notes/tags < SEASON ONE SPOILERS, descriptions of blood, a gun, and wounds, hinted obsession, possessiveness(?), not sure of anything else. this is my first spn fic, be kind lol. also, i included a reference to a Massive Attack song in this. see if you can find it :)
dark!dean winchester x f!reader
He followed a trail of crimson soaking into the snow.
Every breath Dean took floated out as a cloud, snaking up into the night sky as soon as it had left his lungs.
Underfoot, the snow was solidly packed. Soft, slow crunches came with each step from his heavy boots.
Methodical.
The beaming headlights of the Impala cut through the abyss awaiting him. Sam told him to leave you behind, and forget about you. What were the chances of you surviving in the bitter cold?
Dean hunted you regardless.
He was well aware your chances were slim to none, but the urge to find you flowed like a sickening current through his veins. The thought of you without him in these woods made his chest ache. You couldn't survive without Dean.
Or was it the other way around?
He knew what monsters lurk in the dark, waiting to pounce on easy prey. He couldn't risk you being taken from him. Dean had already spent countless nights under his belt spent imagining that thought - the only remedy being you, softly breathing as you slept soundly in his arms.
His angel, sent down to rescue his soul.
Dean had seen firsthand what losing Jessica had done to his brother. For months, Sam had lived on the verge of tears. The numbers on the bathroom scale had shot downhill - food and sleep had become arbitrary distractions in the hunt for the demon who had mercilessly taken his love's life. Jessica's passing had left a permanent mark on Sam's soul. Dean could never bear to see his little brother like that again, ever. Sam withered away in full view for months. A sharp pain at first had subsided to a dull aching one, but it will never leave him. Sam will live with that pain forever.
If traipsing through dense woods at ungodly hours of the night meant Dean wouldn't live that life, would see you safe in his protection, so be it.
The potential of seeing a glimpse of your face sent prickles across his skin. The thought of you clutching a shaking hand to your wounds, pushing your teeth together to stop the chatter from giving you away...
What would he see in your eyes when he found you?
Fear? Anger?
Pity?
These were polar opposites of what he really wanted to see. What Dean wanted to see was joy, surprise, pleasure. Four rotating hips under the light of a fireplace flashes across his eyes, a blinding fantasy. He wanted needed to make you feel how he does when he's around you.
The picture was blurry, but sent a shiver down his spine nonetheless. He trod through the snow as quietly as he could, craning his neck in every direction to listen for your breathing.
A sharp snap in the distance made him twist his body to the darkness.
The gun is cradled in his hands. Dean wished it was your face. Your soft skin, a comforting warmth beneath his icy fingers.
The sound so quick to catch his attention had been nothing more than a twig, broken in tread by a passing deer. The headlights beams reflect against the deers eyes, making them glow white. It stays in its tracks, watching.
Waiting.
Dean stops too.
The deer's head twitched east. It ran into the night, snapping branches and crushing leaves as it went.
“You can't stay here all night," He called out. "You know that, sweetheart."
No response from the woods. The cold had begun to bite through his clothes, seeping into his flesh. He ignored it, vowing to look all night if that was what it took.
There was no wind, no earthly whispers amongst the woods. The deer had come and gone.
Dean's grip on the gun had become impossibly tight the longer he hadn't set eyes on you. His hands were going numb, from the strained position and the cold.
He stopped, and cocked his gun.
The unmistakeable sound of metal clinking on metal rang out into the dark. Dean scanned the shadows for any movement, animal or human. His stomach had been knotted since this chase had started between the pair of you, and showed no signs of letting up.
A few seconds passed. The only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears.
Then, a cry emanated behind him. He whipped around, gun poised and aimed directly at your heart.
In the split second it took for him to turn, Dean had another wave of nausea hit his stomach. What if it wasn't you? How fast would he pull the trigger? Every bone in his body ached for the sound to be yours, to come from your body. All his suffering - and yours - would soon be over.
“Dean?" You whispered hoarsely.
His shoulders dropped at the sweet sound of a single syllable levering your lips. His lungs ached in agony as he breathed out. He had been holding a breath in he didn't know he was holding.
You wielded a thick, broken tree branch in one hand, while the other was a dark crimson colour, and clasped around your side. The coat you wore was almost black; your blood had flowed into the fibres and turned the once white wool into varying shades of red. The branch made a dull thud on the snow as you let it drop.
The stinging stench of blood was unmistakeable. It hit Dean like a truck - a wall of metal, unrelenting in its overwhelming potency.
He lowered his gun, pupils blown wide. He took a stumbling step towards you as his heart threatened to fall out of his chest. As soon as Dean had his arms around you, your body fell against him.
“What the fuck were you thinking?" He shouted, gripping your shoulders tightly. He placed his hand over yours, shuddering as it came away slick and hot with your blood. "You would've died out there."
What was there to say? He was right, you were desperately wrong.
The cold had firmly settled in your bones while you had tried to bide your time behind cover. It had made it hard to think about anything else. Still, you had heard Dean’s slow, careful footsteps, and knew you had to give up the game.
Looking you over, Dean saw how blue your lips had gotten, how your body shook as you shivered. You weren’t steady on your feet on your own.
Dean knew he needed to get you some place warm, fast.
Leaning entirely on him, the walk to the Impala had been a quick shuffle, and its leather interior welcomed you in. The car smelt of his musk - dirt, gunmetal, and sandalwood.
Dean slammed the door, and rushed to the driver's side. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.
Your eyelids began to droop closed - the exhaustion of running and hiding for so long had caught up to you. The sound of Dean's racing breathing had begun to fade, and black spots began to cloud the edges of your vision.
How much blood had you lost?
“Hey! I need you to stay awake!" He shouted, shoving you roughly.
Dean glanced at your ever-darkening coat. Your hands were coated in blood; desperate to cram everything back in.
“Fuck!" He shouted, slamming his hands against the steering wheel.
Dean looked over at you again, seeing you slip into unconsciousness deeper by the minute. A sharp exhale came out of him. In a brief moment of clarity, Dean reached for something you couldn’t make out in his pocket.
The casual turnover of the car climbed to a shuddering thunder as his foot slammed onto the accelerator.
The last thing you remembered were the twinkly tones of buttons being pushed on a phone.
A few recent scene redraws from the 2005 Pride and Prejudice film! One of my favorite movies ever.
Prints available in my shop!
I’ve been on a big Jane Austen kick this year and currently reading my way through all the books! So far I’ve read Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, and I’m almost finished with Northanger Abbey!
Thinking about a bruiser boyfriend who loves it when you kiss his bloody knuckles after he’s finished beating someone to a pulp—who loves to grope the fat of your ass and thighs, sink his fingers into the plush, knead you like dough while sinking into the comfort of your lap face-first—getting all woozy with groggy moaning when you run your hand through his hair.
A rough boyfriend who kisses you oh-so-terribly softly—but who, no matter how gentle he tries to be, can never truly mask just how brutishly strong he actually is. You can always feel the burden hiding in the pressure of his fingertips lingering on your skin, doing everything in his power to hold back the full weight of his true power.
A big brawny boyfriend who gets fed up with you sometimes—who, instead of yelling and cursing, instead just picks you up over his shoulder like a sack of flour and pays no mind to any of your protests except for a light slap on your ass, holding you there while you bang away at his back with balled fists, telling you he’ll let you down once you’re down acting like a brat—but who, at the same time, whenever makes you cry, gets down on both knees and puts his forehead to the floor, crawling forward until he’s right by your feet, kissing your ankles until you forgive him.
A trigger-happy, prone-to-jealousy boyfriend who squares up at any given chance when he thinks someone’s flirting with you, who barks just as hard as he bites and will happily sleep in a jailcell any night if it means he got to knock someone's teeth out for talking to you.
A massive boyfriend who loves drowning you in his clothes, who wants you to wear them always—who just shakes his head when you tell him it’s not flattering to your figure and tells you that nothing in the world suits you better.
A ride-or-die boyfriend who tattoos your name on his bicep and talks you into getting his name on your ass.
A no-filter boyfriend who tells you that he’d straight up murder you and bury you in his backyard if you ever dared leave him, who doesn’t give two shits whether it’s cliché or not—if he can’t have you, no one can.
tw ( yandere , stockholm syndrome kind of ? , reader has already been kidnapped )
lol i havent posted since january i think ... long overdue
you thought that if you stayed in there long enough, he’d go away. unfortunately, you were wrong.
“…you locked the door,” he said eventually, as he slid down to sit against the door, “that’s okay. i’d be scared too,” he added, softer.
don’t speak, you reminded yourself.
“it’s quiet in there, yeah?” his tone stayed even, careful, like anything sharper might send you further away. “i bet it feels safer in there for you, doesn't it?”
a small pause.
“gets lonely, though,” he murmured. “you know it does.”
his hand pressed lightly against the door.
“did i do something wrong?”
fuck.
he sounded so sincere.
that was the problem.
he would always make you feel guilty, his stupid words, the way he would just say them so gently, as if his words were full of concern rather than control-
“i just…” he exhaled quietly. “i’ll give you space, okay? i mean it. just… open the door for me.”
“please.”
your fingers trembled as you turned the knob.
he moved back the second he heard it, shifting away from the doorway without hesitation… just like he promised to give you room.
his eyes found yours immediately, softening in a way that made your chest twist.
“that’s better,” he murmured.
your grip stayed tight on the door.
ready to close it again. he noticed, but knew to not comment.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who keeps all his relationships casual.
You should be his dream, really, you two go at it for hours with no strings attached. Except everytime you hop up from his bed before he’s even gotten the chance to lay down next to you with his cum still in your cunt an ugly feeling settles in his chest.
When you moan another man’s name during sex and you think it’s funny laughing out an apology, but all he sees is red. Thinking of another man when he’s got his cock buried to the hilt in his your cunt.
When you ask him if the two of you can start using condoms because you’re sleeping with other men and he swears he draws blood from how harshly he digs his fingers into his palm.
When you see him at the bar with his arm around another girl and you just smile and give him a thumbs up like you’re happy he’s taking another girl home, but he almost knocks the guy out he sees you with.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who can’t seem to keep this relationship casual when you do it so well.
WOWWWW ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL THIS IS EXACTLY HOW I IMAGINE HIS EYES!!!😱😱😱💖💖 AND ALSO THE FACT HE HAS LONG LASHES IS SO SO HOT OMGGGG MY HEART IS GONNA EXPLODE😱😱😱💕💕💕💕
"I've seen another guy like you a couple weeks ago, a biker with red helmet"
"... mine is black"
"I hope you're not here to bother her too?"
.....
Neighbour grandpa, are you an angel or some sort? did it hurt when you fell from the sky?
Well, it definitely hurt for me when your words fell into my eyes, coz I'm tearing up QAQ
biker!simon who saw you working in the convenience store near his go-to gasoline station, smiling and greeting prettily behind the counter, his eyes fixed on your plump lips that were quirked upwards, soft rosy cheeks, and your delicate hands working to scan his items.
biker!simon who instantly knew he has to have you the moment his eyes landed on your angel-like face, gaze burning right through you, as if it would be enough to mark you, leave his claim on you like some kind of animal.
biker!simon who added it into his daily routine to visit you in your store, buying more and more things so he'd have longer time to hear your sweet voice. he comes everyday without fail to the point you get used to it, soon enough you recognize him by the sound of his bike alone. that's exactly what he wants.
biker!simon who now offers you rides back home and says he can also drop you off work anytime, maybe even invite you to stroll around town during your day off. and when you do agree to it all, he can't get enough of how you look when you're on his bike.
biker!simon who makes it obvious that he wants you to be his and his alone. his gloved hand grazing your soft thigh when you're stuck in traffic, massaging it enough to draw a small, breathless noise out of your lips. he tightens his grip when the sound reaches his ear, a teasing chuckle escaping his lips.
biker!simon who just couldn't help it anymore. he parks in a dark alley and has you bent over his bike, holding on for dear life as your legs quiver, his sharp and punishing thrust abusing your swollen cunt. he's mesmerized at how stunning you look under him. he might take a pic or two. maybe even a video.
You feel perfectly safe getting drunk and letting loose, especially with your favourite bouncer to keep an eye on you. Well, up until the night you realise that every party has a price.
Tags: Simon "Ghost" Riley inspired, implied somno, 3.1k words
Y'know who you shouldn't trust as much as you do? Bouncers. Sure, most of them are great. Just trying to do their jobs, keeping people safe when the booze starts hitting too hard.
But not in your case. No, when it comes to you - the bubbly party girl who smiles at just about everyone - the yandere bouncer at your favourite club doesn't have such noble intentions.
He's a big guy. All the security guys are, but he's big even by those standards. Standard issue black t-shirt straining at the seams when he crosses his arms. Mean mug, always scowling at any drunk stupid enough to breathe the same air as him.
Girls and guys alike think he's hot, but no amount of liquid courage can stand up to his glare. Anyone who tries to flirt with him usually thinks better of it when they're less than two sentences in. He's not here to hook up in the bathroom or be a rebound situationship. He's here to work.
The first time he runs into you, he barely notices anything beyond your skirt. Short as hell, even by clubbing standards.
What, do you want every bastard in there to get an eyeful of your thong, sweetheart?
He doesn't say it out loud. Just scoffs and hands you back your ID. Doesn't bother to reply when you wish him a good night.
The second time he runs into you, you're a little tipsy already. Smiling up at him like you don't see the pierced eyebrow or the scowl. He's tempted to not let you in - club has a strict no pre-drinking policy - but then you bat your lashes at him and joke that pre-gaming is the only way anyone can have any fun at all in this economy.
He snorts and let's you pass. He doesn't fully recognise you - too many faces, too little light - but some subconscious part of him takes note of your perfume. Something bright and fruity that makes him think of summer punch and getting drunk on the beach.
You try and greet him before you leave, half hanging off your more sober friend. You yell something over your shoulder about having a good time and smiling more. He isn't sure what you're on about, but it's kind of cute the way you mumble a little when you're drunk.
He doesn't expect to see you again, nor does he expect to recognise you if he does. There's half a dozen clubs in this rotten city, and half a million pretty girls with too short skirts.
But he does.
Notices you standing in line because the people around you are cracking up, total strangers laughing at some lame joke you made. He let's his partner do most of the ID checks that night. Not really realising it, but wanting a chance to watch you.
Your jokes aren't that funny. You touch people too much. You've got a laugh that's a bit too loud. But people like you.
Total strangers chatting it up and smiling like they've met a celebrity.
He rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles. A few people in the front of the line flinch away from him. He doesn't bother reassuring them.
What is it about you? What makes you so magnetic?
When you're finally at the front of the line, you give his partner a megawatt grin and call her by her name. Ask how her shoulders holding up after that brawl last week.
You smile at him too, your fingers brushing his wrist when you take your ID back.
"Hey, Mr tall, dark and scary. How's the biz treating you?"
"The same as it was last week. Same as it's going to be next week," he grinds out.
You pat his arm - are you seriously touching him? You barley know him - and flash him that same beaming smile.
"Don't be so pessimistic, handsome. I see lots of booze and parties in your future."
He scoffs. "Yeah. I reckon just about anyone could figure that."
You aren't offended. You just wink at him and disappear, your new friends in tow.
When he finally goes on break, he asks his partner about you.
"Oh, she's sweet, isn't she? Don't think she's been coming here long though."
"Three weeks," he mutters. "She knows your name?"
His partner laughs and tosses her cigarette onto the pavement. "Guess so. Nice of her to ask, don't you think?"
He isn't sure what to think, honestly.
He doesn't see you for two weeks after that. And when you're finally back, he can't help asking you about it.
"Oh, I had work," you say with a shrug. "I'm very flattered that you noticed."
"Hard not to. There wasn't any commotion, so I figured you weren't around."
You giggle and slap his arm, as cheesy as a cheerleader in a slasher movie. Still, it's kind of nice. Girls don't really act that way around him. It's either shy or terrified. Bubbly and a little over the top is a nice change.
He watches you walk away, your skirt just as short as the first time he noticed you.
Damn, doll. You make it hard for a man to focus. Got my mind in the bloody gutter.
It's late when you finally stumble out of the club, your heels in one hand and your phone in the other. You're trying to order an Uber but your cracked and unresponsive screen doesn't mix well with your booze addled senses. He gives it five minutes before he intervenes.
He plucks the phone out of your hand and sighs when you sag against him, half murmured thank yous slurring against his sleeve.
Out past your bedtime, eh love?
"Where do you stay?"
You tell him, your eyes half closed and your forehead resting against his arm.
Telling a stranger your address? C'mon doll, you should know better than that.
He waits with you until your ride arrives, and then he walks you to the car. He takes note of the number plate, only half aware that he's doing it.
He leans on the roof, barring his teeth at the driver in something only half related to a smile.
"Drop her off safe, yeah?"
"Yeah, for sure," the man agrees, nodding like a bobble head. "Wouldn't think of messing with her."
I'll break your wrists if you even look at her wrong.
"Right. Have a good one."
He raps his knuckles on the roof and watches until the tail lights fade.
There's an itch at the back of his brain that he just can't get rid of. Some annoying, rebellious part of him that keeps thinking about how warm you felt when you leaned up against him. How you're just short enough that he can rest his chin on your head.
The itch doesn't go away.
He keeps thinking about you until the weekend rolls around. What the hell do you do for work? It's hard to picture you in corporate - not when he's seen how low your necklines go. Pitching up to meetings and HR presentations when just a few nights ago you were drinking shots off a stranger's back? Not fucking likely.
...Although you would look pretty great in one of those tight little pencil skirts. Yeah, you pert ass would probably have your coworkers breaking their necks.
He doesn't see you in line until it's almost midnight. You look a little out of it. Constantly checking your phone, a half frown puckering your perfectly gelled brows.
He wants to pull you out of line. He really does. Not to give you any fancy VIP treatment - he wouldn't mind it though, he'd like to spoil you a little - but to just talk.
He shakes his head like a bull until the urge isn't quite so loud. Unprofessional, that. Showing favouritism. Not fair to the other people waiting in line. Still...
When he does finally get to talk to you, you aren't yourself. You cover it up with a smile, but even he can tell it's a poor veneer.
"I'm meeting up with my ex," you tell him when he finally gets around to asking. (It takes awhile. Has your ID always been this interesting? Shiny patterns. Nice typeface they're using now. And your birthday is exactly six months after his. Cute).
He doesn't know what to say to that. Isn't sure how he feels about it, either. Why the hell are you meeting some douche who you were one hundred percent right to dump? (He assumes it was you who did the dumping. No man in his right mind would let you go, not even if you're the type to swing a knife around on bad days).
"Good luck," he manages at last. "Hope he isn't an ass."
You squeeze his arm when you leave and he feels the ghost of your fingers for the rest of the night.
Your ex is an ass. All that and more. He can tell from the too heavy cologne, the pretentious boat shoes, the obnoxious laugh.
You're on his arm, smiling but not entirely comfortable. What are you thinking? Entertaining this overly polished turd of a man?
He stops you before you leave. Leans down and brushes his lips against your hair.
"You sure you're okay to go home with this guy?"
You give him a quick nod and a grateful smile.
He straightens, angry but not entirely sure why. He watches you walk away, his right hand clenching and unclenching around his radio until the veins stand out on his forearm.
You could do better than that, doll. You could be doing me.
He ends up finding your ex's name. Entirely on accident, swear. Finger slipped and before he knew it he was watching the CCTV footage of the front door, pausing when the guy's ID got flashed to the camera.
And now that he has that info, it's only logical that he checks him out on social media. You're a valued customer. He needs to be sure that the people you're associating with are safe.
Oh, and this guy isn't safe at all. Party animal, pussy hound. Sure, there's a pic or two of you together, but most of his profile is dedicated to shots of raves and cocktails and pretty girls.
You deserve better, don't you know that? Someone who can keep you safe when you're drunk, who can keep an eye on you when the clubs you like are filled with dark corners and shady drinks.
He's going to ask you out. It's only half decided - most of his brain pulling him one way and most of his cock pulling him the other. His heart split somewhere in the middle.
He's gonna be good for you, he knows it. Get rid of that overblown and overrated ex. Teach you which drinks are hopelessly overpriced and which ones are worth the cash. Not going to change you, no. That's what insecure men try and do when their girl likes to let loose on the weekends. No, he likes you just as you are. You need a bit of muscle to lean on, that's all.
But when the weekend rolls around, all his plans go swirling down the gutter. You're on your ex's arm again. Smiling too quick, laughing too sharp. But with him all the same.
C'mon doll, thought you were smarter than that.
You don't get a chance to chat. Your ex drags you straight into the club, barely waiting to get his ID back.
He wants to trade shifts. Abandon door duty and follow you around inside.
He doesn't. He snaps at the patrons and he bites his tongue bleeding and he clenches his fist until his nails dig into his skin, and he manages to not follow you.
The best decision to make, after all.
Your ex waits until the night is almost over to finally make his move. Or at least that's how it looks.
When he walks out of the club with his arm around your waist, it's clear that you're totally out of it. Barely standing on your own two feet, hair hanging forward and hiding your face.
He stops you. Of course he does. He's seen you tipsy and he's seen you blackout, but he's never seen you this bad.
Your ex tries to brush it off.
"She didn't have any head for the shots, that's all."
He doesn't buy it. Tilts your chin up and shines his torch in your eyes.
There it is. The fucking bastard.
Your pupils are blown out wide, not contracting at all even with his torch burning right into your retinas.
He knows you. Better than he'd like to admit. And he knows you don't party this hard.
He straightens and looks down at your ex with thinly veiled disgust.
"She's not going home with you."
The man laughs. "She's my girlfriend. 'Course she is."
He smiles. Or shows his teeth at least.
"She's. Not. Going. Anywhere."
The man freezes for a second, and then his smile turns nasty. "Who the fuck are you to decide who goes home with who?"
He wants to punch your ex in the throat.
He doesn't. Just looks at him, fingers curling into a fist almost as big as your head. Your ex is drunk, he's not as sharp as he would be sober. But his instincts aren't so dull that they don't recognise what's in front of him.
He's a bouncer, true. But more than that, he's a fighter.
Your ex can see it in the way he stands, can see it in the eyes that move too quick to follow.
And he's not just a fighter. He's a man with a whole lot to fight for.
Your ex licks his lips, too stupid to shut up.
"I'll call the cops on you, asshole."
The bouncer laughs. The first time anyone around here has ever heard it.
It's not a pleasant sound.
"Go ahead," he snarls softly, "Call them. And when they show up, why don't you also tell 'em the reason why your girlfriend is all shot up with special K, hmm?"
"She isn't -
"Don't even try it."
He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you away from your ex. The bastard at least has the sense to not fight him.
Your boyfriend starts going on about calling the club owner, getting him fired. But he doesn't bother listening - it all fades to nothing when he holds you.
There, the way it's 'sposed to be.
You're warm, burning up with a fever. (How hot does your cunt feel if your hands are already scorching?) He needs to get you checked out. Needs to make sure whatever shit your ex snuck you isn't mixing with the alc.
You blink up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. (Your lipstick would look so fucking good staining his cock).
"Mr tall, dark and scary. Gonna get me home again?"
He nudges you in the direction of the parking lot and you stumble, hands knotting in his shirt.
"Even better, doll. Gonna take you home myself."
You close your eyes the second he straps you into his passenger seat. It takes a minute or two to shake you awake.
He isn't an EMT, but working clubs means knowing all the signs of an overdose. You're on the verge of passing out, but you're not in any real danger. Breathing regular, heartbeat fast but not concerningly so. Lucky. Things could have gone a whole lot worse. As it stands, all you're going to suffer tomorrow is a bit of nausea and one killer headache.
He brushes the hair out of your eyes and smiles when you lean your face into his palm.
"You're totally out of it, aren't you? Won't remember a thing come morning."
You hum quietly, lips brushing his pulse.
"The hell am I 'sposed to do with you? You don't even have your keys on you."
He sighs and closes the passenger door. No help for it - he's going to have to take you to his place. (You, in his bed, where you belong).
You don't complain when the engine guns to life. A little beyond the realm of registering those sorts of things.
And you don't complain when he carries you up to his apartment, your head in the crook of his neck.
He doesn't mean to undress you. He's a lot of things, but not a degenerate. It's just when he finally lays you down on his sheets, it's clear that the straps on your dress are cutting into your. Gonna leave marks that burn in the morning.
Getting you out of your dress is the responsible thing to do. And if it has his cock twitching, well, that's just coincidental.
You're in matching lace underwear.
He fists the blanket until he stops thinking of beating your asshole ex into a dirt.
She was gonna give it to you anyway, you bastard. You didn't have to drug her.
He breathes out through his nose. Once. Twice. Calm down, focus on the here and now. Deal with that bastard later.
There. Much better. And look at you, burrowing down into his pillows. Do you like the smell of him, is that what this is?
He undoes your bra and tosses it over his shoulder to join your dress and heels.
Didn't he once hear that it's unhealthy to sleep with a bra on? Increases the risk of cancer or something. Yeah, that's why he took it off. For the sake of your health.
He watches you for a while. The steady rise and fall of your chest, the flickering behind your eyelids as you start to dream.
He should take a picture or two. It would be a shame not to. And what you don't know can't hurt you, right? All pretty in his bed. God knows the girls he brings home never get the chance to sleep. This is a rare thing, worth documenting.
The flash doesn't bother you. Maybe a few more. Just to make sure they're good quality. Don't want to look back tomorrow and realise the pics are all blurry.
Just a few more. Maybe a video.
You look good, but you'd look even better without your panties in the way. They ruin the view.
He hooks his thumb under the band and slips them off, his fingers almost brushing your cunt.
There. So much better.
He swallows and puts his phone down, some part of him screaming at him for being a bastard. Another part screaming at him for not being a big enough bastard to take what he wants.
"You're too sweet to end up in a stranger's bed, doll. Getting fucked when you're too out of it to remember."
The streetlight outside his window washes you in alternating stripes of dark and light. He leans down and runs a hand up your thigh. Soft skin, like a peach right before you sink your teeth in.
The wonderful wizard Ozz. I have had this concept stuck in my head like a worm!
Could you imagine a Darling escaping from their Yan, not to run but just to feel the rain on their skin? I've been consuming this prompt like a heroin addict and I can't seem to get enough!
Yandere! Male x Willing! Reader
If I were to expand your prompt, I quite like the idea of a Yandere that can't really go full yandere because Reader is just too willing. He loves yandere content and can very much relate, but none of the escalations can happen if, well, the object of his obsessive affection doesn't protest in the first place. Is it too far fetched from what you'd imagined? Let me elaborate
content: gender neutral reader, parody, When you want to be a Yandere, but your Darling unfortunately cooperates
The Yandere has been stalking Darling for months. Journal entries, walls plastered with photos (and the occasional creepshots), recordings. He just can't get enough of his Darling. He loves everything about you and can barely function throughout the day, fantasizing about your life together.
Enough is enough and he finally decides to make you his. He's been consuming media of similar tropes, with obsessed men pleading for a chance and having to force their way in because of rejection and fear. He's prepared for everything. Your tears, your trembling voice, your hands pushing him away. He finds you, approaches you and confesses his feelings, knuckles white as he grips his fists in anticipation. Your eyes widen for a moment, before narrowing in a smile. "I had no idea! Sure, I'll go out with you." Huh? Wait. This wasn't...this wasn't in the plan. Somehow he'd been certain you'd refuse. He must've mumbled the last part out loud, because you respond with "Why would I say no?"
A very good point indeed. You will change your mind, however, once you learn the extent of his love. You're holding his hand and following along as he takes you to his place, completely and utterly unaware of what you're about to witness. He can't truly be your boyfriend if he has to hide his very nature, after all. You might be disgusted, frightened, offended. He can already hear your screams, demanding explanations. It's all out of love. "It's okay if you don't understand", he mumbles to himself, watching your frozen body as you gaze into his room. You take a couple of steps towards the nearest wall, tracing the hundreds of images with your fingers. "Wow. You never mentioned being into photography", you remark, impressed. "It's like an exhibition! But...you might have to work on your angles", you blurt out, a little embarrassed, pointing to one of the creepshots. "This isn't very flattering. Did you take it in a hurry? It makes my legs look disproportionate." He can only stare, taken aback. "S-sorry" is all he manages.
Okay, but don't imagine your life will continue as usual. You've only seen a glimpse of his adoration. Now that you're officially dating, he cannot allow anyone else to have access to you. You have to understand, he cannot protect you properly if you're not under his watch all the time. As much as he cherishes you, he will have to be rough if needed. That's what he tells himself as he shoves the required tools in the trunk of his car, speeding towards your apartment. Once there, he fidgets on the sofa, considering his speech. You seem to be just as uneasy - perhaps you're predicting what's to come? - casting your eyes down and giving short answers. "I think you should move in with me." He states solemnly. You gasp and throw a hand over your mouth, and tears quickly well in the corner of your eyes. "How did you...how did you know?" You say between sobs. Huh? "I didn't want to burden you with my problems, seeing as we just started dating...but my landlord won't renew the lease. I was so scared I'd be homeless."
He clicks his tongue. This isn't very yandere, more like the average couple experience. You bring the final moving box to his car, fitting it in the trunk. "By the way, what's with all the rope?" you ask. "Just move it aside", he sighs. How can he explain it? He's been training, sweating and bleeding for a marathon and right before the whistle, they handed him the first prize. His muscles are aching for the sprint that never happened. Of course he's grateful to have you at last, but somehow he feels like he hasn't proven his dedication properly. You just don't get it, do you? How sickening his love is for you.
As the days pass, he eases into his role of...how does one even call it? Pseudo-captor? When you found his journal, you blushed and confessed how no one before him put this amount of effort into knowing you. All the male contacts from your phone vanishing? It was about time you cleaned up your acquaintances and it was nice of him to help. The AirTags he's hidden in your bags and pockets? You appreciate his safety concerns. Nowadays, with all these perverts freely walking the streets, you can never be too sure.
One morning he wakes up to an empty bed. He jolts up, dazed. Could it be his wish was finally granted? You must've gotten tired of him and tried to escape. Oh, silly little Darling love. You should've known there's no more walking out once you said yes. He checks his phone and pounces out, ready for the hunt. As he sprints along the street, he finds you suspiciously close to his home. Not very smart of you to...what are you even doing? Your hands are raised up, fingers fanned out under the pouring rain. You notice his presence and turn to face him with a wide, childish grin. "I haven't done this since I was a child. When was the last time you felt the rain on your skin?" Only now it occurs to him he's been running in this downpour and his clothes are soaked. He was too focused on finding you.
"I thought you escaped", he almost whispers. "Escape? From what?" You tilt your head in confusion. He places his cold, large hands over your cheeks. "Do you comprehend I'm very much obsessed with you? I'm not joking around. You're never, ever leaving me. You're stuck here forever. I mean it. I really do. I'd rather kill you with my own hands than let you go. Because I love you." You take a moment to admire the intricate patterns of his irises, pupils dilated in a spiraling madness. By the end of his erratic oration, he's panting and digging his nails into your skin.
Hiiiii would you ever do a König where your kidnapped? And all the with all the watching and preparing (like learning schedules) to take you and you not knowing? And it’s from meeting at like maybe the gym? And now you’re in his apartment and him like don’t freak out. You definitely are freaking out.
Also love your writing :)
Hi!! Thank you for reading my stories and requesting! I'm slowly dipping my feet back into writing, so it's not a big story, but here you go! Hope you enjoy it ♥
Warning for reader being sick and throwing up in the first half of the story!
Stress had a way of showing up when you least needed it.
Hanging off the toilet, you still felt the cramp-like spasms in your belly that made you rush to the bathroom in the first place. You rarely had such harsh reactions to stressful situations. Still, three days of being kidnapped and locked up with an unfamiliar man was enough to break your body.
Clutching your hand over your mouth, you hoped to stop the bile you felt rising into your throat again, the sickening feeling having torn you from the nightmares that didn't seem to end even when you woke up. There were no other signs of you having caught a cold, and aside from the struggle you had with your kidnapper after awakening in his apartment, he hadn't touched you in a way that could have caused any injury.
But now, your body was rejecting whatever he had fed you that day, making you feel lightheaded as you clung to the toilet of your temporary "home". Part of you had expected that something would happen eventually. Still, with all you had to worry about, you really wished for something less gross.
Four way-too-fast knocks on the door tore you out of your thoughts, temporarily stopping the circle of overthinking as you wondered if you had been poisoned. "Are you alright?" your captor asked, his voice raspy after having just woken up, but you didn't miss the hint of panic in it.
Raising your head, you glared at the slammed shut bathroom door, as if it were at fault for the situation, while you thought about what to do. You didn't want any more attention from him than you already had. If anything, you wanted to sit in silence with your already raging headache and grumbling tummy, rather than have him fuss over you.
König was a strange kind of man, unlike any you had ever met. Absurdly large and strong, but meek in the face of your outbursts and flying fists. Kidnapping you without a moment of hesitation, but letting himself be hit rather than hurt you. In fact, you were sure he could break your wrist with just a snap of his hand, but he'd sooner leave you be for a while than do whatever crazy ideas he must have in mind with you, now that you were at his mercy.
You had heard him on his phone—serious, harsh, direct. The kind of person who could kidnap someone. But when he was around you, he stole glances like a shy school boy, made your favorite food, and looked like a beaten puppy when you said it tasted awful. It made you believe you could actually harm him and escape, when in reality, all it needed for him was to lose his patience. You didn't stand a chance of even running.
Not only did you have to live with the fear of him one day just deciding enough is enough and doing whatever he wanted with you, but you had to balance everything you did around him to not end up a target. Even when you were feeling sick and tired, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, you still had to consider his feelings and the actions he could take depending on yours. It was exhausting, and your choices were limited.
Even though you wanted your peace, his anxious side wanted the reassurance that you were well. You weren't, of course, your stomach wouldn't stop cramping, and the feeling of throwing up any second now didn't disappear. Even if you tried to tell him everything was fine, he'd undoubtedly know you lied the next time you had to gag. But if you sat still, you were pretty sure he'd kick in the door without hesitation to get to you. The thought of having to argue with him and let him fuss over you made your nausea even worse.
"Yeah…" you replied meekly, hoping he heard it and would be satisfied with this answer.
Much to your chagrin, he wasn't.
You watched as the door handle was pushed down—once, twice. Then another lock. "Please unlock the door, [Name]. Let me check on you."
"One second," you sighed, rubbing your stomach in hopes of magically calming it in the few moments you had left. Stretching with a grunt, you flushed the toilet before heaving yourself up and stumbling over to the sink. You didn't have time to brush your teeth properly. Even so, you squirted some toothpaste onto your finger, rubbing it against your tongue and teeth, then washed it out with water, hoping it would mask the smell.
With another deep inhale, you approached the door, unlocked it, and slowly opened it.
"Sorry for occupying the bathroom," you muttered, trying to avoid the inquisitive eyes immediately latching on and roaming your body. You tried to squeeze by König, but he took up almost the whole doorframe, making it impossible when he stepped closer. One hand landed on your forehead before sliding to your ear, with the other pressing into the side of your throat.
"Since when have you been sick?" he asked, serious this time as he checked your temperature and pulse.
"I'm fine--"
"Don't lie. Your eyes are unfocused, and you have a fever."
Annoyed at how quickly he seemed to have figured it all out, you brushed his hands off you. "It's fine. Just a cold or something," you dismissed it, pressing your shoulder against his chest to clear a path for you. König, however, didn't budge an inch, and instead of making way, he pressed his hands between your arms and body, ready to pick you up as if you were a mere doll in his hands.
In the exact second that you felt your feet lift off the ground, however, the nausea returned, and you reflexively struggled in his grip, surprising him. Without a moment of hesitation, you turned around, barely escaping his hold before you crashed to your knees in front of the toilet again, retching up the rest of dinner you had in you.
Immediately, you felt a warm hand at your back, rubbing it soothingly while König held the front strands of your hair out of your face. "Let it out," he encouraged you, and you found it even more annoying that he didn't scold you for lying or was disgusted by you vomiting in his bathroom. Miserable as you already were, his kindness felt even worse than if he hated you.
However, even the nausea had to give up when there was nothing left inside you. Empty and sick, you felt even weaker than before, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. At one such breath, König gathered some toilet paper and handed it to you to wipe your mouth. You did it—reluctantly, unhappy with following his instructions.
But your protests were very meek as he picked you up from the ground, sat you down on the sink countertop, and prepared a glass of water for you to sip and spit out. At this point, struggling felt futile, and you watched him put a dollop of toothpaste on your brush before turning towards you.
"Say 'Ah'."
"I can brush my own teeth," you replied, turning your head away from the approaching toothbrush.
"You could," he countered, gripping your chin and turning your head forward again. "But I can do it for you, just the same."
His fingers squeezed a little harder, and your jaw snapped open from the pressure. You had no choice but to allow it, even though it felt weird and invasive. You were no child, and he wasn't your father, yet he seemed almost gleeful as he brushed your teeth for you.
"Tongue, please," he asked, and you hesitantly flattened it to your jaw, feeling the toothbrush scrape over it, the taste of the paste spreading through your senses. How ridiculous was it that König kidnapped you, only to provide you with the most expensive utensils like the newest toothbrush or hairdryer, yet he still made sure to get you the toothpaste you always used, just because it was the one you liked?
Finally, he let you go and pulled the brush from your mouth. You did the rinsing yourself with the water you had left. Finished, clean, and a little humiliated by the doting, you tried to get off the countertop, but König had other ideas, catching you before your feet could land on the ground.
While you protested, König carried you out of the bath, shielding the back of your head with his hand as he ducked underneath the doorframe. You were put back down into bed, the mattress cold where you had lain before. Had it really been this long?
Unable to get yourself to thank him for taking care of you, you simply pulled the blanket up. You turned away from him, but you felt his hand fall on top of the fabric, weighing it down just above your hip. "Do you still feel unwell? I have medicine here. You just need to tell me where it hurts."
"I'm fine," you replied curtly, then added quietly, "Most medicine doesn't agree with me anyway."
You felt his thumb move back and forth on the blanket, as if to comfort you. "I know. I got you alternatives to the standard medicine. Is your stomach still acting up? Can I feel your forehead again?"
Just like before, he simply reached out, not waiting for an answer as he brushed aside the hair sticking to your skin, and you felt the difference in temperature between your body and his hand. You held your breath, only releasing it quietly when he finally pulled away again, his presence alone enough to make you tense up. You just wanted all of it to be over. To wake up from this nightmare.
"Stay in bed, I'll be right back," König assured, patting your blanket before getting up. Not even once in this whole situation had his demeanor wavered, the anxiety not winning over the seriousness. You listened to his steps getting quieter as he walked away briskly, and pulled the blanket tighter around you, closing your eyes.
You had no idea how long he was gone, but you dozed off quickly once the nausea gave way to exhaustion. Unfairly, though, you were pulled out of that state again when you felt König's weight push down the mattress next to you, forcing you to drowsily return to the real nightmare you were living in.
"Careful. I cooled it down, but you'll still need to swallow it consciously or you might choke," König mumbled, helping you sit up in bed before placing a warm cup against your lips, enticing you to open them. Herbal tea filled your mouth and moistened your throat, which was sore from throwing up. König perfectly timed it so you could swallow in between, almost as if he was skilled in bedside manner.
"I got you some pills," he revealed next, and your eyes landed on two small white capsules in his hand.
"I shouldn't take them, I have allergies and--"
"It's okay," he assured you, bringing the pills up to your mouth instead of simply handing them to you. You pulled away, but you were no match for his persistent shove of the pills between your lips. "I had them made to your needs. You can take them, I promise they won't hurt you. I would never do that to you."
Reluctantly, you let them slip past your lips, holding them there, unwilling to swallow them, especially not dry. But König saw right through you, bringing the warm cup back to your mouth and flooding them down with another rush of throat-moistening tea.
"How would you even know these things?" you muttered, finally being freed from his "help" as he put the cup down on the bedside table.
You couldn't help but blink rapidly as you were overcome with immense drowsiness all of a sudden, slowly slipping back into bed with König's help, your body turning incredibly heavy all of a sudden.
"It's the least I can do," he replied, his voice a little muffled as he tugged you in, pulling the blanket high up and stuffing it underneath you so you'd keep warm. "I never want to hurt you, I only want to--"
His last word got cut off as you yawned, barely able to hear it over your body drifting off into yet another nightmarish sleep.
"Love you," he whispered, watching you sleep soundly. Brushing some hair away, König couldn't help but smile at the way your nose crinkled from his touch, even your subconscious rejecting him. Nevertheless, you were as cute as the day he met you, and the countless times he watched you sleep in your home, or whenever he researched another fascinating fact about you. A little bit of sickness and throwing up had never made you less endearing to him, not when you were the most precious person he ever laid eyes on.
You had asked him why he kidnapped you countless times, and he never gave you a direct answer. But how could he not when you were the most wonderful being in his world? A world that was so small and dark that he needed an angel to shine brighter than anything else if he ever wanted to escape? Even if the doubts and anxiety he felt would never vanish, knowing he could keep you safe and love you so candidly filled him with joy and pride.
Even if you hated him, even if you disliked his touch or all his romantic gestures and gifts, König would still love you. You might ask why kidnapping was necessary, but how else would he be able to prove himself? Provide you with all you need? All his stalking had made it clear: unless he took you, you'd never even look his way, although he'd been by your side constantly. At the gym, the mall, your work—even at your home. Yet, he seemed to have been mere air circling around you, so how else should he have proven himself to you?
"I just want to love you," he whispered, repeating himself in a quiet plea, too afraid to wake you up.
"And maybe, someday," he added hopefully, "you will too."
Simon moving in temporarily after your flat's been broken into, you tell yourself it's only until the locks are replaced, the alarm's installed, until you stop jumping at shadows. But days turn into weeks, and he never really leaves. His things start to migrate— a toothbrush beside yours, leather gloves that're cracked at the knuckles left on the radiator to dry, a half empty pack of smokes on the windowsill.
You don't really remember saying yes to any of it. (Barely remember much at all, honestly. Can't seem to find the will to think past the break in.)
He's quiet. Keeps to himself. He doesn't cook without asking, fixes the loose hinge on the back door, changes the bulb in the hallway before you even notice it's out. He doesn't hover, but he's always nearby, watching, listening, making sure the silence doesn't turn threatening.
He takes the room upstairs, the one you never use except for storage. You hear him moving around at night: the floorboards creaking under his weight, the soft sound of a drawer opening, then closing. Sometimes pacing, like he's working something out in his head, like sleep doesn't come easy.
One night, you wake to the sound of your name. Low. Rough. Almost a growl. The flat's too still otherwise. You know he's awake. You should ignore it. But you don't.
Up the stairs, the door's cracked open, a thin line of light slicing through the darkness and inside—
Simon's sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, shirt off and the line of his throat slick with sweat. In one hand, your knickers. The pair that went missing from the laundry last week. His other hand works slow between his legs, thick fingers wrapped around his cock, your name coming out of him like he's carving it into the room.
He doesn't stop when you freeze in the doorway, just looks at you, eyes heavy and unblinking.
