🪻Hiya, this is my little corner of the internet to write about the Yandere daydreams that occupy my smooth little mind. Do stay if you like irredeemable men, the crushing terrors, and very nerdy attentions to historic detail🪻
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🪻There will be themes of horror, non/dubious consent, stalking, toxic relationships, kidnapping, and other themes, which really aren't that nice, so do be mindful, and if this isn't your cup of tea, you can move on past politely. Always read the warnings because they are there to be used🪻
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I absolutely ADORE your yandere survivor fic (I’m a sucker for evil older men) and am eagerly tuning in if you plan to write anymore. But I also couldn’t stop thinking about that scene from the Backrooms while I was reading the tail end of the fic lol
Ahhh thank you so much. He was so fun to write and its one of my proudest ones.
I will be so honest and admit that I've not seen the backrooms and know nothing at all about it!!!
Hello! Hope you’ll have the best birthday ever today🫂💕 I’m so bad with remembering time but i think I’ve be following you for maybe two years now? And your account is one of my favourite accounts here! Love LOVES how your write your characters with just the best amount of madness and toxic love, they are never overly romanticise or overly dark to the point you can’t enjoy the toxicity lol
You impacted how I want to make my future characters actually, I’m so happy with how I pictured them now in my mind with taking on account how you yourself made it all balanced so good with your own characters, made them so entertaining to read about🤍 stay awesome and take of yourself!
Also very sorry- but can you add ‘spousal death’ in yan apocalypse post? It’s a trigger to some and reading that he has a dead wife in that anon ask already made me sad before I even read it🙏 and thank you again!
Thank you so much anon for your well wishes. Its crazy to me how much I account that I started just a year and a bit ago has grown.
Also dont worry about it, I've updated the content warnings. Thanks for bringing it to my attention!
Birthday treat- Yandere Victorian psychiatrist X Fem reader
Following my yearly tradition of a self indulgent birthday drabble. Happy 22nd to me!
Contains- forced institutionalisation, medical gaslighting, references to nonconsensual touching, infantalisation, unbalanced power dynamics, doctor/patient
Birthdays aren't so celebrated much here. They tend to be commemorated with well wishes from the nurses and those who have the mind to tell you something. The most that you officially get is a special breakfast that your nurse gave you with a kind wink in her eyes. Fresh white bread, still warm with butter pooling on it, porridge with cream and honey, sweet milky morning tea.
“The doctor will want to see you in a bit miss, to hand over presents that your parents have left for you. Isn't that kind?” her endearing cheeryness turns the sweetness in your mouth to mush but you nod. The ones who talk to you like a dumb child are better than the ones who talk to you like you are a lunatic. Good behaviour today. You need to be on good behaviour today and pretend you aren't here when you could be at home in your own room where you can request your breakfast however you damn well please. So you swallow the mush in your mouth and smile.
“May I wear my rose day dress?” he likes that dress, likes it on you enough to take care not to rip it. Maybe if you wear it today he might be kind.
“You look well this morning my dear,” he shuts the door as you enter into his office.
“Good morning Doctor,” He looks at you expectantly as you linger, fidgety and flighty. Like that silly bird singing away. “It's my birthday,” you announce, trying to remind him why you are here.
“I am aware,” he smiles at you. Good that's good, hes in a good mood. And not a mean good mood, but a regular good mood. There might be teasing, no there will be teasing but when he's happy it stays above your clothing. Good. “You have a nice attitude this morning, nothing so sullen as you were last night, is there a reason?”
“My father has sent me presents.” The smile starts to hurt your face, he knows why you're here. You aren't a child who's wandered into her fathers office by accident. But that's how he wants you to act, and you know that if you just swallow that pride as much as you can then you can be allowed another visit. And everyone will see that you are well. So you hold the smile, the doctor won't catch you out if you just listen. You cant give him a reason when he spends every day looking for one.
“Mhm, so he has,” he turns to his desk and there you can see them, neatly wrapped in brown paper and string. It's been a while since you had something from home. None of your clothes count anymore, they all smell like the carbolic used in the laundry. You're not allowed your bottle of scent since the time you tried to throw it at his head. You didn't do it, only said you would. Then he wrote that you attempted to drink it, so now you are no longer permitted violet scent until he says so.
“Yes, may I have them now?” the bird keeps singing, waiting for its seed. You'll get to it, but right now you only can focus on this. Waiting for him to decide handing it over is more amusing than holding your wants above your head. But he's the type to play with his hunts,to chase before sinking teeth into flesh.
“Patience, patience.I have a gift for you too,” he holds his hands behind his back and leans over, blocking the sunlight. “Close your eyes and open your mouth,” the panic in you must have been visible because he sighs deeply “do you not trust me? Do as I say pet,” your stomach churns but you open it just enough that the pink of your tongue peeks through.
Soft perfumed sweetness coats your tongue. His fingers linger in your mouth holding the pastile. You could bite down, right now and bite his fingers off. Then he'd never be able to pinch the underside of your arm once more. Or examine your purity as he does. There would be issues though, he would scream and everyone would run in. It would be like the last time someone bit an orderly. Whatever happened to that girl anyway? You weren't friends with her, just as well, you rather like your fingers. The taste of blood however not so much, you could never stomach steak because of that. Besides, ladies don't bite, behaviour of the other patients is to be avoided and not emulated. So you wait for him to pluck his wet fingers out.
“Do you like that?” His voice is husky almost as you suck on the pastile “you told me those were your favourites when I confiscated them. Because only good girls get sweets, but on birthdays I can make a special allowance for my favourite girl. Happy birthday my dear”
“Now what do we say?” His arm wraps around the small of your back and pulls you in. In another life you could close your eyes and pretend this is a waltz. Instead his other hand cradles the back of your head, thumb and forefinger finding the soft spots where the skull hollows. Squeezing enough to remind your manners. There's boxes on his desk, you just want to know what's in them, it's just a bit more, you can smile a bit more
“Thank you Doctor.” You lean up on the tips of your toes and try to kiss in the way he's taught you. Souring that sweetness on your tongue all over again.
Hmm....Old men with repressed grief...and that grief being turned towards an innocent person who happens to look like the dead person...good horror writing, chef's kiss
Great writing piece. I feel bad for the reader because I can kind of see myself in the same predicament because if someone told me that there's gonna be puffins, I'd be there too (joking). But I already knew shit was going to go down when he said he and his "wife" were thinking about having kids. Let me tell you, whether it was intentional or not, my heart sank to the floor when I read that. I audibly said 'fuck no' when I read it. The build up dread in the whole piece was like a slow descent into chaos. The whole time I was
Anyway, the old man survivor is pretty interesting. I like that he came off as just some lonely guy in grief. Probably in his 40's, greying a little bit. Just some old grumpy guy that would tell you that you gotta leave when your leg is healed up but ultimately warms up against you against his will. Except you turned this trope completely on its head, giving the reader a reality check. This is the apocalypse, and in such times, people can go insane from loneliness, and people who lend out an arm, even if they are grumpy, are not always the ones you should trust.
I also like that he's a yandere too, repressed but coming out the more time he spends with reader, and then reveal the true reason he's keeping reader. While I'm not that into the 'yandere is obsessed with character because they resemble their dead lover', you wrote it in such a way that I couldn't stop reading, and the build up was wonderfully done.
What I like most is the implication that this is the start. Wearing his wife's clothes is just the start I believe. Because he speaks to us like we're a second chance, as if his wife came back to him. Eventually, he'll probably cut our hair to look like hers, or make us grow it out. We have to call him by pet names his wife called him, do certain hobbies his wife liked, maybe getting frustrated that we aren't as skilled or don't have such interest. Because that's the truth, isn't it?
We're not his dead wife. No matter how much we (or mostly he) tries, the reader can never be her. No matter how many bruises he gives the reader, how many times he has to drag them back to the house, or how many times he corners the reader to make them behave the way they're supposed to, it's simply not possible. But he can't let them go, can he? Because this is the only shot he has left. It doesn't matter if we don't walk like her, have the same nervous ticks as her. Because we need him in his mind. We can't go, not like his wife. It's like a fucked up coping mechanism, except the coping mechanism happens to look like his dead wife but screams in a different voice even if he tries to smother it.
There's also the intrinsic horror in the story for the reader. Being a drifter meant finding food, water, shelter constantly. All three things the survivor can give them. In a sense, the reader can't run away. Not unless they steal things with them, which would be difficult if not impossibly dangerous with survivor breathing down their neck. So, in a way, he is right, we can't go. Not unless we claw ourself out with blood teeth and nails.
I don't believe survivor loves the reader. At least, not in some genuine sense. He loves them like a bird in a cage. The cage is full of feathers of a different bird and traces of claw marks on the bars. But we're his bird now, and he'll never open that cage ever again, not like last time when he forgot to lock it.
Anyway, did you know that puffins are sometimes called clowns of the sea because of their unique colouring? I believe I too am a puffin, because I forgot to go to bed early and it's 11 pm 🤡 (joking)
- 🦐 Anon.
You know I adore your incredible mind so much.
You get it like he sees reader as this amalgamation of both the child that he could have had AND the wife that he lost. He genuinely believes this to be a second chance from his dead wife. Something that absolves him of her death, a sign that she forgives him.
I like to imagine that reader looks somewhat similar to the wife but it is her mannerisms that's a dead ringer if you pardon the pun. That is what makes her so eerily similar to the dead wife. She acts and holds herself in such a way that's almost identical to the point of liking the same music. Its what steers survivors affection over the edge from somewhat fatherly into obsession. That's a horror for reader , that no matter what she does she's somehow perfectly mimicking a dead woman.
And you are so right about how survivor needs to be needed. He is someone who is so lonely and shut up from the world for so long that the first time he allowed himself to see another person as human he becomes obsessed.
Your comment about not believing he loves the reader is so interesting to me. I never thought of that but I see exactly that standpoint of how alot of it is love for his wife now projected onto her. And he is someone who as I said again needs to be needed. He gets a second chance being able to actually nurse reader with her injuries. He needs someone who's dependant on him completely, something that tethers him back to the world
Radio static- Yandere apocalypse survivor x Fem reader
Contains- infantalisation, age gap, possessive behaviour, imprisonment, obsessive behaviour, violence, death of a spouse
There is now a weeks worth of rations in your bag. if you're lucky, there might be something to scrounge up in the next abandoned town that you come across. You tend to rely on luck most days. Luck that so far you've not had to come across anyone else on your travels.
Travels. What an odd word to describe it, most people, you assume, are barricading themselves fully. Us versus them. You are a drifter if anything, never staying long and always walking north, you had a bike at the start, it was easier to carry things but the more you traveled the less you had anyway. You traded it some weeks back, and stared carrying your wind up radio like a newborn. Sometimes you can get through the crackle and hear the same thing through the waves. Go past the politicians and military men, to find the same voice.
He plays the same songs. One album from start to finish every Sunday at 6pm. Its how you've remembered the days, remembered the time it takes for the crackle to smooth out and the same rhythm coax you to rest.
During the week he does other things. Plays other songs, and sometimes he reads out loud poetry from school anthologies. You find yourself remembering the words as you trudge along. On the rarest occasion he just talks. It was an occasion like that which made you chose to go north, he must have been drunk. You could hear the slur on his breath as you wiggled the knobs carefully underneath your quilt covers. It was different that time, it was just a man and his thoughts. Calm in the quiet night. You already picked up on his accent from the start. Somewhere in the north, a voice deep and calm when he'd read was made crackly when drunk.
Then a comment, that even in this endless winter the puffins still come to the cliffs, and you knew where he was.
It took you two day to gather your things and leave, you stole a map from the back of an old atlas and left under an absent moon . That was a month and a half ago if you've counted right
You run out of food sooner than later. Feel a cough settle in your lungs that doesn't leave after a week. A cough that develops into a fever, but you got to keep going. God knows what happens if you let yourself collapse, you got no weapons or anything of value.
It catches you sooner than later, a stumble downhill in the frosty woods. You missplace your step, trying to steady yourself and are rewarded by the sharp teeth of a bear trap biting through your too big boots. Like an idiot you scream, letting whoever hid that trap in an old fox warren know that you trespassed onto their land. Too weak to try to pry it open yourself you slump onto the cold muck. Feeling your fingers go numb through the gloves.
You must be dying, you think, when a cold voice appears from the sky it seems. You know you're dying when you feel the cold steel of a shotgun press against the back of your head.
"What do you think you're doing on my fucking land stranger?" Funny. In your fevered mind you fancy that you recognise it.
"The broadcaster," you mutter "he said the puffins were going to the cliffs."
The bullet doesn't come, instead the gunman crouches down, closer to your weak voice, his shadow blocking what little light you could make out his features with.
"The broadcaster?"
"Sundays at six pm he plays music. Something old I don't know what its called,"
The man's head tilts at you eyes narrowing as he contemplates to what extent you're really here. You're alone, but that doesn't mean there aren't others lying in wait for him to seem weak.
"And why are you looking for him?"
"I don't know. I wanted to find out what that song is called." You feel yourself begin to drift away in the haze of your fever. The pain of steel teeth embedded into your skin almost lessens as your cheek presses against the dirt and the hood slips down past your head.
"Fuck, but you're burning up," he mutters almost annoyed by the inconvenience of your illness. "dumb kid, hold yourself still." He wraps an arm around your waist lifting you up completely and lying you down on the ground. You can't help but cry out again when he releases the jaws of the trap from your mangled shin. "Hush up, I'm the only one here to hear you." He grabs you up again to fling you over his shoulder, not caring that you've already lost consciousness.
You feel made of lead when you wake up, unable to feel anything neck down. You can't move much either. There's about five duvets ontop of you and that's a conservative estimate made with a head full of cotton wool.
"You're awake then?" When you try to move your head and look at the voice he scoffs "keep resting you nearly killed yourself out there."
"I cant feel anything," you croak, voice hoarse from disuse
"Of course not, If you could feel your leg you'd be screaming your head off and I'd never get any sleep," he turns around to glare at you like its you're fault he chose to save you, but he is still your saviour "I gave you something to take the edge off. Don't worry about it."
"My leg?" You mutter before remembering the trap embedding itself into your bones
"Its healing well. You'll be able to walk with it in a month or so, you spent the better part of this one mostly asleep." As he enters the light you finally get a good look at him. He's tall and strong. Even with a thick jumper on you can tell he has the kind of muscles that can only be gotten from manual labour day in, day out. Nothing gentle about him
"Where am I?" You crane your neck to get a look around the room. Its too domestic for someone like him, like a cottage bedroom from a time before. There's even a cross stitch on the mantlepiece.
"Where do you think? My home, you're in my bed." He says it like he's mad about it, like you're goldilocks having woken up in the bears bed. "I cleaned up your leg, stitched it. It will scar but its nothing worth crying about considering you still have one."
What are you meant to say to that? Thank you? It doesn't seem like the right thing when he just glares at you.
"You came all this way, what was I gonna do?" There doesn't seem any point in reminding him of the gun he had pointed to your head. He sighs and helps lift you, slotting his hands underneath your armpits "there we go kid," the blankets slip from you and you look down to realise that you're not in the same clothes you started in. Rather than the layers on jumpers and long sleeves tucked into two layers of trousers, you're in a nightgown. Cotton jersey, the same thing your mother might have worn.
"It was my wife's, looked like it would fit you, your other clothes have been put away," . He settles on the chair beside the bed looking at you with examining eyes. "I don't know who you think you'd fool, anyone from a mile of could see you're a girl if they saw your face. It means nothing to hide your hair if you couldn't hide that too. Only luck kept you safe if anything. Besides had to change you anyway to tend to that wound." He tacks on the last sentence quick as if you'd accused him of anything inappropriate."
"You have a wife? Where is she?" You feel awkward all of a sudden, wearing another woman's clothes, lying in her bed. The man only stiffens.
"Gone, long long time back now. Before all this," he sighs sending you another look. "Kept everything, was too sentimental I suppose to get rid of anything. Its why I started the radio,"
"That was you!" You try to sit up properly, rather than just lean awkwardly on the pillows but your body doesn't cooperate, sending you back down as soon as you get up.
"Didn't know anyone was listening to me truthfully. I had my own one proper before everything went to shit, was how I meant my wife. When she died I went half crazy. Shut myself up from everything and drink. And every time I drink I tinker with that old radio again."
"And the music?" You ask eyes sparkling, how could you have not put two and two together. Its him, your broadcaster and savior. He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh
"Her favourite album. I guess after everything, I'm just a lonely old man."
Weeks pass in his care; you never get your old clothes back from him. He tells you that they had to be incinerated because of how filthy they were from the outside. That's another thing you learn, that the outside is to be avoided unless necessary. His home is an old farmhouse by the cliffs, with the outside world fenced off from the land that he calls his. The wire would have been electrified once upon a time, but he is not going to waste the generator on that. You try not to think too deeply about the implications of a once-electrified fence. He only leaves for three reasons, to chop wood, to hunt animals and to patrol around the property. It was when he was patrolling that he heard you scream that day. You were a ways away from the fence boundary, but perhaps your scream just carried.
It reminds you of a fort, the way he has everything that he needs all on one property. There's the generator, the cellar with preserves lined up wall to wall. A smattering of animals in a heated barn.The luxury is the greenhouse, you can barely remember that last time you had something fresh. All the meals are far more substantial that you are ever used to, even with his own limitations and rationing in place. He's a good hunter, dragging cuts of meat back to the house most nights. Putting slices of cooked venison on your plate. Urging you to eat more, how are you meant to heal on an empty stomach?
Its oddly domestic the scene. Both of you sat there at the kitchen table like figures in a storybook drawing. Its only recently that you've been able to make it put of bed. hobbling on a crutch he carved for you from bed to the stairs, then you sit down on the stairs and carefully slide down one step at a time until you reach the ground floor. There you pick up your crutch again and use it to haul yourself up without putting weight on the injured leg.
"Dumb kid," he calls out as he sets the table "you're going to get yourself hurt again and what am I going to have to do?" But there's no malice in it. Amusement rather as you hobble to the table. Going upstairs however needs his help each time, leaning on his broad shoulder as you slowly make you're way up. By then the worst part is the exhaustion, its all you can do to let him drag you there into bed and sleep it off.
He gets sentimental when he drinks, which is most nights. After dinner he pours a few drams of something he's been fermenting down in the cellar below, offering none to you. The first time you asked he laughed, "this isn't juice kid," he said like you're a child pestering their dad for a sip. He doesn't tinker with the radio anymore, rather he tells you his own stories. The same slow, enthralling tone that keeps you listening.
"My wife. Her and I were married young, school sweethearts we were . She liked to tinker with things too, would sew her own clothes and do anything to beautify our home. Was her who wanted to live out here to begin with. I just followed along," he smiles, nursing the memory as he pours another glass but then the smile settles "it was a lorry driver that got her, doctors said there was nothing that could have been done. She was a bit older than you then," and as you sit there, wearing a dress taken from a dead woman's chest of drawers and sit in her chair you feel a chill rise over you at the quiet comparison. "Then I became bitter, could see the world was going to shit long before the big winter and martial law made it every man for himself. I didn't see any need to be sharing if it wasn't with her. When I felt lonely there was the radio," he shoots down the rest of his drink before staring you down. "And now there's you, funny that," For a moment you have a vision of him pouncing across the table and ripping your throat out with his teeth. But then you blink again and its the same gruff man. "We always wanted children, not enough time for that, there was never time for anything and now times all we have left," he gets up, looking at you with hooded eyes "now its plenty late, let's get you to bed young lady," any protests that you're not a child die on in your throat as he hauls you up by the waist, rather you squeal like a stuck pig. Drawing a chuckle from him "Relax I'm not going to drop you, you daft girl." Crutch discarded he carries you up to the bedroom, dropping you down on the mattress while drunkenly collapsing beside you as well. Its a more comfortable night's sleep for him rather than you.
You like to look from the bedroom window on the days where he leaves, its not like you can go downstairs without him to help you get back up. With your crutch still forgotten downstairs. You had to hop to the window seat itself once he was gone after breakfast. You don't know if its the toll of him being alone for so many years since even before the world went to shit as he puts it . But something has changed with how he treats you, this morning especially, feeding you himself with knife and fork all with the justification that you 'needed to rest' like you've not been resting since you came here. And for what? What was it that you were looking for? Someone just as lonely as you? Well you found out the hard way.
There's a few figures in the distance. Far past the fence- three you think but you cant make out more than that. One figure stumbling behind the other two. Then a fourth figure. Him, shotgun in hand. Each figure holds up their empty arms, a plea, dont shoot, and him. Your savior shoots anyway. Even from the distance you can see the blood pooling on the snow while he digs in their pockets. You feel your heart in your throat as you remember the feel of cold steel against the back of your head that your fever tried to repress.
"You shot them," you say quietly once he unlocks your bedroom door. When was that locked? "Why did you shoot them?" He looks at you like you've stated the sky is green
"I think you're confused,-" you cut him off
"I saw you, from the window. Why did you shoot them? Were you going to kill me too? What stopped you from shooting me that night?"
"We were having such a nice time kid. Why do you got to ruin it with silly questions? Hmm? You saw nothing today, you are just tired" his voice is colder. As he drops his satchel on the floor with an audible thunk.
"I'm not your kid!" You yell and immediately regret it when he starts laughing, a low tired laugh that bubbles up
"No no, you're not my kid you're right. But I still got to protect you don't I? Made you my responsibility. My second chance." He comes closer to you on the seat, caging you in with nowhere to move free.
"Its my fault, scared her off didn't I. But I've always wanted to keep her safe, its what I was telling her. My dear its not safe out there, you cant trust what other people would do. And she would just tell me I'm paranoid, that I'm wasting my life on making a bunker of a home," eyes frantically wide as he speaks to you like a penitent searching for their crime to be absolved
"It was an accident, I didn't mean it. But she was trying to run out on me, we'd only had a little fight over nothing so of course I went after her. I scared her, she started running away, I started running to," he pauses taking a deep shakey breath "I didn't see the van coming." His hands grip down to your shoulders. Knuckles white as he clenches his grip "it was my fault, my fault if I hadn't left the door unlocked she wouldn't have run from me. We could have talked it out," he shudders against you inhaling a breath of air beside your ear. "But you can't run away from me, you can't even go anywhere without me." Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach as he pulls you close, your head pressed against his chest.
"Its not safe out there, no ones safe, you can't trust anyone out there. But you, you're my chance to make things right. You found me, found my radio, you wanted me. Didn't you? You needed me so much, you still need me, you no where else to go. No one who wants you but me. Just stop asking stupid questions and we can be happy again." He's too close for you to breathe. He doesn't wait for you to respond. Pressing a kiss on your temple that is too fatherly for the words he's saying.
"I'm not her," you protest but that gets swallowed up by his kiss.
"Its okay. That doesn't matter," He coos softly as if you were seeking reassurance "you are so similar that you have no idea, my second chance. She must have known how lonely I was without her all these years and sent you to me."
"You're insane! You kill people. Defenceless people who weren't even on your land!" You panic trying to push him with all your strength and free yourself from his suffocating embrace. "You dress me in your dead wife's clothes, are you going to fuck me like her too-"
His palm cracks against your cheek, too quickly before you realise the smarming humiliating pain. He grabs you by the chin and pulls you up to his face. "Don't be fucking dumb, you can be mouthy and a brat but not dumb. Strangers mean diseases, mean trouble, mean goverment agents or raiders. You are the only chance that I'm taking. It doesn't matter how pretty the rest beg for mercy, they are all going to bleed if I catch them. What do you think happens to pretty girls who find themselves out in the wastes? You should be grateful that I took you in as my own. Rather than being an ungrateful little shit and spitting in my face."
It takes him a moment to calm down, several slow breaths before he looks at you clearly. "I don't like being the kind of man you put hands on what's mine, so dont make me do that again kid."
You nod slowly, still shaking from the impact, you can all but feel the imprint of his palm against your right cheek.
"That's my girl," he mutters as he kisses the injury, stubble scratching the sore skin "Let me play that record you like and we can have a nice dinner."
Dividers @/diviniyae & @/somebitchprobably-graphicdump. Image from Pinterest.
I'm here to humbly request copium in the written word, for my time has come too...
Yours sincerely,
Jules
Beloved of a god- Yandere God x Fem reader
Mu Yang belongs to my delightful moot Jules @fumbledevil please check her page, everything she draws is delectable
Contains dub/non con, period sex, sacrificial marriage, unbalanced power dynamics, threats,
“Wife~” Mu Yang croons from beyond the locked door. The wood creaking underneath his body weight “My my, how brave you've gotten little doe. To think that you could lock a door before your very own lord husband,” his nails creak on the wood “before the god that you were gifted to.”
You wish he would be silent, but he loves to play with his food before he eats, he loves to taunt and toy with whatever holds his attention. Had you the strength to do so you would have barricaded the door yourself, but you are lying there curled up on your diaphanous bed bleeding out onto your bridal hanfu. You've worn the same robes since you arrived here, refusing to change into the never ending silks and brocades that appear within the chests. To do so would be to accept this. To accept your life now as plaything to a fickle god, to appease him for your village's crime of honouring another deity. How petty he is, petty enough to flood the crops and bring famine to the door, petty enough to call for the most valued sacrifice. And what could be more valued than a beloved daughter? Curse your father for letting the whole world know that he valued you more than any son.
“my own bride locking herself within our marital chambers, tut tut. Tell me, is it my attention that you seek? Oh petulant child, do you think that you can play a game like this with me and that I will not bite back? If you do not unlock this door then I fear there will be consequences.” While his voice is still honey smooth, you have known Mu Yang enough to learn his patience doesn't enjoy being tested longer than what is endearing. But every time that you try to move all you are met with is another pulse of pain in your abdomen
You wonder if he watched the entire time as the landlord came to your fathers threshold with his men and dragged you from the kitchen floor. When the village women dressed you, painted you and bound you for delivery to his temple. Like a pig fed before the butcher's knife. That god has untied the ropes, you've sobbed the makeup off. But that silk stayed unmarred. Until now. The bloods come early and what are you to do but hide like the girl who thought she was dying. Your mother took you behind the house in a low whisper to tell you that now you can bear children and that you are to never bleed onto your clothing.
The door creaks heavily, the sound of wood splintering from his side as his patience snaps. It doesn't take long before the handle is ripped completely from the wood. “I see, so my wife wishes to play games with me, how fun. I wonder what would get her to respond to me first, a wildfire burning that pathetic shack to the ground? A visiting army? Perhaps plague that chokes the life out of your useless brats of siblings?” You don't jump when the wood slams open and he slinks forward, suffocating all the air in the room with his anger at you for thinking a flimsy door would stop a god
“Oh?” The vitriol evaporates as he looks at you, curled up like a wounded animal “what do we have here?” He doesn't pounce on you, Mu Yang prefers to circle his prey slowly. “Are you ill? Or?” His eyes, obscured though they might be with talismans, flicker downward. To the hands cradled around your abdomen. Nose wrinkling as he detects the iron in the air “indisposed of a different matter?”
He laughs off your protests, lifting the heavy brocade up to your hips and all but salivating at the sight of blood marbling your thighs. “Are you pained? You keep whimpering as if you are a mewling kitten?” You shake your head but a mean hand presses down harshly on your abdomen leading you to cry out. “Do not lie to me, you are in pain.”
With no pride to hide behind you concede
“Yes, it hurts, please." you whimper hoping that the humiliation would be sustenance enough for the god. You try to clamp your legs shut but the heavy weight of his tail pries them wide open.
“If it hurts then as you so eloquently worded it, let me be the one to relieve your pain.” Two fingers crawl to your entrance, carefully swiping up the warm fresh blood like honey from the spoon. Ruby dark trickling down his fingers as he brings it up to the light before licking it clean himself.
“I should be offended that you thought to hide this from me, my bride. Tell me is it not a husband's duty to keep you well tended? This lord is your divine husband. It's a sinful thing to hide any aspect of yourself from him,” his mouth dives down, latching onto your pulsing opening as you cry out at the suddenness. Amused, the petty god lifts his face back up. “Be thankful for I am a merciful god" he smiles with blood slick lips “let me look after my poor wife.”
Hmmmmm thinking always about cowboys and outlaws and how they just can't help themselves but snatch up a pretty thing quick before anyone else can. Pulling you out behind a barn with a hand clamped over your mouth and a voice that's too soft for the calluses on his palms.
"Hush now, it doesn't have to hurt sweet girl, just let's not rush this. Relax." He puts his hand over your hair like taming a nervous colt "easy there, all you got to do is breathe, if you keep wriggling I'm gonna have to find a way to hold you down. Now you won't enjoy that will you?"
How would yan deadbeat cowboy react to finding reader’s secret stash of money she’s been saving in the hopes of one day getting away from him while he leaves for one of his jobs.
Contains- financial abuse, physical abuse, derogatory insults, he's such an ass
"What's this?" An ignorant person could be forgiving for trusting the sweetness in his mouth, the honey slick words of fake curiosity. But you're not allowed to be ignorant anymore.
He walks into the parlor, holding aloft the soap tin you keep in your bottom drawer. The unmistakable rustle inside not of rose scented soap flakes for the bath, but of paper and coin. Your heart rate spikes but you keep your face still. Predators can smell fear, if he figures that you are scared here then he will figure out there's a bigger reason to be scared.
"You know what it is," You lay down your book, carefully minding the pages
"Don't be smart with me," he places it on the low table. The tin rattling hard from the force of the slam "You must got close to a hundred dollars in there, enough to get yourself far enough away from me."
"Thought yourself clever didn't you? hmm? thinking you can hide yourself a nest egg in with your underthings because I'd be too stupid to check?" His hand closes around your throat not constricting the air, but enough force that he could if you gave him the reason to. "Taking the money I provide for your ungrateful ass to double cross me. You fucking bitch."
"Its my money not yours, mine from the orchards and my fathers investments." That part is the truth, what you got squirrled away is yours and nothing but yours, that man's money is blood money. Money that you pay for with every bruise and bite. "Its there for emergencies. In case you're away and something happens." You don't want to babble. Babbling makes it sound like you have more to say. Please let him believe you. You can only be thankful he didn't find the ledger that hides every sum you've done on how long you'd survive on your savings. A few weeks at most out here.
His grip goes slack before he pulls away. For a moment you can breathe before the hand shoots back up. Grasping at your cheeks and pressing in, smushing the flesh against your teeth.
"I'm going to trust you, but remember that if I come home one day to find this house and that fucking tin empty," you taste blood on your tongue from teeth cutting into the soft flesh of your inner cheek. "I will hunt you down. That is a promise. I will find you no matter where you run off to, and when I do it will be a long fucking time before I trust you enough to leave you standing again."
Its a very odd feeling to find out that my silly little jokey post has been seen and reposted by accounts that I follow, by people who's writing I adore and who are now my mutuals???
Not to mention suddenly being viral in the discourse surrounding yandere writing in general
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
I'm gonna be here on my mean yan agenda, yandere men who speak to you like youre something small that they indulge, more pet than a lover and who they treat as such, something that's a little indulgence to dress up and feed by hand. Something that had hair to brush and tgat can suffice as a sweet little toy to fuck into and make noises with
Just ughhhhhhh oh to have a hand that condescendingly presses on your bottom lips while he asks you if you really know what's best for yourself, dont be silly
hey haze this might be a stupid question but how does the soap torture thingy you use in your fics work
I saw it in your aide and the new doctor fic too and I also searched for it in google but I didn't get it that much
sorry if this is a stupid question 😭
No worries
So washing mouths out with soap is an old school punishment for children who swear, but was also used in prisons and often against grown women too. Mainly to be unpleasant and humiliating.
Washing out the mouth with soap - Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washing_out_the_mouth_with_soap
HYACINTH *Dracula pointing meme* YOU DID IT AGAIN. You dragged me out of my room while I am coping with my uni work and dropped this gem of a fic in my hands and expect me to be normal about it.
PSYCHIATRIST. THE BASTARD.
Now listen, I know it's gonna be tedious right now to say I hate the character as a person but love them as a character writing wise, but I do feel the same about him. Maybe not as strongly as Concubine because you may know how I feel him but my feelings about Psychiatrist stem from my hyperfixation of Victorian history as well as mental health treatment during that era. So when I read about Psychiatrist, boy do my feelings about him start becoming rotten with my knowledge about this part of history.
First, I love the writing in that piece, btw. I absolutely adore the back and forth between clinical notes that seem normal and well adjusted contrasted to the fucked up nature of the Psychiatrist fixation of the reader. Because that is how he shows himself to people, doesn't he?
The normal Doctor. The kind doctor, the doctor that would affirm you and soothe your fears. The Doctor you'd look for when things go wrong, the one you go to who'd assure you that all of your fears won't happened. That he'd ensure that whatever ails you
But then he slips his hand under your dress, whispering through heavy breaths to just be still, to just be quiet because he just wants to help you, right? Just to see how you squirm, just to see your face flushed as he grins a little too widely. All so in control, despite what he's doing.
Then it all goes back to normal. He treats you the same gentle manner as the sane doctor, tucking your hair behind your ear as you feed his parakeet, asking you if you feel better today then last night, asking if you feel less anxious with the treatment he gave you. The entire thing feels like a fever dream, but the closeness of him as he watches you slip your finger over the softness of the bird's feather, looking too closely, smiling not as a doctor pleased with a patient progress. That's the only thing that makes one certain that the dream was a nightmare come to life.
If reader's parent are convinced by reader's silence and 'calmness', he would no doubt try to trap her, maybe even sweeten his words to her parents that she had a violent outburst the night before their visit, and that he just wants to have her under treatment just a little more, just to be on the safe side.
I have no doubt that he's the kind that would marry his patient, should things really get that desperate, because the law that prohibited it only was inacted in 1989. It would be a fantastic story to those who are none the wiser. A doctor who healed a patient, fell in love with who she is when she was """"cured"""", and would continue to have her under his thumb care.
Tldr; Two Face ass doctor, I'm putting Laxatives in his lunch the moment he leaves it alone.
- 🦐 Anon
SHRIMPYYYY
Thank you for your amazing words, with him it was basically all inspired by my current research for my dissertation actually! And you are so right that his eventual goal would be to have reader be considered "well enough" to not be institutionalised but still sick enough to need lifelong care from her devoted doctor husband. It actually was a common trope in Victorian novels!
He is manipulative to his core and knows how to push reader to have a public outburst so that there would be witnesses to her unstable behaviour, witnesses that vouch for him as a good doctor. Especially if she was to ever accuse him of improper behaviour.
I'm so glad to hear you gush about my characters every time you're in my inbox!
The rest cure - Yandere Victorian psychiatrist X Fem reader
Contains- forced institutionalisation, medical gaslighting, non consensual touching, infantalisation, unbalanced power dynamics, doctor/patient
The doctor is a kind man, always kind and firm like he is talking to a child. That is how he describes you, over your head as you sit in your armchair during visiting hours, eyes on the floor. You don't look up, up at their faces in case they changed suddenly from how you remembered. Instead you hold your embroidery tightly.
"As docile and soft like a child, she is responding very well to her stay here. I have seen a marked improvement since she first joined us."
You wore a blue day dress and bonnet when you first came here. Flanked on either side by your father and brother to keep you from running back to the carriage. When the door was shut behind you in the room you were a wild thing. Screaming obscenities that would have your mild mannered mother wash your mouth out with carbolic. Hurling the few objects decorating the room at the door and walls. Pulling out your hair and smacking your head with your hands at first before moving on to hitting your head against the wall. Then he came into the room as though you, in your torn dress with your hair half loose, were a regular debutaunt. Asking you whatever was the matter? With those kind eyes of his. And you in all your bewildered exhaustion just sobbed out that your betrothed ran away to elope with your cousin.
"No no there was no need for anything drastic, soft restraints if anything but that was on the occasion her episodes were too much and she was at risk of hurting herself or others. But after a sedative she always calmed down easily. Most days she is able to be without such restrictions."
A hand atop your mouth pressing the sweet cloth to your nose and the other cradling the back of your head, rocking you to sleep as you tried to fight back. They weren't all violent. Sometimes you'd shriek like a banshee convinced something was after you, others you would withdraw for days not eating or speaking, or you'd be found barefoot in the chapel convinced that if you were to stop praying you'd die then and there. Mostly however, you were a ghost, exhausted and sullen. Holding conversation but never interested in existing there.
"Now now I don't think it would be best for her to return home just yet- I do understand that you are her father sir, but I am the doctor who you chose to take care of her. And I do so as if she is my own daughter, which is why I must insist that she is to stay at the asylum until she is completely stable. Returning home too early will no doubt lead to another nervous breakdown once more."
Hands. Hands. Hands. A thumb resting on the swell of your bottom lip. His girl. He calls you his girl when it's the two of you. His girl who he won't ever abandon to the cruel outside world. A world that you're far too weak and fragile for, one which will only break you further. Can't you see how embarrassing it is to have someone like you blighting your family tree. No upstanding young man would wish to marry a madwoman, lest her madness infect his children. It was a silly thing that caused all this fuss wasn't it? You were so perfect for everyone weren't you? Smiling and sweet but that wasn't enough, the shame of being jilted made you do such foolish things did it not? Perhaps he ran because he could see it in you first before everyone else could? Come now there's no need to rage, let the doctor soothe you until you exhaust yourself out.
"She does take care of her room- Ah no sir she's never alone completely there's always a nurse or alienist such as myself checking in on her. I have found while we can trust her to not be a danger to herself she often becomes highly anxious when alone and that of course is best to be avoided. But yes she has responsibilities that we trust her with, and when she completes them we do reward her with a return of certain privileges. There was an incident a fortnight back where she riled up many of the other women but that is long forgotten now."
Other places are worse. It shows that your parents still love you because they pay to keep you here, in the countryside hospital. They tell their friends thst you've gone to stay with a maiden aunt. Or is it a sanitorium for your weak health. Either way everyone pretends that you're not in the madhouse. The doctor doesn't like it when you call it that. Especially in that sing-song repetition you led the other women in one lunchtime just to spite him like the little vixen you are. He brought the restraints that time. Scrubbed the dirty words clean from your mouth until you vomited the carbolic for good measure after he threw you over his knee. The nurses never looked under your drawers to find the dark violet and chartreuse hand prints. Nor does anyone but you and him know exactly how it burnt with cruel humiliation when he had his fingers knuckle deep in you, slipping in while you were still smarming from pain. He only grabbed the soap when you screamed again. Calling him such dirty names that a young lady like you should never call a man.
"Back to discussing her progress. We've made steps in the right direction, I've found it's good for her as it is for all women to have something to look after. It awakens the maternal instinct in hysteric patients I find. Her case is interesting yes as she is not a complete hysteric you are correct sir. But she does have episodes where she presents with often the exact same symptoms as most typical hysterics have, the only irregularity is that once her episodes end she presents as a typical neurasthenic. She lashes out then returns to utter mental and emotional exhaustion as if nothing occurred. It is an odd one certainly that seems to trigger breakdowns completely sporadically."
He keeps a bird cage in the office, the parakeet chirping it's own little melody. He calls you his bird, his little finch. It's your duty to clean the cage and feed the bird. Everyone has their chores to do, keep their minds and hands too busy to claw at itself. You're always alone in the office with him, morning and evening coming in to feed the creature once you yourself ate. Once you summoned up enough courage to ask if you could move the cage into your own room, to tend to the bird easier. He only smiled, a hand at the small of your back as he told you that he needed to ensure you were supervised in case anything were to happen. Why, did you wish to no longer have your little meetings with him? Had he upset you somehow? He only wants what's best for you, you're not like the other patients, you need a different hand when it comes to taking care of you. And it has to be his hand.
"Coming forward I think that the progress we are making is steady, madness can often be a lifelong struggle but in time we will be able to make sure that she is easier. So hopefully in the future she may be able to stay at home and have visits from me occasionally rather than stay here. Of course that is a long ways off but it is the goal we aspire to with all our residents. Until then I think it's best to keep the current course of treatment."
Oh. The needle has slipped, hanging halfway out your thumb. Nobody has noticed. You almost want to press it in again but then everyone will see and you'll lose your visitor privileges again. You need them to see you, your mother and father to look at you and smile like you're cured. So you can come home where you wouldn't be tended to by a doctor who enjoys to make you squeal like a mouse in his grip. It will all be better once you're cured. And if you say anything about him, about his hands under your chemise during private treatments, about him coaxing you to be good for him when he locks the office door. If you say anything about that then they will all think you've gone worse. He's told you what people do to girls who get worse.
hi haze so i have a question but it's not necessary to push yourself and give me an answer
you can just ignore me and I wish you good luck on your college work hehe
anyway I was wondering what is all of your reader characters personality looks like
I heard about miss green sleeves on your other ask but not about others although they have a hint but Im very curious about them
everytime I read them it's not the same old boring reader getting thrown in the fics with no personality
I love how they are someone with thier own ways of thinking
it's wonderful to me how you gave them soul
Awww thank you so much anonie. I really do adore when people pick up on things in my writing that I try really hard to come across. In general I like my focus to he on the reader and their inner thoughts of everything surrounding them, especially the dissonance almost of being torn between hating all that the yan has done to them, while wanting so hard to just accept what good there is.
I think lady greensleeves was one of my favourite personalities to write, she's like very much the opposite of a typical y/n darling. She's mean, spoilt and selfish. She doesn't care about the consequences of her actions and it was so fun to write her. I think she's unique from my other readers for that, which might be why she's a bit less popular lol.
In general I do also like writing relatively naive readers because of then it is fun to contrast that with our already impending doom knowing that this will not work out for the reader, but she doesn't know any better than to trust someone who seems so kind and loving. Or contrasting this with writing a reader who's naivety has already been shattered, someone who knows now exactly where she is and that she cannot do anything about it accept just try to bury herself
Deadbeat cowboys reader is more resigned than anything. When writing her I pictured her as someone who's personality has already been worn down by the wild West and the hardship of it. She is an only child who maintains her dead parents homestead and orchard as best she can on her own. She's wealthy enough but refuses to leave because this is all she has left of her family. Which is why she just accepts everything done to her by the cowboy. She will not leave this home even though it's full of the memories of his violence against her. While cowboy is in his early twenties I picture her being in her mid twenties just a few years older than him.
Hunters reader I try to make her come across as having undiagnosed depression. I imagine that story taking place in the early 70s as well fun fact. But she disassociates as much as she can and shuts the world around her out to cope with everything. I imagine her as a runaway who left her very abusive and traditional home and excitedly fell for the first man to give her a smile. Deciding to go with him without understanding the consequences.
