#Yandere x You

[devotion-disorder]

...he's just curious about human biology!!!!!!!

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLITTLE BROKEN BIRDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You had a father. You know you have one. You don't know him. But that doesn't matter because your mother never let you forget it anyway. You're a child born from rejection. And everything hurts.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Child abuse (physical, emotional), suicide, trauma, corpse horror, neglect, PTSD, mental illness, child grief, self-hatred, self-harm, child psychological horror, psychotic episodes, depression, dissociation.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

“You have his eyes.”

That’s the first thing your mother ever told you. Or at least, that's what you remember.

She was a goddess once. A woman carved from glossy magazine pages and runway lights. Models tried to be her. Men tried to own her.

But none of it mattered.

Because the only man she ever wanted—never loved her back.

Bruce Wayne.

She told you about him sometimes.

Told you how his eyes were darker than pitch. How his smile was soft but never real. How he kissed her like she mattered and then left like she was dust.

Told you how he made her feel like she was something. And then made her nothing.

And you—you were the consequence.

You looked exactly like him.

It wasn’t just resemblance. It was uncanny.

His hair. His lashes. His fucking eyes.

Your mother couldn’t look at you without breaking.

The apartment was always cold.

The kind of cold that seeped into your bones. Rotten milk in the fridge. Cigarette smoke in the curtains. You’d press your palms to the radiator and tell yourself it was a hug.

You stopped counting wounds.

The first time you couldn’t walk, it was because your mother threw a glass ashtray at your legs. You were three.

The second time, she pushed you down the stairs.

You tumbled like a doll. Limbs bent backwards. Your arm cracked. Your teeth hit the floor. You lay still for hours, not moving. Not screaming. Not crying.

You didn’t want to make her mad.

She told you she loved you.

Always after.

After the belt. After the bat. After she dragged you by your hair and pressed your face to the oven because you spilled her wine.

She kissed your blistered cheek and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

You smiled with bleeding gums. “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you.”

Your voice was always a whisper. You were always afraid of being too loud.

Because she broke your nose, for laughing too loud once.

You didn’t even cry until the second punch.

She told you your laugh sounded like him.

Your room was small, dark. She kept it that way. She didn’t want to see you.

You had no friends. You weren’t allowed to leave. You barely went to school.

The bruises had to fade first.

She didn't feed you unless she remembered. You used to eat the leftovers she left out for the cats that never came.

And yet you adored her.

You loved her.

Even when she bruised your ribs with a hairbrush.

Even when she pushed you down the stairs and you couldn’t walk for two weeks.

Even when she knocked your tooth out and told you not to smile again.

You tried so hard to make her happy. You’d pick dandelions from the sidewalk cracks and tuck them into her hair, even when she swatted you away. You draw her with stolen crayons—smiling versions of her, the way you wished she’d look at you. Crayon hearts. Painted macaroni necklaces. Birthday cards with shaky little “I love you”s. She’d rip them up, call you a freak. But sometimes—just sometimes—her eyes would go glassy after she hurt you. And for a moment, you thought she felt guilty.

Once you cut your long hair yourself, thinking she’d like it short—because she had short hair now—and she screamed at you until you vomited.

But you still crawled into her bed every night.

You still kissed her cheek when she cried.

You still whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you…”

You didn’t know love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You scavenged alleys like a little rat.

You were six and barefoot, digging through trash cans near the broken fence behind the apartment.

Looking for coins. Or maybe a dollar. Maybe someone left behind a flower in the dumpster again.

Anything to make her smile.

One time you found a pack of candy cigarettes. You wiped off the dirt and gave them to her in a box wrapped in your old sock.

She took one look at them and slapped you so hard you peed yourself.

You apologized. You cried.

But you still left her a drawing under her pillow. It said:

— “To Mommy. You are my sun. I’m sorry for being bad. Please smile.”

And then one day, she smiled.

It was your birthday. You were turning eight.

She’d been quiet that week. No hitting. No yelling. Just staring out the window. Smoking.

You were scared to breathe.

But that morning, she woke you up with soft hands. She brushed your hair. She put your favorite cartoon on the old static TV.

And then—she brought you into the kitchen.

There was a cake on the counter.

Burnt on the edges. Icing dripping off one side. But it had eight candles.

You gasped so hard you started hiccupping.

She laughed. A real laugh. The first one you’d ever heard.

You hugged her around the waist with your skinny little arms. “You made it for me…?”

“Of course I did, baby,” she whispered. “You’re my whole world.”

You cried so hard you couldn’t blow out the candles.

You gave her the flower that day.

It was crushed. Wilted. Found outside a gas station after a week of saving coins in a tin box under your bed.

You'd kissed every penny like a prayer.

You tied it with a shoelace. You wrote a card.

— “To Mommy. Thank you for being born. I love you even when you’re sad :)”

She read it in silence. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just stared.

And then she held you in her lap. You were still so small.

She cradled you like a baby. She touched your face.

You remember this part because you wrote it down in your head, word for word.

“You have his eyes.

I wish I’d killed you when you were born.”

And then she put you down.

And got the gun.

You thought she was going to shoot you.

You stood still. Like a rabbit before the hawk.

Instead—she turned it on herself.

And she smiled again.

“Goodbye, baby.”

The sound was fireworks. The smell was meat.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You knelt beside her. You touched her hair. You kissed her temple and whispered,

“Wake up, Mommy. You forgot to eat the cake.”

You curled up in her lap. Her blood soaked through your dress.

You didn’t notice.

The corpse began to change.

By day two, her stomach swelled. Her face twisted. Her skin turned purple-black.

You were a kid. You didn’t know how to be alone. So you stayed near her.

You stroked her bloated fingers and whispered stories. You sang her lullabies you made up on the spot.

You told her you were being good. You told her you found another penny.

You curled up on her chest, even when the skin turned ugly.

You kissed her bloating face and told her she was pretty.

You told her she could be alive again if she wanted.

Because you loved her that much.

You chewed your nails down to the bone.

You smeared her lipstick on your mouth and pretended to be her.

You cooked invisible food in the corner and served it to her bloated hand.

You pressed your ear to her chest and said you heard her heartbeat.

You told her it was okay.

She could be dead for now. But you’d wait.

You’d wait forever if she needed.

The body rotted.

Her stomach burst open first. It made a noise like balloons popping.

You didn’t scream. You just sat on the edge of the bed and cried until your tears ran dry.

You tried to clean the blood. You used your favorite dress as a rag.

You laid it over her like a blanket.

She was gone for five days.

When Aunt Lila came, she almost vomited from the stench.

She found you sitting cross-legged, holding your mother’s hand, humming a lullaby to a corpse.

When they dragged you out, you were screaming.

Your eyes were wide. Your hands were black with rot.

You tried to bite the EMT that took you.

“I made her cake,” you sobbed. “She can’t leave if she didn’t eat the cake—!”

You were silent after that.

They called Bruce. Aunt Lila told them about him.

You never spoke a word in front of him.

But you watched him.

His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You memorized his breathing. You stared into his eyes for hours.

You wanted to see what your mother saw.

You wanted to understand what she died for.

Why she hated you.

“He looked at me the way you do. You little freak.”

When Bruce tried to speak to you, you turned away.

When he tried to hold your hand, you pulled back.

You didn't want his money. You didn’t want his name.

You wanted your mother alive.

Even if she hated you.

Then he took you home.

Wayne Manor was too clean. Too quiet. You felt like a ghost in a glass box.

Alfred was gentle. He never raised his voice. But you still flinched.

Bruce kept trying. Too late. Too distant.

He bought you dolls. Expensive ones. Their glass eyes looked like yours.

You smashed them against the walls when no one was watching.

You don’t know how to sleep anymore.

Not in this house. Not in this cold, quiet place where the lights are too soft and the blankets don’t smell like ash and blood and broken wine bottles.

Here, they wash your clothes. They clean your face. They comb your hair.

But no one screams.

You rip your hair out at night.

Big chunks. Bloody clumps. The strands are soft and dark just like his.

You stare at them in your hands and cry because you can’t stop.

You whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as you dig your fingernails into your scalp, over and over and over again. You pull until your skin comes off with it.

You don’t even know what you’re sorry for. But it’s safer to say it.

In case someone gets mad.

You don’t like mirrors.

Because your eyes are his eyes.

Your mother said so.

She used to scream it.

“You look just like him—just like him—get out of my sight—get out—!”

You hit yourself in the face. As hard as you can. Until your cheek swells or your eye goes red.

You don’t want to look like him.

You don’t want to be bad.

You eat too much. Then nothing at all.

At first, you ate everything.

Because Bruce had food. Warm food. Real food. Not expired peanut butter or ketchup packets.

You ate too fast and threw up. You apologized. You cried. You told Alfred you didn’t mean to waste it. You’d eat it again if they let you.

Then you stopped eating completely.

Because maybe you were stealing. Maybe you were greedy. Maybe she’d come back and she’d see you at the table and hit you with the plate.

So you stopped.

You chewed your fingers instead. You bit your nails until you bleed.

You scream at night.

Blood-curdling. Violent. Until your throat goes raw.

You scream for your mother.

You scream for the dead body.

You scream because she never came back.

You scream because no one hits you anymore, and that means no one cares.

Bruce comes to your room once.

Just once.

He kneels by the bed, but you press yourself to the wall and sob until you vomit. You bang your head against the headboard. You claw at your skin.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just says your name.

But it’s his voice.

His voice, coming from her face.

You shriek until you pass out.

You ask for a knife.

Alfred is bringing you milk. It’s warm. He’s so kind it makes your teeth ache.

You smile at him. Your face is swollen from a panic attack. You still have dried tears on your lashes. You ask:

“Can I have a knife, Mr. Pennyworth?”

He pauses. Blinks. “What for, my dear?”

“I want to cut off my hair. And my face.”

Bruce tried. But he was failing.

He wasn’t a father.

He didn’t know what to do with a little girl who flinched when someone coughed too loud.

Who didn’t understand what toys were.

Who curled up in the fireplace to sleep because it reminded her of the oven.

He thought about hugging you once.

You bit his wrist.

He said your name. You didn’t react.

But when he said her name—your mother’s—you looked up so fast your nose bled.

“Where?” you whispered. “Where is she? Did you find her? Did she eat the cake?”

So Bruce puts you in therapy.

You don’t talk.

You stare at the floor. You whisper apologies into your lap. You ask if you’re allowed to cry. If you’re allowed to talk.

The therapist is a woman. She looks a little like your mom.

So you love her.

You follow her around the office. You sit close. You smell her perfume and imagine your mom again, but soft this time. Nice.

You called her Mommy once.

And then you start hitting yourself in the face so hard she has to restrain you.

You don't know how to play.

When other kids come to visit the Manor—some politician’s brats, a cousin of Lucius Fox—you just stand there.

Stiff. Silent. Watching.

One time, a girl offers you a doll.

You take it. You snap its neck.

You hold it close after and whisper to it all day.

You draw your mother over and over.

You draw her face, melting. Her smile. Her blood.

You draw her hugging you. You draw her laughing.

You draw Bruce dead. You draw yourself in the coffin with your mom.

You draw a wedding between the three of you.

You say it’s pretend.

You say it’s just a game.

You talk to her.

She sits in the corner. She watches you at night.

Sometimes, you hear her crying. Sometimes, she sings.

Sometimes, she tells you you’re bad and you believe her.

You scream at her, “I’m not like him!”

You bite your hand until you can’t scream anymore.

You don’t like his touch.

You ask Alfred to squeeze you tighter when he hug you. You ask the therapist to hold you when you cry and dig your fingernails into her arms.

When Bruce touches your shoulder, you flinch so hard you fall over.

You say, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Then you cry.

You are eight. You are rotting.

You don’t understand love. But you understand pain.

You don’t understand death. But you understand gone.

You don’t know how to be a daughter.

You only know how to apologize.

You hold your breath sometimes. Just to see if you die.

You count. One. Two. Three. Four…

You always let go by thirty.

You always feel guilty for breathing after.

And then—someday—he takes you to the circus.

He wanted to “cheer you up.”

You didn’t want to go. But you went.

And then—there he was.

A boy who flies.

A boy on the trapeze, flying like he had no weight. Like he didn’t belong to the ground.

You sat up. Watched him like he was the first real thing you’d ever seen.

You clapped with bloody nails. Whispering “He looks like a star…”

You wanted to fly too.

And you felt something inside your chest you didn't recognize.

He was beautiful.

You smile. Real smile. Just for a second.

And then he fell.

Not from the trapeze. But from life.

His parents died. In front of him.

You knew that kind of silence. You knew that feeling.

When Bruce brought him home, you watched from the stairs. He was smaller than you expected. He cried in his sleep.

He asked for his mom.

And for the first time in your life—you weren’t alone in grief.

You slept by his door that night. You didn’t know why.

And then it became routine. He found you every night. Crawled into your bed. Clung to you like a life raft.

You didn’t push him away.

Because he didn’t look like your father.

You gave him the flower.

Not a new one. The old one. Dried. Dead. Crushed flat between your mother’s last book pages.

You gave it to Dick and said, “It’s magic. It keeps monsters away.”

He cried.

You hugged him.

That night, you curled beside him in bed. You watched the moon rise.

And for the first time in your life, you whispered to someone else:

“It’s okay. I love you.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[fromduck]

Me with you guys simping over hot men

[cloudedcreams]

thinking of a yandere who craves you sooo bad.

you’re all he can think about. in the coldest of nights he’ll wrap his arms around himself, lying dead still as he forces himself to believe you’re there. he’ll ramble through the silence with closed eyes, talking about his day and his adoration towards you as he holds the comfort of believing you’re there.

he’s so delusional. praying each night that you’ll wind up besides him once he’s awoken, crying and clinging to the bedsheets in the morning as he’s overtaken by his loneliness. his heart aches and cries for you, and his desperation is his downfall as it consumes him.

he wants to hear you say his name. for you to curl your fingers through his hair, to kiss his tears away. he wants the two of you to embrace until your scent lingers on him, for your hearts to become intertwined, but he’s so lost and devoured by his emotions that he doesn’t know how he’d even start.

he carves your name into his wrist. it hurts him, but he tells himself that you’d love him for doing this, that you’d pat his head and whisper in his ears for him to cut deeper. he wants to leave a scar, to have you forever imprinted on himself. he aches and yearns to be yours regardless of if he’s dead or not, and he wants for people to know that he’s forever yours.

[fangdokja]

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 2,087

It always happens eventually.

The slow crawl of boredom, creeping in like rot in the foundation. You recognize the signs well by now—the way the once-interesting becomes routine, how everything starts feeling predictable. You’ve always been like this, your life dictated by a pursuit of fun and knowledge, nothing more. Commitment? Attachment? Useless. Irrational.

Your bully wasn’t supposed to be any different.

At first, he was entertaining—loud, cruel, an absolute monster in every possible way. He amused you, held your attention longer than most. You let him push you around, tear you apart, spit on you, call you every insult under the sun, because it was fun. A new experience. A new sensation. A game where you were the target, and he was the beast hunting you down.

But now? Now he’s getting attached.

That ruins it. The moment someone starts expecting more, wanting more—it kills whatever interest you had. He’s begun looking at you differently. Not just as his favorite punching bag, his personal fuckhole, but something more. And that disgusts you more than anything he’s ever done.

So you’re leaving.

It should be easy. You don’t feel guilt, you don’t feel hesitation. It’s already over in your head. You’ve seen all there is to see—his rage, his possessiveness, his cruelty, the way he shoves you into walls and laughs in your face. You’ve experienced the full range of his torment, cataloged it in your mind like a researcher studying a specimen. You’ve learned him, and now he bores you. Simple as that.

You can already picture how it will go. He’ll resist at first, maybe try to intimidate you, but in the end, everyone lets go if you push the right buttons. They think they own you, until you slip right through their fingers like smoke.

But you miscalculated something this time.

He notices. He always notices. Even when you think you’re unreadable, when your face is a perfect mask of deadpan apathy—he knows.

"You’re acting weird."

His voice is too close, too low, heavy with suspicion and something far darker. His arm braces beside your head, boxing you in against the cold brick wall of the dorm stairwell. You don’t react. You meet his gaze like always—flat, indifferent, unflinching.

"I’m not acting," you say simply. "I’m just done."

Something flashes across his face. Not anger. Not surprise. Something raw and jagged and possessive. He masks it fast, but not fast enough. And in that moment, you realize just how badly you’ve misread him.

He’s not just attached. He’s obsessed.

It hits you like ice water down your spine. And then you feel it—the air shifting. The temperature of the world tipping, as if you’ve stepped into something much colder, much deeper.

His lips twist into a slow, mean grin. His hand wraps around your jaw, rough and calloused, thumb pressing against your lips, smearing your apathy into something mockingly intimate.

"You’re done? That’s fucking adorable."

You should have known better. You did know better. But some small, arrogant part of you believed you could control this, steer him, keep the upper hand. That part is already dead.

You stare up at him. Blank. Detached. But inside, something starts to crack.

He steps closer, your bodies nearly flush. His thumb pushes into your mouth, prying it open like a toy. "Say it again. Say you’re done."

You start to speak—"I’m—"

The slap cuts across your cheek like lightning. The force of it sends your head reeling, stars bursting behind your eyes. But it’s not pain that steals your breath—it’s certainty.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You don’t get to be done, bitch. You don’t get to fucking leave me."

Your mouth is dry. Your body is motionless. But your mind is alive with terrifying clarity.

He isn’t letting go.

He shoves you backward, and your spine slams into the wall. His body presses into yours, not with desire, but dominion. He breathes against your ear, voice low and trembling with rage.

"You thought you were playing me? Is that it? You think I didn’t see what you were doing—with those dead fucking eyes and that fake little moan every time I put you on your knees?"

You don’t answer. There’s no point. He’s not asking.

"You made me need you. You walked into my life like some smug little freak and let me use you like trash. And now you think you can walk away?"

His hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to cut the flow of air, to watch your lips part around a gasp.

"You don’t get to disappear, you emotionally bankrupt little freak. I don’t care how empty you are inside. I’ll fill you."

The threat is clear, dripping from every word. There’s no pretense anymore, no illusion of control. He isn’t interested in fun. He isn’t playing games.

He’s claiming ownership.

"I should have known," he growls. "You liked it too much. The way you swallowed everything I gave you without blinking. Like you were trying to see how far you could push it before I snapped."

He drags you to your knees, rough and unceremonious, one hand in your hair, the other unbuckling his belt.

"Congratulations. You found the limit."

You try to speak—whether in protest, curiosity, or resignation, you’re not sure—but he shoves two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

"Shut the fuck up, you little corpse. You don’t get to think anymore. You wanted to be nothing? Fine. I’ll make you less than nothing."

He forces your head back, looking down at you with pure contempt and something worse—longing.

"You belong to me now. Not because you want it. Because I fucking said so."

You should be screaming. Crying. Running.

But all you can do is kneel. Still and quiet. Staring.

The moment stretches. It’s not passion. It’s not violence.

It’s possession.

Your mind catalogues every second. Every word. Every scar he’s about to carve into your identity.

You tried to walk away from a monster.

But monsters don’t let go.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You’ve never fought him before.

Not really.

You were always pliant. Cold, yes. Distant. Withdrawn. But never rebellious. He liked that about you—liked the way you’d let him press his mouth to your skin and leave marks like brands, even if you never moaned. Never whimpered. Never begged. You’d let him do what he wanted, but you never gave it to him. Not really.

Until now.

Now, you’re shoving at his chest, wrists shaking with the effort, breath short with exertion. To anyone else, it’d be pitiful. Embarrassing. But to him, it’s heresy.

His mouth curls into a snarl, rage rising so fast it chokes him. Because it’s not your strength that matters.

It’s your eyes.

You’re looking at him like he’s nothing.

Like he’s filth under your shoe. Like he’s not even worth the breath you waste on him. No fear. No desperation. Just... revulsion.

That’s new.

He’s had fighters before. Victims who bit and clawed and screamed. He liked them, for a time. But fear always betrayed them in the end. Their bodies sang with it. The shaking, the stuttering, the piss-wet sobbing—music.

But you? Your body lies.

You’re not fighting because you think you can win. You’re fighting because you hate him. Hate the way he touches you. Hate the way he breathes. Hate the very fact that he exists.

It shouldn’t excite him.

But it does.

His hand snaps out, seizing your hair, yanking you backward until your spine bends like a bowstring. He leans in, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes burning.

“You finally gonna put up a fight, sweetheart?” he growls.

You say nothing.

That blank stare is worse than any scream. He wants to claw it off your face. Replace it with agony. With fear.

But you don’t give him the satisfaction.

So he takes it.

His grip tightens, and your body lurches into his. He slams you against the wall, a dull crack echoing as your shoulder hits stone. Still no scream. No cry.

Just that cold stare.

It enrages him.

He wraps a hand around your throat, fingers pressing in slow, methodical pressure. Not enough to choke—yet. Just enough to remind you that he could.

Your pulse ticks under his hand, slow and steady.

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You want me to hurt you. Don’t you?"

Your lashes flutter, but still, you say nothing. Not a word. Not a whimper. Your body stiffens, but your eyes stay hollow. As if you’re not even here.

“You’re not getting off easy,” he snarls. “You don’t get to die until I say so.”

He drags you from the wall and throws you down. You hit the floor hard, bones aching. His boots thud beside your head, and then he’s on top of you—kneeling, straddling, forcing your wrists above your head.

His belt clinks as he unbuckles it slowly, methodically, looping the leather around your wrists. He cinches it tight until the blood slows in your hands. You don’t resist. You don’t need to.

Your silence is resistance enough.

“You think you’re above me?” he whispers, mouth curled into a cruel smile. “You think being quiet makes you strong?”

He leans down, breath warm against your neck. "You know what I see when I look at you?"

He licks a stripe up your jaw, slow and invasive.

"I see a fucking toy that forgot it’s not real."

You flinch—but only slightly. Barely perceptible. But he catches it. And it makes him grin.

He drags your bound arms up above your head, pinning them to the floor with one hand. The other drifts down, slow and possessive, sliding under your clothes like he owns you. Because he does. In every way that matters.

"I’m gonna break you,” he whispers. “Split you open, carve out all that silence, and fuck it full of sound."

You turn your head away, eyes staring into the dark like you’re somewhere else.

But he won’t let you stay there.

His fingers slide lower, rough and calloused. He’s not kind. Not gentle. You don’t deserve it.

“You're so fucking cold,” he murmurs. “No wonder no one ever wanted you. You just lie there like a corpse, all pretty and blank. Like you were made to be used.”

His fingers press deeper. You suck in a sharp breath, the first noise he’s earned.

“There she is,” he croons. “Still breathing after all. Guess I didn’t break you yet.”

Your body twitches under him, muscles locking. But still no begging. No pleading. Just that awful, suffocating silence.

He hates it.

He loves it.

“I should leave you like this,” he hisses into your ear. “Tied up. Bleeding. Just enough to live. Let you sit in your own filth and think about what you are. Let the rot set in. Let the rats come.”

Your jaw tightens.

He sees it.

“Ah,” he breathes. “That’s it. That little twitch. You hate me, don’t you?”

You don’t answer.

So he slaps you.

Hard.

Your head snaps to the side, blood blooming on your lip.

And you laugh.

It’s soft. Barely a breath.

But it undoes him.

He grabs your jaw, fingers bruising. “You think this is a game?”

You look at him, eyes gleaming through the blood. And for the first time, you speak.

“I think you’re scared.”

His body stills.

That smile vanishes.

You lean in, breath ragged, voice low. “You don’t want me to break. You want me to stay like this—cold. Empty. Because if I scream, if I cry, then it means I’m real. And that scares you, doesn’t it?”

His grip tightens.

But your eyes don’t waver.

“You want a doll,” you whisper. “But I’m not one.”

Something snaps.

He tears at your clothes, shredding fabric. Marks bloom across your skin as he claws at you, teeth scraping, hands punishing. But now, your breath hitches. Your body moves.

And that makes him furious.

He rips you up into his lap, arms like iron around you. He drags your mouth to his, biting until you taste blood.

“You’ll remember this,” he growls. “You’ll remember what I did to you. What I made you.”

You smile through the blood. “Already do.”

He doesn’t stop.

Not until the silence is gone.

Not until you’re screaming.

Not in fear.

But in pleasure.

And that’s what scares him most.

Because now—

Now he’s the one who’s lost control.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ List of Fandoms and Characters.

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

Ace Attorney: N/A

Arcane: N/A

Blue Lock: Michael Kaiser, Shidou Ryusei, Yoichi Isagi

Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi, Katsuki Bakugo

Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A

Death Note: N/A

Demon Slayer: Sanemi Shinazugawa

DC: Damian Wayne

Dishonored Series: N/A

Genshin Impact: Childe, Scaramouche

Haikyuu!!: Hajime Iwaizumi, Yūji Terushima

Honkai Star Rail: Blade, Boothill

How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A

Hunter x Hunter: Uvogin

I'm Not That Kind of Talent: N/A

Jujutsu Kaisen: Naoya Zen'in, Ryōmen Sukuna

Kill The Hero: Park Yong-Wan

Love and Deepspace: N/A

Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: N/A

MONSTER: N/A

Naruto Shippuden: Hidan, Zabuza Momochi

One Punch Man: Suiryu

Reverend Insanity: N/A

TOUCHSTARVED: Vere

Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Bill! Sans, Dust! Sans, Fresh! Sans, Ink! Sans, Killer! Sans, Nightmare! Sans, Shattered Dream! Sans, Underfell! Papyrus, Underfell! Sans, Undertale! Chara

Wuthering Waves: Scar

Your Throne: N/A

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @loserworld , @esthelily

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.

[heartfullofleeches]

"You make me want to become a better person."

....

"That's nice to hear, V."

Your partner glares at you like you've grown a second head.

"Nice to hear?! For you maybe- This is not the life I had planned out for me. I was going to mooch off my parents till I died at the ripe old age of thirty from all the trash I stuff in my face! Now I want to eat healthier so I have more energy to spend with you. I brush my teeth so you won't be grossed out when you kiss me-"

V tugs at their hair, despair oozing from his words.

"I even changed my sheets so you'd feel better laying on my bed! Do you know how many months it's been since I changed my god damn sheets?!"

V falls to his knees, shuffling across the floor towards you. Tears stain your shirt as they throw their arms around your waist, rubbing his cheek against your stomach as he sobs.

"Stop it... Stop being... you. Stop making me fall more in love with you with every word you say. I just wanted to play video games all day and rot in the comforts of my room. I barely even know what the fuck a mortgage is!

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Hello, can I get more stories about yandere cheerleaders and the yandere soccer team ? It's okay if you don't want to write it right now. May you be happy and healthy. Be together with everyone for a longggggg time !

Yandere Cheerleaders + Football Team (2)

Last Post

The thing about having two of the most dedicated and competitive teams obsessing over you definitely means protection but it also means being the main point of their tug-of-war

While they’re more than gung-ho about chasing off anyone else at the college who’s thinking of being more than acquaintances 

When they’re aren’t bigger fish to fry they start looking at each other

“Look, we already planned to study with them so you need to back off!”

“Ha, you ‘planned’ to. We asked them already so unless you’d like to explain why we can’t hang–you back off!”

“Our Captain–!”

“Clearly isn’t updated on (Y/n)’s time. Better take your pom poms and go do that.”

“You’ll pay for this!” 

Just because the Captains who’ve headed this interest are dating doesn’t mean the animosity between their teams goes away

“That’s what they said? Really? You know your girls have a tendency to exaggerate.”

“Exaggerate!? Your muscle brains went and posted all the evidence needed. No, they did not exaggerate they asked them and you know how weak they are if they’re asked by the group! Which is why we made the rule–!”

“I know. I know. They probably were just tired of the stalling, the week started and they haven’t gotten any alone time.”

“Yeah well now they’re going to pay for it, the girls are vengeful before they are patient.”

“Can’t you stop them, we have a big game on Thursday.”

“No we have competitions on Wednesday and if the girls don’t have their blood our competitors are going to get more than just their butts kicked. And I refuse to bribe those judges anymore. ”

“Please baby just this once.”

“No.”

“...”

“...”

“Alright guess we’ll have to duke this out later.”

“Yeah, now do you want to invite them over for takeout or go over to theirs for takeout?”

“Oooh, we haven’t been in a while! Let’s go to theirs!”

They do end up agreeing amicably

But that doesn’t mean the teams do

Whoever’s turn it is as decided by the Captains is always happier

It’s the ones who don’t that begin to talk amongst themselves

“I love our captain but he’s such a pushover!”

“Yeah, a leader should be a leader over his woman too!”

“But have you seen the cheer captain? She’s scary!”

“Yeah but the question comes up at some point who do you love more? The witchy cheer chic or (Y/n)?”

“That’s an obvious answer for me!”

“(Y/n) all the way!”

The cheer team is no different, barely waiting for their captain to leave the bathroom before scoffing

“I can’t believe she screwed us over again.”

“Hate to say it but did you really think she’d hold her ground to him?”

“Yeah, you guys remember that one ex right? She abandoned us back in Summer just for his that greaser wannabe.”

“Hmmm true…Hey do you guys think she’d dumb Captain manscape if (Y/n) asked?”

“Oooh that might be fun to find out!”

But despite how malicious it sounds the heart of those teams knows not to act they know better

… or most of them

There’s one or two in both teams that break 

Usually hinting at the cheer captain’s doing something awful to you

Cheating on the other or talking bad about you to the new students you’ve been trying to be friends with

While they’ll swoon in the moment because you’re hanging off their every word it never lasts

By the time they return to fraternity or sorority, the dream is over

And they're about to feel the worst and last pain in their life

“Look ladies here’s someone who’s threatened our flock…MY flock. New Girl!”

“Yes, Captain!”

“What do we do with the mockingbirds?

“We push them out the nest?”

“Very good!”

On the cheer squad, a simple alone time or texting without informing two other cheerleaders is humiliation by way of social media

Flirting with you earns a spanking by the vice leader

And attempting to undermine the captain…well let’s say the Cheer team is careful to wear  their running mascara when one of their teammate's severed hand appears a couple of miles off campus

No one really knows exactly what happens

Just that the only thing that identifies their old teammate is the obscure telltale feature

Like the green manicured nail on her index, the only one not torn off 

As for the Football Team they tend not to make it too imaginative

NOT because they aren’t smart…they just don’t need to be that creative with it

Plus they’re not that great at cleaning their own messes

“Captain, can I do the honors? I’ve got something special for our…dear friend.”

"Go for it."

“Edibles, the big M, a couple of high-grade stuff from our pharma buddies, and for an extra touch something out of this world to make sure you regret all that you’ve done.”

They’re big fans of injection

Holding the offender down and give one two three if they’re awful shots and then letting them loose

On a club’s rooftop, or a dodgy club, or even on their football field 

it’s just the horrible drugs that leave them totally unaware by the rabid dog pack or the unfenced edge or the sketchy people hovering near them

It’s textbook after all that kids too focused on their careers just get lost in the drugs

A shame that this pandemic isn’t exempt from infesting Energi University

It’s a little sloppy because they don’t always die

But thanks to their indulgent cocktails they sure won’t be remembering or even capable of getting a proper sentence out

“Honey, I wanted to congratulate you on that good catch you did. I was really impressed with that blend.”

“Thanks, babe but don’t think I didn’t notice how you killed that cheer!”

“....Are you guys talking in code because I really don’t get it.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it hon! Now about that takeout.”

“Yeah babe, we’ll pay for it and put on a movie or somethin’.”

“Oh but then it’ll be dark and even if your together I wouldn’t want you guys out there with all the danger around campus lately.”

“Then we’ll stay over!”

“Wait–”

“Yeah, it’s cool we don’t mind cuddling up with you.”

“Yup! Not at all!”

“Uh okay I guess.”

“Oh also you’re free to come to our practices right?”

“Yeah, both teams have been missing you real bad.”

Thanks for the well wishes anon! 🖤🖤🖤🖤 Rules | Kofi | Commissions

[lady-luckk]

you reap what you sow

# pairings: yandere sugar daddy harem x gold digger reader

# synopsis: you’ve been dating eight guys all at the same time for they’re money. hopefully they never find out about each other

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

# notes: inspired by that one tiktok vid. Ifykyk. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

love is a transaction, and you’ve mastered the art of the deal. eight men, each convinced they’re the center of your world, each blind to the truth. they call you when they’re lonely, when they need an ego boost, when they want to feel wanted.

you play your part well—sweet, devoted, just naive enough to keep them comfortable. they see you as temporary, something to be enjoyed and discarded. but that’s fine. as long as the gifts keep coming, as long as the money flows, you’ll let them believe whatever they want. you don’t care as long as the money keeps coming. they’re all your darlings.

they think they’re using you—another pretty thing to entertain them until they get bored. but you don’t mind. boredom works in your favor. their wallets open easier when they don’t take you seriously.

you smile, you flatter, you play your role to perfection. eight men, eight lives, none the wiser. they think they hold all the power, that you should be grateful for whatever scraps of affection they toss your way.

but in the end, you’re the one collecting the rewards.

you’re a master at time management—you’ve been dating these guys simultaneously for a year. one year perfecting the balance, juggling their schedules, their tempers, their affections. none of them have discovered the others' existence. too dumb to suspect a thing. they all think they’re the one you love most. they often feel troubled and annoyed by your affection toward them, and they’ve repeatedly told you to know your place, not to harbor any unrealistic hope.

HA HA HA.

the only unrealistic hope you have is for their money.

you don’t need love—you need their money. their attention. their willingness to spoil you even as they look down on you.

and as long as they keep giving, you’ll keep playing along.

you often cycle through the messages on your phone, each conversation carefully tailored. each boyfriend is a puzzle piece slotted into your perfect game. some of them are cruel, sneering when they hand you gifts. others act indifferent, as if their presence alone is payment enough. you smile and nod and let them think they own you. none of them do.

you’ve rehearsed every lie. when one calls late at night, you’re just getting out of the bath. when another wants to meet, you’re swamped with work. if two of them go to the same café, you warn one about a sudden stomach ache. they eat out of your hand without realizing it.

but something has changed.

they used to forget little details about you, dismissing you as just another fling. now, they remember too much. one recalls your favorite coffee order, even though you never told him. another shows up at places you frequent, acting surprised to see you. one leaves a bouquet of your favorite flowers at your doorstep, carefully arranged with a handwritten note that simply reads, thinking of you. you never told him you liked those flowers. in fact, you don’t even remember mentioning them at all.

their texts, once careless and sparse, become suffocating. "thinking of you," one writes at midnight. "dreamed about you last night," another says. the words feel heavier than before. they ask more questions, ones that dig too deep. "what do you do when we're not together?" "who else do you spend time with?" their words are sweet, but there's an edge, a demand for something unspoken.

their texts, once careless and sparse, become suffocating.

for example,

elijah

elijah never used to care about your whereabouts. he would text you lazily, sometimes going days without responding. but now, he messages you constantly. "where are you?" "who are you with?" "send me a picture."

you laugh it off, telling him he’s being silly, but one night, you catch him outside your workplace. he’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching the entrance.

"thought i’d surprise you," he says. "you didn’t answer my texts."

he drives you home without asking, his fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel. "you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?" he asks suddenly. his voice is calm, but his grip on the gearshift tightens. "i don’t like being lied to."

you smile, reassure him, say all the right things. he finally relaxes, but his eyes stay sharp, watching you like he’s memorizing your every move.

lucas

lucas has never been the affectionate type, but lately, he’s been pulling you closer, holding onto you longer. his hands linger on your waist when you say goodbye, his fingers curling slightly, as if reluctant to let you go.

"you’re mine, you know that, right?" he whispers one evening, his breath hot against your ear.

"of course," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. but inside, something twists. his grip is a little too tight, his smile a little too forced.

the next morning, you wake up to dozens of missed calls from him. your phone buzzes again. "answer me." another message. "don’t ignore me."

you turn off your phone and tell yourself it’s nothing.

nathan

nathan always acted like he had other girls, like he didn’t need you. but now, he’s different. he clings to you in ways that feel desperate, his arrogance cracking.

"i don’t know what i’d do if i lost you," he admits one night, his fingers tracing circles on your wrist. "you wouldn’t leave me, right?"

his voice is soft, but there’s something hollow beneath it, something dark.

"never," you say, and he relaxes—but his grip never loosens.

kai

kai never used to show up unannounced. now, he does. first, at your work. then, at your gym. then, outside your apartment.

"i was just in the neighborhood," he says each time, flashing that easy smile.

but his eyes are always scanning, searching. as if he’s looking for something. or someone.

"i love you, you know," he murmurs one night, his fingers brushing over your cheek. "you wouldn’t betray me. not you."

you laugh, tell him he’s being dramatic.

but when you get home, your apartment door is unlocked.

matthew

matthew was always indifferent, treating you like an afterthought. but not anymore. now, he watches you closely, studying your every move, his head tilted like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

"you’ve changed," he says one day, his tone unreadable. "you’re hiding something."

you laugh, brush him off. but his gaze lingers, calculating.

"i’ll figure it out," he says finally, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist.

leo

leo used to be fun, lighthearted. but now, there’s an edge to him. a quiet intensity that makes you nervous.

"i had a dream about you last night," he tells you one evening. "you were leaving me. i didn’t like it."

you smile, joke that he’s being paranoid. but he just stares at you, unblinking.

"don’t ever do that to me," he says. "not even in a dream."

his fingers tighten around yours. you don’t pull away.

xavier

xavier never asked for more than you were willing to give. but now, he wants everything.

"move in with me," he says suddenly.

it’s not a request.

when you hesitate, his expression darkens. "why not?" he asks. "you love me, don’t you?"

you nod quickly, knowing it’s what he wants to hear. his smile returns, but his eyes remain cold.

"good," he murmurs. "because i won’t let you go."

damien

one night, damien insists on driving you home. he's never offered before. usually, he barely walks you to the door, too preoccupied with himself to care. but tonight, his grip on your wrist lingers a second too long when you try to leave the restaurant. "let me take you home," he says. his voice is smooth, but there's something off in his eyes, something unreadable.

you try to decline, but he doesn’t budge. "humor me," he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

in the car, he doesn't speak. the drive is quiet, too quiet. when you glance at him, his knuckles are tight around the steering wheel. your apartment building comes into view, but instead of stopping out front like he always does, he pulls into the empty lot and turns off the engine.

"damien—" you start, but he cuts you off. "stay a little longer," he says. his voice is soft, almost pleading. "i just... don’t like saying goodbye so soon."

you smile, playing along, though something about the way he's looking at you makes your skin prickle. "next time, okay?"

for a moment, he doesn’t move. then, he exhales sharply and unlocks the doors. "yeah. next time."

as you step out, you feel his eyes on your back the entire way inside.

lately, you feel eyes on you when no one should be there. the messages come faster, their tones more insistent. “where were you last night?” one asks. “you’re mine, aren’t you?” another demands. you brush them off, just as you always do, but the uneasy feeling lingers. they’re getting restless. possessive.

one night, as you return home, you notice something strange—your apartment door is unlocked. your stomach twists. you always double-check. always.

inside, everything is untouched. but the air feels different, charged. you close the door and step forward cautiously. the silence is suffocating.

you shake the feeling off. no one knows. no one has found out.

not yet.

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ───���─⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

warning: slight Yandere behavior, breeding

Hare!hybrid bf with bunny!hybrid gf

You, a cute bunny hybrid with soft, fluffy bunny ears and a cute cotton tail that wags when you’re happy or upset. You’re round and soft, the sweetest little thing your boyfriend has ever seen.

And then there’s your hare hybrid bf… he’s tall, thin, and unsettling, with eyes that bore into you and hair that is far from soft. He’s protective and possessive of his little bunny baby, keeping you safe and literally fighting any of his rivals to the DEATH.

He’s a bit nervous about breeding with you. You’re smaller, more fragile than him… but god you both go crazy once you go into heat… and you’re a lot more durable than he thought.

You take his cock so well, begging for him to give you a litter… his perfect little mate, his sweet bunny. No one will ever put their hands on you, unless they want to die a painful death.

——————

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @sunset-214 @avalordream @atransmuter @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa

[tsuutarr]

Rich! Yandere x Chill! Reader

Work is a drag – your supervisor expects mountains from you while allowing himself to pick pebbles. He expects you to be there before him and leave after him even though he allows himself to arrive late and leave on time. He expects you to respond to every email and ask questions but ignores emails sent his way. He condescendingly laughs at you and gets annoyed at you making mistakes even though he’s made plenty himself.

In conclusion, you’re about to lose it. Go absolutely bonkers.

Still, you gotta earn money somehow, so…

You really have no choice but to continue onwards.

But seriously, who thought a cycle of work and work and more work was a good idea? You have a few choice words for them. Especially since you’re forced to stay longer than you want to because your stupid supervisor decided to give you work at the last minute, two minutes before you clock out.

By the time you arrive home, you’re dead tired, absolutely unable to keep your eyes open. You tell yourself that you need to get changed, eat dinner, brush your teeth, catch up on your weekly show… but your body is too tired to obey any of that, so it’s lulled into a long, dreamless slumber.

When you come to, you wake up on a gorgeous bed in a gorgeous room. You’re disoriented, absolutely positive that you’re dreaming. But you don’t wake up even after pinching yourself so… this must be real?

Your thoughts are interrupted as the doors to the room open, showcasing a handsome man. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on the news somewhere. Probably. Anyway, the point is that he’s handsome.

“Are you feeling all right, Darling?” he asks, voice velvety smooth and deep like dark chocolate.

“I guess?” you say, feeling surprisingly calm. He blinks at you.

“Ah… are you not going to ask where you are…?”

“Oh, right.” You nod. “Where am I?”

“You’re at one of my mansions,” he responds, smoothing out his dress shirt. “I’ve selected the best one, just for you.”

“Oh wow.” Flashes of your dingy one bedroom apartment flash through your head. “That’s great.”

“And of course, you’ll have everything provided for you. If you need anything, just tell me – I can get you everything you desire.”

“That’s amazing,” you respond. “I’m in.”

“Wha–” he looks at you, shocked. “I knew you were in dire financial straits but… aren’t you going to be wary of me, Dear? I mean, I kidnapped you?”

“My guy, the economy is awful, I hate my job, and I really just want to enjoy life for once. I am not complaining.” Shrugging your shoulders, your gaze remains steady on him. “Besides, you’re easy on the eyes.”

A bright red blush splatters itself across his cheeks, forcing him to clear his throat. “W–well, I’m pleased that my appearance is desirable to you.”

“Yup,” you reply, before looking at him curiously. “So like… did you stalk me or something? Put trackers on me?”

“Wha–”

“Well, it kinda seems like you’ve been after me for a while, I guess. Sorry if I’m wrong?”

“Well, no, you’re not… incorrect. But does that not bother you?”

“I mean, social media already has all my info anyway, so…” you hum thoughtfully. “Hm. Anyway. Does kidnapping me mean that you won’t let me go out again? A lot of stories have the guy locking their love interest up.”

He blinks. “I… suppose so…?”

“I don’t entirely mind, but I feel like I’ll probably go nuts if I’m not allowed to go out at all. Can’t we compromise? Like… you can have your trackers on me or have someone follow me around. Actually, why don’t you come along?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I mean, it’s a fair trade, isn’t it? I have friends and family that I gotta see so I don’t go insane, but like, I don’t mind spending most of my time here. And if I do go out, you can just keep track of that. Plus it’s not like I have money or power to actually run or something anyway.” You nod, certain.

“You… you’re certainly rather… receptive to this whole situation.”

“Again, the economy is trash and you’re hot.”

He clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “W–well, it isn’t the worst idea in the world, I suppose. However, the world at large is quite dangerous. You can’t fault me for wanting to keep you locked up. It’s the best way to keep you safe–”

“Oh, I know!” you snap your fingers. “Let’s get married.”

“...Excuse me?”

“I mean, that way you’ll legally be my family. Then you can be with me ‘til death do us apart. Or something.” Satisfied, you nod. “Good idea, don’t you think?”

Gears whir inside his head as he looks at you, completely flabbergasted by your proposal. He’s happy that you seem satisfied with the situation and want to marry him but… but…

“Good idea indeed,” he agrees, fully abandoning any notion of common sense (not that he had much to begin with). 

Your willing acceptance of your situation wasn’t what he was expecting, but… who is he to complain?

It’s working in his favor, after all.

[devotion-disorder]

exciting news :D

hey guys, I'm really excited to announce that my new personal project that I'm working on called Double-crossed, a yandere visual novel featuring the sillies kuuya and noel :DD I don't have much to show you right now but here are some screenshots I have so far...!! I'm looking forward to working on it continuously, except for the fact that this project doesn't exist...happy april fools :D

[sangunary]

- Hush now crybaby.

Yandere batfam x ghost Reader!

IMP: Little scenarios that happened after your death. This is a little scenario from my previous story 'Hush now crybaby' :3.

It was around midnight, Tim was still awake as he was trying to ignore his guilt by over working himself.

*Tim who was drinking coffee for the sixth time after dinner*

GhostReader: "I already told you to not substitute water for coffee!"

Tim screaming at the top of his lungs because not only did his dead siblings suddenly appeared infront of him to scold him... Their voice was.. extremely unpleasant and he was high on coffee.

After Tims award winning scream the whole family was awaken from their slumber, hurriedly went downstairs just to see Tim in a fetal position on the ground.

Dick: "Oh God! Little bird what happened?!"

Tim: "It's not my fault coffee taste better!"

Jason: "This is likely the result of being high on coffee, meth is better"

Damian inside his room, a ouija board and your favourite teddy besides him.

Damian: "Listen carefully, You will get inside this Teddy and make us happy again"

GhostReader: "Why can't you just start a conversation like a NORMAL PERSON??"

Minutes later Damian was playfully bullying Reader to go inside the Bear.

Dick who was weeping on his bathroom floor for dramatic effect holding Reader's clothes in his arm's.

Dick: "Oh God, im a terrible older brother... I don't deserve to live... My baby im so sorry it should have been me instead of you..."

GhostReader: "I can't tell if he's mourning me or using this opportunity to rehearse for his acting career...."

Dick who was still mumbling and crying really hard leaving a very visible wet stain onto the dress.

GhostReader: "Even for you this is really pathetic and hard to watch... Im getting uncomfortable I must leave"

Jason introducing the whole family to the outlaws because they kept on insisting.

Jason: "And the my favourite rat... Reader"

Arthemis: "Aw, she's cute... Im so sorry for what happened. I wish I could see her"

Jason: "Oh don't worry... Cause she's right here"

Jason pointing at a random corner of the room with full confidence.

Arthemis whispering to Roy.

Arthemis: "I didn't knew mourning makes you delusional"

GhostReader: "Im actually over there Jay"

Roy: "Oh my fucking God! That was the BIGGEST rat I've ever seen in my life!"

During any celebration or event Reader love's to ruin the photo one way or another... She found it hilarious but it's really creepy.

Bruce: "Perfect... We'll hang it on the wal- We need to retake this"

Reader who ruined the picture by merging with Bruce in the picture.

Tim: "THAT was the sixth time! We're going to die if we have to keep smiling like this!"

GhostReader: "I thought I looked really good in the picture..."

[saymio]

In Ho headcanons | (NSFW)

Pairing: Hwang In-ho (player 001/the front man) x Fem!reader

Genre: headcanons, smut

Warning: dead dove do not eat, manipulation, dub/noncon, age gap, might be more but im too lazy to write it down

A/N: not proof read. thanos story in the works rn!! I have writers block so to help a little I'm making some hcs 4 this baddie (prob ooc)

hwang inho, the man that protected you from Thanos and his stupid friend during the first day of the games. he shoo'ed them away. stopping their harassment and took you with him with the rest of the group

hwang inho, the man that gives you his milk. reassuring you every time that its okay for you to have it, and it'll help you get stronger.

hwang inho, the man that checks up on you throughout the night. standing over you to make sure you're getting your nights rests. making sure no creeps try touching your delicate skin.

hwang inho, the man that lets touches linger a little longer than they should, whether its on your hands, thighs, waist..his touches feel more than platonic

hwang inho, the man that tells the guards to make sure you stay safe, to kill a player that hasn't broken the rules if they had to. anything to make sure you stay safe.

hwang inho, the man that would excuse himself to the bathroom just to touch himself to the thought of you. whether its your calm voice or plush hands that feel so soft and delicate...he just couldn't help it.

hwang inho, the man that squeezes your thighs when no ones looking...and when you express discomfort he used his past generosity as an excuse for it.

hwang inho, the man that will kiss you in the middle of the night with no warning. telling you to be quiet and take the kiss because if it were any other man it would've been worse.

hwang inho, the man that will find the perfect timing to sneak away from everyone else with you. he'll make you strip for him in the bathroom. savoring every inch of your body before he sends you away, leaving him in there alone to masturbate.

hwang inho, the man that wont let you sleep. he'll grope and squeeze your thighs, tits and ass. feeling you up while you hold in tears.

hwang inho, the man that reminds you this is your fault when you cry to him during a bathroom strip session. expressing how uncomfortable this makes you and how you don't want it anymore.

hwang inho, the man that will tell you nothing in the world is free. and your body will be the payment he receives for being so generous with you.

hwang inho, the man that gets hard thinking about your age gap. how youre only 19 and he's in his 40's..he loves it.

hwang inho, the man that slips his fingers inside of you when the lights are off, fingering you aggressively. reminding you once again that it'd be so much worse if he wasn't such a nice man.

hwang inho, the man that captures you during the raid against the guards. forcing you to stare into the eyes of your past friends as he kills them.

hwang inho, the man that keeps you as his pet after the games end. reminding you you're lucky because he spoils you with money.

hwang inho, the man that doesn't let you socialize with anyone after he's gotten his grip on you.

Another not: this one is pretty short compared to my last fic, this was to just try n get me out of writers block. expect a Thanos fic to pop up tmr. sorry if this sucked/was ooc, I tried my best T T~~

[bloomingchxxry]

YES

(nsfw) thinking of a yandere who is entranced by the idea of you taking his virginity from him.

he saved it all for you, he said. he told you that he’d forced away all his unclean thoughts, put himself in the shoes of the pure in hopes that it’ll unleash such passion, some emotion and such longing between the intimate moment he wishes to share with you.

he groans against your lips, slightly grinding his hips as he does so. he leaves you wet, open mouthed kisses and he trails them from your cheek to your neck, sucking at the skin as he fondles your chest.

“you’ve got such pretty nips.” he pants, before swirling his tongue around them, sucking them as he used his hands to undress the two of you. he bucked his hips against you the moment the two of you were unclothed, moans pouring from his lips until the moment he sheathed himself inside of you.

he thrust himself inside of you wildly, grabbing your hips with sweaty palms as he lightly moved them to match his rhythm. you tangled your fingers through your haired and he breathed your name out, shaking as he did so.

“ohhh fuck yeah baby. s-say my name like that again, p-please fucking… mmh” he pleads. he places another kiss against your lips, hurried and passionate, messy with the ecstasy that he’s feeling, and even after he’s released himself inside of you with desperate and crying whimpers of your name, he keeps his length inside of you, humming against your ear as he whispers praises on repeat.