Synopsis: You’re a witch known for making love potions. They're fake. The reviews are real. Your track record? Immaculate. Until a duke walks in, covered in blood, and demands you reverse the spell you cast on him.
You didn't cast anything.
He doesn't care.
And now you live in his mansion.
Love Potion or Love at First Sight?
"Are you sure this is it?"
"Yes yes! This is the love potion. Now pay up or leave because I have other customers to attend to!"
You groan at the woman hesitating in front of you, wasting your time.
You're an infamous witch known in the black market for selling all types of spells and potions for a hefty sum.
Your most popular item? The love potion.
Which is actually just… an aphrodisiac.
But after selling 170 potions? You've only ever received positive reviews. All from noblewomen, lovestruck and happy with the results.
What can you say? You've always known men to be lustful creatures, barren from emotions. After selling a 170 with zero bad reviews? Your ideology is proven correct.
"Are you sure it works?" the woman whispers.
"100% customer satisfaction guaranteed!"
She still looks nervous.
"And if it doesn't work, you can come back and I'll give double your money back as refund."
The woman nods, pays with a pouch of gold coins, then leaves.
Another positive review, you think to yourself confidently, already marking this as your 171st success.
…
You just didn’t expect your first bad review to appear right in front of your face.
The door slams open.
A man stands in your doorway. With black hair and red eyes; blood plastered across his face, clothes, and most importantly his sword.
"So," The bloody man starts, one hand going up to wipe some blood off his face. “You're the witch selling cheap love elixirs all over the market?”
You don’t answer, your hand sliding toward the defense charm under your counter instead.
Because this wasn’t just any man, this was the war-crazed duke feared by all of society.
"You better pay for this."
…Guess you'll be closing the shop for a while.
And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.
Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.
He doesn't believe you.
He won't believe you.
Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?
Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.
So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.
You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.
The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.
Damn her.
What the hell did she see in this man anyway?
Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)
The madman of high society.
If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!
But you didn't know.
And now you're stuck with the aftermath…
At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.
Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.
Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.
And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.
Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.
Wherever he was… that became your workspace.
You’d turn around and he’d be there.
In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.
Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!
Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.
But he never hurts you.
His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.
But you've started to notice something.
He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…
And it becomes a routine.
You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.
At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.
No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.
He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.
You don't know when this became normal.
You hate that it feels normal.
Tonight, you try to get up.
His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.
"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"
"Stay."
His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.
"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."
"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."
You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realized…
He never follows through.
Not with you.
"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"
His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.
But he knows you're right.
He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.
"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."
"…I'm sat."
You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.
And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.
He, on the other hand?
Dead to the world.
The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.
His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.
At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.
Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.
Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.
And yet… Here you are, watching him sleep.
Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.
Usually the guards.
You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.
"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."
His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.
Your quill scratches to a halt.
"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.
His smile deepens.
He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.
You stare at him.
Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth you’ve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.
Nothing is wrong with him.
The potion didn't work.
He's just like this.
You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.
And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.
Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.
Little did both of you know.
The potion didn't work on him.
It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs… Basically anything ingested.
The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.
He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.
Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.
Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.
Until he saw you.
And something in his chest pulled again.
Not the potion, that was already gone.
Something else he didn’t have a name for.
He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.
…
It's not.
He was just love-struck at first sight.
And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.
Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.
Are monsters capable of love? Ask the girl in the cage
The “witch” survived the fire. The witch survived the hate. The witch did not survive being loved by the monster. You did not survive Sukuna
Warnings : MDNI, 18+, Yandere, Heian Sukuna, captivity, obsession, dead dove do not eat, single mother reader, dark, fanfic, death of side characters (Brief), period typical misogyny, power imbalance, coercive control.
ONESHOT
Heian era
The villagers called you a witch.
You had heard every version of your own story.
That you had lain with a demon to get your power. That your son had no father because you’d eaten him. That the herbs you grew in your garden could kill a man three ways depending on how you ground them.
Two of those things were true.
You had survived seventeen winters on this mountain by being useful, by answering the door when the village women came in secret… my husband doesn’t know I’m here, please, I can’t have another child, I just can’t…. and by keeping your mouth shut about every secret you carried.
You kept records in your head because writing anything down would’ve been the last mistake you ever made.
The stake had come close enough. You still remember the rage of that crowd,the voices rising together, “Burn the witch.”
The way your son had screamed, just two years old and not understanding why everyone was so angry at his mother. You had kept your face still because you refused to give them the satisfaction of watching you break.
The village leader’s son had developed something rotting in his leg the next morning.
And suddenly, the witch was no longer meant for burning. They spared your life in exchange for the cure.
Funny how that worked.
The village still looked at you with the same hate in their eyes when they came to collect remedies.
Sukuna
You knew something was wrong the morning your dog wouldn’t stop whining.
Animals didn’t lie. People did.
The dog stayed near the treeline and refused to move, ears flat, and you stood in your doorway looking out at the mountain and felt, deep in your bones, that something was up there, and it was moving closer to you door.
You got your son inside and put him to sleep with something mild in his evening broth, because you needed him unconscious and not screaming. Then you sat at your table with a knife that would be useless against a real danger.
The protection ward you had built into the mountain path stung something. You felt it like a vibration behind your teeth.
Whatever it had stung didn’t stop walking.
When Sukuna made his way down toward your home, he wasn’t expecting much.
He had come to kill you because you were a mild inconvenience.
Some witch on a mountain whose remedies had broken a curse he’d placed on a valley three weeks prior. Not on purpose, apparently. Just a woman who grew herbs and didn’t know what she was touching. He’d planned to spend maybe four minutes here.
Then your protection ward hit him.
It wasn’t strong but it was precise. Something had built that ward understanding exactly what kind of cursed energy would be passing through, and that was not something a village witch was supposed to be able to do.
He stood in front of a small house and looked at the door and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time, which was mild curiosity.
Interesting.
You
You opened the door before he knocked.
That was the first thing he noticed
You looked at him the way one looks at a flood… not like you think you can stop it, but like you’re already calculating which direction you can run.
He could see the fear in your eyes. You weren’t hiding it from him. You were holding it the same way you held your posture, straight backed, chin up, like if you stood your ground the world would leave you alone.
“You’re the thing that tripped my ward,” you said.
He had expected screaming. Pleas for mercy. Tears. This, however, was far more interesting.
Sukuna looked at you for a moment.
“You built it well,” he said. “For a woman who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Your hands were shaking but your chin tipped up, daring him to contradict you “I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
“Did you really think a barrier would stop me?” The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, like he was savoring the look on your face.
You swallowed hard, steadying yourself with a deep breath. You didn’t step back
“Why are you here?” you asked. “Is this about the curse I exorcised?”
He stared at you, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to decide whether you were brave or simply stupid. “You’re a strange little thing”
Sukuna
He didn’t know what made him stay.
He’d come to kill you and instead he was standing in your house watching you make tea with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking, and he found he didn’t feel like leaving yet.
You were trying keeping your voice steady, probably hoping that if you were useful enough the monster at your table would go away satisfied. He’d seen it before in royal councils and battlefields. People bargaining for their lives with intelligence instead of begging.
“Your ward targeted my cursed energy directly,” he said as you set a cup in front of him that he did not touch. “Who taught you that?”
“No one.” You sat across from him, which took some nerve. “I worked it out.”
There was a sound from the room down the hall. A child turning over in sleep.
Your body reacted before your mind did, putting yourself between him and the room as if your flesh and bone could stop him.
Sukuna said nothing. A faint smirk tugged on his lips as he turned and left.
You were relieved, unaware that it marked the beginning of something far worse.
You
The first visit you had survived.
The second time he appeared in the woods you thought you were dead.
The third time you were almost… almost… starting to understand the shape of what was happening.
He didn’t want your remedies. He didn’t want anything you could name. He asked you questions about your work, interrupted your answers, corrected you twice about curse theory and you couldn’t argue because he was right, and left without explanation each time.
The village found out. Of course.
Now instead of just witch they called you demon’s whore and you just laughed at that.
“Your village hates you,” he said once, watching from your doorway while you worked.
“My village has always hated me,” you said. “They just hate me more now that something they’re afraid of seems to prefer my company.”
“Does that bother you.”
“No,” you scoffed softly. “I stopped letting them bother me a long time ago. They were going to burn me but then they needed my remedy. That’s all people are.”
Something changed in his face. It wasn’t obvious, but it wasn’t nothing either. His jaw tightened. His eyes went colder. You didn’t know what it meant, only that it felt dangerous.
Sukuna
Here’s what Sukuna would never tell anyone….
You were the only person he had spoken to in three hundred years who didn’t measure her words before she let them out.
Not because you were reckless… you weren’t. You were careful in the way only survivors are. You were just too tired to pretend anymore.
You had already burned through all your performances keeping yourself alive.
He came back because he wanted to watch you work. That was the justification he let himself have.
He came back because something about you mixing herbs with shaking hands and steady eyes made him want to see what else you could hold.
He didn’t name the feeling growing in his chest. He had no interest in naming it.
But he started noticing things.
The shadows under your eyes when your son was sick. The way you never ate until the child had eaten. The way you forgot yourself the moment he needed you.
It made him furious in a way he couldn’t explain.
You
The end of of the life you had built… came on a winter night when the village finally decided that a witch friendly with a monster was a worse witch than a regular one.
They came in a group, torches burning in their hands like before
You got your son up and got him to the back window. You had a route planned… you’d always had an escape plan, you weren’t stupid.
Sukuna was already standing in the yard when you came out the back.
He looked at the mob. Looked at you.
Then he turned to the crowd and did something you couldn’t bring yourself to watch. You heard the crack of bones, the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
When it was quiet you were shaking so hard you could barely hold your son.
“You can’t stay here,” he said, his gaze checking you over as if to make sure you were unharmed.
“I know,”
“You’ll come with me.”
You looked up at him. Your son had his face buried in your neck. The torches were still burning but there was no one left to hold them.
“Take me with you.”
You went willingly. Like a silly little rabbit stepping right where the rope was waiting. Oh, you sweet, foolish thing.
The cage
A year is a long time to understand you made the wrong choice.
You know that now. Sitting on the floor of his chamber with the chain loose around your ankle… like he’d thought about your comfort…. you know it the way you know your own heartbeat… a useless information.
You remember the first month clearly because it had been fine…. more than fine. It was perfect
That was the trap of it. That was the thing you couldn’t have known… that a monster could be patient enough to let you feel safe first.
He had given you rooms. Given your son a nursemaid, a woman who was kind enough.
Given you access to a garden. Herbs to grow, to use as you pleased. You had thought… you had genuinely thought… this is what salvation looked like.
You had been grateful to him. Felt something warm and treacherous in your chest when he came to sit with you and asked about your work like he actually wanted to know.
He was the first person in seventeen years who’d spoken to you like you were worth listening to. Not a witch. Not a threat. Just… a normal person who knew things worth knowing.
You had been so starved for it.. you hadn’t noticed the doors locking behind you.
It started small.
You couldn’t visit your son after dark…. “He needs routine.” You couldn’t walk the outer corridors without an escort… “it isn’t safe.”You couldn’t send word outside… “who would you send to? Your village is gone. There’s no one.”
All of it reasonable. All of it said softly, without anger.
By month four you understood that you hadn’t seen your son unsupervised in six weeks. That every hour of your day existed within whatever radius Sukuna had silently decided.
That his attention… which had felt like warmth… was flames consuming you.
You had tried to talk to him about it. You knew how to talk to difficult men who had power over you, which was a skill you had been practicing your whole life.
“I need to spend more time with my son,” you said.
“You’ll see him tomorrow.”
“I need to see him today. Please. He’s two years old and he barely knows my face anymore and I need…”
“Tomorrow.”
Just like that…he closed the door with no handle on your side.
That was the night you stopped sleeping well.
By month six you weren’t sleeping at all. You would lie in the dark and feel the walls of his chamber laughing at your misery and think about the mountain… the cold, the isolation, the vile looks from villagers who would spit near your feet and then knock on your door at midnight for help with a difficult birth.
You thought about how you had hated it. But the hatred at least had air in it.
The feeling that the world was large and you were small in it but free in that smallness.
Here you were everything to someone who wanted everything, and it was suffocating.
You planned the escape when it became unbearable. You waited for a shift change you had memorized. Got your son from the nurse’s room while the woman slept, the boy confused and sleepy and mercifully quiet. You had made it forty feet down the outer corridor.
Sukuna was standing at the end of it.
You suspected he had always known, that he had watched you plan it…. Like a moth circling a flame…. interested in how long it takes.
He looked at you then looked at your son on your hip.
You held your son tighter
“Give him back to the nurse,” he said softly. He never raised his voice at you. The affection in his voice was reserved only for you.
You didn’t sleep for three days after that. The chain was on your ankles by morning.
That was five months ago.
Now you sit on the floor because you prefer it to the bed, small resistances being all you have left.
The chain is long enough to reach the window but not open it. Enough to make you feel like maybe it isn’t that bad.
Your son comes in the mornings. If you’ve been cooperative. If you’ve been…. good. The boy is healthy. Fed. Clothed. He calls you mama and climbs into your lap and you hold him with both arms and count the minutes because you know how many you get.
Sukuna comes in the evenings and looks at you like he can finally breathe. That same suffocating love
“Say it back,” he told you last night.
“No,”
“Then the chain stays.” He said calmly, but his eyes looked hurt
“Then the chain stays,” you turned your face to the wall.
He had told you plainly, the first night after the escape…
“I will keep you here until you return what I feel. I am not in a hurry.”
***
You had survived the stake.
Six winters. A mob. A monster’s first visit.
You did not survive being loved
A dove caught is still a dove.
But the cage is warm
and the captor is patient
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated
Not proofread. I’m sorry . You are 26 in this fic.
He wanted a normal relationship with a nice woman, but instead he got you….a mean, demanding brat who has him wrapped around her manicured finger.
“This restaurant has a three month waiting list,” you pout.
“Then we’ll go somewhere else.”
“But I want to go here.”
“[Name]….”
“Please, Ken?” You give him those eyes, the ones that always work.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make a call. But you’re going to show some gratitude.”
“I always show gratitude,” you purr.
“I meant with your manners, not….” He stops himself. “Never mind. Just… be ready by seven.”
You’re high maintenance and you know it.
Expensive dinners, luxury shopping trips, weekend getaways…you want it all, and somehow this man provides it while maintaining his disapproval.
The thing is, under your bratty exterior, he sees something genuine. Maybe it’s the way how you actually listen when he talks about his day.
You’re mean to everyone else but you soften just for him
He sets boundaries though. Try your bratty bullshit at the wrong time and he’ll give you that look….the one that makes you shut up immediately.
“Compose yourself.”
And god help you, it’s hot when he gets so serious. And you both know you do it on purpose sometimes.
“You’ve been acting out all day,” he says calmly, sitting on the bed. “Come here.”
“Make me.”
“[Name]. Here. Now.”
You bite your lip, slowly walking over. “You’re so bossy.”
“And you’re about to learn what happens to brats who can’t behave.” He pulls you over his lap.
In bed, he’s a total switch between gentle and rough. He’ll worship your body one minute, then rail you into the mattress the next while telling you exactly how to behave.
“Is this what you wanted, acting out like that?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
“Then take it. Take all of it.”
Ryomen Sukuna
You really thought you could handle the King of Curses? Think again, princess.
Sukuna doesn’t do the whole healthy relationship thing.
You’re his favorite toy, his most entertaining possession, and god help anyone who tries to take you away.
“Kuna, I want that necklace.”
“The one that costs more than a small village? Of course you do.”
“So you’ll get it for me?”
He smirks, pulling you onto his lap. “I’ll get you whatever the fuck you want. You’re mine….you should look like it.”
You’re a brat who demands designer bags and five star restaurants, and he’ll give you everything, not because you asked nicely, but because what’s his…. needs to look the part.
Watching you tear through his bank account with zero remorse does something for him.
But your attitude works on everyone except him. Try that bratty shit on Sukuna and he’ll put you in your place real quick.
And somehow, that just makes you want him more.
He leaves marks all over your body…hickeys, bite marks, scratches…so everyone knows you’re taken.
You fight constantly because you’re both stubborn as hell.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“I’m unreasonable? You just killed a man for looking at me.”
“And I’d do it again. What’s your point?”
“My point is…..oh fuck you!”
“You already did, princess. Twice this morning.”
He loves when you get bratty because breaking that attitude is his favorite game. You’ll claw, bite, talk shit, and he’ll just grin wider because you’re finally making things fun for him.
He knows every way to make you scream, and he’s not gentle about it.
“All that attitude and you’re already falling apart for me,” he growls in your ear. “Where’s that sharp tongue now?”
“F-Fuck you….”
He thrusts harder, making you cry out. “There it is. Keep running that mouth. See where it gets you.”
“You’re obsessed with me,” you’ll shoot back.
He doesn’t deny it. Can’t deny it when he’s dropping thousands of dollars on a diamond necklace just because you looked at it for two seconds.
Geto Suguru
Suguru treats you like a goddess. You’re his queen, his perfect partner in his fucked up vision of the world.
You acting like a brat is just you knowing your worth as someone superior to “monkeys”.
He spoils you rotten because you deserve it.
“Suguru, I want this.”
He doesn’t even ask the price. “Then it’s yours.”
“Don’t you want to know how much…”
“Irrelevant. You want it, therefore you shall have it.” He signals to one of his followers. “Have this wrapped and delivered.”
“You’re going to bankrupt yourself.”
He cups your face. “You’re my queen…you deserve to be treated as such.”
You’re special, you’re his, and you should have everything you desire. Designer clothes, expensive jewelry, whatever you want…it’s yours.
He’s built his whole cult partly to give you the life you deserve.
You’re the only one allowed to be bratty with him. His followers worship him, but you’ll call him out on his bullshit while sitting in his lap.
“That speech was a bit much, don’t you think?”
His followers gasp at your audacity. Suguru just smiles.
He finds it adorable.
“Such attitude, darling.” Then he’ll kiss you until you shut up.
In private, he’s absolutely devoted to your pleasure. He worships your body like you’re divine.
He’ll praise you like a goddess while fucking you into his silk sheets. You could demand anything mid orgasm and he’d make it happen.
He doesn’t need to threaten people…they know you’re his and crossing that line means death. You’re his greatest weakness and his greatest strength.
He’d burn the world for you, and honestly, you’d probably help.
Toji Fushiguro
This relationship is a goddamn disaster and you both know it.
Toji’s a broke assassin with zero emotional availability, and you’re a spoiled brat who refuses to lower her standards.
You’re always fighting about money because you’re expensive and he’s, well, Toji.
“I can’t buy you that shit, woman.”
“Seriously? It’s just a bag.”
“A bag that costs more than my rent.”
“Then maybe you should get better jobs instead of gambling away everything you…..”
He cuts you off with a kiss, rough and demanding. “Shut the fuck up about the bag.”
But then he’ll take a high paying job and throw a stack of cash at you with that smug smirk.
“Here. Go buy your overpriced shit.”
He loves that you’re mean. You’re the only person who talks back to him without fear, and it gets him hard every time.
You’ll insult him, he’ll grab you by the throat, and suddenly you’re fucking against the nearest wall, his hand still on your throat, both of you angry and desperate and unable to stop.
You’re both awful people who enable each other’s worst behaviors. You’ve tried breaking up five times….it never lasts more than a week.
You get the bag you wanted. Because underneath the toxic back and forth, he’s actually obsessed with you.
Deep down you’re the only person he actually gives a shit about, even if he’ll never say it.
You’re the prettiest, meanest thing he’s ever had, and he’ll go bankrupt again before he lets anyone else have you.
Gojo Satoru
Dating Gojo is exhausting because he’s just as bratty as you are.
It’s a constant competition of who can be more annoying, and somehow you’re both winning and losing simultaneously.
He has unlimited money and zero control, which is perfect for you. You want something? He’s already bought it in three colors.
“Only the best for my baby.” He’s insufferable but you love it.
You’re both mean as hell, just in different ways.
You’re a bitch, he’s a cocky asshole, and together you’re everyone’s worst nightmare. You’ll roast other people together, then turn on each other in the most playful, flirtatious way.
The obsession is mutual. He’s clingy as fuck, always touching you, always showing you off.
“Look at my gorgeous girlfriend.” You act annoyed but you’re just as possessive.
If someone flirts with him….you’re stepping in with the most cutting insult they’ve ever heard, making them regret being born.
“That’s my girl,” he grins after you verbally annihilate someone.
He’s got stamina for days and uses it to fuck you stupid while running that mouth of his.
“Still bratty? Guess I’m not done with you yet.” He won’t stop until you’re completely wrecked, and even then he’s probably planning round two…three…four…
“Still got that attitude?”
“Always….oh fuck.”
“What was that? Couldn’t hear you over how loud you’re being.”
“Shut up, Satoru…”
He grins, that cocky bastard smile.
“Toru, you’re going to kill me.”
“What a way to go though, right?”
You throw a pillow at him. “I hate you.”
“Liar. You love me.”
“Fine! I love you, you annoying, insufferable…”
He kisses you mid insult. “I love you too, my bratty, mean, absolutely perfect girlfriend.”
something wasn't right. you couldn't explain. there's this gut feeling that has been hunting you for days. something's amiss. or maybe out of place. out of place?
you looked around your small apartment. there was only you, your washed clothes piled up in a clean laundry basket, the empty bag of chips next to the job flyers on the coffee table, and a used coffee mug on the sink. droplets of water were leaking from the faucet. you turned it off all the way to stop it. then you noticed your blurry reflection by the glass of your coffee maker. your breathe hitched. there's another reflection of a person aside yours.
you looked behind you. there's no one. you looked back at your reflection on the coffee maker and the other reflection wasn't there anymore. your heart was pounding so fast and loud, you could hear it. you tried to brush it off, ignore whatever entity is lingering around your home. you were about to place your coat on your sofa but stopped midway when you noticed your fresh laundry was folded, stacked on the coffee table that was now clean from the empty bag of chips and job flyers.
you swore, it was just on the table and your clothes were piled up on your laundry basket moments ago! you took a few steps away from your living room then heard the sound of cooking. you turned around, all the light on the kitchen were on. when you looked inside, there was a man, wearing your cute apron over his fitted black shirt and a hello-kitty pajama pants. his back was facing you as he cooked in your kitchen like it's his own house.
you clutched your coat closer to yourself and was about to turn and leave. "oh, honey! there you are." the man abandoned his task and ran up to you. he was smiling ear to ear, eyes dilated, and his dimples so evident. you don't recognize this man— who is he?
he noticed the look in your eyes, the fear and look of a stranger to another. his smile slowly faded with his dimples. "honey? did you forget me again?" he asked softly but hurt was evident in his voice. his hand softly caressed your cheek and tucked your hair behind your ear. "you must've forgotten to take your medicines too." he kissed your forehead, took your coat, and went somewhere else in the house.
you stood there confused, looking around your place. it looked a lot more cozy than how it was when you first entered earlier. what is happening? are you in a dream? "let's sit you down, honey." he guides you to a seat by the dining table and handed you a glass of water and a few pills. "you have to take your medicine right away." you took them down like it's a reflex.
he smiled at you softly then went back to finish his cooking. you noticed some picture frames hung on the walls as you gulped down the remaining water. glass still in hand, you went near it to get a closer look. there was you!... in a wedding gown and the man in your kitchen was next to you on the picture. you looked so pretty and happy together. but why can't you remember?
your brows furrowed together, trying to remember something from your past but it only made your head hurt. you shook your head and looked at the other pictures. there were some pictures when you were teenagers and places you've traveled together. "that was when we went to malta. you lost your camera right after we took that picture." the man chuckled, placing both your plates of food on the table. "you cried so hard because it contained years of our pictures together. luckily, we found it when we traced our footsteps back to the restaurant we've been."
he was smiling fondly at the pictures then looked back at you. "shall we eat, my love?" you stood there for a moment, as if questioning everything but the pictures were enough to convince you. you sat down and he sat next to you. you picked up your utensils and that's when you noticed a sparkle on your hand. two beautiful rings were stacked on your ring finger. your engagement ring and wedding ring.
your husband held your left hand, placing a kiss on your ring finger. "i love you, y/n. and I'll make sure to make you remember every single day that i do. no matter how much it hurts when you forget me every time." he looks like he's about to cry and it's like somewhere within you, you have a soft spot for him. your body moved by itself before you even knew it. you kissed him softly and he returned the favor. only letting you breathe after another kiss.
he wrapped his arms around you in a warm embrace, burying his face on your neck. your hand rubbed on his back in attempt to comfort him. he couldn't help but smile and something was off with it. luckily for him, you couldn't see his face. the way he's quietly celebrating in successfully molding your mind into believing everything he's telling you is true. none of it was real.
you don't know that and you don't have to. just be a good and loving wife for him.
Victorian gothic inspired! Yandere Duke husband! x fem reader!
The moors are quiet as always. Walking along them every night, letting your heavy skirt get caught on the nettles and Heather that populate the floor. Staying out as the last breath of the sun begins to paint the sky the same colour as the flowers you've trampled over, until the servants come searching for you. Lamps in hand. Perhaps if you stay out too late your husband will forbid these evening walks of yours. The only point in your day when the silence is anything but oppressive.
There is a list of what he has seemingly forbidden without him ever needing to say anything, a servant will mumble it is not encouraged when you make your requests. Pets are not encouraged, visits are not encouraged, parties are not encouraged. Even fraternising with them is not encouraged. So far it seems that the only thing he approves of is isolation. You trample another flower before making your way back. The only other times you leave the manor is every Sunday, taking the coach ride up to the church, sitting together in his family pew as the reverend drones, bonnet obscuring the faces in your peripheral vision. He doesn't linger after the service, instead you two return home to a meal. Again in silence.
You're starting to wonder if you remember his voice.
Your return to the manor is met with a change from walking clothes to evening gown. You two have meals together. Something he insists upon, no tray taken up to your room, you must dress for dinner and take it properly across from him as portraits of his ancestors stare down at you.
You linger in the bedroom, staring at the unsent letter on your desk. It's been only a few months, and while the North is so far from your family home further south, surely they would have gotten your letters by now? But maybe they just expect you to be busy now, a new wife in her new home. Children of course should be your task but when the only thing he touches you with is his cold gaze it seems that task too is something you just fail in. With a sigh you make your way to his office, where you would haunt the empty doorway, quietly requesting a stamp from his desk once he acknowledges your presence.
Today marks a change in routine, he is absent. you hesitate, are you even allowed inside without him to tell you? But, he never denies your request for a stamp so surely you would not be in trouble for simply taking one for yourself? Right? Perhaps there is that part of you, the curious one not yet strangled by the silence of the manor, that wants to explore something you never had express permission to enter. His desk is neat, made of a dark stained wood, papers organised clearly. Something about investments into train companies, skipping through the words you notice one company that father invested in has gone bankrupt. Your heart falls into your throat, how selfish to wonder why no one has written to you when clearly everyone back home is dealing with this catastrophe, here you are safe in your stone manor. Married to a titled man who's wealth will never disappear, what happened to your gratefulness?
You shake your head to dispel the thought, turning to open the desk drawers instead, one jams under the weight of its contents, pulling and pulling until you're thrown back from the impact of opening it, toppling some things out of place. There are no stamps here- instead the drawer is full of letters. Perhaps twenty? Each one has been opened and discarded by his hands. Each letter addressed to you. Each letter is filled with pleas for you to write back. Growing more and more desperate as father all but demands that you stop ignoring him and tell your husband to use his wealth to get your family out from the mess they have found themselves in. There is only one deviation: an unsent letter by your husband to your father. demanding him to cease contacting you, saying that you have no wish to communicate ever again to your family, and that you are happy here. The coldness in his written words seem to prickle your fingers as you ask yourself why would he do all this?
The clock strikes and you panic, you're meant to be at the table right now waiting for him. You shut the drawer before practically running down to the dining room. He appears a few minutes after you, taking his seat as the meal begins.In front of you he is handsome, tall and with Byronic features, dark hair curling past his ears. He brings to mind a wolfhound, meanwhile you're a mouse.
Partly through he speaks, his low voice scraping the air.
“You went through my desk didn't you dear?”
The term feels misplaced, foreign from his lips, his eyes squint as you stay silent not knowing how to respond.
“Please do not give me the annoyance of a lie, your fingers are stained with ink and you are the only other one who would do such a thing.”
An eyebrow is raised by him with the expectation of an answer, he receives a shameful nod and mumbled response.
“Why did you hide their letters from me?”
He sighs as though the answer should be obvious, grip tightening on his wine glass.
“It would do you no good.”
“How do you know that?” You look up at him, finding a small scrap of bravely somewhere within you. “Why must you be the one deciding on everything for me when you do not even speak with me, let alone touch me. You have no right to decide what is best for my sake without even communicating with me like a proper husband.”
Your chest heaves from your quiet outburst, possibly the most words you've ever spoken to him. His face doesn't change only the glass in his hand shatters from how firm he grips it, shards falling into his soup and embedding themselves in his hand, unreacting to the pain.
“I am your husband. It is my right to care for you, to ensure that you're sensitivities do not cause you harm.” His gaze stakes you to the chair as he picks the glass from his hand. “You request a pet for company, I refuse in case you become attached and the creature flees or dies and you end up distraught. Your family cares nothing for your well being, your father expects you to still be his daughter when you are my wife, demanding you give him my wealth to pull him out from the pit he dug himself into. That is not your responsibility.” He stands up slowly making his way to you
“I have to admit that perhaps I have not been clear enough to you, that is my fault and it must be rectified.”
He takes ahold of your face, the cut hand smearing his blood onto you'd cheek as he holds your face so tightly there will no doubt be marks once he finally lets go. His mouth twists itself to something resemble a smile but those eyes stay exactly as empty as they've always been.
“let me reiterate,” his mouth grazes your ear.
“You are my responsibility and my property, it is my duty to take care of you. If you cannot understand that it is a problem I must solve, without any outside interference.”
He leans down to press a kiss with a tenderness so unfamiliar from him that you feel the bile rise in your throat. When he pulls away to look at your face, you finally realise what was so repulsive in that gaze of his, which never disappears when he looks at you. Love
cw: very yandere and insane, injury, knife use, sadistic man, use of daddy
Yandere! Dictator - who is so upset with you, pouting, lips curved in a sulk that borders on boyish glee. “My wife, trying to escape again? That’s the third time this week.” His voice lifts with mocking disbelief, a smile tugging at the corners of his too-pretty mouth. “Darling, do you even know who you’re dealing with?”
Your head lies under his polished steel toed boot, and he flicks the ashes of his cigar onto the floor with exaggerated flair. “Ungrateful brats,” he whines, gesturing with the cigar toward the large window showcasing his empire. “That’s what this country is full of.” His tone grows animated, like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum dressed in a suit and tie with adorning medals.
“I am like a father to you all!” he declares, teeth flashing in a grin, the knife already slick in his hand. “I feed you, I clothe you, I protect you - at least more than your pitiful little ‘leaders’ ever did. I killed my own to get here, and still it’s not enough.” He leans heavier on your back, bowing down to his knee pressing harder against the small of your back, tilting his head toward the window where bodies sway on the gallows, rebels dangling like windchimes in the dusk. “And yet, all anyone wants to do is riot. Even you, my sweet bride, trying to scurry off to join that sorry little parade?” His laugh is bright and cruel. “Foolish girl.”
His grin stretches wider, unbearably pretty, wolfish in its delight. “That’s it, my love! You should call me Daddy. After all, I treat you better than my own people that I care so well for.” He purrs the word into your ear, giddy when he catches the hatred burning in your eyes.
When you twitch to move, a horrible decision to punch that smile off his face, the knife that he kept twirling, slams straight through your hand, pinning you like a butterfly. He coos at your choked cry, brushing his lips against your ear. “Oh, baby, I know. I know that doesn't feel very good. But Daddy wasn’t finished.” His words are soft, playful, too sweet for the sadism they drip with.
“Now be good. Apologize to Daddy and give me a kiss.” His tone lilts like a lullaby, though the edge is sharp enough to cut. “No biting, or I’ll pull out those pretty teeth one by one.” Another lazy drag of his cigar, the smoke curling above you, before he leans in, grabbing your hair with one hand to lift your pretty face to his, with lips puckered like a spoiled prince demanding his due.
You don’t dare sink your teeth into him. His smirk blooms, victorious. “Good girl.” His thumb wipes your tears like a lover’s caress. “Now… I think I’ll dedicate the next airstrike to you. Mm, maybe the drones will paint a little heart in the sky - so everyone knows how much Daddy adores you.”
Your angry sobs only make him chuckle, eyes flicking back to the bodies outside. “Oh, hush. You’re lucky I love you. If I didn’t…” his grin flashes, cruel and gorgeous, “…you’d be dangling out there with the rest of them.”
Thinking about fucking someone who's just a bit too tight, who's already gasping and whimpering just from the tip. Listen, I know what it's gonna feel like. I know it'll feel like rape, but you don't understand. There's no other way. You're just. Too. Tight. Too small. I have to be all the way inside, and stop whining about me pulling out. You're so fucking wet, you need me inside this way. I know about this stuff so shut up. Then grabbing them by the throat, their legs spread but shaking, spasming as you force yourself in and tears well up in their eyes. Their arms collapsing underneath them before they raise them to try and stop you. To try and push you away before you ruin their pretty little hole any further. But you're in too deep now. Too deep to stop, too deep to pull out. No way out but through, isn't that what they say? Tighten your grip on their throat and make them take it. Take it all the way, to the base, til your tip is kissing their insides. Making them blubber and curse and cry. Fuck. Just wait til you're bouncing on it.
I really want to be forced down on my tummy pinned under their body weight and fucked relentlessly for a long long long long time and also I want there to be a puddle of drool and tears on the sheets when they’re done with me
(kind of sweet overstim that devolves into straight up r★pe <33)
"It only looks big, promise it'll fit if I work you open first. I can take my time."
"Its okay, you can cum baby. We're not gonna be done until I finish, just enjoy yourself while I get you stretched out."
"I know, I know. You can handle finishing a couple more times, cant you? Just tryin to be thorough, dont wanna hurt you when I get inside."
"There, all loose for me. You don't gotta move a muscle sweetheart, you're doing so good for me."
"Am I almost done? Be patient, I waited through prepping you, let me take my time."
"Mhm, i know, its alright. You dont gotta finish again if you dont want, you feel perfect now that you're broken in, I'll be gentle."
"Shh, shh, you don't need that. Relax, you're on birth control, right? ...Well that's fine, I dont mind paying child support. You'll be cute pregnant, I can keep you for a bit if it makes you feel better."
"You got to finish like eight times, you'll survive letting me have two. Hey, hey, don't cry, its only because you're so sweet, I can't help it. Just chill out, you can't move anyway, might as well let me take care of it, right?"
"No its okay baby, you can pass out if you need. You're cute like that, you look like prime rαpebait with your eyes all glazed over haha. Hm? I said you look beautiful, take it easy precious."
"Mmm... You even listening? I'm just gonna go a couple more times, make sure it sticks. You'll make a good parent, get some rest and I'll take care of it."
"Fuckin slut. You wanted this didn't you? Wanted me to make you pass out on my cock? Christ you're easy, you're lucky I got to you first, a worse man would've taken advantage of this."
Object insert in a “im so desperate to fill you i dont even care what with” kinda way
Object insert in a “your slutty hole will take fucking anything you shove in it” kinda way
Object insert in a “im a pretty dumb toy that is just begging to be filled” and “you said you just wanted to be filled, you said you wanted anything!” kinda way
Object insert in a “i wonder if you can take this” kinda way
Object insert in a “im going to make this fit in you” kinda way
Object insert in a “i bet you cant do it” kinda way
