eager, keen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. everybody likes a good loser yandere, but what about a loser who genuinely can't do anything right?
yan!loser who offers you his jacket. he's walking you home late one night from class, or work, or the gym, or your first date together (the details are irrelevant, entirely up to you), and after you let out a shiver, he immediately takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
"such a gentleman," you coo, and his ears redden and his knees feel like jelly.
"a-ah.. it's no problem."
as the two of you continue to walk, listening to the bumble of the city around you, or the grasshoppers' chirp, or the rainfall, or whatever you're imagining, he begins to shiver as well.
"it's really quite cold!" he squeaks out. you can hear his teeth begin to chatter. the tip of his nose reddens.
"do you want your jacket back? i'm really not that cold."
"n-no!" he insists. "your comfort comes first." he hopes to impress you, but how can you be impressed when he's rubbing his skinny arms together, desperately trying to warm himself up like a caveman? when he's letting out gaspy, shaky breaths every time the wind blows? the crazy thing is that it really ISN'T that cold. he must be anemic or something.
yan!loser with a darling who likes to hike. when you invite him to join you on a hike (somewhere up in the mountains, by a waterfall, nothing simple or beginner-friendly), he's thrilled at the opportunity to spend time with you. he shows up in super duper expensive hiking gear.
"wow, you must hike a lot!" you say, impressed. somehow you don't realize that it's all super duper new as well.
his gear is definitely not representative of his actual skill level, because 20 minutes into the hike (mind you, it's a 20+ mile trail. 20 minutes is just a slight incline), he's breathless and lightheaded and asking you if you if you'd like to sit down somewhere.
"i don't need a break," your eyebrows furrow in perplexion. "but would you like one? you're looking really red."
"no, no, i w-was just looking out for you," he gasps out, wiping the sweat off his forehead.
eventually he passes out, and you have to carry him to the nearest medical clinic. perhaps a picnic would've been better suited for his incredibly unathletic physique.
yan!loser who, after thoroughly stalking your search history and reading your private messages, realizes that you're into the, well, "bad boy" type. y'know, leather jackets, tattoos, motorcycles, all that. needless to say, the next time he sees you, he's holding a cigarette in his sweaty palm.
"you smoke?" you ask, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. he strikes you as the kind of guy to have never, ever so much as seen a bottle of alcohol in real life.
"yes," he says.
(if you had voiced your suspicions, you would've discovered you were correct. he went to multiple grocery stores looking for cigarettes before realizing they were only sold as gas stations. even then, he had dorkishly asked the gas station attendant, "one cigarette, please."
"what kind?"
"ah.. the white kind... with the yellow tip?"
"huh ?? what brand?"
"w-what do you suggest?")
he inhales the cigarette air in and starts violently coughing. not just a few coughs, no, his eyes are watering and he feels like he can't breath. his eyes bulge open in panic and he gestures in a frenzy at you.
you give him a few helpful hits on his back to clear his airway, and while usually he'd be a blushing mess after being touched by you, right now his only focus is on breathing again.
"is this your first time picking up a cigarette???"
(yes it is. he had to watch a youtube video to know that you light the white end of a cigarette.)
yandere!vampire x f!nun!reader, slightly blasphemous
on restless nights, when a hunt cannot quell yandere!vampire’s thirst, on nights his skin feels tight and he becomes overwhelmed with the desire to be by your side, on nights he wishes he could sleep so he could at least hold you in his dreams, he uncovers a small silver vial filled with holy water.
he traces the engravings in the silver, flesh barely touching. his finger burns, the silver leaves scars along the sides of his digits. gritting his teeth, he pops the bottle open and dips his finger into the water.
he pulls his finger out, audibly wincing, but he tells himself he can do this. he pours out a little bit of the holy water onto the wooden table in front of him before placing his repulsive corpse hand on it. now he feels the burn, acidic and sharp, all over his palm. he allows his eyes to flutter shut and daydreams.
he pretends that it’s you, and this is not a very hard task. you, priestly you, constantly surrounded in religious memorabilia, a rosary around your untouchable neck, your white veil, symbolizing your devotion to God, the God that has cursed him to eternity.
perhaps he fell in love with you long before he became a vampire. you’d shown kindness to him back when he lived in the village as a human. he could hardly remember now.
he visits you at unholy hours of the night and watches you pray from the monastery windows. the sight of you lost in prayer feels ironic to him. he is fated to burn in Hell forever, so praying to the same God you prayed to is pointless, but sometimes, after you fall asleep, he climbs through the window and falls to his knees and devotes himself to you. love confessions tumble out of his pale lips like prayer, his eyes cast up as though your sleeping body is his Saviour. if he’s feeling particularly bold, he’ll dare to let his hand hold yours in his, and flinch at the burning feeling. the skin of the blessed.
“save me,” he mumbles.
“love me.”
other nights, simply: “look at me.”
to be looked at you is his biggest wish. only on one occasion, you ventured into the woods alone, without your Sisters by your side. he’d watched you from afar — to keep you safe, he promised himself, but he certainly knew the real reason why — and perhaps a branch he’d stepped on had loudly snapped, or some leaves rustled too loudly as his cloak passed them, or maybe you were too attentive for your own good — whatever the reason — you’d glanced back and seen him and froze.
but a creature of the night is certainly a creature of the night; no matter how startlingly handsome he is, his fangs, his pale lips, his wide unblinking eyes — like that of a dead person — prompt you to run back to your monastery.
this is his only memory of you. for now, he will make himself content with holding the silver vial and pretending it is your flesh.
ur my new fav writer!!! I binge read all ur stories in one day (・x・) I really liked ur yandere!loserasmrist fic especially!!
ur so sweet ugh (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) ! i'm so glad u like !
for a while i wrote a lot of rly unserious yandere one-shots (like the asmrtist) but i wanted to take a slightly more serious approach so i took all of them down. maybe i should get back into lighthearted yanderes
i sent an anon ask to a “writer” (it is a disgrace to call them that) politely inquiring if they use ai (their writing had all the tell-tale signs of chatgpt, coming from someone who is required to use it for work) — they BLOCKED me 😭✌️
what is the point of posting ai-generated yandere content? most people find fulfillment in the process of writing, not from getting reblogged
Hii. I was going to ask abt “monopoly on your mind” but you haven’t been active in two weeks. We missed you, hope you’re alright!!!
hihi! thank u loads for checking in, its vv sweet <3
i'm a college student so as much as i genuinely want to spend all my time writing and fantasizing and daydreaming, i must prioritize my studies ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! so yea, despite my inactivity i've been doing pretty well <3
(i actually got the notification for ur ask when i was in lecture heheh)
i just posted a new work and it's another kidnapper x reader work (not necessarily the same kidnapper in "monopoly over your mind" though) . i've been in the yandere community for many, many years, but recently i've largely been into the kidnapper trope . guilty pleasure type shit
i'm getting ahead of myself !!! fire ahead with your question lovely non !
wc: 1.4k, || tags: kidnapping, noncon, somno (kind of). trying something new, lmk if u liked it <3
The first word loser!kidnapper says to you is “Please.” As in, “Please don’t yell.” Juxtapose this with the last thing he ever says to you, when you are finally able to escape him: “Please don’t leave me.”
These two sentences pretty effectively summarize the duration of your relationship with him.
The Oxford English Dictionary has eight definitions for “please,” but perhaps only two definitions apply to loser!kidnapper.
transitive (reflexive). Please: to do as one likes, to have one’s own way (frequently with dismissive force).
Please, as in, “please talk to me.”
It took you seven weeks to talk to him. Of course, you talked at first, mainly in a loud, interrogative tone (“Who the hell are you?!;” “What is wrong with you?!”), or in a desperate, bargaining tone (“Please just let me go, I promise I won’t tell anybody at all.”).
None of this shouting or crying led to a particularly fruitful conversation, at least not in the way he’d hoped (i.e., conversations that fizzled out after he responded with “Don’t you remember me? Please just look at me. I’m a regular at that coffee shop you work at!” and “Please try to understand that I can’t let you go! I’ve sacrificed so much by bringing you here, you can fall in love with me, please try!”).
After this short spat came a long, agonizing period of weeks that seemed to blend into one. He could not tell Monday from Saturday. In the morning, he would wake up, go to his mundane job, come home, silently rock himself back and forth while watching you do… nothing.
You would just sit with your hands in your lap, like a doll — albeit a very solemn-looking doll, but he thought of you as a doll nonetheless — but dolls are meant to be played with, are they not? They are not meant to sit angrily and waste away, refusing to eat.
“Please just take a bite. You look sickly. Please… do it for me?”
Do it for him? You can’t help but look away, lips twisting up in a sick laugh. Who does he think he is? There is little more amusing than someone who overestimates their importance in your life, which he certainly does.
He knows none the better; in fact, he’s delighted when your breathy giggles escape from your mouth, although you immediately slap a hand over your lips to silence yourself.
“You laughed,” he notes, “I’m so happy. Your laugh is so beautiful. I could cry at how beautiful it is.” It’s the first sound that’s come out of your mouth in weeks.
The second sound that comes out is a toe-curling scream when he attempts to take your face in the palm of his hand, the way a grandmother might hold her grandchild’s face to kiss them on the cheek.
“I won’t ever touch you again, not without your consent,” he shyly promises you afterwards as he watches you nibble on the toast he’s cooked to your liking.
Transitive (verb). Please: to be agreeable; to give pleasure or satisfaction. With till, to, with.
“I just want to please you,” he says frustratedly months after that.
“You can please me by leaving me alone.”
You’ve come to terms with the fact that you can't sit here doing nothing for months. This, of course, does not mean you’ve come to terms with his very existence.
“Just say the word and I’ll do it. Should I make you something special for dinner? Is there a movie you’d like to watch? Something we can do together? I feel like we don’t spend any time together.”
“I literally spend all my time with you.”
“But we don’t talk to each other enough. It’s just—It’s taking you a lot longer to fall in love with me than I thought it would. Perhaps if we did more things together…”
He’s annoying when he’s like this, insistent and needy, eager to please, whatever, whatever.
The secret third meaning of the word “please” — one not listed by the Oxford English Dictionary — is its sexual, devious connotation, one that hangs in the air every time he’s sprawled at the carpet besides your legs.
You’re sitting on the ground, back leaned against the sofa, one of your favorite movies playing on the TV at a low volume. In your lap is one of those sudoku booklets that they sell at gas stations. The room would be quiet (only the soft scratching of paper against the cheap, thin paper and the muffled movie soundtrack) if it weren’t for his constant whining and complaining.
He wants so badly to throw the sudoku booklet away and lie down on your lap instead of the floor. To devour you, perhaps, to rid you of the expensive clothes you’re wearing that he bought especially for you.
To please you, and to be pleased by you.
But he promised he wouldn’t touch you again, and he’s too embarrassed to ask you for permission. It would be impossible to handle the sharp sting of rejection. Again, that is.
It had been a few weeks since an incredibly awkward encounter that he wished he could erase from his memory. The only memory of you he’s ever wanted to erase, actually, when he’d drunkedly cried and pleaded for love — touch, passion, whatever you call it — in the middle of the night.
You’d noticed a row of not all-too-cheap liquor bottles (brandy, champagne, wine, vodka) hidden on a bookshelf when you first started exploring the house. He’d explained that they were for celebratory purposes — New Year’s, birthdays, holidays, things like that — but you’d reprimanded him, uncomfortable with the idea of spending your birthday trapped in this house.
Regardless, he’d gotten near black-out drunk that one night after you’d gone to bed.
He watched your sleeping figure. The house was hardly a house; it was a studio in a tall residential building facing a metropolitan city. You slept in the massive king-sized bed. He slept on the fold-out sofa.
But why, he wondered, swirling his glass of brandy in one hand and running his other through his hair, should he? Sleep on the sofa, I mean? Why couldn’t he sleep beside you like a normal couple?
Such were his thoughts as he drank glass after glass until even his breath smelled like brandy. Drowsy and drunk, hazy were his thoughts. With how much he drank he expected he would not remember the events of the night when he woke up hungover next morning, but he did in horrible, excruciating detail.
Just a taste, he reasoned with himself, letting himself hover over your form. Would one kiss really hurt? Perhaps somewhere hidden far, far behind his nervous, bubbly facade — the same way there was a line of alcohol bottles hidden amidst the books — was a sick, sick pervert.
And, well, yes, one kiss on your cute cheek didn’t hurt. You obliviously snored softly away. But who stops at one kiss on the cheek?
He couldn’t even taste you, which was the whole point of kissing you in the first place anyways, so the kisses escalated, from chaste, close-mouthed pecks where he inhaled the scent of your warm, perfumed skin, to sloppier ones, teeth trailing against your soft skin, tongue savoring the salty flesh flavor of the side of your neck, and so on, so forth.
What's that saying? A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism? If you hadn't woken up, stirred awake from the mattress dipping under his weight as he recklessly climbed on top of you, he probably would've eaten you.
“WHAT are you DOING?!”
You pushed him off with some struggle — he tried to keep going at first, hands wandering where they should not wander until it was as if he snapped back into reality.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized profusely. “I’m so, so, so, sorry. I had too much to drink, I wasn’t thinking straight,” blah, blah, blah. He was on his knees now. You clutched the blanket close to your panicked, heaving chest. He cried pathetically. “I love you so much. Is it wrong to desire you, to want you carnally? I just wanted to please you.”
Perhaps the Oxford English Dictionary should add a ninth definition:
(Modal verb). Please: your kidnapper's most-used word; a term of manipulation; a word he uses when he tries to force himself onto you, or when he wants you to do something for him; please, the thing a petulant child tells their parents when requesting a Christmas gift (ie, “Please buy me that doll.”).
1.7k words || yandere!kidnapper x gn!reader; tw: emotional abuse; kidnapping; crying; reading your diary
it’s another slow dinner. it’s the fourth time he's baked garlic bread this week, and it’s only thursday.
regret fills you as you chew your loaf slowly. shouldn’t have complimented his baking on monday. never thought you could get sick of garlic bread.
“i was reading through your diary,” he says.
your eyes shoot up, but he hasn’t looked up from his ravioli.
"you don’t write about me at all. i don’t know what i expected.” he pauses and waits, probably for you to say something. “i don’t know. i guess i thought you’d at least write about how much you hate me.”
"what?” your voice is so quiet that he doesn’t even hear you. he continues rambling.
"i just… i feel so sick. i don’t know what i was expecting, but i thought i was important enough for you to so much as mention once. is it… is it delusional of me to wish that you were going through some kind of moral dilemma? maybe you do hate me, for bringing you here, but all the while you find yourself… inexplicably, er, attracted to me. there isn’t so much as a sentence in your diary about how you find me handsome.”
he pauses to sip wine from his glass. he clears his throat uncomfortably.
“i… i put in so much effort for you, you see. i feel unappreciated. i don’t know.”
he says that a lot, “i don’t know;” it annoys you tremendously. you hadn’t been planning on crying, but sometimes some things annoy you so badly that you burst into tears. this is one of those moments.
you look down, moving your pasta around with your fork. if you thought you had no appetite before, you definitely don’t have one now.
"i… i workout for you, don’t i?” he continues, “you like men who read. i force myself to sit through book after book to impress you. i cut my hair the way you like it. i-i dress up all the time just to look presentable to you. i thought you’d acknowledge these things in your diary.”
he pauses between every sentence to take a deep breath in. you can't tell if he's so mad he can barely speak, or if he's also on the verge of crying. “it’s like you don’t— you don’t really care about me, not really.”
what is he even talking about anymore? why does he do this, the whole pretending-you’re-here-consensually shtick? he acts like you really are in a loving, committed relationship, and your refusal to act the part distresses him.
he’s always so distressed.
“i don’t care about you,” you burst out exasperatedly. you drop your fork. the sound makes a clamor. his eyes widen, and you can see the wheels turning in his head.
he feels torn; he wants to get up and pick up the fork — he dislikes when things are out of place; he’s an awful neat freak — but at the same time, he can see the tears glisten in your eyes.
how to comfort you?
he knows how he likes to be comforted, which is quite often; he likes when you wrap your arms around him and let him mumble and cry into your shoulders; he likes when you sigh and tell him everything will be okay; he likes when you let him kiss you on the cheeks.
you hate these things, of course, so he does not know what to do when you cry. you rarely cry. you hate showing emotions around him. on the one hand, he's pleased to see you a mess, but on the other...
he wrungs his hands and watches you.
and you hate being watched, gawked, stared at. “i’m sorry,” you gasp, finally becoming aware of the stream running down your face. “it's just... try to understand! you read my diary. that’s such a huge invasion of my privacy."
"privacy?” his tone makes it sound like he doesn’t know what that word means. “privacy? what could you possibly need privacy for?”
he makes his way around the table and kneels in front of you. in one swift motion he picks up the fork and places it back on the table. he takes your hands in his. “stop crying, please,” he pleads.
well, it’s not really pleading. he never does that. perhaps it’s a part of his manipulative nature; he only pleads when he wants to appear cute or attractive to you. he says it plainly, if a little forceful. “i hate it when you cry.”
"i'm sorry,” you apologize. you wish you didn’t keep apologizing, but once you start, it’s impossible to stop. “i’m sorry. i just can’t take it. you read my diary. that was the only freedom i had in this wretched place, and you took even that away from me. you’ve possessed me physically, isn’t that enough for you? when will you stop?”
"when will i stop?” he asks, bewildered. “what do you mean, ‘when will I stop?’ it’s not fair, can’t you see that? not even a guillotine could get you out of my mind, and you… you… you don’t think i’m important enough to mention in your diary?
"you spent pages describing the way the sunlight filters through the curtains — i ought to get rid of the curtains, oh yes! i bought them especially for you because you like lace, but — you care more about the curtains than you care about me! not a single sentence about your kidnapper!”
aha! there it is! you want to stand up and clap your hands! “my kidnapper!” you sob, mainly from the joy that you’ve caught him in this Freudian slip. “that’s all you are to me! why would I write about you at all when all you are to me is a prison guard?”
he purses his lips and clenches his fists. his jaw tightens. he looks quite scary when he’s angry, and usually you try to appease him, keep him from getting angry, but not today, no.
"i’m sorry for crying! really, i am! you deserve to be laughed at!”
oh… is this a psychotic break? have you finally lost your mind? your crying descends into laughter — his face is just so laughable, he’s still kneeling at your feet, you can tell that he feels ridiculous, pathetic, angry, angry little man, disgusting, disturbing, perverted man, a joke, a shame, a disgrace — ha, ha, ha. you pause for a moment and wonder if he’ll hurt you.
even if he does, what do you have to lose anymore?
Hii!! I stumbled upon a repost of your delicious fic about “boyfriend asmr yan loser X gooner listener” and the way I deadass folded in anguish because when I tried to press keep reading…it didn’t let me 😭😭 so I figured you deleted it but I just wanted to say what I DID read was SO FIRE 😛😛 I didn’t even think of that pair but now I have a mission so thank you! 💫
most guys who start posting boyfriend asmr videos on youtube don't do it for the love of the game. well-adjusted individuals who have a high-paying job and a fulfilling life don't wake up one day and decide to talk to a microphone and post it on youtube.
yandere!loser voice actor has none of those things. he was laid off at work, no friends, no hobbies, lives in a basement. what's that 4chan term? "NEET"? that's what he is, a NEET -- not in education, employment, training.
he's doomscrolling on twitter one day when he sees a thread where people are thirsting over clips of a voice actor. curious, he checks out their content, and falls into a rabbithole. apparently these "voice actors" make decent money from this ?!
and when he comes out of the rabbithole, well, he decides to try it out for himself.
---
listening to boyfriend asmr youtube videos every night before bed is basically a religious routine for you at this point. feels like you've listened to every single voice actor out there, until a brand new channel pops up.
0 subscribers. this is their first video.
huh.
you give it a listen, and it definitely has the clumsy qualities of a first-time video: he stammers constantly, his voice goes monotone at times... but it's definitely not the most awful thing ever! you leave an encouraging comment:
this was really fantastic! keep it up!
when he sees someone watched the video, he’s thrilled!!! woohoo!!! his first viewer!!! he excitedly responds to their comment with a simple “ty!!!”
he gets to work making his second video, and eagerly waits for them to respond. to his pleasure, they do :)
this kind of back and forth continues for a while. as two videos turns into forty videos, and 0 subscribers turns into 28k subscribers, he still looks for this one person’s comment. his first fan. and so encouraging too!!!
one day he’s doing field research (watching other people’s boyfriend asmrs to figure out ways in which he can improve) when he sees his loyal fan in the comment section of some other video.
the comment reads, “loved this, you have a pretty voice <3 loved the premise, nice job. ur my fave asmrtist!! hehe”
huh????? wasn’t HE your favorite voice actor?
he tries not to get too upset. maybe his audios just don't.. satisfy you?? he scratches his head and forces himself to listen to this audio that you loved so much.
it’s really dumb. stupid, really. the video is titled “asmr yandere stalker kidnaps you,” and, well, that should tell you everything you need to know.
he takes it upon himself to shift his scenarios to be more… yandere? damn, he didn’t know you were a freak. still, it’s not that hard. a lot of the “acting” is coming from the soul.
he uploads his own take on this trope you seem to like so much, and as always, you’re the first commentator:
“wow, fantastic audio! ate this up! this might be my favorite audio of yours ever!!! your voice gave me butterflies >_<"
he slouches in his chair, rereading the comment over and over. the basement is dark, as always; the only thing that hides his bright red ears.
he screenshots this comment and adds it to his folder with all the other comments you've left. this one might be his favorite, though; you've never been this praiseful before.
he keeps it up. it's not that much effort, anyways. he just yaps into a mic, makes kissing sounds with his hands, and you eat it up every time. he's half-convinced that if he locks in and makes better yandere-themed audios, you'll stop listening to all those other asmrtists and pick him.
but at the same time... how can you expect him to be satisfied with just words on a screen?
lucky for him, your youtube handle is the same as your twitter handle, and your instagram handle, and all of the sudden he's piecing together information about your life. of course, you don't have to worry; he's never gonna interact with you irl and prove a nuisance -- how can such a lovely person like you love a degenerate basement dweller like him? if u really knew what he was like, well, then.
sigh.
it's just nice for him to know the name of the person he dedicates all his audios to, isn't it?
one mistake is all it takes, though.
he accidentally drops your full government name in the middle of an audio ("...and you, i swear to god, are never getting away from me...").
you reply with "???" and he tries to play it off. (can you even blame him??? it was in the heat of the moment, damn.)
"sorry gang, my partner has the same name as you! hope it didnt freak u out too much ahaha"
by the looks of it, it did. you've stopped watching his videos, removed them from your playlists, and from the looks of it, distanced yourself from the asmr audio community as a whole.
it's a common trope for a shitty guy to be surprised that his wife wants to leave him ("she left me because I didn't do the dishes!" no, she left because you mistreat her...) but in the case of yandere!ex-husband, he truly has no idea why you want to leave him.
he'd rushed home like he always did every evening, clocking out not a second later than he had to stay at work, excited to see you. imagine his confusion when there's no sign of you in the house. imagine his confusion when there's a manila envelope lying on the kitchen counter, and within it are papers with the words PETITION FOR DIVORCE emboldened at the top.
he can't believe his eyes. this genuinely makes no sense. he slowly sits down on a chair, gripping the counter for dear life -- he thinks he might faint -- and goes through everything in the past few months that could've led up to this.
he's certain, absolutely positively sure, that he hasn't forgotten a single anniversary or birthday. shit, he celebrates your half-birthdays. work events? holidays? no way he's forgotten anything of importance, ever. on to the next point...
has he been... bad to you? rude, mean? belittling? has he left you unsatisfied in any way? nonsense.
his mind drifts to the possibility of you finding someone else. it's a fear that has always lingered in the back of his mind. his fingers curl into a fist and the knot in his chest gets even tighter. he didn't even know that was possible. he feels like he can't breath. you... wouldn't do that to him, right? wouldn't leave him for another guy?
no, no, no. he can't suspect that of you. surely he would've smelled cologne on you, or something. there's no signs you'd been cheating on him. you never stay out unreasonably late, shit, you never stay out late at all. maybe, he slowly realizes, that's why you want to leave him?
because he's too controlling? because he monopolizes all of your time and demands you spend every free moment with him instead of your friends?
what are the chances you found the box hidden in the attic? the collection of your things, the hair from your hairbrush, nearly empty perfume bottles?
whatever. he nervously bites his nails and simply stares at the divorce papers lying on the counter for a long, long moment. and then he finally notices the shiny little ring lying on the edge of the table.
?!?!?!
you've officially gone too far. divorce papers -- you're just being dramatic, silly you, he'll win you back somehow (or so he'd believed), but leaving your ring behind?
did that mean you were walking around in public without a ring? were you really looking to replace your husband?
[author's note] f!reader x ex boyfriend turned kidnapper, domestic abuse (tw physical abuse)
The slap was deafening.
He hadn’t meant to hurt you.
This was the one thing that he’d promised to himself, repeated in his head over and over as he prepared the basement and stalked followed you around the city before bringing you in. He had reminded you of this many times during the first few weeks of your abduction.
As if his words were supposed to comfort you. It was obvious they were for his own sake and peace of mind. It made him feel less like a horrible, horrible person; how could he be bad if he was doing all of this for your sake? Keeping you safe?
But it was evident now, as you crouched over in front of him, clutching your reddened face, that his motives were all wrong. What was that phrase? The road to hell is paved with good intentions? He couldn’t keep the one thing that he’d promised you. You didn’t need his protection; you needed to be protected from him.
For a long minute after his cursed hand struck your beautiful face, there was only silence. He stared at his hand in disbelief like it was a disjointed foreign entity and not an extension of himself. Tears were welling up in your eyes. You willed yourself to blink really fast and really hard.
“I didn’t mean to,” his voice came out like a ghostly whisper. He didn’t mean to do what? Didn’t mean to hit you? But how can you not mean something you promised you would never do? Was it an accident? Did he accidentally raise his hand and slap you across the face?
What if you hated him now? What if you went back to giving him silent treatment? Would he have to beg you to talk again? What if you began refusing to eat again?
The questions began to blur in his head and overwhelm him all over again – the clarity from slapping you was quickly beginning to disappear, becoming stained with his new panicked thoughts – and his voice came out frenzied as he tried to reassure you. “You were just-- you were making me freak out! You were saying all of these terrible things-- I’m not a stalker or a creep or evil or whatever you think I am. You’re wrong, can’t you see that? Can’t you see that this is– I am –,” he paused to swallow, breathing frenzied, “Good for you?”
You looked at him for the first time and you couldn't help but think about how pathetic he looked like this, hands hovering around you, wanting but too afraid to touch you; the way his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead; ironically, the fear and worry in his eyes. He swallowed again, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“Don’t look at me like that. C’mon. What can I do to make up for it? I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
He’d take one of two paths at this point, you were sure of it. He’d either burst into tears and fall to his knees and take your hands in his and kiss every fingertip and mumble a broken string of apologies in between each kiss.
Alternatively, he’d keep demanding you look at him kindly, lovingly, sweetly, and when you deny him, you’d be met with another slap across the face. You weren’t sure which one you dreaded more.
An even more cynical part of you expected a combination, the worst of both worlds: crying while punching and slapping. He had yet to say the phrases, “You made me do this,” or "This hurts me more than it hurts you," but there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?
He sat down on the cold floor in front of you. It seemed he would neither beg for your forgiveness nor continue to hit you.
“Aren’t you tired of living like this?” you asked him plainly. He let his head drop in shame.
“I am. But what can I do about it?”
“You can let me go!” you exclaimed a bit too readily. You began crawling towards him. You could see he was beginning to form thoughts in his head, ideas of disagreeing with you immediately.
If you said the right words, pulled the right strings, you might just be able to get yourself out of here. “We can live like normal. Like the good old days, again, do you remember that? I can pack you lunch in the morning, and you can cook dinner, and we can go on dates together–”
His face was neutral, but you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He was considering your idea! This might work! That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Domestic bliss? For things to go back to how it was before your break-up?
But then it seemed he was processing the break-up all over again. His face fell, and he slumped back onto his knees. “No,” he said in a small voice. “You’ll leave me again.”
“No, no!” you insisted, taking his face in your hands, but it was obvious he’d made up his mind. He evaded your gaze and, for the first time ever, tried to pull himself out of your grasp.
writer's note: possessive tsundere bf!reader, cw: heteronormative! the setting is 1930s/vintage! explains some of the dialogue choices!
“why would i follow vogue?” he asked with a laugh.
you were sitting at your vanity, an assortment of creams and tubes and perfume bottles of different colors and sizes lined up in front of you. you could make him out, propped up on your bed behind you, in the mirror’s reflection.
“is it odd that i follow vogue?”
“you? why would it be odd? i just don’t think i'm vogue's target audience.”
“you don’t think so?” you laughed. “still. as i was saying, vogue reports that a darker, cool-toned lip is in this winter.”
“what’s wrong with your current one?”
“it’s too bright! the season’s changing. i need a new lipstick.”
“i like your lips as they are.”
you turned around, careful not to knock your pin curlers out. “I bet you do,” you giggled.
he blushed and looked away.
“y'know, i wonder what you would look like with makeup.”
his eyes widened. “it is preposterous that you would even suggest that.”
“how is it preposterous? i’m not asking you to go out in public dressed in women’s clothes. i’d just like to see you… a little bit done-up. i wear makeup all the time for you, why can't you do the same for me?"
“you want to turn your man into a girl? a girlfriend? is that what you’d like?”
“you’re being ridiculous,” you said, standing up from the vanity stool. you sat down beside him on the bed, cautiously so that your nightgown wouldn’t ride up.
he opened his mouth to protest again, but he found himself unable to speak. how could he refuse you? perfumed, lovely you, with your exposed neck and low-cut dress? you, gesturing at him to sit up, while climbing onto his lap at the same time?
“if that’s what the missus wants,” he choked out at last.
“that is indeed what the missus wants. how shall I do this? apply the lipstick directly onto your lips, or…?” you palmed at his face, holding him lightly by the chin. you raised his face upwards and moved your grip lower onto his jaw before dabbing the lipstick onto his lips.
you were awfully close to him. was “awfully” the correct word? it was a deeply enjoyable experience. he let himself wrap an arm around your waist so you could sit down comfortably.
“oh, dear,” you mumbled. “i’ve put too much on. you look ridiculous.”
“take some off, then.”
“would you mind?” you asked, peering into his eyes.
he nodded, expecting you to grab a napkin or use the back of your hand to wipe the rouge off. instead, you leaned in even closer, lining up your lips with his. before he could react, your lips pressed against each other.
you pulled away to look at your masterpiece. “it looks good now. that’s a nice color on you. you should wear it more.”
“w-what?”
"in that same Vogue article I was talking about,” you continued, almost as if you didn’t realize how breathless he was, the way his chest rose and fell, his grip around your waist as he tried to keep his head from spinning, “they talk about matching your lips to your cheeks.”
you applied a fresh layer to your lips before pecking him on the cheeks. and thus the activity continued, a lip stain on the bridge of his nose, two on his forehead – you found that quite amusing – and one on the jaw. the last one felt incredibly intimate to him, but then again, so did everything.
“may I do the same to you?” he asked. “cover you in kisses, i mean?”
you shrugged and passed the lipstick tube to him. hesitatingly – the idea of wearing lipstick felt quite odd to him, still, but he was getting used to the idea – he darkened his lips. he dropped the lipstick on the bedcovers and pressed his lips against your neck.
this kiss lingered much longer than any of yours had. he scarcely paused to admire his work before leaning in for another one. and another. and another. a quick one on each of your shoulders.
“how can i forget the most important part?” he asked, raising his head. “may I kiss you?”
“have you not been doing that this whole time?”
“i meant on the lips.”
you nodded. before pulling in, he wondered if you were enjoying this as much as he was. he hoped you were.
little is more intimate than sharing a drunk cigarette.
there's something inherently cinematic -- cliche, even -- about a cute, drunk girl such as yourself begging a handsome, nonchalant stranger for a cigarette outside a bar at 2 am.
"it's the last one," he said, showing you the nearly empty box of marboro reds.
you pouted. how could he resist after that?
"we can share?"
you held the cigarette between your lips. his lighter came to life with a little sizzle, and he lit the cigarette tip for you. you inhaled deeply and immediately burst into a fit of coughs.
"silly girl," he muttered with a grin, using this distraction as a chance to take a puff. turning his head away from you, he exhaled. you took the cigarette from him again.
there's nothing cinematic about waking up with a headache the next day with little recollection of the previous day. why do your clothes smell like smoke?
