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yandere-daydreams · 1 month ago

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Title: The Freeze Incentive.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 6.8k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping + Prolonged Imprisonment, Mentions of Past Suicide Attempts, Lasting Suicidal Ideation, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Masturbation, and Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

You were released from the hospital after forty-eight hours exactly. Bruce never ate, never slept, never left your side. You didn’t speak to him, but he didn’t force you to.

His hell spawn kept their distance. Once, the first time you fell asleep, you thought you might’ve seen Cassandra in the doorway as you drifted off, but it couldn’t have been her. Even she wasn’t slippery enough to come and go under the vigilant radar of your new, raging paranoia.

By hour forty-nine, you were being shepherded into an apartment on the opposite side of Gotham. “The walls and windows are bullet-proof,” Bruce explained, as you shuffled through a long, narrow entryway. There were two doors – both made out of a brilliantly silver, blindingly reflective metal and requiring some combination of facial recognition, fingerprint scan, and physical keys to unlock. That apocalyptic level of security might’ve made you feel a little more safe if you hadn’t already known that the people you were afraid most of would be able to come and go as they pleased.

“The ventilation system is on its own rig, and there are cameras in every room – dormant. Just raise your voice above a normal speaking volume if you want to activate them.”

You coughed out a laugh. “Why? Trying to get baby’s first assault on film?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Your tour ended abruptly, and he held you in a vice-grip against his chest as he made up for two days’ worth of sleep.

The penthouse was, for lack of a better point of comparison, not all that you’d imagined it would be. Floor to ceiling windows encircled the living room, providing an unending bird’s eye view of the city. The second guest bedroom had been converted into a makeshift art studio, stocked with materials for every hobby you’d ever had and most that you hadn’t. All the bedsheets were in your favorite color and all the mounted art was to your tastes and there was a poster of your favorite local band in the kitchen – an design they’d only sold once at a concert that’d happened years before you discovered them. But, all the walls were painted an unfeeling shade of off-white, and the balcony door had been sealed shut, and the band poster had been framed – locked behind glass and hung with a perfectionist’s precision.

You would’ve used glue-dots.

You had the poor thing pinned to a countertop, butterknife in-hand as you tried to pry it out of its entrapments, when you noticed Tim.

Dark and lanky, looming in the corner of your vision. He was dressed in his civilian clothes – all over-sized pullovers and ill-fitting jeans. He smiled when you glanced over your shoulder, but his expression fell as you whipped around, holding out your butterknife like it was ex-fucking-calibur.

“Bruce!” You called into the penthouse, keeping your back pressed against the edge of the counter.

“There was a fire in the warehouse district. We traded posts early.”

Of course. You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to say goodbye. “Touch me and I’ll slit my own throat.”

“With that?” He laughed, the noise airy. “We had the edges of the cutlery dulled. Anything sharp enough to break skin is—” Tim cut himself off, shrugging. “You’ll have to ask, if there’s anything you want to use. Standing flight-risk and all.”

God. If you’d known trying to kill yourself would cause this many problems, you would’ve made sure to get it right the first time.

Tim took half a step closer. You squared your shoulders.

“I’ll hang myself with the bedsheets.”

“Tear-away. They can’t hold anything heavier than fifty pounds.”

“I’ll drink boiling water.”

“The stove is bioencrypted. And the microwave. And the kettle.” Tim smiled apologetically. “I’m not going to do anything, I promise. The others, they’re a little—” Another abrupt pause, this one followed by a dry swallow. You wondered if Bruce had briefed him on what to say to you, or if his siblings had been the one to put a script together. Your little stunt probably didn’t help with that, either. Proving you could get hurt put the idea of protecting you into their minds. It gave them an excuse to treat you like something fragile, something that didn’t know any better. The narrative could be rewritten, their fixations tailored to better fit the new angle. You wondered if the Oedipus complex of it all would crack and give way under the added pressure, but ultimately decided not to hope for silver linings in rock-bottom scenarios.

“—overzealous,” Tim finished, finally. “I get it, though. You need your space. I’m just here to keep an eye on you.”

You scowled, wearily. “That doesn’t sound like giving me space.”

“Give me a chance.” His grin brightened. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

You were always going to try and pretend he wasn’t, obviously. That didn’t necessarily mean he’d make it easy.

You kept the butterknife with you, even if it was too blunt to puncture and too small to inflict substantial trauma. Never more than thirty feet away, Tim followed after you as you wandered through the apartment, trying to pass the time without letting your guard down. You flipped through the clothes overflowing from your new, Bruce-tailored closet. Tim watched. You sat in front of a window, trying to make out the world miles below. Tim watched. You tried your hand at embroidery. Tim cringed every time you pressed the needle into fabric, and he watched.

You were pretending to read a book (a low stakes romance, more fluff than substance, something Bruce would’ve picked out with distraction in mind) when Tim broke the tense silence.

“You’re supposed to take a shower, now.”

You eyed him wearily. “You know I'm almost a decade older than you, right?”

He grinned, his face going a telling shade of pink. Okay, that was on you, but still – gross.

“Whatever.” The master bath seemed the most private, the most tucked-away, so you fled in that direction. You were a few inches away from slamming the door shut when Tim’s hand caught the edge, pushing it open despite your best attempts to stop him.

“Bruce’s orders,” he explained, shrugging. Like that made up for the red now steadily creeping towards his ears, the way his breathing seemed to hitch as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Like he’d ever listened to Bruce a day in his life. “You have to understand why he’d be touchy about bathrooms.”

The anger was hot, thick, and immediate. You didn’t have to understand anything. It’d been your body folded up and lifeless on the tile floor. All he’d done was call the ambulance.

“Either you leave or we spend the night here.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Get out.”

Tim chuckled. “You’re being so stubborn.”

“Out.”

“Take your time.” He propped his back against the door. “I’m not going anywhere. We have all day, literally.”

Butterknife be damned. You were going to kill him with your bare hands.

You took a long moment, evaluating your options. Tim had always ranked on the lower side of your danger scale – creepy and perverted, but too buttoned-up and close to Bruce to ever do anything more direct than stealing your panties or planting mics in your bedroom. Their new arrangement would change things, sure, but Bruce’s ongoing denial that kids were here to do anything but protect you seemed to have a dampening effect, keeping the scales from tilting quite as dramatically as they might’ve, otherwise.

You were also, undeniably, scared. Scared of testing the waters so quickly, scared of finding out how Bruce would handle disobedience, scared of who might be taking over after Tim. You pictured Cas, undressing you with care, then Jason, smile cutting into your throat as he forced you under freezing cold water. Tim wasn’t good, but he was preferable. The lesser of many, many evils.

“Face the wall. With a towel over your head.” Tim’s smile quirked, but he complied. You waited until he was fully turned towards the door, pitch-black fabric blocking his peripheral, to go on. “Bruce has every room bugged. If I scream, he’ll be here in minutes.”

A lie, but a fair one. Tim nodded slowly, as if processing new information. Bruce must’ve been keeping a few of the penthouse’s security measures to himself. Even he didn’t trust his kids when left to their own devices.

Getting undressed was the worst part. You were caught between the logical awareness that ripping off the Band-Aid would ultimately prove less painless and the gnawing instinct to cling to what might keep you safe for just a little longer. Forcing your conscious mind to a distance, you kept things military – water, soap, rinse, repeat – and let yourself think only of how thankful you were to finally wash off the hospital grime. You were only a minute or so away from being done when you heard something over the water’s rhythmic pattering. A clicking sound, except it was a little too wet, a little too off-beat. For a second, you were delusional enough to consider that one of the pipes in Bruce’s ten-trillion-dollar apartment might’ve sprung a leak.

Then, dread cold and hollow in your chest, you looked to Tim.

He wasn’t facing you. Thank God, he wasn’t facing you. What you could see of him like this, though the fogged glass of the shower stall, was bad enough. He was hunched over, his forehead pressed against the wood of the door. His left hand was planted at the same height while the right worked between his legs, moving in time with that awful, repetitive noise. The towel had fallen to his shoulders, but you could see that his eyes were clenched shut, like he was still trying not to violate your one boundary. In his mind, you were sure this didn’t count as an overstep.

Vaguely, you remembered Stephanie saying something about Tim being the voyeur type. You wondered if the fact that he wasn’t technically looking made this any better.

Your original goal was immediately forgotten. You stayed where you were until the water went cold, until you could hear Tim’s strained breathing and see white dripping from his hand. You waited for him to clean himself up before moving on to the salvage – towel, clothes, etc. You kept your eyes low, your lips pursed, but Tim wasn’t as stand-offish. He orbited around you as you shrugged open the bathroom door and stepped out, his voice chipper. Giddy. “Feeling better?”

“When’s Bruce coming back?”

“Can’t be sure. His schedule’s the hardest to pin down.” He rested a hand on your shoulder by way of apology. Your skin crawled. “Barbara has the next shift.”

You mumbled something affirmative. Still fully dressed, you crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over your head.

Tim watched.

You were right. Bruce’s insistence on the pretense of deniability put the others on-guard, all reluctant to be the one to condemn their father’s favorite lamb to death.

Some were worse than others. Barbara let you watch a season’s worth of some perfectly generic, perfectly mindless reality T.V. dating show in one sitting, only occasionally looking up from her laptop and paperwork to yell at the screen on your behalf. Cas pawed at your tits through your shirt while cuddling until you were too sore to lay on your chest. Damian took advantage of the art studio to paint a terribly forlorn, but relatively flattering portrait of you while you struggled with a crochet hook. Stephanie had you try on three shopping bag’s worth of lingerie, snapping pictures all the while. Kate told you every piece of gossip she’d picked up during Gotham’s social season. Jason stayed away, which was the worst thing he could’ve done. Even serial killers had the decency not to leave their victim’s corpses to the scavengers.

And Dick…

Dick let you out.

Never to go very far, never for very long, and always to somewhere mind-numbingly civilian - a café, or a boutique, or the nicer stretch of docks tourists tended to flock to in the summer. Like the rest, he’d established his own set of boundaries, as defined as they were irrational. He never talked about Bruce, to Tim, or any of the others. He kept his distance when you two were alone and held your hand when you weren’t. If you had to say anything, he said it for you. It was weird, but nothing you couldn’t live with. No – your fears were more abstract than that, more likely to take the form of ticking clocks than groping hands. Things were bad, now. You could live with that. You understood that.

You were just having trouble keeping yourself sane while you sat around, wasted time, and waited for things to get worse.

“Don’t like the view?”

Ah. You must’ve been lost in thought again. You glanced towards Dick, your head resting gingerly on his shoulder, then outward, to the grassy plains of the local park. It was a good day (or Gotham, at least) so you weren’t entirely alone. Couples jogged. Families picnicked. Children played. It might’ve been nice if Dick hadn’t decided that you’d spend the day rooted to a bench on the outskirts, a half-eaten cup of ice cream melting to your side, his arms slung over the backrest and some part of you always making contact with some part of him. So he could be sure you didn’t run, he’d claimed. As if any amount of distance would be enough to get you away from him.

“Just wondering why you’re doing this.”

He chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“Taking me outside. Making me look at happy, smiling people.” Delaying the inevitable. Giving you false hope. “It’s a little mean, considering I’m just going to be rotting again in a couple hours.”

“Better than leaving you locked up all day, right?”

You scuffed your heel into the dirt. Dainty kitten heels – nothing you’d ever been able to run in. “I guess the fresh air is nice. And the lack of security cameras.”

At that, Dick cringed. You were still testing for sore spots, trying to find holes in the fabric that held your captors together, less as part of some future plan and more to keep yourself busy. Bruce’s near-constant invasions of your privacy was, rather transparently, one of Dick’s. “Tell me he’s not recording you.”

“He’s not supposed to be,” you sighed. “I think Stephanie might’ve gotten into the system, though. She’s been on an amateur photography kick.”

It was his turn to sigh, to groan, to let his head collapse onto your shoulder. His arm found its way around you, hauling you that much closer to his chest. “…I don’t like it,” he admitted, his reluctance layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he didn’t choke. “You know I don’t like it, right?”

“How the others treat me?”

“That they know you exist.” Another groan. You kept your eyes trained straight ahead. “B told you I was the first, right. I… I think I’m always the first. He knows I can handle the deep-end.” And then, more sentimentally, “He knew I’d fall in love with you at first sight.”

Hands curled into fists. Eyes forced open. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t blink. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true. I used to let myself into your apartment at night – you always left the door unlocked. And remember the last time you went out with your coworkers?” You did. One minute, you’d been at the dive-bar closest to your office, happily accepting another round of shots bought on the company card, and the next, you’d been waking up in your own bed, undressed and hung over. You’d figured you’d managed to get yourself home despite blacking out, but the way Dick was grinning against your throat suggested otherwise. “It should’ve been like that all the time. Just you and me – taking care of each other.”

You couldn’t blink. You couldn’t blink. You’d fall apart the second your eyes closed, and you couldn’t keep letting them break you like that.

“B’s mind works on a switch,” Dick explained. “He can turn it off whenever he wants to, but I’m not like that. I can’t decide when not to love you.” He paused, smirked. “Even if you could be a little nicer to me, some—”

“Help me escape.”

The sound of your own voice caught you off-guard. Dick jolted against you, raising his head, equally surprised. Your face suddenly felt warm, and your heart was beating too quickly. It was by someone else’s – someone stronger, someone dumber - volition that you went on, digging your grave that much deeper. “If you hate the way I’m treated, if you think you love me, then help me leave. I’ll go wherever you want to, I just—” The air hitched in your throat. “You know I can’t stay here, any longer.”

For a second, Dick didn’t respond. For a second, he stayed there, pressed against you, all-but unmoving.

Then, he straightened and laughed, taking your hand in his. He squeezed gently, like he was trying to show you that he cared. Like he loved you.

“Bruce’s shift is coming up. We should get you home, right?”

You let your eyes fall to the ground. Not blinking hadn’t helped – you could feel tears forming in the corner of your eyes, regardless.

“Right.”

It rained on your walk back, despite the clear sky. Neither of you had brought an umbrella, and the downpour was too sudden to seek cover, so you were soaked by the time you reached the apartment. The artificial chill clung to you like a second skin, turning your body to shell hostile to its contents. In hindsight, you probably should’ve taken it as an omen of things to come. Or, maybe you just should’ve expected calamity in general – predicted or otherwise.

You were late, too. Bruce was already there by the time you finally made it through that suffocating entryway – sitting on the foot of your bed, a suit jacket hung over his knee and the first few buttons of his collar undone. With a nod by way of acknowledgement, you moved to scurry past him and find something dryer to wear, but he caught your wrist on the way by. “Can you stay for a second, honey?”

Absolutely not. No way in hell. You’d rather die. “…I guess so.”

There was a gentle squeeze by way of gratitude, then he turned to Dick. “Be honest with me. Have any of you touched her?”

Dread formed a bottomless, pitch-black well in your chest. Even Dick seemed reluctant to answer – setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders. Making himself into one of Bruce’s soldiers, rather than his son. “No. Not like that.” He swallowed. “Not since Jason.”

“Good. I was hoping we could talk, first.” With his free hand, he waved Dick closer. Silent and unquestioning, Dick obeyed.

The blocking of your little scene was awkward. You were too close to Bruce and Dick was too close to you while the distance between them was left deliberately more vast. Dick didn’t touch you. He never would, not with Bruce watching, and Bruce seemed to know that. “It’s alright,” he said, with the same stoicism he might’ve showed to a wild, rampaging animal. “Go on. I want to see how you handle it – if you can handle it.”

Dick glowered. “This isn’t something you can train out of me, old man.”

“I’m not trying to.” You made a half-hearted effort to pull your hand out of Bruce’s hold. His grip only tightened, in response. “Show me that you know how to put your hands on something without breaking it.”

There was a second’s worth of hesitation, but not much longer. One of Dick’s hands wrapped around your forearm, replacing Bruce’s, while the other caught your chin. He kissed you – messy, sudden, hard – and you wondered if you really did die on the bathroom floor that night, and this was your own special brand of hell.

When Dick came up for air, there was no pretense of consent, no pause taken to assess you for the mutuality Bruce always seemed so desperate for. His lips pressed into the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the corner of your throat – lingering there while his hands dropped to your waist, pawing at the fabric of your sundress. On instinct, you thrashed, shoved at his chest, dug your claws into his chest. Dick only laughed, pulling you that much closer against him. “C’mon, sweetheart, we’re just making up for lost time,” he mumbled into your ear, his breath warm and tacky against your skin. “You remember what I said last time, right? It’s just you and me – you don’t have to think about anybody else.”

“I don’t even want to think about you, little prick complex-having fucking bast---” Your hissed insults were cut off by Dick’s hands on your hips, by your feet suddenly being torn from the ground as he half-lifted, half-threw you onto the bed. The collision was rough, sudden, knocking the air out of your lungs and giving Dick time to get on top of you. Two fists found the collar of your dress and tore, cold air rushing over your chest, your navel, your legs. You tried not to think about the technicalities of it – how planned it seemed, how little hesitation there was, how his grin stretched wider with each inch of mutilated fabric. Your mind was more focused on broader concepts – the all-encompassing hateyou felt for both of them, the acid sitting heavy and thick on your tongue. The fact that you’d already showed Bruce what you do if your life ever turned from unpleasant to unbearable, and the haunting awareness that he was sitting there and watching it happen again, this time from the comfort of his own bedroom.

Dick wasn’t helping. You hadn’t expected him to, but there was still a fresh sort of sting to the feeling of his mouth on your neck, to the sound of his voice in your ear. “So pretty,” he muttered, cupping your cunt through your panties. You lashed out at random, scratching at his chest, but Dick only chuckled, leaned into your assault as if he could pretend it was the sweetest, most saccharine form of affection. “So perfect, and all mine. Could’ve been doing this months ago, in a better world. Would’ve, if I had it my way.”

His thumb pressed harsh circles into your clit, made coarser by satin fabric. You let out a miserable whine, and Bruce clicked his tongue. “Too rough. She’ll bruise.” He moved closer to the side of the bed. “Use your mouth. She prefers it.”

Dick nipped at curve of your throat – another pitchy, humiliating sound. “I don’t hear any complaints.”

“Have I ever told you that, when I first brought you home, Alfred suggested having you neutered? Less hormones that way. A smoother rebellious phase, when you hit teens.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “I wonder if it’s too late to reconsider the offer.”

Dick grumbled, but the message was clear enough. With one more lingering kiss, he was on his stomach between your legs, head buried between your thighs and tongue drawing shapes into the seat of your panties. You tried to keep your eyes shut, to imagine you were anywhere else, and when that failed to blur the images of claustrophobic car interiors or stop Dick from pulling the now-soaked fabric to the side, you went rigid and tried to sit up. Emphasis on tried. Bruce was already there, of course, holding your shoulders, easing you back down. He always seemed to be at your beck and call when you didn’t want his help.

He wasn’t smiling. You could still feel Dick’s as he ground the bridge of his nose into your clit, but Bruce wasn’t smiling. His gaze bore into your expression appraisingly, occasionally flitting to Dick to make sure his grip was still loose, his teeth kept behind lips. It took seconds for him to break, and even then, the extent of his falter was a sigh, a new set of crow’s feet on the corners of his eyes as he leaned down, pressing his lips into your forehead. “You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling away. As if you cared. As if he hadn’t already been yours. “Keep that pace. She’s getting closer.”

You weren’t. You really, really weren’t. But, you’d gotten so used to Bruce touching you every minute of every day, and you hadn’t even touched yourself in weeks, and Dick was moaning unabashedly as he fucked his tongue into your cunt – the reverberation steady and pulsing. You didn’t let yourself cum. You wouldn’t let yourself cum, but your thighs kept trying to shut around Dick’s head, and your skin felt like it was on the verge of melting away, and Bruce wouldn’t stop looking at you with the same slight, softened expression he put on whenever you tripped over your own feet or cried after a spanking. Dick’s fingertips bit into the plush of your thighs, and Bruce’s hand came up to cup your cheek. You tried to push him away, but even lifting your arms off of the mattress felt like a waste of energy. You wondered if playing dead would be more effective, would make them stop. You knew it wouldn’t. It hadn’t the first time.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you. His lips were chapped, and his teeth scraped against your bottom lip too roughly, too clumsily. “And so generous, too. I always hoped you and the kids would get along but—” He paused, chuckled. “It might’ve gotten a little out of hand.”

You tried to open your mouth, to tell him he and his hoard of orphaned sex fiends could go to hell, but all that made it past your lips was a cracked, trembling sob. Bruce hushed you with a low coo, calloused fingers carding through your hair. “Daddy’s right here, honey. Just lie back and bear with me for a little longer, alright?”

As if you were having a tooth pulled. As if his oldest son didn’t have his head buried between your thighs, as if he wasn’t tracing his own name into your cunt over and over and over again. The flat of his tongue ran over your pussy, your clit, and with a stifled gasp, you were pushed over the edge, sent plummeting into an abyss of heat and tension and bright, white lights. Dick nursed you through your orgasm lovingly, but hastily, and Bruce turned his attention away from you to ruffle Dick’s hair. You tried not to linger on the gesture longer than you absolutely had to.

Eventually, Bruce moved aside, and Dick was on top of you again, his chest pressing into yours as he rushed to pull his shirt over his head, to undress in a way you hadn’t been given the choice to. You thought about calling out for Bruce, reaching for him, begging him to make it stop, but you were really too old to be entertaining fantasies. He’d already told you what you needed to do: lie there, shut up, and take it.

Dick wasn’t so pragmatic. He pushed a long, open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck, sucking and biting until you could be sure that you’d wear the bruise for weeks. You felt something hot and blunt slot against your entrance, but did your best to pretend it was only your imagination.

The contact was too much, too hot, too stifling. Dick’s tongue ran over your cheek, then he dipped lower – hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I love you.” And then, again, like there was a quantity of desperation that would make you believe him, “I love you.”

He might’ve believed it. You almost did, but then hips were grating against yours, his cock thrusting into you, and suddenly, you weren’t in a state to believe in love at all.

It was dark by the time you were allowed to leave the bedroom. Bruce insisted on a long, well-monitored bath and Dick held you against his chest like he was afraid you might be taken away from him, but eventually, Bruce took a call from Barbara and Dick fell into a deep enough sleep to make slipping away something more than a delusional, escapist fantasy.

Once free, you made your way to the kitchen, tore the framed band poster off the wall, and smashed it against the tile floor until the glass shattered. Dick found you less than a minute later, trying to pick up a few of the larger pieces with your bare hands.

He was still grinning. The expression seemed more off-kilter jagged than it should’ve been in the dim light, more patronizing as he lifted you onto the counter, checking your hands over for hairline cuts or other micro-injuries before squeezing them in his. “Stay right here. I’ll get something to clean up with, and—” His eyes moved from your hands to your face, and his voice cut out abruptly. “You’re so perfect,” he sighed, leaning down to press his lips into the apex of your wrist. “Let’s do it.”

Something sharp and hot stabbed into the back of your throat. More out of self-preservation than curiosity, you asked, “…do what?”

“Leave. Run. Get out of here.” Another kiss, this one to the base of your ring finger. It wasn’t hard to picture what kind of life he was imagining for you. “I’ll get a new place in Bludhaven. You’ll lie low for a little while. We’ll be together.”

You grit your teeth. Bruce and his ilk weren’t the type to play mind games with you, but only the most idiotic man you’d ever met, so deeply entrenched in his own delusions that there was no hope of ever dragging him back to the surface again, would’ve believed you had any love in your heart for him after you’d called him so many awful names. After you’d spent hours practically catatonic in his arms. After tonight.

Thankfully, the most idiotic, delusional man you’d ever met was standing in front of you right now. Little miracles, you guessed.

“You make me so happy, Dick.” You ran your fingers through his hair, and he melted into your palm. “It’s just – there’s one thing I’d like to do, first.”

“Anything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

“I think I should talk to Jason.”

Immediately, Dick’s expression fell. “Why Jason?”

“Just to tie off loose ends. Make sure I’m not leaving anything behind.” You forced yourself to smile, letting your head tilt to the side. “And then I’ll have the rest of my life to spend with you, right?”

You could practically see his eyes glazing over, the same way they had when he found you reading to Damian or chiding Duke for getting himself hurt. Your current reality immediately substituted for a glossier, more appealing replica – or, more appealing to Dick, at least.

“Right.” And then, with one last kiss pressed into your knuckles, “I love you.”

For once, the words didn’t taste so bitter on your tongue.

Dick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. Bruce clung to you for the next few days – monitoring your diet, watching you sleep, fucking you with more care and more fervor than he ever had before. When he was forced to leave, he held you up until the point he absolutely had to go, then spent another few precious seconds promising Tim would take his place in twenty minutes. That didn’t matter, though. Jason was there in five.

“I love you.”

You found him in the living room. He’d come through the balcony, left the door ajar and everything. A handgun was strapped to his thigh, and his helmet sat on his knee. He’d never worn it around you, not so far as you could remember.

Ever the coward, he left it up to you to break the silence. That was fair, in a way. You were the one who wanted to talk.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“You look like shit.”

He rubbed one of the dark, sunken circles under his eyes with the back of his hand. “B can’t keep us all trapped inside and sedated. Some of us have to be outdoor dogs.”

“Guess so.” You let a measured beat pass, then asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his lips, a spark of something familiar. By the time Tim was due to arrive, you were on the back of a black and red motorcycle, miles away from the nearest sky-scrapper.

Jason’s apartment was just how you remembered it – albeit, slightly less intimidating in daylight. Bloody clothes and dented body armor laid over couches and cluttered and tables. Drawers filled with bullet casing and pocketknives sat open, on display, while anything comforting or sentimental remained hidden in safes or behind closed doors. His corkboard had gained a few more pictures, and in the corner, there were new sketches of Dick and Bruce. They looked recent.

Steering clear of the makeshift bedroom, you collapsed onto a worn leather couch, sinking into the beaten cushions and savoring the feeling of a well-loved piece of furniture. Jason skirted around you, never lingering, never edging too close. You followed his erratic pacing in the corner of your eyes while you spoke.

“You haven’t visited me.”

One step forward, two back. Both hands shoved into pockets. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You should be. I’ve been bored to tears.” A pause, a breath of a laugh. “I didn’t realize how much I relied on you, back at the manor. The only people I can talk to now are either in on it or completely oblivious. I’m pretty sure Damian thinks I’ve driven his father insane.”

“He was like that before he met you.” A lap around the couch, then to the nearest window. “They all were. Dick can’t stand being along and Tim would jerk off to a cardboard box if it looked at him the right way.”

“It’s the girls now, too. I think Steph’s just having fun, but Cas…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I feel a little bad for her. I mean – she’s so young, and she’s already been through so much. It’s hard to blame her for taking after a marathon of bad examples.”

That was enough to have Jason turning on his heel, making a beeline for the front door. You caught his wrist as he passed by. “Slow down. You’re acting like the building’s on fire.”

“Sorry, I just—”

You squeezed, and he sucked in a harsh breath, shutting his eyes. You did your best to keep your voice light, gentle. “When was the last time you got any sleep, Jason?”

“It’s been—” He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on you before quickly moving away. The answer was obvious enough. “—a while.”

“C’mon, Jay. You can’t live like this.” You tugged on his hand. “Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes? I don’t want to watch you fall apart on me.”

He swallowed, his shoulders squaring. There was a moment of reluctance, of hesitation before he asked, “Can I…?”

It wasn’t hard to guess what he wanted, not with his eyes trained so intensely on your lap. Smiling, you nodded, and in an instant, he was on his knees, limp and clutching at your ankles as he laid his head over your thighs. The position was awkward – he was too stiff, too tall – but you tried to make the best of it, running your fingers through his hair. At least he’d asked, this time.

“I’m sorry.” And then, again, his voice raw enough to break, “I’m sorry. I thought they’d back off, or we’d run away together, or—”

“You didn’t want to run away with me.” With your free hand, you patted down your jacket pocket. “And that’s alright. You’re a part of a family. I was never going to ask you to leave them.”

You could practically feel him try to deny, try to say that if you ever asked, he would’ve in a heartbeat. In the end, though, it was all he could do to sigh, sinking further into you. “I love you.”

How many times had you heard that, lately? You tried to remember if Bruce had ever parroted the same phrase. “I love you too, Jason.”

Tucked inside, your fingertips brushed against something hard and jagged. You curled your hand around it. “Every day, I had to watch them pretend they felt the same way about you, watch you pretend to tolerate it. It was like having to rip my own heart out of my chest.”

A sharpened edge sliced into your palm, breaking the skin. You ignored it. “That must’ve been hell.”

“I shouldn’t complain. You had it worse. Obviously, you have it worse.” His nails bit into your calves. “I’ll kill them. If they’ve so much as looked at you, I’ll kill them.”

You hated it when they lied to you.

You couldn’t wait any longer – didn’t have a reason to. In one motion, you tore the long, ragged piece of glass out of your pocket and stabbed it into Jason’s shoulder.

You’d managed to hide it before Dick found you huddled over the broken frame, stowed it away on your person as soon as you realized Bruce was going to take his eyes off of you. Reflexively, Jason jerked back, clamoring for the gun on his waist, but he was staggered, caught off-guard, and you weren’t. Your fist was already curled around the grip, already dragging the weapon out of its holster and forcing the muzzle against his stomach. Your index finger rested on the trigger, the safety disabled, but you didn’t shoot.

“Please,” you whispered, instead, as Jason froze against you. “Don’t say anything, don’t stand – just back up. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he did as he was told. Staying on his knees, he edged back, giving you enough space to push yourself to your feet. You kept the gun trained on his chest, never once turning away. His distraught expression had twisted into something more raw, something more angry. Not hateful, but hurt, betrayed. You knew the look well.

“Drop it, (Y/n). You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted the barrel down, shut your eyes, and fired. There was a crash of deafening noise, the pure force of recoil, and then Jason’s muffled cursing. By the time you could bring yourself to look, he was clutching his ankle, fresh blood seeping through his fingers. “I spent a lot of time with Alfred. I mean, a lot. Basically whenever I wasn’t on the verge of getting molested by you and your gang of traumatized fetishists.” You took a step backward, then another, inching your way to the door. Eventually, your back pressed into wood. “I know you keep cash on-hand – for when Bruce finally cuts you off. Slide it to me.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” His laugh was awful, barking, pained. “Go ahead, baby. I’ll finish the job myself if you leave me.”

He wouldn’t. Jason wasn’t that directly self-destructive, none of them were.

Thankfully, you’d always had a little more motivation.

The muzzle was hot against your skin where you pressed it into the underside of your jaw. Jason’s expression didn’t drop, but it changed, stilled, every thought save for those of preservation erased in a fraction of a second.

You didn’t have to make your demands twice. He rummaged one of the holsters on his belt, and then, a stack of hundred-dollar bills was lying at your feet, secured by a single band pulled taut. You let the gun drift from your jaw to your temple as you bent to pick it up, watching Jason all the while.

Finally, you grappled for the knob behind you, sliding deadbolts out of place and turning locks until you stood in an empty doorway. You were free to leave, free to go, but you lingered, keeping your eyes on Jason.

“If you ever really loved me,” you said, fighting to keep your voice even, your hand steady. “You won’t try to find me.”

He might’ve said something. He looked like he was going to, but you were already over the threshold. The door was shut before he could try to convince you to stay.

Once safe on the other side, you lowered the gun to your side, took a deep breath, and started to run.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere dc #dc x reader #dc imagines #dc #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #yandere dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #yandere jason todd #jason todd x reader #yandere tim drake #tim drake x reader

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celabi · 1 month ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒

shidou + sae + kaiser + ness + nagi + isagi + reo + rin x f reader

throws this at you and runs away giggling

shidou thinks he’s god’s gift to women.

even when he’s standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom in nothing but crusty spiderman boxers with a hole near the waistband, hair an untamed and wild mess, and that signature smug little smirk tugging at his lips.

there you’d be, lying in bed like a goddess in some delicate, sheer lace nightgown, white and silky, barely clinging to your figure, looking like you had just walked out of some teenage boys fantasy. like some playboy magazine cover model come to life.

and him.

he’s standing there like he’s the main fucking event. arms flexed slightly, hip cocked to the side, trying to give you the look, the one where he raises one of his eyebrows and puts on a sexy smoulder he learned when you both watch tangled the other night and won’t stop doing—

“you like what you see, babe?”

he winks, digging his thumb beneath the waistband and drawing back, only to let it slap back against his hip with a loud snap. “it’s your lucky night. spider man’s feelin’ real naughty...”

you blink.

he climbs into bed like he’s about to change your entire life, and the scent of his body spray (which smells suspiciously like the high school gym locker he confessed to you in all those years ago) hits you almost instantly.

you shuffle an inch away, a small grimace on your face which he immediately takes notices of. “what? awe, don’t act shy now, sweetheart,” he purrs, throwing an arm around your waist and pulling you back in, those fucking children’s boxers brushing up against your thigh. “you didn’t marry all of this for nothin.”

you sigh, a hand dragging down your face.

yes. you did marry him. you just didn’t know the spiderman boxers would come with the deal.

sae loved stuff like this.

you were practically bouncing with excitement, eyes sparkling as you dragged him through the zoo with the excitement of a small child.

“monkeys first,” you told him, clutching your camera to your chest. “the little ones that look like they’re judging everyone.”

sae gave a tiny smile, the kind he only ever gave you. “mm.”

you made a beeline for the primate exhibit, and he followed, hands in his pockets, steps a little lazy as he stayed behind.

and yeah, the monkeys were indeed adorable. tiny, scruffy, wide eyed little creatures that climbed all over each other and made judgmental little faces when people threw banana’s into the den. you cooed and laughed and snapped like fifty photos while sae leaned on the railing, watching you as if you were the attraction instead of the small animals.

and then, out of nowhere, he softly slips his hand into yours.

“honey, look.” he murmured, pointing behind you somewhere. you turned, expecting maybe a new baby monkey or something cute.

but no.

seagulls.

plain, loud, not even part of the zoo seagulls, strutting around like they owned the place. annoying visitors and making a mess of the trash can.

“…seriously?” you blinked. “the monkeys are right there and you’re watching birds?”

sae just shrugged, totally serious. “they’re smart.”

one of them squawked and stole a french fry from a kid who began to cry, and you swore you saw his eyes light up.

“see?”

you stared at him like he’d lost it. “you brought me to the zoo for cute animals and you’re impressed by street birds?”

he nodded. “they’re intelligent creatures.”

you sighed, but your lips twitched.

and when he took a sneaky photo of you next to a monkey doing the exact same unimpressed face, you let him.

kaiser was thriving.

lights flashing, fans screaming, reporters yelling his name from every direction, but none of it mattered. because you were on his arm, and you looked so fucking good it should’ve been illegal. and maybe it was, on his poor heart.

you, in a dress that made people double take. and him in a designer suit which basically screamed ‘look at me!’ but still refusing to let go of your hand for even a second.

“look this way, kaiser!”

“over here!”

“pose with the ball!”

“kaiser, who’s the woman with—”

“yeah yeah, i know, i’m hot,” he waved dismissively at the cameras, tugging you closer. “but have you seen her? look at her. look. she’s the star. me? i’m just her soccer groupie.”

you barely blinked, and shielding your eyes from the countless flashes. “you dragged me here.”

“because the red carpet needed flavor,” he grinned, nudging you playfully. “and you’re the whole meal. i’m just the bowl you sit in.”

“what does that even mean—”

cue the camera clicks exploding like fireworks.

someone handed him a microphone and instead of answering questions about his match performance, he started bragging about your skincare routine.

“she does this thing with, like, snail goo or whatever? and her face? glowing. radiant. i tried it once and got a rash.”

you quietly nodded beside him, giving the cameras a blank expression like this was just your normal tuesday.

he kept tugging you in for selfies, making sure they got his good side where his jawline was razor sharp, while you stayed poker faced the whole time, slightly turned away by the dozens of desperate faces trying to get some material of michael kaiser and the new woman on his arm.

“god… i love how mysterious you are,” he whispered in your ear over the raving crowd. “like people are gonna think you’re a secret agent.”

“…i’m literally an accountant.”

“mm, yeah, schatz… the hottest accountant i’ve ever seen.”

he didn’t even look at the photographers when they asked for solo shots. just kept gazing at you like you were the only thing worth capturing.

ness had never liked eating out.

not because the food was bad, no, he’d happily devour three servings if you let him, but because he couldn’t stand the idea of other people talking to you. looking at you. breathing near you. especially men.

and today?

you were barely five minutes into your meal when a cheery waiter stopped by your table, leaning just a little too close for ness’s liking.

“would you like some ketchup with that?” the guy asked with a smile.

you didn’t think much of it, just nodded politely and said, “sure, thank you.”

but across from you… ness stiffened.

his fork hovered mid air, his eye twitching, lips pressed into a thin line. he didn’t say anything right away. just… stared down at his plate like it had killed his entire family.

you glanced over when he doesn’t react to your foot softly rubbing against his ankle. normally you’d get a ‘yippie!’, so it was a little concerning.

“lexis…what’s wrong?” you raise an eyebrow.

“…ketchup.” he muttered.

“huh?”

ness turned to you, his voice a dramatic whisper, “so that’s what you’re into now, huh? ketchup guys?”

you blinked. “…what.”

he pointed his fork accusingly. “he asked if you wanted ketchup. and you said yes. to him.”

“…because he asked?”

“but why him?” he leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “if i asked, would you have said yes too? or was it his ketchup you wanted?”

you just stared. “alexis, he’s a waiter.”

ness huffed, angrily stabbing at the fries on his plate. “i’m watching you. and your stupid ketchup.”

he sulked the rest of the meal, still feeding you bites of his burger, still playing footsie’s with you under the table, but glaring daggers at the ketchup bottle like it personally insulted him.

and later that night, you found your phone filled with photos of you and ness under an album label “the mustard to my mayo <3”

nagi had a problem.

you had a shiny umbreon. his favorite. it sparkled, it looked cool, and worst of all, you wouldn’t trade it to him, no matter how many shitty common pokémon he tried to offer you for it.

“it’s my favorite. i evolved it at midnight on purpose.”

nagi, who was laying upside down on your couch with his phone resting on his face, mumbles out a small, “i need it though.”

you didn’t budge, and so… phase two began.

nagi turned into the laziest scammer known to man.

he’d send you trades labeled “ultra rare secret glitch ‘mon” with the sketchiest lineups. rattata, rattata, rattata, shiny magikarp (nicknamed ‘definitely umbreon 2.0’).

“you renamed a magikarp and thought i wouldn’t notice?”

he yawned, rolling onto his tummy. “worth a shot…”

he got more elaborate. once wore sunglasses and a fake mustache, made a fake trainer profile called “pokechoki” and messaged you from across the couch like

“hello i am collector of rare pokémon. would like your umbreon. will give 4 bidoof.”

you turned, deadpan, and nudged his thigh with your fuzzy gengar socks. “nagi, you’re in the same room as me.”

“huh? don’t know of this ‘nagi’ person. i’m seishiro.”

eventually, he climbed into your lap like a giant sleepy cat, nuzzled into your neck, and tried to guilt you with his classic, “if you loved me… you’d give me your umbreon…”

you didn’t fall for it.

but you did catch him later, holding your phone while you were brushing your teeth, trying to sneak trade himself the umbreon while you were distracted.

his defense?

“…is it really stealing if ‘what’s mine is yours’?”

isagi has been so strange lately.

you’re in the kitchen, scrolling through your phone and sipping your coffee when you hear a thud in the hallway.

“i’m okay!”

his voice echoes from somewhere down the corridor.

you raise an eyebrow, not even surprised anymore. your husband had been on a mission lately, a weird mission to prove that even though you’re already married, he’s still “hot husband material.”

his latest phase? doing push ups shirtless whenever you’re nearby. flexing his biceps whenever he opens a jar. winking dramatically when handing you anything.

today was worse.

he strides into the kitchen moments later, dressed in nothing but grey sweatpants and a face filled with determination. a towel thrown over his shoulder like he’s in a men’s health shoot.

“babe,” he grins, “check this out.”

he goes to do a one armed push up right then and there on the kitchen tile, except his hand slips, and he faceplants so fast it sounds like a cartoon slap.

you sit up straighter and raise an eyebrow.

“…honey.. are you okay?” you ask, holding back a laugh.

he stays face down on the floor for a second before mumbling, “still hot though… right?”

you roll your eyes fondly and get up to sit on the floor next to him, nudging him with your knee.

“…you’re lucky i already said ‘i do’.”

he peeks up at you, grinning with a busted ego and a red forehead. “i’d marry you again if it helps my case.”

you kiss his forehead and shake your head. “let’s just keep the seduction off the kitchen floor, yeah?”

reo always had expensive taste.

in cars, in watches, in clothes.

but his favorite luxury? you.

he spoiled you when you were just his high school girlfriend. snuck designer bracelets into your locker, filled your dorm with roses during exams, flew you out for weekend getaways like it was nothing. the other girls were jealous, always whispering, “what does she have that we don’t?”

reo never gave them the attention they wanted. he just kissed your cheek and made you show off the shiny chain around your neck.

now, years later, not much has changed. except you now wear a ring on your finger, and his last name behind yours.

you wake up to breakfast already made, gifts by the door “just because,” and his card in your hand with a small, “go get yourself something pretty.”

he comes home from practice and scoops you up into his arms like a lovesick idiot, still obsessed, still whipped.

and when you pout? even a little? he acts like it’s a national emergency.

“what do you want, baby? tell me. shoes? a trip? my kidney?”

reo’s love language has always been excess, and when it comes to you, there’s no such thing as too much.

girlfriend or wife, high school or forever, spoiling you was always part of the plan.

rin itoshi, even as a fully grown man, was still… rin itoshi.

he might’ve been a world class athlete now, a stoic genius on the field, cold and composed in interviews, but at home? at your home?

he was still that emotionally constipated, socially awkward, emo haired boy who never knew what to do with his hands.

he sat stiffly at your parents dinner table, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to make eye contact with your dad, silently praying the chair would collapse and swallow him whole.

you, sitting beside him, casually spooning mashed potatoes onto your plate, looked as chill as ever. like you weren’t dining with two parents who were grilling your boyfriend with every polite smile and every “so, rin, what are your intentions?”

you kicked his ankle under the table.

“sit up straight.” you whispered.

he was slouching like he wanted to vanish into his hoodie. and the worst part? he wasn’t even wearing a hoodie. he was wearing a button up shirt, with sleeves, rolled up.

also, you had brushed his bangs behind his ear before dinner and told him he looked cute like that so now his emo fringe shield was gone and he had to make full eye contact with your mom while she passed him the salad bowl.

“thanks.” he mumbled, voice barely audible.

your mom blinked. “sorry, sweetheart?”

you leaned in. “he said thanks.”

rin looked like he was about to throw up from how clenched his jaw was. then, as the cherry on top, your dad broke the very uncomfortable silence and said, “you know, itoshi, she’s quite a handful. you sure you can handle her?”

and rin, already clinging to life by a thread, nodded stiffly and raised a glass of water to his lips.

you patted his back with the most innocent expression in the world. “oh come on, rin. don’t act like you don’t worship the ground i walk on.”

he glared at you. cheeks pink. ears red. small frown.

still the same awkward, emotionally stunted guy from his blue lock days.

but your fingers brushed his under the table, and you smiled at him softly. and maybe, maybe, he could handle dinner with your parents after all.

as long as you didn’t make him talk too much.

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samarfamilygaza · 3 months ago

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✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is (#286)✅️

DON'T IGNORE PLEASE , I BEG YOU 🥺

I Am Samar... A Mother Selling Pieces of Herself to Keep Her Daughters Alive

I write these words while hiding my tears from: 👧 Sham (7 years old) – She used to fill her notebooks with letters, now she fills her eyes with the holes in our tent, counting them like stars. 👧 Masa (4 years old) – She no longer asks for candy, only whispers: "Mama, why does breathing hurt?" 👶 Wateen (1.5 years old) – Her tiny body trembles like a bird, even in my arms.

In exile, every day is a battle:

Sham hangs her tattered notebooks on a string so the wind won’t steal them.

Masa guards her only pencil like buried treasure.

Wateen doesn’t know children in this world eat more than dry bread.

I sell locks of my hair to buy milk for my daughter. My husband hides from me that he works in stone quarries under a sun that melts dignity.

I’m not asking for the impossible, just: 🍞 A bite not measured by how many meals it must stretch across. 💊 Medicine to silence the cough slowly devouring Masa’s lungs. 📖 A notebook to preserve what remains of Sham’s dreams.

Do you know?

- My daughters believe "home" is anywhere we sleep without bombs.

- Sham fears rain because it sounds like shelling.

- Masa thinks pain is a normal part of childhood.

For just €50, you can:

- Feed us for two full days.

- Buy medicine to save Masa from a creeping infection.

- Restore Sham’s smile with a simple gift: a pencil and paper.

Don’t just read... Be this family’s lifeline.

"I will make my daughters pray for you by name. We’ll keep your names in a safe corner of our hearts."

@prisonhannibal @screamnpatches @luvdisc69 @buttercuparry @clementineskesh @no-clue-just-vibin @twashcat360 @frogbrainedfool @lazy-but-amazing @dusty-brain @loucygoosey @bichi2004 @stalinistqueens @wynsummers @rottingoranges @thingfromanoutherworld @ashkaranast @wetccarpet @chthonianalacrity @samurotting @aldryrththerainbowheart @mochipuppy16 @darinaethelaianprophet @rob-os-17 @kraigerzz-blog @weakestwarrior @v1rtualv4mp @fiapple @tryna-sleep @snapcracklepop-myjoints @ana-bananya @minosbull @duskstarshit @cosmicgamerboy @squidkiddoesstuff @attaboy-art @fireflyingaway @blackcrystalball @lookineedsleep @therealdjpocky @holyeaglecupcakesposts @amberspacedf @teeethbrush @bunnannie @lesbitching @lonelypotato23 @swaggy-hairy-thang @murenaaaaa @karlmarxmaybe @littlegaypancake

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lotus-soups · 4 months ago

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the untamed if it was written by rick riordan

ep 1. I Accidentally Get Resurrected

ep 2. My Teenage Nephew Bullies Me

ep 3. The Teacher’s Pet Duels Me to the Death

ep 4. Lan Xichen Shoots His Shot

ep 5. Jiang Cheng Needs a Wingman

ep 6. We Speak With Lan Zhan’s Frozen Grandma

ep 7. Lan Zhan Smiles

ep 8. We Embark On an Epic Field Trip (Also Nie Huaisang is Here)

ep 9. I Throw Hands With a Bird

ep 10. We Meet Our Celebrity Crushes

ep 11. We Pull Up to Evil Summer Camp

ep 12. The Low-Budget Dog Animatronic Tries to Eat Me

ep 13. We Battle the Tortoise of Doom

ep 14. I Threaten to Strip

ep 15. My Stepmom Ships Us Off

ep 16. Pretty Much Everyone I Love is Dead Now

ep 17. I Find a Cure

ep 18. I Plummet To My Death

ep 19. I Come Back Wrong

ep 20. Lan Zhan Breaks Up With Me

ep 21. I Evade Non-Consensual Therapy Sessions

ep 22. My Evil Flute Solo Kills Everybody

ep 23. I Ditch the Dinner Party

ep 24. My Ex’s Brother Tries to Stage an Intervention

ep 25. Jin Zixuan Fumbles My Sister

ep 26. I Reanimate My Homie

ep 27. My Brother Questions My Interior Design

ep 28. Lan Zhan Discovers the Joys of Fatherhood

ep 29. I Get Major FOMO

ep 30. I Fulfill My Cottagecore Fantasies

ep 31. Everything Goes Downhill

ep 32. My Nephew Becomes an Orphan

ep 33. I Plummet to My Death (For Real This Time)

ep. 34 Jin Ling Gets Eaten By a Wall

ep 35. We Become Tomb Raiders

ep 36. Lan Zhan Steals a Chicken

ep 37. I Force Feed Radioactive Porridge to Teenagers

ep 38. Xiao Xingchen Breaks the Bro Code

ep 39. I Go On a Shopping Date

ep 40. I Crash a Conference for Free Food

ep 41. Nie Mingjue is an Unreliable Narrator

ep 42. Everyone Wants to Kill Me (Again)

ep 43. Lan Xichen Trauma Dumps

ep 44. We Visit the Ruins of My Cottagecore Fantasies

ep 45. I Do Group Conflict Resolution In My Underwear

ep 46. The Truth Comes Out

ep 47. I Become a Hostage

ep 48. Jin Guangyao Talks Too Much

ep 49. I Reunite With My Evil Flute

ep 50. My Boyfriend Abandons Me On a Mountain (Not Really)

#sorry if any of them are wrong 😭😭#the untamed #chen qing ling #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #mxtx #cql #lan xichen #this has to be the un funniest thing i’ve ever posted but luckily the target audience is me i hope that helps

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valeisaslut · 6 days ago

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cursed are the ones who stay .♱ ݁˖

previous part — blessed are the ones who sin

♱ word count: 6.2k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

♱ content warnings: country!ellie x preacher’s daughter!reader, switch!reader x switch!ellie, oral sex (r!receiving), tribbing, religious guilt/blasphemy, nipple play, use of southern accents/drawl, internalized shame, heavy misogyny, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, AFAB reader. MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

header edited by my beloved @satellitespinner <3 ilysm. also, i highly recommend listening to hozier — my emotional support poet — while reading. it truly elevates the experience.

the dress feels like a noose as you drag it down your body.

stiff, pale, a fabric that doesn’t breathe, doesn’t give. you stand in the mirror for too long, brushing a palm over the faint sting where ellie’s fingers pressed into your skin the night before. the marks aren’t gone. they’re still there, blooming dark and sinful on your hip.

a rosary rests cold and delicate at your throat, its beads brushing the hollow of your collarbone. your hair is brushed, styled, molded into obedience. the reflection stares back at you like a stranger, a saintly ghost you can’t recognize.

downstairs, your father’s voice hums from the dining room, wrapped in scripture, politeness and the sound of silver clicking on porcelain. you draw a breath — shaky, sharp — and walk down the stairs.

the room goes quiet when your heel finds the last step.

the dining room is a shrine. a long table groaning under the weight of a meal your mother spent all afternoon making, sweat staining the apron she refused to remove until moments ago. bowls of mashed potatoes, roast chicken still steaming, slices of cornbread lined up like offerings. your father didn’t lift a finger to help — never has. he presides at the head of the table like a statue, hands resting on the wood as if he built it, as if he earned the right to occupy it.

every surface hums with judgment. a cross on the wall, a framed verse hanging slightly askew, amen stitched into cloth and laid across the mantel. it's a house that doesn't murmur or beckon, nor offers absolution — it proclaims.

you find yourself at the threshold, suppressing the sharp sensation rising in your throat. aware that this room was designed to remain oblivious to any word you speak tonight — and even if it does hear, it will not heed your voice.

because there he is.

austin.

older than you by nearly a decade, a boy your father picked the way he’d pick a calf for sacrifice. crisp shirt pressed, sharp as a blade, hair meticulously combed as if for a sunday sermon, and a smile that never truly reaches his eyes. a handshake that is excessively firm, lingering too long, like a claim being staked. you recall every reason why you can’t stand the way he looks at you, as if you were a deed awaiting signature, a piece of land he already aims to call his.

“evenin’, darlin’,” he says, rising halfway like it’s some display of courtesy. “you look…well.”

“thank you,” you barely mumble, voice tight.

your father motions towards the empty chair, and you settle into it as if you were a condemned thing.

meanwhile, the table hums with talk that doesn’t need your voice.

your father takes a long sip from his glass. “we were just talkin’ about the wedding. might be a spring one, if austin here has his way.”

austin grins like a boy with a toy. “sooner the better, reverend. i reckon the lord likes a house that’s in order.”

“indeed.” your father’s voice softens, silk draped over a dagger. “ain’t no sense in lettin’ a good girl sit too long, might as well make her a wife. build a family.”

your mother chimes in, voice resembling the sound of a gentle, caged bird. “have y’all talked about a date? perhaps after easter services?”

austin rests a hand on the table, palm big and flat. “that’s about when i was thinking, it gives us enough time to settle things before summer.”

each word lands like a stone, both sharp and weighty, punching the air from your chest. you open your mouth, breath poised to voice a protest. “i—”

“perfect.” and your father doesn’t even glance your way. “that’ll give the church time to plan. we can have the ceremony right after morning service, so the lord can witness it all.”

“...have you talked about children?” your mother asks.

“of course,” your future husband replies smoothly, brushing an invisible crumb from the table. “reverend, i was raised to provide and lead. my father gave my mother five beautiful children, and might be the lord has a similar plan for us.”

the lie that statement holds is enough to make your stomach turn — you’ve never spoken of children, never spoken of anything beyond polite nods and practiced smiles. and that is truly the last straw.

you let your fork fall just hard enough for the sound to slice through the air, every eye snapping toward you.

“what about what i want?”

your words slice through the air in the room like a whip, sharp and stinging.

but your father remains unresponsive, unyielding, not even looking at you. he simply takes a long sip from his glass, his voice rising in volume when he finally chooses to speak.

“you don’t get a say. this ain’t about what you want, it’s about what’s right. a woman’s place is to obey, bear children, and walk the path a man sets for her — and the lord will save the rest.”

the words land like a hammer blow. you flinch, swallowing hard as a sting blooms behind your eyes. you drop your gaze to the ground, lashes quivering, trying desperately to blink the piercing sensation away before it can spill down your cheeks.

austin’s voice softens then, rehearsed and too-sweet. “honey, this is a blessing. we’re just making sure your future is secure. you’ll be taken care of. you’ll be…happy.”

happy.

the word itself tastes like ashes, resounds like deceivement. you sink back in your chair, struggling to force down the bitter bile rising in your throat.

they carry on as if you hadn’t spoken, as if you weren’t breathing, weren’t shaking, weren’t burning with the memory of a red bandana cinched tight at your wrists. of a low, smoky laugh brushing your ear. of hands that molded themselves to every scar you’ve ever tried to forget.

your mother doesn’t speak either. she just nods, a tiny, brittle tilt of the chin before looking down at her plate, like it’s all she knows how to do — like this was always her fate too. she’d walked this same path, sat at this same table, sat in this same silence when she was your age.

here, you’re a silhouette, an ornament polished and placed just so. holy words spill forth from holy mouths, binding you tighter than any rope ever could.

you glance down at your hands resting in your lap, faint red marks sitting across your skin.

and across the table, austin grins like a boy about to inherit the world.

but inside, deep down, you’re already gone. gone to a hayloft where holy means burning, gone to hands that pray a different kind of prayer. gone to a place where silence doesn’t mean obedience.

but still, you pick up your fork.

still, you force a smile.

“of course.”

the house goes quiet long after midnight. long after the low hum of conversation has dried to silence, after austin goes home, after the dishes are clear, after the holy portraits have gone dark and the lamp in your father’s study has winked out.

you’re in your nightgown — soft, lavender silk brushing your thighs — perched on the edge of your bed, listening to the slow drum of your own heart. your fingers brush the crisp, white coverlet that feels like a shroud.

through the window, the moon spills a long, silvery line across the floorboards. you watch it move, slow and languid, as if it carries no worries in the world. as if it chose to stay silent too.

it’s a room that doesn’t feel like yours, if it ever did. pale walls, too clean, too bright, lined with crosses and saints that judge you from every angle. a row of pressed dresses hanging in the closet, a golden rosary resting on the nightstand, a bible lying open on the desk, pages dog‑eared from hands that weren’t your own.

and you can't help but wonder how long you can bear this. how long until your voice fades completely, how long until austin transforms from a mere man to your... husband. wonder how will be like to feel a ring resting on your finger and him beside you in bed, a presence that still feels unbearable even from miles away. a man you will never truly love.

a man who will never be — not even half — of her.

and here, in the silence, in the pale glow of the room, your condemnation settles like a spectre.

hours feel like days when you can’t sleep. you can't think, can’t do anything except stare out the window, at the velvet black of the fields beyond. and somewhere deep, deep down — under godly walls and godly rules, under the sting of a night that won’t end — you whisper a prayer.

and just like if the sky itself answered, a faint tap at the glass snaps your spine straight. you rise, bare feet brushing the floorboards, and move to the window. when you slide it open, your breath catches.

ellie.

she's there, leaning against the house like a shadow. lopsided grin dancing on her lips, auburn hair tousled, flannel half-tucked. her freckles are barely visible in the glow of the moon, but those piercing green eyes flicker like a match in the endless night.

and you don’t hesitate— you never did. you lean down quickly, tugging her by the hand until she’s hauling herself through the window and into the room, brushing dust from her worn jeans like she hasn’t just risked falling ten feet for you.

you stare at her for a moment, shocked, voice shaking. “oh lord, you…you can’t be here. if my daddy finds out—”

“i know,” ellie mutters quietly, brushing hair from your cheek with a hand that still carries the sting of work. “i just… fuck, i just wanted to see you.”

you swallow hard, brushing your nose along the sharp curve of her jaw. “you’re gonna get yourself killed, ellie.”

she grins, low and soft, brushing her thumb across your lip.

“maybe,” she rasps, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “but i don’t give a damn if i get to be with you.”

you draw in a shaky breath, brushing your hand down the worn fabric of her shirt like you can’t bear to let go. “you’re crazy, you know that?”

and ellie just tips her head, brushing her nose to yours like she can quiet the sting in your chest with a single breath.

“then let me stay tonight, baby,” she breathes, voice gone soft. “even if it’s just for a minute.”

and when her mouth finds yours, when her hand cradles the back of your neck and draws you closer like a orison answered, you don’t ask questions anymore.

her hand presses the small of your back, hauling you closer like gravity itself can’t bear to have space between your bodies. her mouth finds yours, urgent and burning, a kiss that tastes like midnight air and belonging. it’s deep, hungry, desperate.

you whine quietly when her hand skims down, brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown, the press of calloused fingers making sparks race down your spine. you tug her closer, swallowing the sound of her low groan. the room shrinks down until it’s just the two of you — breaths and brushing hands, tangled threads that don’t request permission.

ellie’s hands bracket your waist as she guides you backward until your knees bump the bed. she eases you down onto the mattress carefully, like she knows your father’s shotgun could be at her throat in any moment, and decides you’re still worth the risk. every breath. every bullet.

you sink down, arching as her mouth finds your throat, brushing along the curve of your collarbone, the thin strap of your nightgown falling down your shoulder under the tug of her fingers. the sting of it brushing the marks she left makes you shiver, your voice breaking into a breathless gasp.

“ellie…”

“shh,” she whispers, brushing the sush across your skin like a kiss, your fingertips finding her hair. “i’ve got you.”

her hand slips down, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, the soft fabric rising with each languid stroke. she’s shaking too — brushing a hand across your jaw, cradling it like the precious thing it is.

and then she’s kissing you again like she means it, like she needs it — deep, commanding, but tender in all the ways the world has never been for either of you.

the room holds its breath. you can feel the weight of the crosses watching, the saints framed in gold leaf and dust, their painted eyes casting down in judgment from every wall. the moonlight spills across the floor, glinting off rosaries, off the edges of the little silver crucifix above your bed. the air hums with the kind of rigidity that makes your pulse stutter in your throat.

but everything ceases to matter when ellie’s hands are on you — slow, sure, shaking just enough that you know she’s been waiting for this as much as you. she ghosts her fingers over the hem of your nightgown, eyes locked on yours, asking. you respond with a single, sure nod.

she lowers the fabric inch by inch, slow enough to feel the cool air kiss your skin, slow enough to feel your breath catch in your chest. the garment pools at your feet, forgotten, and you lay bare in front of her in the pale glow, skin warm and trembling under her gaze.

ellie draws in a breath, reverent, as if she’s seeing you for the first time all over again. her hands find your ribs, tracing the soft lines of you with fingers roughened by rope. then she peels off her brown flannel, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her freckled chest bare to the night, to you.

your hands find her before your mind catches up — tracing the dip of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the faint scar that cuts across her side.

you caress her gently, like she’s the last spark of joy you’ll ever know, and maybe she really is. her skin is warm, solid beneath your palms, and she shivers under the weight of your strokes.

“fuck, baby,” she whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “you gotta stay quiet for me, yeah? can’t have anyone hearin’ us.”

you nod, swallowing hard, the heat of her words making your insides go weak.

you tilt your head back, breath caught as she kisses a path down your chest, her hand slipping up to part your thighs. her mouth finds the swell of your breast, taking your nipple between her lips, sucking deep, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.

the heat of it shoots straight through you. you arch up into her, one hand fisting the sheets while the other buries in her hair. you have to bite down on a gasp, remembering her warning.

she moves to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. her free hand roams down your body, mapping every inch, every dip. her touch is greedy and kind all at once, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as she kisses lower, leaving a trail of heat in her wake.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” she mutters against your stomach, voice thick with want.

you can’t look away. the sight of her — wild and flushed in the pearly somber, freckles dark against her skin, her mouth trailing fire down your body — makes your head spin.

then she’s on you.

her tongue parts you slow, savoring every slick inch like she’s starving and you’re the first thing she’s been allowed to taste. she doesn’t rush — not at first. she drags the flat of her tongue through your folds, slow and purposeful, as if the shape of you is a language only she knows how to speak.

you whimper, low and broken, and she moans in response — the sound vibrating against your cunt, sending a jolt up your spine that makes your back arch, your thighs twitch. she presses you open with her palms, firm and unrelenting, pinning you down.

you bite your fist, hard, trying not to cry out. tears prick the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of it — the mess, the pressure, the way she devours you like she’s trying to undo every ounce of pain this house ever put in your body.

it’s wet, obscene. you can hear it — the slick, slow drag of her mouth, the desperate breaths through her nose, the low hum of approval she gives every time your hips stutter under her touch.

the saints above your bed don’t blink, the crucifix on the wall doesn’t move, but you swear you can feel the weight of their gazes.

and ellie? she doesn’t even pause. she buries her mouth in you like she’s trying to climb inside, like if she could live between your legs, she would — and maybe she already does.

your body starts to tremble, your thighs twitching under the strain of holding still, of remaining silent. your whole being narrows down to the wet heat of her mouth, the swirl of her tongue, the way her lips suck your clit just right — over and over and over until your stomach tightens, breath caught, vision gone white behind your lashes.

you come with a soft, strangled sound, clenching around nothing. your teeth sinks into your knuckles to keep you from screaming, a metallic taste following in your mouth from the force. it rips through you like fire, like grace, like a hymn too big for your chest.

and ellie moans like it’s happening to her. she holds you through it, lets you ride her mouth through every aftershock, every broken little sound you can’t quite bite back.

when you finally collapse against the bed, damp and panting, she pulls back slowly, chin slick, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with something close to worship. she leans up on her elbows, breath catching on her words.

"you're mine."

still catching your breath, you shift — thighs slick and trembling, the pulse behind your ribs pounding like a warning bell.

you reach for her jaw, grip firm, thumb pressing into the hinge. her breath catches — sharp, needy — and you draw her up by it, eyes locked the whole way. your mouth finds hers halfway, no grace, no patience, tasting yourself in her lips. it’s teeth and tongue and breathless heat, your kiss all demand, all hunger, all response to her words. i'm yours.

ellie groans into your mouth, her hands twitching at your waist. but she doesn’t take back control.

“get up here,” you whisper, voice cracked and gritty against her lips.

and she listens.

her knees slide through the sheets, jeans half-off, boxers already damp and bunched around her thighs. you take care of it — quick, eager fingers working her out of them, dragging denim and cotton down to her ankles, stripping her bare.

she's slick and flushed, her cunt glistening in the silver glint, the soft auburn bush above it dark with want. the sight makes your stomach twist tight, breath catching hard in your chest.

you stare. you let yourself.

“ellie...” you murmur, voice dark. “you’re soaked.”

ellie’s face burns. “can’t help it,” she mutters, breath short. “you—fuck—you do that to me.”

you hum, hand dragging slow up the inside of her thigh. “then come here, baby.”

she starts to shift forward — but you don’t let her. your hands catch her hips, steady and sure, guiding her back down, easing her until her spine hits the mattress with a soft thud.

she gasps, sharp and breathless, her eyes wide as her hands catch your waist, like she wasn’t expecting to give up the ground so easily.

you crawl over her slow, the weight of your body pressing her into the sheets as you settle on top — your thigh sliding between hers, your mouth already hunting the soft line of her jaw.

“my turn,” you whisper, voice low and full of heat. “you just lay back.”

“fuck,” she whispers, hips jerking. “i—need you. need all of you.”

you shift again, slotting your thigh beneath hers, angling your hips so your cunt presses right up against hers, heat meeting heat, slick on slick. the friction is immediate, maddening. you both gasp, shoulders curling in.

ellie’s eyes flutter shut, jaw slack. “holy shit—.”

you roll your hips once — a slow, grinding drag that sends a full-body tremble through both of you. your clits catch, nerves lighting up like wildfire, and ellie buries her face in your neck, breath hitching hard.

“stay quiet,” you whisper. “or we’re both dead.”

“then kill me,” she breathes, hips grinding down. “don’t care. fuck—feels so good—”

you take the rhythm, force it slow and brutal, hand gripping her hip so tight you’ll leave bruises. she follows, your slicks smearing together in sticky, messy bursts of pressure, each stroke hotter than the last, each one dragging another broken moan from her throat.

you drag your teeth down her shoulder, your hand slipping between her body to press against the space where you meet — hot, swollen, pulsing.

“feel that?” you whisper.

“fuck—yes—yours, all yours—”

your hips snap forward, and she shudders violently, clinging to your body, mouth parted in a silent scream. you’re dripping now, slick pouring down your thighs, soaking into the sheets, the friction loud and obscene in the stillness of the room.

“harder,” ellie whispers, voice ragged. “baby—fuck—don’t stop—please—”

and you give it to her, you give it all. every scrap of rage, every drop of want, every buried ache they taught you to swallow. every ounce of your fury, your desire, your powerlessness, your love.

you grind down harder, deeper, fucking her into the mattress with nothing but your cunt and your will, chasing something raw and wordless between her thighs. your bodies tangle, slick and trembling, no space left between you, no light — just the wild rhythm of it, until you don’t know where she ends and you begin, until it feels less like fucking and more like melding into her. and if you could, you surely would.

her hands clutch at your back, head tipping back, whole body arching. and when she comes, it’s a wreck — twitching, gasping, wet, a mess of breath and heat and muscle. she’s soaking you, her slick coating your thighs

you’re right behind her.

your body locks, hips stuttering against hers, a moan slipping past your lips that you barely muffle in the crook of her neck. it rips through you — bright, electric, endless — your cunt clenching and spasming against hers as wave after wave crashes down.

you stay there, buried in the chaos, trembling and shaking as the adrenaline courses through your veins, sweat pouring down your face and body. the scent of sin hangs heavily in the air, an aroma you have grown to love more than anything else in this world.

a sensation that seems more heavenly than heaven could ever be.

and when ellie finally speaks, her whisper is wrecked.

“i think my soul just left my body.”

you grin against her throat, breath shaky. “and went straight to hell.”

she shifts just enough to look at you, her face flushed and glowing. “worth it.”

you brush her sweaty hair back from her face, hand trembling. “you’re insane.”

“for you?” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again — slow this time, filthy-sweet. “always.”

the air has gone thick and slow again.

your skin is still slick with sweat and salt, your thighs sticky where they pressed against hers. ellie’s chest rises slow and steady against your back, her breath warm at the nape of your neck, one arm draped heavy over your waist, fingers threading through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes— as if she’s trying to memorize the shape of you, the feel of you, the weight of you in her arms before the sun comes and the world steals you back, before she has to slip into the dark again.

she hums something quiet under her breath — no melody, no words. just sound, just presence. her lips press against your shoulder once, then again, softer the second time. she buries her face in the curve of your neck, and for a moment, it feels safe here.

“still with me?” she mumbles, voice gone hoarse.

you nod, barely.

her hand drifts down your back. her fingers follow the ridge of your spine, lingering at the dip of it. another kiss, placed gently between your shoulder blades.

and that’s when your chest cracks.

it’s quiet, at first. just a hitch in your breath, a tremor you try to swallow. your lips part, but no sound comes. only tears — sudden, hot — slipping from the corner of your eye and landing on her forearm, where her skin is still warm from where it pressed into yours.

you try to stay still, try to breathe through it, but it rises anyway — thick and unbearable. and suddenly, it’s not just the night catching up to you. it’s everything.

the dinner table. the weight of your father’s voice naming your future without asking for your permission. austin’s hand reaching for yours like it already belonged to him. your mother’s silence. your own reflection in the mirror — pretty dress, quiet mouth, no way out.

and now here you are, wrapped in the arms of the only soul who has truly gifted you the feeling of freedom. the only person who ever let you be more than decoration, than duty, than daughter, than property.

and it hits you all at once —this is the last time.

the last time you feel her hands on your skin, the last time her breath curls against your neck, the last time you get to feel her heartbeat pressed into your back.

because you’ll be someone else’s. you’ll walk down an aisle you didn’t choose, toward a man you can’t stand, and you’ll spend your life pretending that the night in this bed — her mouth, her voice, her love — was just a dream you were lucky enough to wake up from.

you feel the future closing in.

a door slamming, a lock turning.

and that’s when your breath breaks.

you don’t mean to make a sound — but you do, just the tiniest whimper.

and ellie hears it. of course she does.

she lifts her head fast, already alert. “hey,” she whispers. “hey, baby—what’s wrong?”

you turn to bury your face in her shoulder, shaking your head, but the tears keep coming, unstoppable now. she reaches for you — palm at your jaw, thumb swiping at your wet cheeks, her own breath starting to fray.

“darlin’,” she says, accent drawn low. “what is it? what happened?”

your voice breaks on the first try, then again. and then, finally, it comes out.

“they want me to marry him.”

you feel her whole being go still.

a few seconds pass, but you have to keep going. your weak voice wobbles through the air.

“he came over tonight. austin. sat right at our table, talkin’ to my father ‘bout rings and church dates and kids, like i wasn’t even there.”

ellie blinks, slow. “...kids?”

“yeah.” your throat closes again. “five of ‘em, if he gets his way. that’s what he said. sat right there, talkin’ ‘bout fillin’ up a house, makin’ me a wife.”

you let out a breathless laugh that sounds nothing like laughter.

“he said i’d be happy, said the lord made me for it, and i just sat there... because i can’t say no. i ain’t got no money, no way out. i’m stuck, ellie. i’m so—” your voice cracks, helpless. “i’m so fuckin’ scared.”

you expect silence. you expect her to gather her clothes without a word, slip out the window like a secret, leave nothing behind but the ghost of her hands on your skin. you expect her to look at you different now — not with longing, but with loss. with hurt. you expect her to let you go, to decide you’re not worth the trouble. that loving you isn’t worth staying.

instead, ellie pulls you into her.

her hands cradle your face, holding you steady as her eyes search yours in the dark. and when she speaks, her voice is deadly steady.

“run away with me.”

you blink, breath caught.

“what?”

“run,” she mutters again, this time firmer. “come with me. tonight. right now. fuck this house, fuck their prayers, fuck austin and your daddy and every last person who thinks they get a say in what you do with your life.”

your heart kicks like a drum against your ribs.

“ellie—”

“i’m serious.” her hands are on your cheeks now, fingers trembling. “i’ll take you far from here. i’ll carry you if i have to. i swear to god, baby, no one’s gonna put a ring on you unless it’s the one you choose.”

your lip quivers.

“i got nothin’, ellie.”

she shakes her head, fierce and wild and unwavering.

“you got me.”

“and where would we go?”

“don’t know, and i don’t give a shit. i’ll find us somethin’. i got people, i'll find work, we’ll sleep in the truck. we’ll make it.”

you press your forehead to her, your hands fisting the sheets. you can feel the weight of the saints above your bed, the moonlight splitting the cross on your wall. every breath you take now feels like rebellion.

“they’ll hunt us.”

“then let ‘em.” her voice is steel. “they ain’t ever gonna touch you again, not while i’m still breathin’.”

you close your eyes.

and you believe in her.

you feel the promise of her in every inch of your skin, in every kiss she left there. in the ache between your legs, in the sting of your throat, in the beat of your heart that only ever felt right when it was beating next to hers.

“i can’t lose you.”

“you won’t.”

you lie there for a long time, breath tangled. her thumb brushes your cheek again. you press your lips to her shoulder, aching. she whispers something bitter under her breath.

“should’ve taken you sooner,” she mutters. “should’ve known they’d try to take you from me.”

“you didn’t know.”

“still, i should’ve. you ain’t built for their world, sweetheart. you’re too—” she pauses, searching. “too alive. too much.”

“and you are?”

she huffs a breath, her nose brushing yours. “hell no. but i’m mean enough to fight it.”

you laugh, cracked but less broken than before.

“and what happens if i say yes?”

she pulls back just enough to see you — all of you — eyes shining with something reckless.

“then i kiss you again, i help you pack, and we don’t look back.”

you stare at her. then you take a breath, long and deep.

“okay,” you whisper. "let's run"

you say it, and something shifts.

not in the room — it stays still, judging, stubborn — but inside you. deep in your chest, under your ribs. a weight lifts, a door creaks open.

and for the first time in your life, the world feels wide open. you can finally breathe.

ellie watches you like she’s waiting for you to take it back, but you don’t. you just nod, slow and sure, and whisper it again, steady this time.

“let’s run.”

what happens next, happens quiet.

the floorboards know your feet by now, and you know theirs — which ones creak, which ones threaten to give you away. your wear a simple black dress pulled from the back of the drawer. it doesn’t rustle, it doesn’t snag.

she’s waiting by the window now. one boot braced on the roof, one hand curled around the sill. the moon paints her collarbone silver, and she turns to you with eyes sharpe— the same look she wore the night she kissed you behind the grain silo. the night she first pulled her name out of your mouth.

you hold the letter tight in your fist. the paper’s torn from the back of your bible — the page where the genealogy used to be, listing who belonged to who.

you wrote over it.

don’t come after me. this life isn't mine. i’m not sorry, and i won’t be.

— your daughter

you fold it once. then again. lay it on your pillow.

and then you give the room one last good look. crosses nailed on the wall, saints with dust in their eyes, bed you were meant to make children in. a bed that only ever held pressure and silence—until her.

you breathe it all in, then you go.

you climb through the window and fall straight into ellie’s arms. your breath hitches, caught somewhere between fear and freedom. but you don’t fall. she's there to catch you.

“got you,” she murmurs against your hair. “always.”

and then you run through the grass, wind slicing through your hair, breath ragged in your chest. you don’t look back. not at the house, not at the porch light, not at the second-story window where your life was folded into someone else’s idea of salvation.

you only look at her.

the truck waits at the edge of the field, tucked under the trees. the night holds its breath around you. ellie yanks the passenger side open for you and circles the front, her boots hitting gravel. she slides in, hands on the wheel, mouth tight.

“you ready?” she asks.

you glance at her, freckled, flushed. glowing from the fire you lit in her.

“i been ready.”

she nods once, turns the key, and the truck rumbles awake. the tires crackle, gravel spinning under the wheels.

and just like that — you’re gone.

you end up in a town with no name. somewhere south of where they’d think to look, two states from home and a lifetime away. you rent a trailer that leans to one side when it rains, with a screen door that sticks and a front step that creaks under your weight. wildflowers grow in the ditch just past the yard. sometimes, you pick them and leave them on the windowsill.

you work mornings at the diner. ellie picks up whatever she can — oil changes, hay bales, fence posts, odd jobs that leave her knuckles bruised and her shirts stained. no one asks for more than your first names, no one cares who you were before.

you don’t have much — a bed, a radio, a coffee pot that sputters before it pours — but you’ve got quiet. you’ve got a place to touch her without hiding. you’ve got a truck that takes you down dirt roads with the windows down and her hand resting easy on your thigh.

on good days, you both wake before the sun. sit on the porch with bare legs, her head resting against your shoulder, the sky bleeding soft colors above the trees.

on bad days, she holds you close in the dark, rocks you slow, tells you over and over: “you’re safe. you’re safe. you’re safe now.”

some nights, when the air’s too thick to sleep, you strip down and pull her on top of you. let the fans blow hot air across your damp skin while she fucks you slow, both of you too gone to pretend it isn’t perfect. you don’t hide your sounds. you don’t cover your mouth.

after, she lies heavy on your chest, the sheets kicked to the floor. her fingers draw shapes on your belly, and her mouth finds that spot under your collarbone where you keep your leftover fear.

“can’t get enough of you,” she says one night, voice thick, lips brushing warm against your skin. “not now, not ever.”

you card your fingers through her hair, gentle.

“you won’t have to,” you whisper. “i’m yours ‘til the end."

and that way, months pass, seasons shift, nothing spectacular happens — not in the way the world expects. but still, things bloom. inside your body, and inside hers.

you learn to grow things, she learns to fix things. you stop jumping when the phone rings, she starts singing while she washes dishes.

but one night, it happens.

you’re sitting at the table. it’s small, uneven, a little wobbly on one leg. dinner’s done, her hands are still greasy from fixing the truck. the fan hums in the corner, blowing auburn locks into her eyes. she looks at you, quiet for a second.

then she reaches across the table and takes your hand.

“i wanna marry you, proper or not. don’t need a preacher. just need you to say yes.”

your heart falters. you remain silent for a moment, just smiling, warm and full of every mile you’ve traveled to get here.

and then, like a whispered prayer, you say it.

“yes.”

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ WOW OKAY I DID NOT EXPECT TO WRITE THAT MUCH 😭 but god, i genuinely loved every second of this concept — i’ve always wanted to write something like this and it shows. mia said “write riding country!ellie” and my brain immediately went “religious trauma and running away from an arranged marriage.” maybe my favorite drabble i’ve written to date. hope you all enjoyed it, lovesss <333

perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater

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cherspastries · 1 month ago

Text

PRETTY THINGS,

WITTY WORDS!

GET IN LINE!

Lando Norris x Reader

SUMMARY 𐙚 Lando’s been waiting for the right moment to make a move. When he finds out you’ve broken up with your toxic boyfriend, he seizes the perfect opportunity!

WARNINGS 𐙚 Mentions of a toxic relationship

A/N 𐙚 First SMAU ever… I had to break out my graphic design skills for this one 🫣

DIRECTORY | MASTERLIST | REQUESTS: OPEN

lando

🎵 MF DOOM • Coffin Nails

liked by abercrombie, mclaren, lnfour, and 523K others

lando Don’t miss out on this

view all comments

user1 He’s sooo fine

user2 who’s missing out on what?! 😩

abercrombie on the merch! Buy it now!! 😤

user3 We all dread the day someone claims a piece of him

user4 It’s gonna be me ♪

→ user5 no way

yourusername Nobody missing out on shit 💀

lando I’d roast you but my mom said not to burn trash

→ yourusername CORNBALL!

ー→ user6 can you guys stop flirting

ーー→ yourusername Alright fun’s ruined

user6 never bought a shirt so fast

lnfour 🔥 make sure to wear your sweatshirt when watching the race 👀

user7 A hit as always

𐙚

yourusername

🎵 Doja Cat • Ain’t Shit

liked by lando, friend1, friend2, mclaren, and 12.3K others

yourusername This is your sign to break up with your toxic boyfriend #freedom

view all comments

user1 YESS

user2 ATE

lando You have access to McLaren passes and yet you picked FERRARI? 😤

yourusername I look better in red

→ lando I thought we were friends

user3 Men ain’t shit

user4 GOODBYE BUM

user5 Thank God

scuderiaferrari Our new biggest fan

yourusername OFC 💋

charles_leclerc Lovely meeting you

yourusername omfg.

→ user6 GIRL you won

→ lando 🧐

𐙚

lando

🎵 Frank Ocean • Pink + White

liked by yourusername, lnfour, mclaren, and 521K others

lando Merch drop 🔥

view all comments

user1 HE LOOKS… 😳

yourusername ok mog

lando 🤫🧏‍♂️

lnfour 🔥🔥🔥🔥

user2 is it hot in here? 🥵

yourusername No it’s just me

→ user3 Why are you always in his comments? It’s giving obsessed…

ー→ yourusername God forbid a girl have friends

user4 Y/N in their breakup era… Lando in his single era…

user5 Let’s not

→ user6 bffr they have so much chemistry, you’re just jealous

𐙚

Regardless of his forewarning, Lando’s sudden arrival at your house had taken you by surprise. He arrived with such haste, you had to giggle at the idea of the racer speeding across the city to get to you. The knock came roughly twenty minutes after your exchanged messages, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Lando was impatiently standing on the other side of that door.

You steadied your nerves before pulling the gold-plated handle down to open the grand wooden door. Lando’s eyes lit up upon the sight of you, and he quickly pulled you into his grasp. His muscular arms encircled your waist, tugging you taut to his chest as he spun you around in an elegant circle. With a rather loud smacking sound, he stole a kiss away from you.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” He spoke with a cheesy, boyish grin. His curls framed his face, and his smile lit up his features perfectly. He was the definition of handsome. You giggled as you combed through his soft locks.

“Now you’ll never have to wait again.” You sealed your promise with yet another peck.

𐙚

lando

🎵 Billie Eilish • BIRDS OF A FEATHER

liked by yourusername, friend1, lnfour, and 212K others

lando This is your sign to date your best friend

tagged yourusername

view all comments

user1 I KNEW IT

user2 FINALLY

lnfour Favorite girl🔥

yourusername omg 😆🫣

lando Hey… Step back now

user3 AHHH CUTIES

oscarpiastri Congrats mate

friend1 Just know I was there first

lando Blah blah blah

→ friend1 🤨😤😠😡🤬

mclaren Time to ditch the Ferrari!

scuderiaferrari Hey wait a minute

yourusername I looove you 🤩

lando Thank God 🧡 Idk how I pulled you

→ yourusername By being a charming loser

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yukinohiko · 3 months ago

Text

you’ve been trying to seduce him for six months.

sae watches you make your rounds across the banquet hall. he sits at one of the round tables, hearing his manager’s voice humming into the void of sponsors and investors. his cheek is propped by his knuckles; his free hand holds a glass of malt.

he doesn’t often drink. but it’s been a successful season so far, and he’s off-training tomorrow.

and you’ve been trying to seduce him for six months.

look at you, he thinks as he observes you across the room. in your silk dress that drips down your body like rainwater. it’s backless. of course, it is. he hadn’t missed the little gold clip pinning up your hair, either. it’s a tasteful design that’s won you many compliments, but only he seems aware it’s not just shapes but a seabird. the gold design curving the bird’s wings into a perfect number 10.

how clever of you, he thinks. always watching but never anything more.

until tonight.

his phone flashes a new notification. confirmation. around the same time, he sees you fussing on a call, looking more agitated than you typically present yourself in public.

if he smiles slightly to himself, anyone who sees blames it as a trick on the light.

he leaves his drink unfinished and moves toward you. doesn’t touch you and doesn’t need to. you’re typically aware of him even when he’s five miles away; though he has the pleasure of surprising you this one time due to your state of panic.

“it’s getting late. don’t you tend to head home by now?”

“my ride.” you’re flustered. he drinks it in like the finest whiskey. “sorry, yes. I think there’s been some mixup with my ride service.” you avert your gaze, trying to balance your phone with your conversation. “I just have to wait until they can send another car.”

he hums. adjusts a stray curl, clipping it back into your hair without ever really touching you. he feels your eyes snap to him, as if worried he’d figure out your little symbol to him — as if he hadn’t known since you first strode in with it.

“I can give you a ride,” he says coolly.

“what?”

he doesn’t linger, already halfway to the door. he only glances back once, meets your startled gaze, and crooks two fingers at you. “coming?”

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hyacinth-in-a-haze · 11 days ago

Text

Yandere! warlord! x fem!reader!

The smell of smoke still clings to your hair despite the copious perfumes you've been lathered in. Just as the dirt stays embedded in your nails and the tears refuse to stop forming in your eyes. Despite how many times you've sobbed the bridal makeup off, the other women merely cluck like mother hens and reapply the fanciful designs. They are gentle, which only serves to make you sob more. If they were cruel and simply pushed you into place, you could have handled it. Instead, they smile as they take you by hand to the mirror to see yourself dressed in borrowed regalia. The head, his mother, you assume, takes her own necklace off to drape on you. Already seeing you as her daughter.

But you already had a mother, a cold woman with quick hands and a quicker temper but those were never directed to you. You had a father and a brother, long grown and living in the city, safe from the skirmishes of living by the border. You remember the late night arguments. Pressing your ear against the bedroom floor to hear your mother arguing that you should all leave and go to where it is safe, and your father would in his calming voice say he will be buried with his ancestors, and mother would throw some plate or bowl against something. That would always be the end of every fight between them, in the morning father would return with a new piece of crockery as though nothing happened.

It was a sunny day. No red sky to warn you of the smoke the wind would carry, so you did as you always did. Tending the chores and to the animals outside while mother grumbled with the spinning and father was in town. If it wasn't for the damned rooster you wouldn't have left her alone. Maybe it wouldn't have been different if you were there, but maybe it would have. No matter what that dreadful bird got out from the hen house, running and flapping it's wings into the field while you screamed at the creature, threatening it with all sorts of punishments. You'd put it into the stewpot for tonight's meal you'd throw him on a spit and slow roast him for Sunday supper, you'll pluck all his feathers and leave him naked as a warning to the other birds.

When you finally catch the ill tempered beast, you're a distance far into the field, home is a speck in the distance, and the bird is pecking at your hands until you scream that you'll just wring its neck and be done with it.

You almost dropped the rooster when you heard a laugh- one so deep that it seemed to shake the ground. Coupled with a heavy large hand clasping to your shoulder. You don't want to turn, tightening your hold until it writhes in your arms.

“Now what has this bird done to deserve such a punishment?” His voice lacks any animosity, rather being full of the same amusement as something watching a child play with their pet. He turns you to face him. The man dwarfs you easily, so tall he'd need to duck to enter your home. As broad as a pine tree he most likely could tear one down with the war axe across his shoulders. His hair is long, braided intricately to stay out his face and his eyes are crinkled in amusement until he notices the blood on your hands.

“So that is the crime it committed? Wounding such delicate hands?” He performs a mocking little sigh before outstretching a hand “would you like me to execute it for you then?” he says this genuinely as though offering to do you a great favour. You jump backwards cradling it protectively as you stammer a decline to his offer.

It is only then when you realise the horse, a beast bigger than the mare your father plows his field with. Eyes flicking from his steed to him you tremble back further, coming to the connection that his accent should have given away to you firstly but the horse and his armour has smacked you in the face with. This man is a warlord.

Before you can begin to beg for mercy, for him to let you go or to kill you then be taken as a slave, the wind throws the stench of smoke at you. Glancing quickly at the horizon you see the roof of your home ablaze. The bird and the human beast are forgotten as you sprint your way home, stumbling across the crops just trying to ignore your body begging for rest until you collapse in the back garden. Knelt in the ash and dirt, praying for yourself to die quickly when one of the warriors finds you.

The thatched roof ablaze, doors and windows wide open. You don't have the heart to call out your mother's name, she would have never gone quietly. The animals are absent from their pens, a few feathers and scraps of wool litter the floor but it's more likely that they were rounded up as spoils. That stupid rooster which was so important to chase through the wheat this morning could never matter now.

When the footsteps reach your side you've no resistance in you to do anything but slump against the hands that pull you in. As he murmurs over and over that it's alright, he has you. You don't fight as your mother would have done, merely accept the impending blade to the neck. Rather you meet a heavy wool cloak across your back, the hood pulled over your face. You didn't even realise that you were shivering until then, it's although a sense of clarity finally pierces your mind. Tilting your face up to see him properly. His eyes full of a tenderness that only serves to infuriate you.

“Why won't you just kill me!” You shriek as you pummel his chest, far beyond caring about the consequences. When the exhaustion steals your strength he stands, you wait finally for the glint of his steel. Only he grabs you instead, hoisting you infront of him on his horse, obscuring you with the cloak, so no one else will see your sweet sobbing face.

The ride is a blur, with him and his men throwing orders in a dialect unknown to you, rounding up all their spoils. It seems you're not the only person to be taken, but you are the only one to be sat upon a horse with your captor.

Halfway through the ride he leans down into your ear, lips too warm against the skin to finally answer your question.

“I will never kill you nor raise a hand against you, my little bride.”

“Why me then?” you mumble as the fear rocks your heart. “Why take me as a bride?”

He pauses for a moment, letting the canter of the horse fill the air.

“You amused me, going to war with a rooster. I didn't want to let such a pretty sight live only in my memories.”

His words, unsurprisingly do little to comfort you. Once he returns to his home he passed you off to the other women to ready you for what you now realise is the ceremony.

Finally the tears stop, you have nothing left to give as all the elder women begin to lead you by the hands to the wedding feast. Your veil and headdress are so heavy you can barely hold your head up to see. When he finally sees you dressed up in his clothing his heart practically stops for a moment.

The feast comenses brilliantly for such short notice, only it took you near seven hours before the other women decided you were ready so perhaps in that time this was able to be organised.

Your new husband looks at you with nothing but adoration. Placing food from his plate to yours and when you still refuse it, he merely takes it in his hands holding it to your mouth. Refusing to acknowledge your resistance. Praising you while the food becomes sand in your mouth.

“My mother is quite happy with my choice today,” he gently wipes your mouth. “She told me she had a dream I would return from our raid carrying my bride, and so she was right,” his gaze twinkles “she must believe that the gods have chosen you.” a servant approaches the table leaving a goblet of wine before us.

His hand lingers on your veil before lifting it gently, as though he thought too much pressure would snap your bones.

“Oh my love,” he whispers, reduced to silence by the sight of the bridal makeup, “you'll never want for nothing so long as I live.”

“I want to go home. I want my family,” you plead so quietly it can only be heard between us. His gaze hardens imperceptibly but his hands remain light as he picks up the goblet and holds it against you.

“My love, there is nothing more for you than what is here.” He presses the wine to your lips, to force a toast to this finality he's presented.

With no other path forward but the one he's carrying you down, you part your lips and accept the wine. Allowing one bead to fall down your throat and ruin the neck of your borrowed dress.

#fem reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere drabble #Yandere warlord #yandere oc x reader

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itsoutrageouss · 2 months ago

Text

Part six of Simon seeing reader cry for the first time. This one is really just Simon’s pov of you, and he’s heading into the jealousy stage… he’s low-key growing obsessed? Enjoy.

Simon was fuming. Not with you exactly, it wasn’t your fault you were such a delicate, pretty little bird- of course you’d get attention at a scummy pub like this. And it wasn’t like you were his territory, his to claim in some way.

But if the bartender didn’t hurry up making that drink you wanted so that the handsome stranger next to you could move on, he’d get up from the cramped booth and make it him damn self.

You clearly weren’t the type to just bring someone home. Or were you? Fuck, was that a sexist prejudice he just had? He runs a hand over his face, over the surgical mask he had put back up the minute that man approached you to try and mask any reaction he might have. He’s so used to his grimaces being hidden that he was scared he couldn’t control them.

Soap nudged his arm that barely moved as he laughed heartily at his own story. Simon didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t leave you. Aye, Soap noticed, shooting Gaz a knowing glance but none of them dared say anything because they were still having a good night.

Finally your hands grasped around a tall glass, ice rattling as you bid the man goodbye and headed for the teams designated table. Simon hadn’t been able to read your interactions; had you been flirting? Maybe politely declining? You’d be the type- Arh there he goes again giving you prejudices when you keep surprising him everyday about what ‘type’ you actually are.

You sit down with a small, flustered smile. Fuck, fuck, Simon’s hands tighten around his own pint, that otherwise sat untouched after you left. You blink up at him, looking like he’s the one that’s flustered you but he knows that isn’t true. It couldn’t be. He’s unmoving, eyes slowly dragging you over.

“What?” You ask, nervous, maybe a little defensive and he knows that you hate not being able to read him. He’s bristling, if he was a cat all hairs would be standing on end.

“Nothing.” His voice is terse, gruff as usual but it sounds like he has to force the words from his throat, willing his lips to move. You frown, and now he knows you won’t let it go- it gives a thrill through him: he knows you now. Knows what your expressions mean, what you’re feeling.

He sees your eyes drifting off, clearly in thought before your jaw tightens and your eyes fall to your drink. You look disappointed. That’s not what he expected really, and know he doesn’t know what to do. Jesus Christ why does he overthink everything when it comes to you now? It used to be simple before you bared your soul to him and now he just wants to keep you open for him.

He doesn’t know how to address this now. Why did you look like that? After that bath, where he’d asked you to touch him and gods you had touched him and he swore he died and went to heaven; after that, what was supposed to happen? Maybe you didn’t know either. You quickly schooled your expression and leaned a little over the table to join the conversation Simon had pushed into background noise. He didn’t like that one bit, putting your walls up now? Well he couldn’t have that.

“What did he want?” Simon tried asking casually as you leaned over, his mouth almost at your ear. You tensed, a micro movement but he noticed. You hadn’t expected him to adress it head on, perhaps, as you leaned back, diverting your attention to him again.

“My number” you replied and he felt his tongue sucking on his own teeth to calm down. He hummed in response.

“Did you give it?” He asked, trying to seem nonchalant, grateful for his mask as always. Your eyes twitched, expression lacing with some sort of offence or disbelief. He struggled to stay composed, heart rate elevating a little too fast.

You shook your head but it mainly looked like you were annoyed with him, more than it was an answer. Your eyes found the table, gathering yourself before looking up at him with a seriousness and intensity he hadn’t expected. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you think that?”

Shit, you seemed genuinely upset in some way. He was flustered, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Looked like you were having a good time.” He shouldn’t have said that, jealousy shining through his teeth and he knew it.

“Well I wasn’t” you said, quick but steady.

“You’re angry with me” he said it as a monotone statement because he didn’t want you to hear it for what it was.

“No- no im not-“ you sighed, running a hand through your hair that he eyed almost nervously. “I just don’t know why you would think that I would give him an ounce of my time” you mumbled, raising your brows shortly to indicate something. He swallowed thickly.

“I didn’t think it, I feared it” he admitted and it felt vulnerable enough that he had to look away, into the crowd of people. “Smiling like a schoolgirl when you came back, dove” he mumbled, a little to himself

“At you.” You corrected, trying to meet his gaze. “I found it funny that-“ he felt you lean closer so only he could hear, if anyone should happen to try and listen in. “-anyone would even try talking to me after I had my hands around your….”

He stiffened, shoulders moving a little, mask covering the blood surging to his cheeks at your next word. He had to clear his throat, make sure Soap didn’t hear. It was right, in that tub your hands had wandered a bit like he’d asked you to. Nothing more had happened than you feeling him up, leaving him on that gruesome but wonderful edge. Hearing what that meant to you, that that moment had solidified something between you the way it had to him made him wanna fucking moan. His eyes snapped to yours, a newfound confidence in them.

“Giggling at someone trying to take you home?” He said, his tone infinitely more lighter now. You merely shrugged, the offence from your face gone. Good.

He hummed, considering you for another second before huffing in dry amusement, shaking his head and finally lowering the mask again. He picked up the pint but your smaller hand gently pushed it to the table, earning his attention again.

“You don’t need to be jealous, Simon.” You said, oddly calm, brows scrunching subtly.

“Im not” he was quick, too quick and you both knew it. He swore under his breath and picked up his pint again as he saw the winning streak across your face.

But he knew that this meant. If he was jealous of someone else trying to pick you up, he’d have to do it himself or his feelings wouldnt have a valid place to settle, no value. Ugh just his luck, now he was basically forced to take you home himself…

Series masterlist

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redcherrykook · 2 months ago

Text

────꒷꒦ 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 [ s & c ]

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

part of ɳσƈƚιʋαɠαɳƚ

↳ ❝ [ vampire!Jungkook universe] ❞

✎ summary: he´s observant, watches his prey like an experienced predator, but in 125 years of age, Jungkook had never craved someone as much as you. he had to have you.

note from cherry: warning!! Stalking., obsessive jungkook, crazy PATHETICALLY DOWN BAD jungkook. part one of our sexy obssessed stalker vampire. We love him here. Mini slow burn? Idk.

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

In the habitual sunday walk through the lush emerald park, the birds accompany your rhythmic heartbeat with their singing. Sunday matchas always taste better once the sun reverts to glow dimly at the horizon, dissappearing goodbye in a tortuously slow departure.

You were never fond of the sunsets as you were sunrises, steadily feeling a clench in your heart at something as radiant as the sun taking it's might to part from the world, vowing to greet you in the early hours of life's next morning. But in the unleashing dark, sometimes the return of the sun felt uncertain.

Almost ashamed to admit it- on rare, eerie occasion, you still feared the ominous that roams empty streets at dead hours way past midnight. Unlike a fairytale or a badly written horror novel- these creatures found themselves in every nook and cranny. Every slither of space, you were brought up to fear them. Never walk alone after sunset. Never look behind the treeline if you felt the presence of their piercingly colorful eyes stalking you every little step.

The world has become much less judgmental nowadays.

"Matcha latte to go?"

The fair skinned man calls out from behind the counter. His purple eyes dull of boredom in typical barista fashion, the smile he shoots you no less polite, although small, pointy fangs flash from it's corners.

"Thank you -" your eyes flicker to his nametag, "Nathaniel. Here's your tip, have a nice day" you reply, automated in that slightly raised frequency you twinge when talking to a stranger.

Your steps take you back through the way you walked initially, crunching on the freshly breeze grass beneath your soles, tracing the familiar route back to your apartment.

It had become utterly familiar to him too. The route was the same- sunday after sunday. On occasion during the week- mostly during exam season, when your body called for an added fuel.

He may have gotten used to the steps he took, synchronizing them alongside your own. However, he'd never get used to your pink lips cupping the straw in their little hold. How you sip the drink with the innocents of a little dove, unaware of the shudders that go through his body, stirr in his abdominal region.

It had captured him wholly. Unexpectedly but calculated nonetheless.

It must have been planned. Seeing your precious little blush, the shirt that snuck up your torso as you put back a book into the raking shelve of the bookstore he works at. It must have been no less than fate, the blood red string of fate that is tugging his nervoussystem in your direction. Letting something awaken inside of him- something of his roots. Akin to his nature- to taunt him of his designation, the realization that he was not merely a simple man.

And his madness grew with each breath of air that filled your lungs. Even when he wasn't around to watch you take them, as long as you inhale the same oxgyen- he craved to breathe you in as though you were his source of essentials.

Chance encounters don't exist- not in 125 years has it happend to him, not a singular interaction devoid of purpose or contrary, filled to the brink with the naked, uncanny urge to engulf this very thing into his chest. That's how he knew you were his calling.

"Hey, sorry, you dropped this"

He taps on your shoulder, unguarded, you spin around, glancing at his face, down his large, faintly colorless hand that held something dear to you.

In the midst of beautifully ordinary walk, you hadn't noticed the drop of your keys.

"Oh god- thank you. That could have ended badly" you offer a small giggle, airy, light. He tries to not let his eyes roll back at the melody, handing you your keys with an aching heart. Soon enough- he told himself- soon enough he will get to enter your space.

"Yeah. Cute guy you got on there. Has he got a name?"

The little, blue bow adorned monchichi keychain catches your eye for a second before they naturally wander up to his deep red eyes. They glint slightly, taking notice of his pointed fangs that he charmingly flashes through a grin.

"Mocha" your answer is polite, small. He knew better than to pry too deep, settles to hum,

"Mocha" he recites, tilts his head the slightest bit, "I think ive seen you at my bookshop before. But i never got to know your name, pretty?"

The instant he asked, he wanted to answer this question for you in place of his theatrically put on questioning expression. Replace it with genuine lust in his voice as he lets the syllables of your name roll over his tongue, just like he's been chanting them in the dark- when no one's watching - when there's no eyes to graze the beautiful sinner he's become once his stiff cock stands proudly in his hand.

You tell him your name regardless. How could you have known that the shadow who seems to follow you around, internalized it like a favourite poem all along.

You were oblivious to his ways, clueless even. He failed to hold back a miniscule slip of tongue, wetting the metal ring in the corner of his pale rose lips.

"Thats a beautiful name. I'm Jungkook"

You bless him with your little giggle for another time, remarking in your head about how easy it was to talk to the handsome creature. The one who's face had been burned into your imagination for quite some time now, tucked away into some box, beneath the litters of faces you've seen at the morisaki bookshop.

"Suits you"

"Is that good?" he asks, showing of his signature grin to which you nod,

"Its elegant"

"Vampires tend to be" he says, vaguely gesturing to your cup, "You like matcha? I could treat you to one, if you like?"

Satisfaction courses through his bloodstream at the airbrushed pink that dusts your cheeks, taking note of the way your pointy gel nails fiddle slightly with your jeanpocket,

Alongside the pleasure, relief floods him in it's soothing tide- he had finally uttered the sentence he meticulously practiced to say over and over again- watch his micro expressions in his reflection to tweak each subtle give away, enhance every unique feature he held within those constructed words.

"I'd like that" you reply, choosing a demure answer that attempts to hide your attraction to Jungkook, your girlish excitement at meeting him again.

"Same time next week?"

Succumbing to his natural charm was inevitable. Nothing could have prepared you for the lull in his voice, how every word he pronounced sounded like those of an ancient spell. The strike in his unusually colored eyes differed so drastically from the fairness of his flawless skin. It was drowning you in its hues.

Jungkook walked home with a use of his speed inflicted upon the pace of a human step. The sight of your lips trembling slightly as you gave him your number, the one he had memorized weeks ago, still playing in his mind's eye like a movie. It would become his favourite memory until he created more explicited ones- though he grew acustom to cumming at the simple sound of your name in his head- spoken by his own voice, now blissfully interchanged with the way you offered it to him earlier.

Patience is a virtue he had mastered inescapably, it grew into his life through vicious blessings, beautiful curses. 24 hours that multiply and blend into unexciting memories.

All strings had gotten loose upon your arrival. How would he be able to await another seven days without seeing you, without hearing you pronounce mundane words or viewing your camera app being opened over a little flower on the pavement.

He couldn't wait, no matter how much patience he had.

His shadow casts itself behind the many cars parking up your street, he zones in on your surroundings- the little shoulder look you give in the dark, as if to spot anything that could endanger you. It made his heart wrench,

"I'd never let you get hurt" he whispers to himself, watching the cold air manifest into transparent smoke as he speaks.

You rattle your keys, unlock the shabby apartment door with stiff fingers, suffering the low temperatures. From your peripheral, it almost looked like a blow- a gust of wind running by your side.

But when you turn around with hitched breath, its empty.

Jungkook exhaled once your figure disappeared into the building. Carelessy, he swung by, wanting to get just an inch closer, an inch away from having his highly receptive senses flooded with your gentle scent. For his yearning heart to get a fraction of gratification.

The closer he is, the more he needs to have. It clouds him like the smoke of a stormy night, rips him into the unknown, the unexplored and hidden desires of digging his teeth into the graceful skin of your neck.

Sunday finally comes around, the end of the week igniting him with a new flame. He'd been painfully dragging himself around in those remaining hours, holding himself back from standing in front of your bedroom window to watch you pick out your outifit, pace around nervously like you did before meeting with your friends on Wednesday nights. A tradition of getting cocktails at least twice a month, you appeared lovely, casual even. But jungkook saw it all behind the curtain of effortlessness, the pile of discarded outfits, your hairbrush thrown on your bed in frustration. The sweet, winged eyeliner that took three songs and four retries to draw on. He'd seen it all, every inch of your skin as you try on dress after skirt, shirt after blouse, no matter how much he restrained himself to avert his gaze.

Now, he's seeing you approach from afar, walking tentatively in the beautifully dim sunlight.

He skips a few steps to be in your vicinity quicker- you blink confused, before breaking out into a small laughter.

"Right, you can do that"

He returns your smile, his heart races at the sight of you so close to him, so attainable.

"Its pretty efficient"

You hum, tracking your gaze from the top of his pierces eyebrow, down his plump lips, taking your line of sight down the contours of his sharp jaw before your focus shifts on the unbuttoned top part of his silky black shirt. His prominent collarbones peak out just enough to make you elicit a barely audible sigh,

In his mind, he's been drifting to your bedroom, to his hands that let the pretty grey fabric graciously fall down the dips of your figure.

"You look really pretty, grey suits you"

Jungkook's smoothe voice guides you through the rest of the joint night.

Along his gentle nature, there is some sort of belonging. A shiver of closeness that runs down your back, even when it's just his knuckles that gingerly bump yours while you walk around the blooming trail. You catch him from time to time, in the midst of your conversation, how he lets himself wander off in thought a bit, yet, he's attentive, responsive, dancing the line of being completely entranced by the string of words leaving your lips.

"Youre easy to talk to" you tell him truthfully while throwing away the empty cup. He chuckles a little,

"Yeah? Well, you make me feel comfortable, i think thats why"

"I do? I feel like i'm so awkward" you chuckle- honestly, maybe you were a bit awkward. Trying your hardest not to let him pay and telling bad jokes about his vampire qualities that he'd probably been told multiple times before. Nothing shy from enticing in his eyes.

"I think youre adorable"

"You're way too honest. Is that a vampire thing?"

His hand brushes a little strand away from your face, stalled in front of the acquainted doorstep of your apartment. The soft hair glides through his slender fingers like liquid gold. From the back of his throat, a small groan of approval sounds,

"No, but I'm bad at lying anyways"

Your lips curve into a grin, mirroring his expression. The thumping in your chest rings so loudly, you're almost sure he's able to pick up the frequency with his immaculate hearing. Its a pounding you haven't yet felt before. It may be the deep night around you- adding to his sexy mystique, the way his eyelids seemed to drop the least bit, following the lure of the moon.

"When can I see you again?" He asks with a quiet, breathy tone. Goosebumps threathen to plaque his dull skin as you bite into the corner of your lip,

"Whenever you want. Just.. text me"

He nods, "Okay pretty"

With that, you smile and disappear into the walls of your home.

Jungkook exhales a long, deep breath. His eyes fall closed, body slumping against a nearby tree. Utter delight crashes his head, grounds him into the world that he is slowly, meticulously creating for you to be part of. For you to be the sun of.

Similarly, you collapse right against the closed door. Smiling stupidly like a giddy teenage girl, running your hand through your hair, you break into a fit of giggles. Immediately pulling your phone out to text your best friend about what had just happend in the last long, dreamy hours.

But before you get the chance to click on her chat log, a message lights up your screen,

Jungkook >.< : cant wait to see you again

He bites back a smile, the reflection of you getting excited over his text dances in his pupils as he stands off to the side of your slightly parted curtains,

"good night sweetheart" he mumbles, gradually turning back to resort back into his own home.

Messages like these had crept their way into your normal days.

Good morning texts, little things that reminded you of each other- mentions of movies to watch together or selfies with meaningless captions like "hard work day :( " decorated your chat in extensive loads. Despite not much time having past since the first date, time has acquired another meaning in its entirety. So much so that you find yourself aimlessly wandering inside a grocery store after suggesting Jungkook should come over for dinner.

He slipped into your life with ease, fitting into a space that seemed to be cut out just for him, and how much you adored him was almost embarrassing to admit.

You had never invited him to your home before, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he typed back that he'd be there at 7 pm, until he remembered that he isnt supposed to know your exact address- quickly adding the question onto his last message.

His breath quickens the instant he's greeted with you facing him, the tulips in his hand feel heavy all of a sudden, wanting nothing more but to drop them and engulf you into his selfish hands instead.

"Come in kook", while wrapping your arms around his taller frame, you can sense the way he tenses, his busy hand clenches the boquet with restrained power, the other one makes it to your back, carefully pulling you into his chest. He inhales your scent in pure ecstasy, button nose nudging the top of your freshly shampooed head.

Once inside- he's looking around the confined space with curious eyes. As many times as he had seen glimpses, being on the other side of your windows felt like a perverted secret. After hours of studying your schedule, analyzing common places, people, interests that are woven into your life, he would finally solidify himself as the most important.

Lucky was an understatement. Jungkook felt blessed- divinely touched to be able to move around the four walls of his angel- his very own godsend gift. His, only his.

The sigh he lets out almost serves as a way to release his overflowing happiness into the atmosphere, let go of his orchestrated hours that took him to his destination- you.

"Pretty place" he compliments, watching you pick out a vase for your favourite type of flowers, "hm, thank you. I love tulips, crazy how you picked them" you say, sparkling innocently as your fingers adjust the petals,

"Good guess right?"

The air thickens with his approaching steps, his aura carries itself over you, there's an undeniable chemistry brewing between you. Presents itself in the quickening of your heartbeat, the tension in his beautifully otherwordly features.

"No garlic i hope?" he jokes, pointing to the ingredients spread on the counter. The thin fabric of your tanktop collides with his cotton tshirt, his muscular arm holding onto the cupboard in front of you. The yearning inside of you leads you to turn around, facing him and essentially, trapping yourself between the kitchen island and his steady body.

Perfect, he thinks.

"Very funny" you giggle, looking up into the deep red you would never get used to. Its mesmerizing to see the color intensify from time to time.

Jungkook reaches his hand out to take your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up into his direction. His face is relaxed but the slight quiver of his lips, as if holding back from letting his canine teeth dart out, doesn't get past your observing eyes.

It doesn't get past him either, how you seemed to nibble on your lip a little, taking deeper inhales with the duration of his gentle touch.

"You're so pretty" he mumbles, growing an inch closer to your face with patience. The proximity makes his blood heat up, he barely has the chance to touch you before every single thought of raw and uncontrollable desire overtakes him,

Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips, the lip ring shines with a slight coat of saliva and you wish for nothing more than a deep collision, just as jungkook craves the taste of you all over his tongue.

As much as he has his instincts under control, he cannot deprive himself any longer.

Rationality vanishes from his thoughts- as his lips press gently against yours, he begins moaning in pure satisfaction. A slight taste of you was all he ever dreamed of having- but he should have known better than that. There was no way of not needing more- he had to have you, taste you, kiss and claim everything you had to give him.

The deep moan makes you whimper into the now passionate kiss- hands having found their way into his tousled hair, tugging at the roots with care. His lips clash to yours over and over, nipping at your bottom lip, licking over it to ask for premission.

You grant it to him immediately, the need to get as close as possible is indescribable, it is more than desire, more than a feeling or a simple word, you pull him in deeper and he whines at your desperation, seeing himself mirrored in you.

"Taste so fucking good. I need you, i need you so goddamn much" he groans against your lips- tongue pushing and tangling with your own, his hands wander up and down your sides as if to soothe himself, holding on to his control for all he's worth.

He steadies himself by breaking the kiss for a breath of air with his forehead meeting yours in a moment of isolation. It was hasty, messy and nonetheless perfect. He craved more, longed for another taste.

You're the first to break the silence, barely letting the words run past your lips in the midst of hightend breathing,

"I like you so much"

He doesn't recall when he last felt this intense amount of pleasure, he doesn't waste another breath on words, kissing you with newfound but always present lust, exploring the softness of your skin hidden beneath the tanktop- his shaky fingers itch at the brief shiver that passes through you- wanting to make you shiver again and again,

"You have no idea how crazy i am about you" he mutters while shifting his attention to kiss along your jaw, his mouth remains open and wet against your skin- running his tongue down your neck so, so gently.

The validity behind those words are something he cannot bear open to you in this moment- but he swore to himself he would eventually.

It takes all his willpower not to sink his pointy teeth into the delicate skin, feeling the pulse running wild like it was begging him to bite.

"Wanna make you feel so good"

Moans of his name fall from your lips, he recriporates each one with needy whimpers of his own, working to touch and worship whatever he has beneath his hands at the moment- already tugging at the bottom of your shirt, before you register it, its lying on the tile floor,

"Hold tight sweetheart"

The nickname adds to the heat pooling in your underwear- supported by simply one of his hands, a reminder of his inhumane strength. You´re lifted to the kitchen island, sitting with your thighs open for him to stand between. The thick bulge that's been present from the moment his lips met yours presses against you every so slightly- providing both of you with tiny amounts of pressure.

His lips run down invisible paths to your bra covered chest, submitting to his urges like a man devoid of free will- of any power.

"Wanna bite you s'bad" he rasps, unfastening your bra and attaching his plump lips to your stiffend bud, rolling the oppsite one in his skilled fingertips,

Institutiavely, your thighs clench around his hips, seeking more friction at the thought of his pretty fangs snaking into your skin. Jungkook completely surrounded you with his scent, his words, his presence.

Serving justice to all the mysteries and tales about his kind- his passion, his groans, his possessive hands are far to good to be the ones of a weak human man- his teeth ghost over you and in that instant, he becomes everything.

"You can- just not - mhmm- too hard"

Interrupted by your own noises of satisfaction, the words come out without any fear. Replaced by the sheer pleasure he lays upon your body, the look of desire in his features as he keeps grabbing, kissing, moaning for you.

He looks at you through his lashes, mouth leaving your chest wet and glistening, his lips are swollen as they breathe out his next words,

"You're a dream, my beautiful angel"

His lips return to your neck, suctioning harsher than previously, grazing the sharpness with every sloppy suck of your skin- and when he finally, ever so slightly indulges in sinking his teeth in- you make the most wonderful noise to him.

The moans of your name fall from his lips naturally, like a continuous prayer to your body, letting his fingers toy with your breasts- allowing his teeth to leave little lovebites in pretty shades of red spread across your neck.

"Youre so pretty, the prettiest angel" he whispers lovingly, gliding his fingers down your arm while admiring his work of art.

His skin burned- burned with the helpless devotion he cannot restrict.

"You´re mine, you´re mine angel all mine, do you understand?"

Posession creeps into the kisses to your stomach- he is touching you, his hands are the ones wandering your body, his lips are the ones marking up near every inch that falls victim to him, but it hardly registers in his head because you scratch along his muscular back- nodding without a doubt in mind,

"Feels so good- oh fuck jungkook please"

You whine- you whine for him and it gets him to nuzzles his nose into your slick lace panties, inhaling deeply to submerge himself in your femininity,

"Anything you want, im gonna fucking worship you baby. Gonna make you come until you beg me to stop"

Jungkook hooks his large hands on the underside of your thighs, kneeling in front of you as though he was actually praying to you- letting your legs dangle over his broad shoulders.

The sight of your wet folds, red and swollen clit all due to him- all in front of his very own diluted eyes made him salivate, he marked your entire thighs with deep red and purple bruises that you met with loud moans, trembling throughout your body- wandering until it´s coming out in your whiney tone of voice that kept asking for him- asking as if he wouldn't burn down the world for you.

"My pretty little pussy, look at that, look at how wet you are for me"

It was so overstimulating to him, hightend all his feelings, blurred his extensive vision at the first drop of your slick on his greedy, relentless tongue.

"Fucking angelic- taste so good" he whines into your pussy- laps and laps at the stickyness with vigour and precision when licking a long strip up to circle your clit.

In between closing your eyes, your droopy sight caught vision of jungkook sitting there, hugged by your thighs, his eyes framed with disshevld strands, glazed and cloudy- mouth wet with messy pleasure smeared along his skin.

"Mhh- kook- you look so hot like this"

The praise thrills him- diving into your need with the large overcast of his own, his cock twitching and aching so badly beneath the blue jeans but somehow- being on his knees for you, listening to your beautiful voice call out for him- it was better than any contact he ever dreamed to experience before.

His eyes roll back into his head upon the arrival of your first orgasm- overcoming you with a loud cry, your thighs clamp around his head, trap him there like you dreaded the separation as much as he did.

"Kook- fuck- ohhh fuck"

You shook, plead for more and his tongue obeyed, thrusting the wet muscle into you fast, his thumb rubbing tight circles on the throbbing pearl of your crying cunt,

"Good girl, good, good girl, come for me- let this pussy know who's it is"

He heard the second high before he saw it- the broken sob, the sniffling that send shocks into his constricted cock, made it beg for attention. It worsened as he glanced up,

"god baby- so fucking cute" he groans so loudly, smashing his lips to your cunt - sucking harshly on your oversensitive clit that endured so much of his suckling and gnawing.

Your moans continue to flow, changing into meek cries of his name, the pearly tears roll down your reddend cheeks ending on your quivering lips that are now covered in the salty liquid.

And at the thought of tasting them, oh so pathetically, Jungkook's cock pulses angrily - leaks with cum all over himself, coating his length in warm, milky pleasure, meeting the sensation of your tangy sweetness blessing his mouth.

"ahh.. mhh.." you stumble out, slowly dropping the slight grinding on his numb and swollen lips, just as jungkook pants and whimpers, having finished untouched- because pleasing you was his priority, his greatest achievement- and he hasn´t even gotten to feeding you every inch of his cock, hasn´t even seen it disappear into your tight, pulsing pussy,

"oh angel, you´re so beautiful, so good, did so so good baby" his lips run his trails back and forth on your thighs, calming their shaking with the addition of his big hands stroking your hips,

You tug at his shoulder and he recieves the silent question, bringing his body up to stand upward, dazed and bathing in your afterglow

It doesn´t take long for your eyes to find the wet patch,

"See that? All because of you. All yours" he says, pulling you into him by the small of your back, like a puzzlepiece, your hands wrap around his shoulders- both of you relish in the company of one another,

How right it truly felt to be held by his magical hands,

To meet his lips in another soft kiss, tasting the remains of yourself on him.

It was right,

He had done absolutely everything in and beyond his power to secure that, now that he had it in his grasp, black and white,

He would always make sure it stays that way, even if it meant digging his teeth into your neck until you bled.

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