#DON’T GET ME STARTED ON MATTHEW | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 5 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

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lady-luckk · 3 months ago

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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ kids are cute, let’s make one

# pairings: yandere sugar daddies x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: you’re eight sugar daddies are starting to want more from you. they’re envisioning a future with you. they want something that will chain you to them. what’s more perfect then a child.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, baby-trapping, and toxic behavior. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

# parts: part 1 𖤓 part 2 𖤓 part 3

# tags: @hopingtoclearmedschool, @yawnzzx, @hasty-desert, @enchantingarcadecreation, @cannyyyyy, @lianobody

something was shifting.

you started to notice a new pattern in their obsession—one that’s more invasive, more intimate.

they’re all talking about children.

elijah brings it up casually over dinner. "you’d make such a good parent," he says, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. "you ever think about settling down? having a little one running around? maybe… soon?" he grins, but there’s a look in his eyes that makes your stomach churn.

lucas leaves a baby magazine on your coffee table one day. you know you didn’t put it there. when you ask, he just shrugs. "just curious," he says. "wondered if you ever thought about a future. our future."

nathan jokes about it first. "imagine a little version of you running around. wouldn’t that be something?" but then he gets serious. "you’d look beautiful pregnant," he says. "really. you should think about it."

kai starts watching your cycle. you don’t know how he knows, but he always seems to know when you’re not feeling well. "we don’t have to use anything," he says one night. "i’d take care of you. both of you."

matthew starts buying vitamins. leaves them on your counter like it’s the most natural thing. "prenatal’s good for you even if you’re not pregnant," he says with a tight smile. "you never know."

leo gets quiet when you bring up birth control. "you don’t trust me?" he asks. the next time you’re together, the condom disappears. he just grins. "guess we’ll see what happens."

xavier's eyes never leave yours, a hint of something darker lurking behind his affection. "i’ve been thinking about our future," he says quietly, his hand resting lightly on your stomach. "a family... with you. we’ll make it perfect. just the way it’s meant to be."

damien doesn’t say anything at first. but he starts talking about names. baby names. casually, like it’s part of a normal conversation. you laugh it off until he hands you a list. "just in case," he says.

you feel trapped in silk—soft, golden lies that tighten every time you smile back.

but it doesn’t matter.

because they’re all dreaming of the same thing:

tying you to them. permanently.

soon, their suggestions turn to plans.

you catch elijah browsing baby clothes on his phone while you’re lying next to him. when you ask, he turns the screen away and says, "just looking." later, he offhandedly mentions how his apartment has a second bedroom. "could make a nice nursery."

lucas books a weekend getaway to a remote cabin and conveniently "forgets" to pack your pills. "you don’t need them all the time," he says. "you should trust me. we’d make a gorgeous kid."

nathan buys you a silk robe—one size up. when you laugh and ask if he thinks you're gaining weight, he just smiles. "you’ll grow into it."

kai starts talking about quitting your job. "you shouldn’t be stressed all the time," he says. "i’ll take care of everything. just focus on yourself. on… us."

matthew has taken to watching you sleep. one night, you wake up to find him staring at you from across the room. he’s holding a small, velvet box. inside isn’t a ring—it’s a positive pregnancy test. "just imagine it," he whispers.

leo starts leaving baby toys in your bag, your coat pocket, your purse. you find a rattle in your kitchen drawer. a bib in your laundry. all new. all tagged. all left without a word.

xavier starts talking to your stomach, even when you’re alone. "you’ll be a good mother," he says. "our child will be perfect. better than either of us."

damien starts recording you on his phone when you’re not looking. videos labeled with dates and times. you catch a glimpse of one named "first signs."

you’ve always felt like you were running the game. scripting the story.

but now, they’re writing their own chapters. and in every one, you’re a mother.

a possession.

a prize they plan to keep.

you don’t care about love. you don’t need it. you care about money. security. a life of indulgence. and as long as they’re giving you what you want—gifts, attention, wealth—you’ll keep playing the part. a baby? that’s not part of the plan. but the luxuries they promise? now, that’s something you can’t resist.

you knew they cared for you. at least, you thought you did. love, or at least the way they acted, was easy to ignore at first. fleeting glances, soft touches that felt almost like accidents. casual conversations. but lately? everything’s been different.

they’re not just affectionate—they’re obsessed. in ways you never expected.

elijah

you’re curled up on the couch with elijah, the room softly lit by the flicker of the tv. he’s close—too close—and you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, but it’s not the comfort it used to be. there’s a shift in the air tonight, a subtle change in the way he looks at you, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. or maybe he’s just trying harder to convince himself of something.

"i was just thinking about something," he says, his voice unusually soft. his fingers idly trace the rim of his mug, but his eyes are glued to you, like he’s waiting for a reaction. "do you ever think about the past? i mean, really think about it? like, when everything felt right. simple."

you feign a thoughtful expression, though your mind’s already calculating how to play this. he’s nostalgic, searching for meaning, and you know exactly how to feed into it. you smile gently, nodding, your tone light but smooth as you reply, "yeah, i’ve thought about it. a lot of people wish they could go back to those simpler times."

his eyes brighten a little, encouraged by your response, and you can almost feel the trap snap shut. he’s already entranced by the fantasy, the idea of a perfect, easy life. you let him run with it.

"my grandmother’s house," he continues, drifting off into his memory. "it was always so warm, so... safe. i remember her kitchen, the smell of fresh cookies, and how she’d always hum little tunes when she baked. i used to sit on the counter, and she’d tell me stories about love, about how everything just... works out. back then, i thought maybe she was right. maybe things really do just fall into place."

you notice how his voice wavers, just a touch, and a small part of you feels a flicker of guilt. but the larger part knows this is your opening. you let him paint his picture, nodding with a gentle smile, your eyes softening just enough to keep him talking. you want him to keep going, to believe in this idea of a perfect future with you in it.

"i think that’s what i want," he says, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. "a life like that. the family, the love, the little moments. a house full of laughter, a kid running around. maybe it’s silly, but i picture you there. i picture us together, raising our little one in a place just like that."

you feel the weight of his words, heavy with his expectations. he’s already imagining you as a part of his dream, as the perfect mother in this idealized life. and you—well, you’re simply here for the luxury he promises, for the status, for everything he thinks you want. a baby, though? that’s not part of the plan.

you let your smile stretch just a little wider, a calculated mix of warmth and consideration. "let’s just enjoy our time together first," you say, your tone soothing and playful. "we’ve got all the time in the world to figure things out, right?"

but you can tell by the way his brow furrows, the way his gaze stays glued to you that he’s not hearing the subtle dismissal in your voice. elijah’s too wrapped up in his fantasy of a future with you—too blinded by the image of a picture-perfect life. his smile falters slightly, but only for a second.

"i know we do," he says, though there’s a small crack in his usual charm. "but i just… i keep thinking that we’re meant for something more, something bigger. you and me, building something real, something lasting."

you can feel the pull of his sincerity, and for a moment, you wonder how far you can lead him. how much you can take before he realizes you’re only here for the perks.

you lean closer, your hand brushing lightly against his, the perfect image of affection. "you’re right," you say, your voice low, almost teasing. "we’re meant to have it all."

and that’s exactly what you plan to get.

lucas

lucas stands at the edge of the room, watching you scroll through your phone with that lazy, practiced smile he’s grown used to. you don’t even need to look up to know his eyes are on you—he’s always watching. always assessing.

“you ever think about what comes next?” he asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.

you glance up, feigning curiosity. “next like… what?” you already know.

“a real life,” he says, moving closer, his hands tucked in his pockets. “something solid. a family.”

you tilt your head, studying him. you know what he wants—what he’s been hinting at for weeks. he’s too careful to say it outright, too controlled to beg for it. but it’s written in the way he starts keeping extra toothbrushes in the bathroom. the vitamins in the kitchen cabinet. the way he holds your waist like you might vanish.

“with me?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head in mock innocence.

he nods once, slow. “yeah. with you.”

a pause.

“i think you’d be good at it. being a parent. i see it.”

you smile, soft and distant, the kind that keeps him guessing. of course he wants a child. a future. something permanent to anchor you to him. but you? you just want the stability, the luxury, the money. you don’t care about late-night feedings or milestones. what you care about is the black card in your purse and the name on the lease.

“let’s take our time,” you say, your voice smooth and sweet like honey. “we’ve got everything we need right now, don’t we?”

lucas watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. but you can tell he’s clinging to hope. clinging to you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “we do.”

you lean forward, kiss his cheek like a reward. because that’s all this is—a game. and the deeper he falls, the more you win.

nathan

you find nathan in the kitchen, hunched over the stove with a recipe book cracked open beside him. the scent of something overly sweet lingers in the air—his attempt at baking again. it’s endearing, in a clumsy sort of way. he looks up when you walk in, startled like he always is, cheeks already flushed.

“hey,” he says, brushing flour off his hands. “i, uh… i made something. thought you might like it.”

you smile, amused by how nervous he gets just offering you dessert. “how thoughtful,” you say, stepping closer, letting your fingers trail along the counter like you own the place—which you practically do by now.

he watches your every move, eyes wide, anxious. “i was thinking, um… it’s kinda dumb, but…” he hesitates, then blurts, “do you ever think about kids? like, maybe someday?”

your smile doesn’t falter, but inside, you’re rolling your eyes. he’s been skirting around this topic for days now—staring too long when you walk past, buying things he thinks you might need “just in case.”

you lean against the counter, all soft glances and false affection. “you really think i’d be good at that?”

his face lights up like you handed him the sun. “yeah. yeah, i do. you’re already amazing. you’re everything i ever… i mean—” he stops himself, voice trailing into nothing.

you tilt your head, feigning interest. “maybe someday. just not right now.”

he nods quickly, eyes cast down. “of course. no pressure. i didn’t mean to rush anything. i just… i like thinking about it. about us.”

you reach out and touch his hand lightly, just enough to keep him hopeful. he melts under the contact, bashful and grateful, clinging to the fantasy he’s built around you.

you take a bite of the too-sweet dessert and smile. not because it’s good—but because it’s working. he’ll give you everything. and all you have to do is let him believe.

kai

you wake up to the sound of kai pacing the bedroom. the curtains are still drawn, the room bathed in that pale gray light that makes everything feel dreamlike. he’s muttering to himself, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned like he forgot how to finish getting dressed. when he sees you stir, he lights up like a fuse.

“you’re awake,” he says too fast, too excited. “i was thinking. we should just do it.”

you blink, still groggy. “do what?”

“get married,” he says, stepping toward the bed. “why are we waiting? we don’t need a big wedding. we could just go. right now. vegas. or a courthouse. something private. something just ours.”

you stare at him for a second, then sit up slowly, letting the sheet slip just enough to keep his attention. “kai, it’s six in the morning.”

he laughs, a shaky little sound. “i know. but i couldn’t sleep. i kept thinking about it. about you. about us. it’s not just about love anymore. it’s about making this real.”

you tilt your head, watching how his hands tremble slightly. he’s always running too hot—too much energy, too much emotion. and he dumps it all into you.

“i want a life with you,” he says, crouching next to the bed now, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “a family. a home. i wanna come home to you every day, and know it’s permanent. no doubts. no distance.”

you reach out and brush your fingers along his jaw, your expression soft and practiced. “that’s sweet, kai. but maybe we should talk about it when you’re not… so worked up.”

his face shifts—hurt flickering across it like a crack in glass. but he nods anyway. “yeah. okay. yeah.”

you already know he’ll bring it up again—probably tomorrow. he wants to trap you in love, in rings and contracts and babies. and you? you want the penthouse, the trips, the wild, obsessive devotion he throws at your feet like offerings.

“come back to bed,” you say sweetly, tugging him by the wrist. “we’ve got time to figure it all out.”

he lets you pull him close, curling around you like a storm ready to break.

and all you have to do is keep him just unsteady enough to never question a thing.

matthew

matthew’s already in the kitchen when you step inside, sleeves rolled, apron spotless, breakfast lined up like it belongs in a magazine. the scent of lemon and herbs is sharp in the air, too clean for this early.

he doesn’t greet you—just gives you a once-over with narrowed eyes and pulls a chair out. “you look pale,” he says. “have you been sleeping? i told you to take the vitamins. the ones in the glass jar, not the white bottle.”

you sigh dramatically, dragging your feet a little as you sit. “i took something,” you lie.

he frowns, already moving to pour you a glass of water. “not something. the right thing. consistency matters, especially now.”

he sets the water down with a quiet clink, then brushes a hand over your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. you don’t pull away. you’ve learned not to.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “i’ve been doing research. early nutrition, hormone balance, sleep cycles. i’ll start meal-prepping. no caffeine, no stress. we’ll take it day by day.”

you arch a brow. “we?”

his jaw tightens. “you’re not doing this alone. this isn’t just about you—it’s about us. about the baby.”

you blink, slow and calculated. “matthew,” you murmur, voice soft and lilting, “i’m not even—”

“yet,” he cuts in. “not yet. but it’s going to happen. i’ve already cleared out the guest room. i’ve got names written down. and i want you resting more. no more of those late nights with your friends. they’re a bad influence.”

you stifle a smile behind your glass. “you’re serious.”

he steps closer, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder, fixing your collar like you’re a doll on display. “i’m always serious. this matters. you matter. and our child will have everything. structure, calm, care. they won’t grow up in chaos.”

his fingers linger at your wrist, possessive without pressure.

“you don’t have to think,” he adds, almost gently. “just follow the routine. i’ll handle the rest. you’ll see—it’ll all fall into place.”

you meet his eyes, innocent and trusting, masking the truth beneath practiced sweetness. you don’t want the baby. never did. but he wants this so badly he’s practically trembling from the pressure of his own devotion.

so you nod, just enough to keep him content. let him dote and micromanage, let him spiral deeper into the fantasy. because as long as he thinks you’re on board, he’ll do anything for you. and you’re not about to give that up

leo

leo sits on the couch, his body slightly hunched, nervously fiddling with his phone. he’s been texting you for hours, sending small, pointless updates about his day. the moment you step inside, his whole face lights up, and his eyes immediately scan you up and down as if checking for anything wrong.

“hey, are you okay?” he asks, voice filled with concern that makes him seem like a lost puppy.

you shrug, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “just tired.”

“no, you don’t look tired. you look…” leo follows you, but stops at the doorway, his hands wringing in front of him. “you look… stressed. do you need to sit down? i can make you something. i know you like that chamomile tea. i remember.”

you roll your eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “leo, I’m fine.”

he’s quiet for a moment, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. it’s a soft, almost pleading look, like he’s waiting for you to need him in some way. the truth is, you know exactly how to manipulate him. you’ve been doing it for a while now. every word, every glance, feeds into the desperate need he has to take care of you.

he bites his lip, still standing in the doorway, his words slow, cautious. “you know… i was thinking about us today. about what comes next.” he steps closer, a nervous energy radiating off of him. “i want us to be… more, you know? i want us to be together forever. i know we can have something special. i… i want to build a life with you. a family, maybe. i know it’s a lot, but i’ll do whatever you need. we’ll have a nice place, a perfect home. you, me, and our future.”

he trails off, waiting for you to respond, but you can see the unease in his posture, like he’s afraid to push too hard.

you can almost feel the weight of his hopes pressing down on you, and yet, the more he talks, the more your mind drifts, calculating how to keep him hooked without giving up too much.

you glance over at him, your voice dripping with reassurance. “we’ve got plenty of time to think about that,” you say sweetly, taking a seat at the counter. “no need to rush into things.”

leo visibly relaxes, though his gaze stays on you like a hawk. “yeah, but… i just want to make sure you know how much i care. you’re everything to me. i’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re happy. i want to be the one who takes care of you. i can’t imagine my life without you.”

his words are almost desperate, and it’s clear he means them with every fiber of his being. leo’s never been good at holding back his feelings, but it makes him easy to manipulate—he’s so emotionally dependent on your approval that you don’t even have to try hard.

you let your eyes soften, making him feel like he’s won just a little bit. “i know, leo,” you say, your voice kind and warm. “but there’s no rush, okay? let’s just enjoy what we have now.”

he nods enthusiastically, almost too eagerly, as if your words were the reassurance he needed. his hands twitch at his sides, wanting to do something for you, to prove his love and devotion. but you know what he needs most is your constant attention, your affirmation, and you’ll give it to him as long as it keeps the luxuries rolling in.

he moves closer, gently brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that’s almost suffocating. “whatever you need, i’m here. always.”

you smile, just enough to keep him believing that the fantasy he’s built in his head could actually come true. in reality, you don’t want the future he dreams of. but for now, his affections are just too easy to accept, too useful to ignore.

“thanks, leo,” you say, leaning into his touch. “you’re too sweet.”

he beams at your words, his face glowing with happiness, but you can see the cracks of insecurity hidden beneath the surface. he’s so ready to give you everything, but he still needs to hear you say it. you don’t say the words out loud, but the smile you flash is more than enough to keep him wrapped around your finger for now.

he steps back, still hovering in the doorway like he can’t quite pull himself away. “anything you want. just say the word,” he murmurs, his voice full of quiet desperation.

and you know you’ll never have to say much. he’ll keep offering, keep giving, as long as you keep playing the part.

xavier

xavier leans back in his chair, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. he’s usually so confident, but tonight there’s something different in his eyes—something raw, almost vulnerable.

“i’ve been thinking about settling down,” he says, his voice lower than usual, almost thoughtful. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, waiting for a response. “i’ve got everything—money, power, success. but none of that matters without someone to share it with. someone who’s truly in this with me. someone i can count on.”

his hand rests on the arm of his chair, fingers drumming slowly as he watches you closely. "you know, i’m not getting any younger," he says, as though he's thinking out loud. "i’ve built everything i need. money, power, status… but it’s all meaningless without someone to share it with. someone who’s in it for the long haul. and that’s where you come in."

he pauses, his gaze softening as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “i’m done with the games. i want a life. i want a family. i want you. i want us to build something real. a future. a home. kids.” he looks at you with a seriousness that makes your pulse quicken. “i want to settle down, but only if you’re in it with me.”

you lean back, your fingers drumming on the edge of your glass, taking in his words. there's no hint of hesitation in his tone, no doubt in the way he speaks. everything he says sounds like it’s already planned, already decided.

“settling down? that’s not exactly what i had in mind,” you reply coolly, trying to keep your voice even. inside, though, you're calculating. the future he’s offering sounds tempting, but it comes with too much weight, too much commitment. it's not what you need right now.

xavier’s smile falters, just slightly, before he recovers. “but think about it,” he urges, his voice low and persistent. “we could have it all—kids, a future, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. i can give you that.”

you tilt your head, pretending to consider it, but your mind is already elsewhere. a family? that would tie you down, take away your freedom, your ability to move freely in the world. the money, the luxury, the life you crave—that’s what you want. the rest is just a distraction.

“i don’t know if that’s really my thing,” you reply with a forced smile. “i like things the way they are now. no strings attached. freedom.” you shrug slightly. “you know, enjoying life. luxury. i’m not really ready to jump into something so… permanent.”

xavier’s smile drops, just a little, but he recovers quickly. there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but he doesn’t push. instead, he leans back, crossing his arms and watching you, a calculating look now in place.

“i see,” he says slowly, his voice steady, though there's a hint of something else beneath it. “i guess we’ll just have to see where this goes, then.”

damien

damien looks at you with that soft, almost pensive gaze, as if he's carefully choosing his words, not wanting to overwhelm you. his presence is calming, but there's something undeniably serious in the way he speaks tonight.

"i’ve been thinking," he starts, his voice steady but filled with a quiet emotion. "about the future... about us, and how we could build a life together." his hand finds its way to yours, gently holding it as if grounding both of you in the moment. "i don’t just want a relationship with you. i want everything. a life. a family."

he leans in closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "imagine it," he continues, the words slow, almost like he’s picturing it in his mind. "a home, just the two of us and our child. a place where we’re not just living—where we’re really building something, a legacy. i want to be there for you, always. i want to take care of you, provide for you and our child. i know i can make it happen. i can give you a future, a real one."

his hand tightens just slightly around yours, not possessively, but with a sincerity that catches you off guard. "i see us growing old together, you know?" he says, his voice soft but confident. "building our lives, raising a family. you and me, together in this life i know we could have. everything would fall into place."

he pauses, his eyes searching yours, like he’s waiting for some sign that you see it too, that you can picture it as clearly as he does. "i know it’s a lot to ask," he admits, his tone slightly vulnerable. "but i believe in us. in what we could be. and if you’re willing, i want to share that with you."

there’s a weight to his words that feels different from the others. it’s not a plea or demand, but a quiet promise, a glimpse into the life he’s hoping to build with you. and as much as you try to push the idea aside, you can’t help but wonder—could this life he’s imagining be what you’re looking for, too?

but the truth is, it’s not the child he offers that catches your attention. it’s the luxury, the comfort of the future he’s offering you, that glimmers in your mind like a shiny, new prize. but you stay silent, hiding your true intentions, letting him believe you’re on the same page.

each one of them is so sure. so certain. their love, their desire to make you a part of their future, feels real, genuine. their words are sweet, full of promises, of things you’ve never allowed yourself to imagine. they see you as more than just a passing moment—they see you as the center of their world, as the one who will carry their legacy, their love, their future.

and yet, despite all their tenderness, all their devotion, a feeling creeps inside you—one that’s hard to shake. they love you, yes, but they love you in a way that isn’t quite healthy. it’s possessive. it’s consuming. and somewhere beneath the softness of their words, you can feel the pressure building. they’re not just asking for your love—they’re asking for everything.

they want to tie you to them, forever.

and with each passing day, it becomes harder to breathe

you woke up one morning to find your birth control missing. not just one pill—the whole pack. you check your nightstand, your bag, the bathroom drawer. it’s gone.

you’re careful with things like this. you have to be, with eight different men orbiting your life. there’s no room for error.

you try not to panic. maybe you moved it. maybe it slipped behind something. but the longer you search, the more certain you become. someone took it.

your mind flashes back to nights you wish you could rewind. moments where you weren’t as guarded. where one of them stayed over a little too long.

nathan, maybe. he insisted on staying. said he missed you. said he wanted to be close again.

he held you tighter than usual. kissed your stomach. whispered things you brushed off at the time.

"you’d look good round," he said, voice thick against your skin. "glowing. soft."

you’d laughed, unsure how to answer. now you wonder if you should’ve taken it more seriously.

later that week, leo asks if you’ve been feeling okay. his tone is too sweet, too knowing.

"you’ve been looking different lately," he says. "in a good way. like you’re changing."

you keep your face calm. smile like always.

"i just want you to be healthy," he adds. "you are taking care of yourself, right? eating enough? sleeping?"

you nod, but your stomach turns.

that night, you go to buy a new pack. the pharmacy clerk gives you a funny look, says, “didn’t you just buy these a few days ago?”

you didn’t.

someone did. someone pretending to be you.

your phone lights up again. it’s xavier this time.

have you been thinking about the future?

then kai: if something happened—something big—you’d tell me, right?

they don’t know about each other. they’re still in the dark, still convinced they’re the only one who matters.

but something’s shifted.

they’ve stopped talking like lovers. they’ve started sounding like planners.

you check your cabinets again and find a fresh box of prenatal vitamins, tucked behind your cereal.

you didn’t buy those.

you try to steady your breath.

they’re still oblivious to each other.

but not to you.

you’re the one thing they all want to keep. and they’re ready to make sure you never leave.

lately, they’ve been acting strange. clingier. needier. but it’s not just about where you go or who you’re with anymore.

it’s about what your body could give them.

their obsessions are mutating. no longer satisfied with your time, your attention, your presence—they want permanence. blood. legacy. a way to keep you tethered.

and they all have the same idea.

your phone buzzes, another string of messages lighting up the screen.

"you’re not answering. are you with someone else?"

"i had a dream you were carrying my child."

"come over. now."

they’re getting bolder. and richer.

luxury handbags, wired deposits, fine jewelry—all gifts, all apologies wrapped in money and obsession. you take them. you always have. you let them believe they can buy you, that their love is currency. but now the stakes have changed. they don’t just want to own your time. they want to own your body. your future.

when you step out of your building that afternoon, kai is already waiting at the curb, grinning like he belongs there. he opens the car door. "i found us a place. quiet. private. with room to grow."

that night, you catch elijah slipping something into your drink. he smiles when you confront him. "it’s just a supplement. good for fertility. you said you felt tired lately, remember?"

nathan leaves a black card on your vanity with a note: "for you and the baby. when you’re ready."

lucas starts asking questions about your family history. medical things. subtle at first, but then specific—like he’s researching.

matthew hands you a shopping bag with designer clothes for "future stages," as he puts it. "don’t worry about money. you’ll have everything you need. forever."

leo shows you a bank account he opened in your name. "for emergencies," he says. but there’s a clause at the bottom: joint parental use only.

xavier holds you longer after sex. "i’d give you the world," he murmurs. "you’d never want for anything again. just give me this."

damien starts sleeping over more often. always watching. always touching your stomach.

they don’t want you free. they want you claimed.

and you’re beginning to wonder if they’d rather trap you with comfort than fear.

money can be a cage, too.

a beautiful one. a quiet one.

and this time, it's holding a threat of diapers and diamonds.

there’s a knock at the door.

soft. then louder.

then a voice through the wood—low, familiar, insistent:

"open up, baby. we need to talk."

you freeze.

because it’s not one voice.

it’s two—one from the front door, one from the back entrance behind you.

and they both call you the same thing.

but neither knows the other is there.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yancore #yandere headcanons #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere harem #yandere sugar daddy harem #yandere sugar daddy #fem reader

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