Had SO much fun drawing this dude! I made him a little wormy in terms of anatomy, sorry i just wanted to push the pose—his design calls for movement!!! XD
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
Declan, my bloodbag whumpee from my series 'Shattered'! 🩸⛓️
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Commissioned from the AMAZING AND BEYOND SUPER TALENTED @elgrajaz ! thank you so so much for drawing my boy!!! 🥹😭 It's beautiful, I can't stop looking at him!!! AAAAAA!
Been a while since I posted on here, but I got this random thought:
Whumpee trying to out-freak Intimate Whumper.
They pick up on all the obsessive, creepy, raunchy comments Whumper says, and decides to try creeping them out in return with their own eerily graphic words, in hopes Whumper will be scared, disgusted, lose interest, or even have a moment of realization of how creepy they are.
But they don't.
In fact, Whumper is ecstatic, and maybe a little too excited.
A little writing of this under the cut!
Whumpee knows its stupid, but they've tried everything: begging, fighting, ignoring... maybe this could make Whumper see how fucked up this situation is. How fucked up they are.
Or, at the very least, Whumper would feel scared or disgusted in them.
So they wait for the next opportunity.
And by god, does it happen quickly.
"You don't know what you do to me," Whumper purrs, pressing Whumpee against the kitchen counter. Their voice comes out in its usual low drawl. "Sometimes I wish we could actually become one. Maybe if I take a bite riiiight here..." They tap Whumpee's throat gently, but there's nothing gentle about their gaze.
Whumpee swallows hard, and nearly looks away, but forces themself to be brave, reciting the words they practiced so hard for.
"Funny you say that," they try meeting their velvety tone, "I had a dream last night, where I peeled you open like a fruit. I split you down the middle and crawled inside. I've been getting a lot of dreams like that lately. I'd like to feel your organs from the inside. We'd be so close to each other."
To emphasize, they do a motion similar to Whumper's, trailing their hand down Whumper's stomach.
For a moment, Whumpee is sure this is it. That the look on Whumper's face is a moment of clarity, or at least some kind of mixture between surprise and disgust.
It doesn't last long.
A grin stretches across Whumper's face, so wide it seems bordering on manic. "Really?" They seem elated. "Do you mean that, darling?"
It definitely was not the reaction Whumpee was going for.
"Tell me more," Whumper continues, before Whumpee can get another word in. Whumper looks almost drunken. "What else would you do to me?"
cw: yandere, mentions of noncon (not descriptive), vivid imagery
Yandere! Husband – To the world, he is this perfect man with no faults. A perfect smile framed by a strong jaw, the respectable weight of a steady job, the kind of man who opens doors and remembers anniversaries. Neighbors adore him. Friends admire him. Your family - what’s left of it - still insists you’re lucky.
But at the dinner table, perfection rots. The fork wavers in your hand as the silver pushes peas and potatoes across porcelain, circling but never spearing the slab of meat that bleeds across your plate. Its juices pool like something alive, dark and glistening. You stare until the smell makes your stomach turn, until bile rises like a tide in the back of your throat.
He notices, of course. The shift in the mood. His eyes are not the bright blue the world knows, but something colder when they land on you, a wolf sizing up its kill. They pin you in place, unblinking, devouring. A second ago you were laughing - too loud and happy, like a bee buzzing blind in summer - but the sound has long since curdled. You remember what you’ve tried so hard to forget: you did not marry the perfect man. You married the serpent who wound himself around your ribs and squeezed until you mistook suffocation for an embrace.
He still does. Every night. The sheets reek of iron and sweat, of meat claimed and carved and consumed. He treats you no differently than the steak cooling on your plate: something to be cut open, something to be used until the marrow runs dry. Whether awake or asleep.
The fire in his eyes flickers as you meet his stare, but the hunger never dims. It is endless, ravenous, and it gnaws at you as surely as his teeth might.
Yes, you made a mistake. But isn’t it easier, darling, to keep playing housewife? To let him crown you with pearls, seat you at his table, feed you lies, than to admit the truth - that hell is not some far-off place, but this dining room, this marriage, this man?
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
amandla
