calm you down. You pull him closer to kiss again, running your hands through his soft hair before he cums in you for the last time and pulls out.

Fyodor runs you a warm bath and then puts you on the bed, climbing in to cuddle with you, well, such a memorable get together isn't it?

Taglist: @blueberrisdove

#𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐄'𝐒 :: 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 (ᵔ◡ᵔ)#dom character #sub reader #bsd smut #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd x reader #bsd x female reader #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x you #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor smut #fyodor dostoyevsky smut #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

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thevanillerose · 2 months ago

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TITAN II | YANDERE!AIZEN x TINY!READER | BLEACH

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators. Content Warnings: Yandere / Kidnapping / Giant/Tiny / Violence A/N: Request [10/10] for my 100 Followers Celebration!

The final request, and it’s another sequel! I’m happy Part I was a hit, and that I have an excuse to write more Yandere!Aizen because that man…that man…

He gets a whole lot scarier in this part so you’ve been warned.

Your glass prison was maddening.

The cushions beneath you were soft enough, but you yearned for your real, actual bed. You were given food, water, all the sustenance required, but none of it you could enjoy. The box was minimalist, clinical, and yet it felt like a gilded cage. Always with the same view.

His room. The room of the giant who had captured you.

No amount of screaming or pounding against the walls had drawn anything more than an amused glance from Aizen, who had since settled into his chair with his ever-present calm composure, sipping tea as if your capture were no more significant than securing a rare artifact.

He didn’t care. He didn’t empathize or sympathize.

He liked it. Seeing your hopelessness.

You paced back and forth, your tiny fists clenched, your mind racing with possibilities. There had to be a way out—there had to. You couldn’t accept this as your fate. You wouldn’t. But every time you turned to assess the glass walls, the towering figure beyond loomed in your periphery. Aizen’s gaze never strayed far, his sharp hazel eyes tracking your every move.

Even when he wasn’t present (which was a rarity) you were scared to try your luck. Any time you had, it never ended well for you. The bruises and bite marks were indicative. While he may not have gone as far as trying to kill you, clearly preferring to keep you alive, he had still done enough to start whittling away at your will.

“It’s futile, you know,” his voice cut through the silence, and your thoughts, like a blade, smooth and composed. He leaned back in his chair, setting down his tea with a soft clink. “You’re wasting energy flitting about like that. Save your strength.”

You froze mid-step, glaring up at him. A little anger flared, despite your nerves.

“You can’t keep me here forever. Someone will come for me. They’ll find you, and when they do—”

“They’ll what?” he interrupted, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Do you think anyone would dare challenge me here? You came because you believed yourself strong enough to defeat me. And yet…” He gestured lightly toward the glass box. “This is where that belief has brought you.”

His words stung more than you cared to admit. You wanted to believe you were tougher than this, but you had to be honest.

You’d never been more scared in your life.

Still, you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. If you just stayed determined enough, maybe you’d be able to find a way to get the hell out of here.

Maybe.

…

Later…

Aizen spent much of his time in this clinical looking excuse for a bedroom, seeming to have put most of his sinister plans on hold, or in the hands of other enemies, so he could dedicate his time to you.

It was a kind of torture. At your new size, it was all too easy for him to pick you up, push you around, squeeze you in his fist just to hear you squeak. You began to realize he had a twisted sort of love for you which had only become prevalent now. His fingertips would linger and caress on your skin in such tender patterns sometimes. He’d get this strange, blurry look in his eyes…

He wanted you. In ways you never would have expected.

And how long he had, you didn’t know.

Things could only get worse from here, that was something you were certain of. If this kept up, you were literally going to break. Somehow, in some way, you needed to find a way out of here.

Your opportunity came after Aizen had fed you at the usual time. At exactly midnight, much as he did at midday, he opened the box and lowered a meager portion of food inside, diced to a size you could kind of swallow. Of course, you didn’t make the mistake of trying to climb his hand to get out. Your abdomen still ached from the time you’d tried before, and he’d flicked you like a bug.

Such a simple, easy motion for him. An absolute gut punch for you. Literally.

So, no funny games. But…he had been a little neglectful this time around. You noticed the faintest gap between the glass lid and its frame after he set it back in place, and walked out of the room.

Your heart leapt. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As it was midnight now, the gigantic menace had to rest. Surprisingly human, for such a monster, to lay down and rest his head against the pillow below him with such a peaceful expression.

Now’s the best chance I’ll get.

Quietly, you made your way over to the cushion corner closest to the gap. Taking a deep breath, you crouched down low, built momentum, and jumped up with all the strength you could muster. It took a few tries, a lot of effort, but you managed to reach and hook your fingers around the hard edge of the box.

Grunting, the soles of your bare feet slipping and sliding as they tried to find grip against the glass, you managed to haul yourself up and squeezed your body through the gap under the lid.

Finally, you slipped through. Jumping down, you landed on the desk with a delicate thud.

Freedom.

Now, you just had to get the hell out of dodge before he found you.

If he did…

A horrible chill struck through your petite little body, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, shuddering with fearful thoughts. You didn’t want to think about it.

The vast desk stretched out like a white wasteland, but you were focused on the edge, on freedom, on escape. Running over, you sought some way down that wouldn’t leave you dead on the floor as a crumpled mess, but his room was minimalist enough there was nothing stray you could cling or jump onto.

And, it was too late anyway.

You could feel his presence before you heard him—like a storm cloud gathering behind you. You didn’t even have to look.

“Going somewhere?”

His voice, smooth and low, cut through the stillness like a blade. You froze in an instant, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, with a dread that made your stomach churn, you turned to see him.

Aizen was awake, standing right over you, his figure dipped in shadow. His hazel eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, boring into you with a mix of amusement and something darker. The dark cast chiseled shadows on his bare, muscled chest.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked, his smile stretching into something sharp, something cruel. His tone was cruel yet calm, almost bored, and you trembled. You stumbled back instinctively, panic clawing at your chest.

Think of an excuse! Think of an excuse!

“I-I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Weren’t trying to run? Weren’t defying me? Lying doesn’t suit you, little one.”

Just run!

You bolted abruptly, running for the edge, desperate for something, anything, even willing to take a leap of total faith if that was what it took—but you’d barely made it two steps before his hand descended.

His fingers curled around you, the force of his grip knocking the air from your lungs and throwing you backwards. You thrashed and kicked, your tiny fists pounding against his skin, but it was like hitting solid stone.

“Pathetic,” he murmured, lifting you to his face. His smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of cold fury. Any amusement was gone. He was plainly pissed.

“Do you know how insulting this is? I could have killed you long ago. A horrible death. Yet I spared you. And this is how you repay me?”

His grip tightened, the pressure making your ribs creak. You gasped, struggling for breath, your vision blurring as panic set in. “P-please,” you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” His laugh was sharp, bitter, like the crack of a whip. His thumb jammed up sharply against your gullet, choking you, forcing your head back like he might snap it off entirely.

“No, you’re not sorry. Not yet.”

Without warning, he slammed you down onto the desk, the impact sending pain shooting through your body. You screamed, but there was no time to recover. His hand pinned you in place, his fingers pressing down just enough to make you wheeze.

“You need to understand something,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, but his eyes burning. “You belong to me. You are mine. And I do not tolerate disobedience.”

He lifted you again, your body hanging limp and aching, holding you by the waist, his grip tighter this time, his thumb pressing against your chest now, invasively, in a way that made it even harder to breathe.

“And yet you insist on it,” he said softly, his tone almost mocking. “Disobeying me. Trying to leave me. Do you want me to punish you?”

He tightened his grip again, the pressure making your vision go white. You clawed at his fingers, your body writhing in desperation, but he didn’t let up this time. Tears streamed down your face as you gasped for air, the world tilting dangerously around you.

He’s going to crush me! He’s going to…kill me!

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice soft but cold. “To see how far I’ll go? To test the limits of my patience?”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t beg. Your body struggled feebly, your breaths shallow and ragged. He watched you intently, his expression unreadable, before his grip loosened just enough for you to suck in a desperate gulp of air.

“You’re lucky,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I could end this right now. One squeeze, and it would all be over. But that would be too easy…wouldn’t it…”

His dangerous gaze flickered aside suddenly, to the edge of the desk. It was easy for you to see then, the cogs in his mind turning maliciously, and dread took hold.

“Aizen–”

Swiftly, he swung you over the drop, dangling you in the open air, only his pinching thumb and forefinger keeping you from a deadly plummet. Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as you stared down at the distant ground.

“A fall from here would kill you,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “Shall we see how far you can fly?”

“NO!” you screamed, your voice raw with terror. “P-please, don’t—!”

His smile returned, sharp and wicked. “Then remember this feeling,” he said softly, pulling you back to safety. “Remember what it means to defy me.”

Lifting you before his handsome, huge face, you saw his lips curl into a relaxed, smug smile again, his gaze hooded and raking slowly over your little form, his breath heated when he spoke.

“It would be a shame, if I lost my precious little pet so soon.”

You swallowed thickly, flushing, looking away. The tip of his finger guided your head back to look at him again.

“I still have so many things I want to do to you…”

‘Do to you’.

Not with you. To you.

You felt sick. You didn’t even want to imagine it.

“You’ll never try that again,” he said, his voice soft but malice-filled. “Because next time, I won’t be so merciful.”

His fingertip moved from your jaw to your heated cheek, gently dabbing away the tears that now wouldn’t stop falling. You sniffed and sobbed, giving up.

Aizen, content with that, returned you to your prison, making sure the top was secured this time by placing a heavy book atop it. As he turned away to return to bed, you collapsed onto the cushions as well, your body trembling uncontrollably. Your chest heaved with ragged wails, which you tried to muffle behind your quivering hands so he wouldn’t be angered again. Your mind raced with fear and despair.

He had been right about one thing. You’d remember this. You’d remember it every time you thought about running, every time you dreamed of freedom.

Because now you knew: he wouldn’t just stop you. He would break you.

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS! DECEMBER SALE: 25% OFF!

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mitfloya · 1 year ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

pairings. Rafayel x gn!reader

wc. 6.8K

synopsis. He believes that by isolating you, he can protect you from the outside world and ensure your happiness together. In his twisted mind, this is his way of creating a perfect and eternal bond, you’re his muse, his statue of beauty, his own aphrodite.

warnings. The following content contains elements of obsessive behavior, yandere thoughts, stalking, possessive behavior, and may include poorly written narratives. Reader is referred to as 'you'. Proceed with caution, as this writing may be unsettling or uncomfortable for some individuals.

a/n. Hiyaaa! Thank you so much for the people that have helped me make my post manage to slip through the timeline! I kid you not I had to break my spine with this issues I kept running into (the ori yandere Zayne post is gone, I’m sorry for the inconvenience), if any of you have any suggestions on how to make my post made it into the tags please tell them on the comments section. Get ready and have some snacks and hope you enjoy reading another hc I made

♡ Please reblog and comment on this post are much, much appreciated ♡

A manchild…? you love this guy? Me being a slander and simp at the same time

To put it simply, Rafayel is always the damsel in distress and YOU are his knight shining armor. He needs your attention and protection 24/7, you don’t want him to end up dead, do you? The whole universe will miss him.

First of all, he loves you. Second of all, he hates you.

You’re like a goldfish, how could you not remember the vows you both made when you were just a little kid?! The mere fact that you failed to recognize his face shattered his heart into pieces, for you hold immense significance in his life.

The weight of your indifference crashed upon him like a tidal wave, leaving his emotions in ruins. It was like a tornado tearing through his soul, causing a gut-wrenching ache that seemed to consume him from within.

It creates a twisted cycle of emotions that he struggles to contain. He yearns for the love you once shared, yet despises you for not remembering the bond you had.

Perhaps he regrets not taking action in the past to ensure he could always locate you, to have left a distinctive mark upon you as a means of tracking your whereabouts.

You should’ve recognized him at first glance. Where have you been? He thought he lost you, he doesn’t even want to wish upon your death but you make it harder for him not to.

You’ve grown so much and so many changes but you’re still the same person he met at the beach, and it makes him feels so many emotions at once, it’s the first time he has managed to put a rein over his emotions, he could’ve coax you to come to his studio and locked you up, if you were to recognize him.

His heart longed to show much he misses you yet his mind tells him to seek revenge. It’s like his body and soul is splitting. Do you know how much damage you are causing him?

You must understand, my dear, that he is determined not to repeat past mistakes. It is time for him to take drastic measures, to make a promise that will bind you to him forever. He sees you as his ultimate protector, his unwavering shield. From this moment forward, you will never leave his sight again.

In his eyes, you have always belonged to each other, from the very beginning. Your destinies intertwined, your fates entangled. He craves the security of knowing that you are by his side, guarding his every step, his every breath. No longer will he allow even the smallest sliver of distance to separate you.

From the beginning you are his as much as he is yours.

His artistic talent is both his greatest strength and his greatest weapon. Through his art, he immortalizes his love and hatred for you, capturing the complexities of his emotions with every stroke of the brush. His creations serve as a constant reminder of his twisted desires.

Initially consumed by hatred, he concealed his love, allowing it to resurface gradually, in subtle and tender ways.

It’s the slowest burn you could ever imagine. Painstakingly slow.

As Rafayel's hatred gradually diminished, he began to express his feelings more openly, albeit subtly, leaving significant hints about the depth of his emotions towards you. Similar to a small forest fire that grows steadily, each progression was deliberate and methodical until it consumed the entire forest, an uncontrollable blaze that can’t be extuingish.

Say goodbye to freedom and welcome to his world, now that you’re his. He will be the center of your universe.

Clinginess is an inherent trait of Rafayel's nature. He craves your presence and attention, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you even for a moment. He will go to great lengths to ensure that you never leave his side.

You've grown accustomed to his playful nature and constant need for attention, but be prepared for an amplified version, as his demands intensify. Good luck dealing with your man ♡

He is a man of pride, he immortalizes you through his art, proudly showcasing pieces dedicated to you at his exhibitions. While abstract in form, this exclusivity serves to intrigue others, leaving them pondering what makes you so special in his eyes.

Unknown to you hidden away within his personal stash, there is a gallery dedicated solely to you. Every piece of artwork revolves around your existence, capturing his obsession with meticulous detail. The walls are adorned with portraits, each stroke of the brush reflecting his twisted love for you.

But at the very least, he showers you with lots of love and affection, no more holding back.

In relationships, he presents himself as a calm and romantic partner, radiating an aura of serenity akin to the sea. He enjoys spending quality time with you, whether it be casual outings or simply sharing space in silence. With him, you will never feel alone.

But do not be deceived by the calm waters, for they possess the ability to draw you into the depths of darkness, leaving you submerged and unable to resurface. His obsession remains unpredictable, much like the ever-changing tides of the sea.

Oh, how you've stumbled into his clutches the moment you made that fateful vow. There is no turning back, my dear. You have fallen into the siren's trap, lured by his haunting charm. You are now forever entwined in his grasp, unable to break free. You should have thought twice before crossing paths with him if you weren't planning to stay.

He has two preferred methods of dealing with nuisances. He may choose to be smug and show off his superiority, rubbing his success in their faces. He revels in flaunting his success and talents, using them as a means to intimidate and belittle those who dare to steal you away.

However, if they persist, he is unafraid to resort to physical means, utilizing violence to eliminate them from your life. He goes to extreme lengths, even shedding blood and concealing the evidence of his actions, all in the name of safeguarding your well-being and maintaining his possessive hold over you.

His possessiveness knows no bounds, his desire to claim you as his own overpowering any sense of reason. He will go to great lengths to ensure that no one else can possess you, viewing you as his ultimate masterpiece.

When faced with difficulty or resistance from you, Rafayel won't hesitate to take drastic measures. He is willing to use any means necessary, including drugs, to put you to sleep and kidnap you. He will isolate you in his studio, ensuring that you will be together forever.

His studio, the place where he creates his art, becomes both a sanctuary and prison for you. Within its walls, he controls every aspect of your existence, dictating your every move and stifling your individuality. It is a place where his obsession can flourish unchecked.

You will forever remain under his possession, as he claims you and binds you eternally.

#love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace headcanons #yandere hcs #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel #qi yu #yandere rafayel #yandere rafayel x reader #yandere rafayel x you #yandere rafayel x yn #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #dividers by cafekitsune

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