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tnsophiaonly · 10 hours ago

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SUNDAY THE MAN YOU ARE SJSKSKSKSKSK

Ong SUNDAY

I hate u sm for not coming home

BUT LIKE

Eheheheheh

AND MY MAN AVENTURINEEEEE AJAKAKAKAKLALSOSLSK

He doesn’t need your trust—he just needs your surrender.

❤︎ Synopsis. They're men who don’t just want you—they need you, body and soul, pushing you to the brink of surrender and madness. Each touch is a promise of both pleasure and pain, and escape is a fantasy that fades with every breath.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Boothill x Reader, Yandere! Blade x Reader, Yandere! Sunday x Reader, Yandere! Aventurine x Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 4,702

♡ Boothill.

Boothill wasn’t subtle. Subtlety was for cowards, for men too yellow-bellied to spit in the face of death. When he grabbed you, it was with the unrestrained ferocity of a man who had nothing to lose and everything to burn. “Y’ain’t goin’ nowhere, sugar,” he drawled, his grin splitting wide and feral. The southern-like lilt in his voice was a slow poison, sweet and lethal, dripping with unspoken promises that made your skin crawl.

He held you like he meant to break you, every touch roughened by calloused hands and a life lived on the edge of ruin. There was no grace to him, no pretense of softness. Boothill was chaos incarnate, his passion a wildfire that devoured reason and left only scorched earth in its wake. His kisses were a bruising thing, all teeth and desperation, his breath hitching against your skin like a dying man’s prayer. He didn’t care for subtle games or drawn-out schemes; all he wanted was to own you in the loudest, rawest, most violent way imaginable.

“Don’t fight me now, darlin’. You’re mine—always were, always will be.” The words dripped with conviction, but his eyes held a madness that sent a shiver down your spine. Every gasp, every tear, only seemed to spur him on, his grin widening as if your suffering were some cosmic justice he’d been waiting to deliver.

———

The cold barrel of his pistol rests against your temple, the slick metal biting like frost into your sweat-dampened skin. His breath is uneven, ragged like the rhythm of a battered heart, though his voice maintains that lilting, sing-song cadence — a cowboy’s drawl slurred by the edges of madness.

"Now, darlin', what'd I tell ya ‘bout runnin’?” he murmurs, his words thick with honeyed venom, rolling slow like thunder on the plains. The scent of burnt gunpowder clings to him — metallic, sharp — mingling with sweat and the leather straps binding the mess of machinery to his body. His cybernetic enhancements gleam in the dim light, the sharp edges of steel catching on shadows, as though even his body rejects softness.

You’re trembling now, shivering under his gaze as much as under his touch. His fingers — cold, precise — trace the line of your jaw, rough callouses dragging over tender skin. You try to flinch, but his grip tightens, the unforgiving strength of his mechanical hand enough to force your submission.

“Reckon I warned ya, didn’t I?” he continues, tilting your chin until you’re forced to meet his eyes. They’re a mix of black and grey, but not the cool night skies over open fields. No, his eyes are searing — two pinpoints of light drowning in a void so deep, it feels like staring into eternity. “Ain’t no leavin’ me, sugar. Not ever. You belong t’me now.”

The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you like the dust-laden air of a battlefield. His smile stretches wide, feral, revealing teeth too sharp for comfort. He doesn’t just want to own you — he wants to consume you, piece by fragile piece, until there’s nothing left.

When he pulls you closer, it’s not gentle. There’s no tenderness in the way his arms — human-like, but intricate lattice of gleaming steel — crush you against his chest. The edge of his holster digs into your ribs, and you feel the weight of his revolver, a cruel reminder of the countless lives he’s snuffed out.

“See, darlin’, I ain’t got nothin’ left but you,” he whispers, his tone almost affectionate, though it’s laced with a desperation so raw it makes your stomach churn. “Lost my family. Lost my home. Hell, even lost most’a my darn body. But you? You’re mine. And I’ll kill any shirt-for-brains fool who tries t’ take ya from me.”

His lips graze the shell of your ear, his breath hot and tinged with the sharp tang of whiskey. “But runnin’? That there’s somethin’ I can’t abide by. Ain’t no place in this galaxy you can hide where I won’t find ya.”

The room feels smaller with him in it, his towering frame casting long, suffocating shadows. You’re trapped, a prey animal caught in the jaws of a predator who revels in the chase. His possessiveness isn’t just a chain — it’s a brand, burning into your soul, marking you as his.

When his hand slides down your neck, trailing over the delicate column of your throat, his touch is almost reverent. But the weight of his palm lingers too long, his thumb brushing against the pulse hammering beneath your skin. It’s a silent warning, a reminder of how easily he could crush the life out of you.

“Y’know,” he muses, his voice soft but no less dangerous, “a woman like you deserves better. Deserves a nice lil’ house, a husband who don’t got blood on his hands, maybe even some lil’ ones runnin’ ‘round the yard.” His laughter is sharp, brittle, a mockery of joy. “But ya ain’t gettin’ that. ‘Cause I’ll be darned if I let some other sonuvagun have ya.”

There’s an edge to his tone now, a flicker of something darker, more unhinged. His grip on you tightens, and you can feel the tension coiled in his body, like a predator ready to pounce.

“Ain’t no runnin’, no hidin’. You’re mine, sugar. Forever.”

And when he finally claims your lips, it’s not a kiss — it’s a conquest, a brutal, unrelenting declaration of ownership. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that borders on savage, his teeth grazing your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

“See?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to smirk down at you. The sight of his sharp teeth, glinting in the low light, sends a shiver down your spine. “Told ya you’d taste sweet.”

You’re trembling, fear and fury warring within you, but he doesn’t care. Boothill doesn’t just want your body — he wants your submission, your soul. And with every touch, every whispered threat, he’s dragging you deeper into his world, a world of blood, smoke, and vengeance, where escape is nothing more than a fleeting dream.

You’re his now. And he’ll burn the galaxy to keep it that way.

────────────

♡ Blade.

Blade was the shadow at the edge of your nightmares, the inevitable doom that hung over you like a guillotine’s blade. His silence was more terrifying than any scream, his eyes devoid of anything resembling mercy. When he moved, it was with the unrelenting precision of a predator, his every step calculated to box you in. You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand found your throat, the grip firm enough to remind you of how fragile you were.

“You’re weak,” he said, his voice low and devoid of inflection. Yet there was an edge to his words, a barely contained fury that set your blood thrumming with dread. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, his breath a cruel mimicry of intimacy. “But you’re mine. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

There was no tenderness in Blade, no softness to temper the brutal edge of his desire. When he touched you, it was with the singular intent to consume, to leave nothing of you untouched by his presence. His hands roamed like they were mapping uncharted territory, his grip possessive to the point of pain. And when he finally kissed you, it was less an act of passion and more a mark of ownership, his teeth grazing your lips as if to warn you of what disobedience might bring.

Blade didn’t need words to make his intentions clear. The weight of his gaze, the unrelenting force of his actions, spoke volumes. You weren’t a lover to him; you were a conquest, a prize to be claimed and kept. And no matter how much you struggled, how loudly you begged, he would remind you of one unshakable truth: there was no escape. Not from him. Not ever.

———

It was in the quiet moments, the moments when silence dripped like blood from a blade’s edge, that you realized he was watching you. Blade wasn’t a man prone to soft gestures, nor did he waste time on words that carried no weight. He was a creature forged in torment, refined in death, and bound by a loyalty so unrelenting it felt like a curse. The walls of his mind were iron-clad, and yet, he’d let you inside. Not as a guest. Not as a lover. As a captive.

You weren’t sure when you became his fixation, when the quiet looks sharpened into a gaze that burned through the layers of your soul. He didn’t speak it aloud, but his presence was enough to suffocate you with its intensity. The air thickened when he drew close, each deliberate step echoing like the toll of a funeral bell. He didn’t demand your submission with words; he carved it into the marrow of your being with the weight of his existence.

Blade didn’t touch you often, not at first. No, his affection came in other ways—ways that left you trembling. His gaze lingered, predatory and consuming, dragging itself across your skin like the edge of a serrated blade. The sheer force of his attention made you feel like prey caught in the jaws of a beast, the kind that doesn’t kill but toys with its meal, savoring every second of your torment. It wasn’t desire; it was something darker. Deeper.

The first time he cornered you, there was no hesitation. His hand found your throat, calloused fingers pressing against the pulse there—not hard enough to choke but enough to remind you of how fragile you were in his grasp. His lips ghosted near your ear, and his voice, low and raspy, wrapped around you like a noose.

“Do you feel it?” he murmured. “The inevitability of me.”

You couldn’t look away from him. His eyes weren’t just crimson; they were chaos, a swirling abyss of hatred and longing that seemed at war with itself. He saw you not as a person but as something his, an extension of the blade he wielded, an object to be sharpened, claimed, and ultimately destroyed. And it thrilled him.

When Blade finally touched you, it was with the precision of a man who understood both pleasure and pain. His fingers were unyielding as they explored, tracing every curve and hollow like a warrior memorizing the weak points of an enemy. He left marks, not out of clumsiness, but with purpose—each bruise and bite a signature, a testament to the fact that you were irrevocably his.

“Struggle,” he commanded once, voice as sharp as the blade he bore. And you did, not out of defiance but because you couldn’t help it. His strength was terrifying, the weight of his body pinning you like the inevitability of death. Yet he moved with a deliberate cruelty, every touch designed to draw out your fear, your desperation, until there was nothing left but surrender.

He relished it. Not just the way you broke beneath him, but the process itself—the slow unraveling of your resolve. He whispered in your ear, words that cut deeper than any weapon.

“You belong to me now,” he said, his breath hot against your skin. “Every scream, every tear—it’s mine to take.”

Blade wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t thoughtless either. His cruelty was calculated, his movements deliberate. He knew exactly where to press, where to linger, and when to retreat just enough to let hope flicker to life—only to extinguish it again. It wasn’t about control; it was about domination, about reminding you with every touch, every whispered word, that you were caught in a web of his making.

There were moments, fleeting and cruel, where he allowed a glimpse of what might have been. He’d cradle your face in his hands, the callouses rough against your skin, and look at you with something almost tender. But the moment was a lie, a cruel trick meant to make you long for something he would never give.

“Do you think I’ll let you go?” he’d ask, and the silence that followed was more damning than any answer.

Even in those rare moments of stillness, when his body was a heavy weight against yours and his breaths were shallow in the aftermath, there was no peace. His hands never stopped roaming, possessive even in sleep, as though afraid you might slip away. And perhaps you would have, if the chains he’d wrapped around you weren’t so unbreakable.

Blade was a paradox—a man who had abandoned his humanity yet clung to you with an almost human desperation. But there was no love in it. Only obsession. Only hunger. And as much as you hated him, as much as you feared him, there was no denying the dark thrill that coursed through you when his eyes met yours, when his hands closed around you like a vice.

He would break you, again and again, because that was who he was—a blade honed to perfection, a weapon that knew only how to destroy. And you, his unfortunate wielder, were just another victim of the monster that lived inside him. But in those moments, when his lips crushed against yours and his hands left trails of fire and ice in their wake, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you could learn to wield him, too.

But you knew better. In the end, it wasn’t him who belonged to you. It was you who would always belong to him.

────────────

♡ Sunday.

Sunday was a quiet storm, the kind that blackened the horizon before tearing the sky in two. His cruelty was a whisper, not a shout, his hands warm and careful even as they held you down. He didn’t revel in the act of breaking you—no, his satisfaction lay in the aftermath, in watching the pieces of you scatter at his feet. “Hush now, sweet thing,” he murmured, his voice soothing as his fingers trailed down your trembling frame. “You’ll learn to see it my way. They always do.”

His words were a scalpel, precise and cutting, slicing through your defenses with unnerving ease. Sunday didn’t need chains to bind you; his manipulation was enough, a web of logic and lies that left you questioning where his thoughts ended and yours began. When he touched you, it was clinical at first, as though testing the limits of your endurance. But the smile that ghosted his lips when you broke, when your voice hitched in a choked sob, was something far darker than mere satisfaction.

He didn’t rush. Oh, no. Sunday took his time, drawing out every moment of your despair with surgical precision. He whispered promises in your ear, each one more insidious than the last, his breath warm and close as his hands forced you deeper into the abyss. “You’ll thank me one day,” he murmured, his tone so tender it felt like a mockery. “When you realize I’m the only one who knows what you truly need.”

———

He watches you like an astronomer trapped in the endless void of stars — a searing fascination, equal parts devotion and obsession, flickers in his gaze. The man called “Sunday,” once the Bronze Melodia, carries an air of tragedy woven so intricately into his being that it resonates in every note of his existence. His smile is a rare and unsettling thing, curving just enough to unsettle, never enough to comfort. His voice, a melody softened by reverence yet sharp with control, is the lullaby of your nightmares.

He doesn’t “love” you in the way humans write songs about; his is a love forged in the fires of obsession and shackled by his undying need to possess. It isn’t simply enough that you are there, breathing, living — no, you must belong entirely to him, every thought, every shiver, every cry. He isn’t content with being a mere chapter in your story. He must be the ink, the pages, the hands that rip through the very binding of your life until you are rewritten entirely.

Sunday isn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake. His every action, every calculated word, feels almost tender, as if orchestrated with precision meant to mimic care. But beneath the veneer of gentleness is a man who would tear you apart piece by piece, just to ensure no one else could have the parts of you he deems his. He doesn’t need your consent; he already decided long ago that your will is irrelevant. In his mind, your existence is a note in his eternal composition, and silence will come only when he allows it.

When he touches you — and he will touch you, slowly, deliberately — it is like the press of a pianist’s fingers against fragile keys. Delicate, reverent, but carrying the promise of power that can crush if the melody demands it. He speaks to you in a voice like a hymn, low and coaxing, but his hands are anything but holy. They roam across your skin with an unhurried possessiveness, marking you in ways that transcend the physical. You can feel his breath ghosting over your ear as he murmurs something indecipherable — words meant to hypnotize, to ensnare.

His intimacy is dark and all-consuming, leaving no room for escape or resistance. You don’t know when it shifted — when his whispers of assurance turned into the sharp commands that left you trembling. The weight of his body traps you, an immovable force pinning you against your own will, suffocating you in the scent of him — sharp cologne laced with an underlying metallic tang, as if death itself lingers in his proximity.

Every kiss is a conquest, his lips crashing against yours not for pleasure, but for ownership. His teeth graze, then sink, leaving indents as if to brand you. He calls it love, but love doesn’t leave you gasping for air, your wrists bruised beneath the merciless grip of hands that won’t let go. His touch alternates between fire and ice, dragging you through waves of sensation that make you forget, if only for a moment, the terror that knots itself in the pit of your stomach.

And yet, Sunday is not a monster without poetry. Even in his cruelty, there is beauty — the kind that makes you shudder, that evokes awe in the face of destruction. He speaks in riddles, his words as lyrical as they are sinister. “What is a bird without its wings, my sweet? It doesn’t fall; it learns to crawl toward the sky. And I will carry you, even as your legs buckle beneath the weight of my love.”

The room is always dark when he takes you — not for lack of light, but because shadows are his truest companions. The faint glow of his gentle-looking eyes cuts through the darkness, an unrelenting reminder that you are being watched, studied, devoured. His breath is hot against your neck, his hands spreading your legs as if unveiling a masterpiece he’s kept hidden too long.

He draws out your despair like an artist adding the final touches to a canvas, savoring every sound you make. He relishes the way you claw at him, your tears falling like meteors across his universe of control. Every gasp, every sob, only fuels the fire of his need. “Cry for me,” he whispers, his voice a soft plea that feels like a demand. “Show me the depths of your soul, and I will carve my name into every corner of it.”

Sunday is meticulous in his destruction. He doesn’t simply break you; he remakes you, piece by agonizing piece, into something wholly his. He wraps himself around you, an eternal shadow you can never escape, a melody you cannot silence. And as you lie there, trembling and raw, you realize that the line between love and terror has long since dissolved, leaving only him — Sunday, the man who turned you into his masterpiece of suffering and submission.

────────────

♡ Aventurine.

The stars seemed closer now, sharper, as if reality itself had folded and pressed you into his orbit, leaving no air to breathe, no room to flee. His voice came low and sharp, razor-edged with amusement, though his lips maintained that deceptively pleasant curve. Aventurine—the Aventurine of Stratagems—was a man of infinite patience and calculated cruelty. Every flicker of his gaze felt intentional, a scalpel dissecting your soul, peeling you layer by trembling layer until all that remained was raw, unguarded truth.

“You thought you could outmaneuver me?” His voice slipped like silk over steel, a lilt of mockery curling at the edges. His touch was cold against your wrist, his grip deceptively light, yet you couldn’t move. Wouldn’t dare. The weight of his intentions settled on you like an unrelenting tide. He didn’t have to hurt you to make you wish for mercy; his mastery was far more intricate. Every calculated pause, every lingering glance, was its own unique torment, a reminder that he had already won.

Aventurine wasn’t a man who sought pleasure in the conventional sense. His delight was in power—the tension of your resistance and the inevitability of its collapse. He thrived on it, a gambler savoring the roll of the dice. When he kissed you, it wasn’t an act of affection but of conquest, his mouth a cage of teeth and demand. He pulled you apart with frightening precision, his hands cold as the void, his breath warm as a lie. The very air seemed to hum with his amusement, the unshakable certainty that no matter how hard you fought, no matter how far you fell, it would always be on his terms.

———

It’s dark where he keeps you—a room with no discernible corners, where the walls seem to stretch infinitely or not at all, their surfaces veiled in the soft, reflective shimmer of aventurine hues. You never know when he is there. He makes you wait for him, want him, fear him. That waiting is part of the game, after all, and Aventurine loves his games. The door doesn't creak when it opens, but the air shifts—the scent of something heady and metallic slipping in before he does, announcing his arrival like the herald of some inevitable catastrophe.

“You’ve been terribly quiet,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the smooth timbre of an actor slipping into his role. He’s all charm and detachment, but there’s a darkness coiled behind his words, waiting to snap. “That’s not like you, darling. Have I finally won?”

He likes to see you trembling, your defiance folding into fear, into resignation, into something pliant and precious he can mold. His footsteps are measured, deliberate, the sound sharp and echoing, cutting through the oppressive silence. When his shadow falls over you, it feels as though it swallows the light entirely.

"Look at me," he says, and his tone leaves no room for disobedience. You lift your eyes, though your body screams against it. His smile is there, as always—a predator’s grin, too sharp, too knowing. He crouches before you, head tilting as though to drink in every inch of your terror. His gloved fingers brush your chin, the touch deceptively tender, and he laughs softly when you flinch. "There she is. My prize, my gamble."

He speaks to you as if you're a piece on his board, an asset in his portfolio—one that he has secured through calculated risk and ruthless cunning. You know this. You’ve always known this. And yet, his gaze holds a magnetism that steals the breath from your lungs, leaving your heart pounding against your ribs. He tilts your head higher, his touch firm now, his grip unyielding. “Do you know why you’re here? Why I let you stay alive in this place of mine, this little sanctuary? It’s not out of kindness. No, kindness isn’t a luxury I afford.”

His free hand brushes over your neck, over the rapid pulse fluttering beneath your skin. It lingers, cold and unrelenting. His fingers tighten briefly, just enough for you to gasp, for the world to tilt precariously, before he lets go. "You’re here because you intrigue me," he murmurs, leaning closer. "Because I’m curious how far you’ll go before you break."

When he takes you, it is with the same calculated precision he applies to every aspect of his life. Every movement, every whispered word is designed to unmake you. His touch is relentless, purposeful, like the slow grind of a machine stripping you of layers, reducing you to nothing but raw, vulnerable need. He pins you to him, his strength overwhelming, his body a furnace of heat and restrained violence.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ghosting over your skin. "The edge of the knife, the pull of fate, the inevitability of losing yourself to me." He drags his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing over delicate skin, marking you in ways that won’t fade. The sting, the burn, the pleasure, and the fear—they all blur together, intoxicating and inescapable.

And yet, there’s a poetry to the way he unravels you. His words, sharp and barbed, sink deep into your mind, winding around your thoughts like a constricting serpent. "You think you have a choice in this," he breathes against your lips, his smirk venomous. "You think you can resist me, that you can run. But you’ve already gambled everything away, haven’t you? There’s nothing left for you but me."

His grip on your wrists is like iron, his weight anchoring you to the present—there is no escape, no alternative. And still, there’s a dark, twisted sweetness to the way he worships you, as if your submission is the ultimate prize. His touches are both cruel and reverent, his lips tracing invisible boundaries, his hands carving a map of ownership into your very being.

"You’re exquisite," he murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire, with possession. "Every scar, every breath, every sound you make—it’s all mine. And I will take care of you, even if you don’t deserve it. Even if it means destroying everything else in the process." He presses a kiss to your forehead, a mockery of gentleness, before his teeth sink into your skin again.

In the moments when he pulls back, his eyes—those damned, unreadable eyes—pin you in place, leaving you bare before him. He studies you as though you’re an artifact, a mystery he’s solved yet cannot quite understand. “You’re terrified,” he says, as if marveling at the fact. And then he smiles—soft, cruel, devastating. "Good. Hold onto that fear, darling. It’s the only thing keeping you alive."

When it’s over, he doesn’t leave. He sits beside you, his presence a looming shadow, and runs a gloved hand through your hair as though soothing a wounded animal. His touch is almost tender now, but the threat of his earlier violence lingers in the air like smoke. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Don’t forget—everything that you are belongs to me. Your body, your mind, your soul. It’s all part of the gamble, and you’ve already lost.”

And then, like a man folding his cards after a victorious hand, he leaves you there, trembling and marked, with nothing but the sound of his footsteps echoing in the darkness.

────────────

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General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi

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