One of those who dream as French, drink PSLs, and post inspirational quotes. Or just someone who couldn’t resist mixing Parisian with a word learned from an old Britcom.
The sound of bone breaking had been so sharp, like a violin string snapping in the silence of a hall. Your scream rose with it, jagged and raw, but Xavier had only tightened his grip, his face wet with tears.
“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your hair even as you shook under him. “I’ll fix it. You’ll see. I’ll fix everything.”
But he didn’t fix. He ruined.
Your legs folded in wrong angles now, twisted beneath you like broken wings. He carried you after that — everywhere. To the garden, to the table, to the bed. His arms were both cradle and cage.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured every night, kissing the scars where your bones had betrayed you. “You don’t have to run anymore. You don’t have to leave me. We’re one body now — I’ll be your legs.”
And when you cried, he kissed the tears from your cheeks, tasting salt and despair as though it were communion wine.
⤷ ♡ RAFAYEL :
Jealousy came on him like fever.
The room smelled of roses, sweet and suffocating, and Rafayel’s hands trembled as he pressed you against the wall. His knife glinted under the light, not elegant in that moment, but desperate, sharp as his breath.
“You smiled at him,” he hissed, voice breaking. “You let him have what’s mine.”
You begged, voice shattering in the air, but he didn’t hear. Or maybe he didn’t want to. His hand pressed flat against your chest, over your heartbeat, and with the other he carved.
Letters.
Crooked, jagged letters.
His name.
R A F A Y E L
Blood welled up like crushed berries, staining his fingers. Your body convulsed, but his face… his face was serene. Almost holy.
When he finished, he pressed his lips to the wound, kissing each letter as though sanctifying it, painting his devotion into your skin.
“Now you’ll never forget,” he whispered, voice shaking with a manic kind of joy. “Even if you try to leave me, even if you look at another man, they’ll see. They’ll all see. You belong to me. Forever.”
⤷ ♡ ZAYNE :
tw. lobotomy
It wasn’t violence in the way you expected.
It was tenderness. It was surgical. It was quiet.
The smell of antiseptic lingered in the room, sharp enough to burn your throat. You were strapped to the chair, wrists raw against leather cuffs, while Zayne stood over you with calm, detached precision. His eyes were full of something worse than rage — conviction.
“You think too much,” he murmured, brushing your hair back, his hand shaking with gentleness. “All that doubt… all that fear. I can take it away. I can give you peace.”
The drill whined. The sound was insectile, gnawing at your skull before it even touched you. And when it did — oh, when it did — your vision split in lightning. Pain screamed through bone and blood, your body thrashing against its own prison.
But Zayne only shushed you, whispering like a lover.
“You’ll thank me,” he said, tears streaking his cheeks as bone dust speckled his gloves. “You’ll be happy. You’ll love me without fear, without hate. Just love. Only love.”
And when the world dimmed, when pieces of you were hollowed out, you felt him press a kiss to your temple, his lips wet with blood and devotion.
“I’ve freed you,” he whispered. “Now you’re mine completely.”
⤷ ♡ SYLUS :
He didn’t hurt you directly. Not at first.
He hurt everyone around you.
It began with whispers — small rumors at first, thin and weightless, like the fluttering of moth wings. But when you woke the next morning, your friend was gone. Their apartment ransacked, no sign of struggle, nothing but an empty room and the smell of blood that lingered in the walls.
You tried to scream, tried to run, but each time you reached out for someone, they were taken. Your family. Your friends. One by one. The world began to shrink — empty. Hollow.
Sylus watched, always from a distance. His eyes never wavered. He knew. He always knew. And when your last remaining ties to the world were cut — when there was no one left but him — he came to you.
He wrapped you in his arms like a shroud. You could feel his smile against your neck, feel his breath in your hair, and you knew. This is love. This is devotion.
“I’ve made you mine,” he whispered in your ear, his voice a purr of satisfaction. “No one can take you from me. Not even you.”
You couldn’t run. There was no one left to run to. He had erased every trace of your old life. And now, you were his, body and soul.
“You’ll see,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the scars where your heart had once beat for others. “Without them, you’ll have no choice but to love me.”
⤷ ♡ CALEB :
The cage was too beautiful to be a cage.
The velvet-lined walls were soft, the plushies scattered around like a child's dream, the delicate scent of lavender and rosewater filling the air. The cage wasn’t a cage. Not really. It was a sanctuary. Caleb had made sure of that.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Pipsqueak?” he asked, his voice soft and low, like he was whispering to a pet. His smile was warm, so warm, as he placed the last stuffed bunny beside you. “I’ve made it just for you. You’ll be safe here.”
It felt wrong. The plushies. The flowers. The golden bars that were somehow still just bars — no matter how gilded they were. Caleb’s hands were always gentle, always careful. He fed you, bathed you, brushed your hair, and held you when you cried. He was perfect. So perfect.
But it never stopped.
Every action, every smile, was a reminder that he never really cared about what you wanted.
You hated the cage. You hated the feeling of being kept. But every time you tried to pull away, Caleb only kissed your forehead, wiped away your tears, and held you closer. His fingers slid into your hair, threading through with a softness that made your skin crawl.
“Shh, don’t be scared,” he whispered as he stroked your cheek. “I only want what’s best for you. I’m giving you everything you need.”
But you didn’t need this. You didn’t need him. The world outside, the life you had before — it was all gone. Nothing was left but the plush walls and Caleb’s soft, gentle hand, pulling you deeper into the trap of his love.
It wasn’t love.
It was control.
And you were trapped.
do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms. thank you for reading :)
[tumblr is mean to me, so i hope this goes through!]
how would the yandere boys react to the reader throwing a tantrum over the littlest thing? like not finding him in bed when she wakes up etc? would they be at least a little proud that she's finally acting how they conditioned her to?
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, just bratty spoilt reader and very indulgent men…istg that’s all i ever write, very stockholm syndromed reader, infantilisation?
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’ve adapted a little too well to this lifestyle
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Rafayel doesn’t even flinch when he hears you shriek from the bedroom like an angry little princess who woke up in the wrong palace.
“Rafaaaayel!!”
Your voice is warbling with complaint, still thick with sleep, pout in full effect. You’re stomping out of the bedroom, fluffy pink slippers on the wrong feet, dragging your baby pink satin robe behind you. He hears your sniffle before he even turns around from the estate’s sunroom couch—where he’d gone for five minutes to take a call.
You’re standing there, arms crossed, lower lip trembling. “You weren’t in bed,” you accuse, as if he’d committed war. “I woke up and it was cold and I thought you left me and I was gonna cry and then I did cry a little and—and—and you weren’t there!”
He sets his teacup down slowly, like he’s savoring the moment.
Because this? This is perfect.
The clinginess. The dramatics. The dependency.
You used to be quiet. Distant. Always second-guessing his affection.
Now you’re bratting out because you woke up without your human cooler husband beside you.
Rafayel smiles like a man who’s just found the rarest pearl in the sea.
“Oh noooo,” he croons, rising dramatically. “Poor little pearlie woke up all alone and cold and unloved?” He’s immediately in front of you, cooing and wiping fake tears that don’t even exist. “You must’ve had the worst, most tragic five minutes of your life.”
“I did,” you sniff, shoving your face into his chest. “I hate when I wake up without you. I hate it. I thought you left me forever.”
He laughs, soft but low, and cups the back of your head with one hand, the other stroking your waist possessively. “You’re so dramatic now. So loud. So sensitive. So dependent. So cute,” he whispers, voice like silk as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “You never used to act like this, remember?”
He pulls back to stare into your teary eyes, delighted.
“But now look at you. Crying because I left the bed. Pouting until I come running. Can’t even sleep without me.” His tone is so proud, like a sculptor admiring his best statue. “You’ve become so spoiled, my precious little housewife. My dream girl.”
You rub at your eyes, whimpering. “You’re making fun of me…”
“Nooo, baby. Never.” He’s already leading you back to bed like a royal procession. “I love it. I made you like this, remember? I taught you that I’m all you need.”
He tucks you in like a fussy little doll, crawling in beside you.
And once you’re clinging again, sniffling and pressing kisses to his collarbone like he was gone for years?
He can’t help it—he laughs again, brushing his thumb over your lower lip.
“You’re the most precious little monster I’ve ever created.”
And he wouldn’t change a single bratty whimper of it.
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
Zayne is calmly pouring your juice into a crystal glass like the morning is going perfectly.
It is not going perfectly.
Not if you ask you.
You’re sitting at the kitchen island in your pastel pink nightgown, face scrunched up, arms crossed, and a single vitamin pill placed mockingly on a porcelain dish in front of you like it just insulted your mother.
“No,” you whisper sharply, eyes glassy with emotion. “I don’t want it.”
Zayne lifts a brow, unbothered. “You say that every morning.”
“Because it’s bitter and gross and I hate it!” Your voice rises into a high-pitched whine. “And I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!”
Your lips wobbling as you glare at the single harmless supplement like it’s a punishment from hell.
He walks over slowly, setting the juice beside you.
Then calmly presses a hand to your cheek and looks at you like you’re the most delightful little disaster he’s ever seen.
“You’re going to cry over this again?” he asks softly.
Your voice breaks into a squeaky sob. “Yes! You’re ruining my morning!”
“Oh, sweetheart…” Zayne huffs a short laugh, brushing your hair back. “I’ve created a monster.”
You throw yourself dramatically into his chest, sniffing and clinging to him like he just tried to feed you poison. “I hate being healthy! I wanna be irresponsible!” you wail.
“You are spoiled and soft. And you are irresponsible,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “That’s why I have to be responsible. Because you won’t.”
You sob harder. “That’s not fair. I don’t like this version of you.”
He tilts your chin up with two fingers, a sharp smirk hidden beneath the soft warmth of his hazel eyes. “What version is that, darling?”
You hiccup. “The mean doctor version that makes me take my vitamins.”
He chuckles under his breath, resting his forehead against yours. “You mean the version that pampers you, buys you an entire gala wardrobe, and funds your popmart addiction?”
You pout harder. “Yeah.”
Zayne picks up the vitamin and holds it to your lips with quiet finality.
“You’re so well-trained now,” he whispers. “You cry and scream and stomp—but you still take the vitamin.”
You don’t want to.
But his voice is so gentle and so patient, and his hand on your thigh is slowly stroking circles, grounding you in all the love and indulgence he always drowns you in.
With a dramatic sob, you open your mouth.
He feeds it to you with all the smug satisfaction of a man who’s absolutely winning.
“There’s my good girl,” he praises softly, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Throw all the tantrums you want, sweetheart. I love you like this.”
He means it.
You used to be strong. Aloof. Cold.
Now you’re sobbing over vitamins in his arms like a helpless little princess. Exactly how he wanted.
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
The first sound Xavier hears when he unlocks the penthouse door isn’t the hum of the air system or the city skyline beyond the glass—
it’s you.
A sharp little whimper from down the hall, followed by the telltale stomp of bare feet on marble.
He’s barely taken off his gloves before you appear in the doorway, silk robe sliding off one shoulder, hair fluffy from sleep, eyes glossy and furious.
“Where were you?”
Your voice trembles. You look like you’ve been pacing. “You left me all alone.”
He blinks once, head tilting slightly, silver hair glinting in the low light. “I told you I was going to check for the new cereal, sweetheart. I was gone for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes is forever!” you cry, throwing your hands up. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye, Xavier! I woke up and the bed was cold! I thought— I thought you were gone!”
There it is again. That sweet, spoiled panic.
The kind he’s been carefully teaching into you for months—
that trembling dependency that makes you clutch him like he’s your lifeline.
He hides his smile as he steps closer, voice calm and velvety. “You thought I’d leave you?”
“Yes!” you burst out, tears starting to spill. “You didn’t even answer when I called you! I hate it! I hate when you’re not there!”
He catches your chin gently between his gloved fingers. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs. “Look at you, darling. Worked yourself up over me not being in the next room.”
“I don’t care!” you huff, stamping your foot. “You’re supposed to stay with me all morning. You promised!”
He exhales through his nose, amused. “You’ve become such a handful,” he says softly, brushing a tear away with his thumb. “My sweet little troublemaker.”
Then, lowering his head, he presses a kiss to your forehead.
Once, twice—slow, deliberate.
“I used to have to remind you to call me by name,” he murmurs against your skin. “Now you can’t go ten minutes without crying for me.”
You glare weakly at him, bottom lip wobbling. “Because you made me like this.”
“Mm.” He hums approvingly, voice low. “Yes. I did.”
He scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you back toward the bedroom like a fragile treasure. “And I’m proud of you for it.”
“Proud?” you echo, still half sniffling into his shoulder.
“Of course.” He sets you on the bed and tucks the blanket around you with exaggerated care. “You used to be distant. Stubborn. Now you’re exactly how I wanted you—soft, dependent, spoiled, emotional.”
He leans over, his silver hair falling around you like mist. “My perfect little housewife.”
You whine softly, curling into his chest as he climbs in beside you. “You’re so mean.”
He smiles faintly, kissing your temple. “I know. But you like me mean.”
He strokes your back lazily, voice barely above a whisper.
“Next time, if you wake up and I’m gone for a few minutes…”
He pauses, brushing his lips over your ear.
“…you’ll wait patiently for me like a good girl, won’t you?”
You pout, but nod anyway. “Maybe.”
He chuckles quietly, content. “That’s my spoiled little bunny.”
And when you fall asleep tucked under his arm, still sniffling faintly, Xavier just watches—utterly serene, as if he’s admiring his favorite work of art.
The little housewife he’s conditioned so carefully—who now cries if he leaves the bed.
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
The sound of your voice hits him before he even opens the door to the safe house.
Shrill, dramatic, and adorably furious.
“SYLUS!”
He doesn’t rush. He never does. Sylus Qin never rushes. He takes his time sliding off his gloves, loosening his tie, letting your angry little footsteps echo across the marble until you finally appear—storming toward him like a pink satin thundercloud.
“You left without saying anything!” you cry, pointing at him accusingly, eyes glossy with frustrated tears. “You just disappeared! I woke up and you weren’t there and I called your name and nobody answered—”
He hums, unbothered, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. “I had a meeting, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“I did.” He tilts his head slightly, the faintest curve of a smirk on his lips. “You just weren’t listening because you were too busy demanding I brush your hair before bed.”
Your jaw drops. “That’s not true!”
He arches a brow. “No?”
You stomp your foot—actually stomp it, silk robe swishing dramatically. “You always do that! You make fun of me!”
“And you make it so easy,” he murmurs, unhurriedly walking past you into the kitchen. “Do you know how many grown women throw tantrums before breakfast because their husband wasn’t there when they woke up?”
You cross your arms, pouting, voice cracking. “You’re so mean to me.”
He pours himself a glass of water, takes a slow sip, and then glances over his shoulder—eyes gleaming that sharp crimson that always makes you shiver.
“I’m the one who made you like this,” he says simply. “So if you’re going to cry, at least cry prettily for me.”
That shuts you up for a second. You stand there, trembling, lip wobbling—half mortified, half desperate for him to come closer.
And he does.
He sets the glass down, crossing the distance until you’re trapped between the counter and his chest. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with lazy affection.
“You were so quiet when I first brought you here,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous calm. “Didn’t talk back. Didn’t pout. Didn’t throw fits. Always careful, always polite.”
His thumb drags over your lower lip. “Now look at you. Throwing tantrums because I missed your morning cuddle.”
You glare weakly. “Because you promised you wouldn’t go without waking me.”
“And you promised to behave,” he teases, leaning closer. “Yet here you are—pouting, stomping, crying, and still expecting me to spoil you.”
“Maybe I should stop,” he muses, voice like silk and smoke.
Your eyes widen instantly. “No! Don’t—”
He chuckles. There it is—the instant panic, the grab for his sleeve. The conditioning runs deep.
“Good girl,” he whispers, dragging a finger down your throat until it rests against your collarbone. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”
You’re still pouting, but he can see the soft tremble in your lashes—the way you melt into him the moment he strokes your hair.
Sylus smirks, kissing the top of your head. “You can scream at me, baby. You can cry, you can throw your tantrums. I don’t mind.”
He tilts your chin up, pressing a slow kiss to your lips, just to hush the last of your whines.
“It means I’ve done my job well.”
You blink up at him, confused. “Your job?”
He smiles against your mouth. “Turning a strong little huntress into my spoiled, helpless housewife.”
And when you mumble something about still being mad at him, he just laughs quietly, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing.
“Then you can be mad in bed,” he says, carrying you back toward the bedroom with a smirk. “Where you belong.”
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
The first sign that something is off is the silence.
Too still. Too quiet.
In this house, silence usually means his wife is plotting something.
When Caleb finally steps into the kitchen, there you are—standing at the marble island, robe slipping off your shoulder, messy morning hair haloing your pouty face. The breakfast tray he made you—cut fruit, pancakes shaped like stars, a perfect cup of tea—sits untouched.
He can tell by the stubborn set of your jaw that he’s about to be entertained.
“You didn’t bring me breakfast in bed,” you accuse, voice small but furious. “You always bring me breakfast in bed.”
Caleb raises a brow, leaning against the counter, perfectly calm. “You were already awake, sweetheart.”
“That’s not the point,” you huff, arms crossing. “You were supposed to wake me up with kisses and tell me good morning like you always do.”
He hums, fighting a smirk. “I see.”
“You don’t see anything!” you snap, eyes shining. “You’re mean today! You didn’t even cuddle me when I woke up and I called you twice and you didn’t answer, and now you’re just—standing there—like it’s my fault!”
The colonel, who once commanded entire fleets, now faces his fiercest opponent: you, in silk pajamas, with bed hair and watery eyes.
He should be annoyed.
But he isn’t.
He’s… pleased. Thrilled, even.
This—this emotional, dependent, spoiled little creature—is the proof of how well he’s trained you. The strong, stoic girl he once knew is gone. You’ve become his pampered wife, addicted to his attention, furious when deprived of it.
Caleb sighs softly and walks closer until he’s towering over you. “You’re upset because I didn’t bring breakfast to bed?”
“Yes!” you snap, then falter when his purple eyes narrow ever so slightly. “I—I just… I like it when you do.”
He presses his thumb to your lower lip, tracing the edge of your pout. “You’re so dramatic lately,” he murmurs, voice deep, almost amused. “You’ve become such a little brat.”
You blink up at him. “You made me one.”
“Mm.” His hand cups your jaw, his tone dark with satisfaction. “I know.”
You gasp when he suddenly picks you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing—and sets you on the counter beside the untouched tray. “If you want breakfast in bed so badly,” he says quietly, “then we’ll do it properly.”
He takes the teacup, blows on it, and holds it to your lips. “Sip.”
You do, eyes downcast, cheeks hot with embarrassment and relief.
“There we go,” he says softly.
Your voice cracks. “You’re not mad?”
He smiles faintly—warm, slow, possessive. “Mad? No. I like when you’re like this.”
“You do?” you whisper.
“Of course.” His thumb slides along your cheekbone. “It means you need me. It means you remember who takes care of you.”
He kisses your temple, lingering there until your breathing steadies. “Next time, if you wake up alone, you can come find me instead of crying, hmm?”
You nod, murmuring a soft “yes, Caleb.”
He smirks, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”
And when he carries you back to bed, the breakfast tray balanced in one hand and you tucked against his chest, you cling tighter—half in apology, half in habit.
MDNI - just filth for my colonel, oral (m receiving) Caleb being a freak <3
"Good girl," Caleb breathes those words out, and you're eating them up. He was fucking furious earlier when he got back from his mission with the fleet, and your neighbor was just helpfully fixing something for you.
It had been two weeks since you got to even hear from him, but the poor guy is quickly shoved out of your apartment, and that door is locked shut. You'd tentatively said his name when he'd turned and looked at you, walking up ever so slowly, heels clicking on the floor, echoing in your living room.
That's when he'd sat right on your couch, thighs spread and ordered softly - on your knees.
Now with his head falling back as you suck him down your throat, uniform still on, only his slacks unzipped enough. His leather gloved hands press your head down, moaning, lashes fluttering shut. "Take me, that's it, so good, ah but you can take more, hmm?"
Tears streaming down your cheeks, you suck more of his cock in your throat, tip slipping past your uvula and gliding on the roof of your mouth. You're sniffling, throat burning as he fucks up into it, over and over, hat falling just a bit.
"Eyes on me," he commands, you raise them, pulling up and swirling your tongue on his fat cockhead, drooling white mixing with the pretty pink blush of it. "That's it, let me look at you."
He brushes your hair back, veiny cock leaking and dripping with his pearly pre and your spit. Violet eyes glow dark, his pupils blown out, putting his gloves hand, soft leather on your lips.
"Ah, you want them off?" You nod, and he smirks. "Then take them off, pips."
You bite them slowly, revealing his rough hands, the sound of fabric falling just making you wetter, pressing your thighs together, needy for him, for more. The pad of his thumb brushes over your swollen lips, cock leaking more and more pre that still is coating your tongue, pulsing visible.
"Are you done being disrespectful, or do I need to fuck your throat so hard you can't talk?" You gasp then, biting down on your trembling lip. "Answer your colonel. Now."
"I'll be a good girl, promise," you whisper, he smiles, brushing your hair back softly.
"I'm proud of you," fuck you're done for, his words and his cock brushing your lips making you tremble. "C'mere, get on top of me."
You do just that, shaky and breathless, thighs on either side of Caleb in his uniform, his cock hot and heavy, he reaches down to find your cunt then, moaning. "Mnh!"
"No panties? Never mind, you're such a bad girl, tsk," your eyes roll back when he sinks two fingers in your soppy hole, gripping him so tightly, he can't wait to fucking be buried in you. "Where's that spot, hmm? Oh, it's right here."
The sounds of your squelching cunt on Caleb's fingers are filthy, you're shaking and rolling your hips, earning his moan as he bites your shoulder where your sweater has fallen off. One hand gripping your tit, the other stuffed in your hole. It's messy and drooling, coating his calloused fingers, slipping down his wrist cuffs.
"Messy girl, aren't you? Did you miss me, hmm? Then say it." His voice is husky, deep, curling his fingers and hitting your spot as your nails press in, pleasure and need shooting through you.
"I m-missed you, missed your fingers, mmm," you're kissing him now, he tastes his own cum off your lips, that hand entangling and pulling your hair, his fingers pulling back, sucking you off them. Your heart pounds at the filthy action, his eyes fluttering shit. "Caleb..."
"Mmm, so sweet," his tongue slips between two thick fingers, leaning back against the couch, his jacket falling open. "Show me just how much you missed me."
You're sinking down on his thick cock, hearing his whimpers in your ear, cunt spasming and drooling, as you take him inch by inch. So many, so deep inside your hole, he tugs up your skirt to see his cock bulging in your tummy, his eyes black when they stare back up at you, a mean smirk on his face.
"That's it, look how I fill you, no one else ever will, huh? Ever?"
"N-never..."
"Never gonna even let anyone look at you again, hah," he slams you down fully, bottoming out, your head falls back only for him to grip your chin. "Keep your eyes on me, only me. Let me see you ride your colonel, do a good job, hmm? Make me proud of you."
****
if he could stop fking my brain up that'd be great <3
idk if u already got a similar idea in asks or not but i saw some headlock discourse here on ladsblr and i can’t get it out of my head.
like asking zayne to squeeze your face with his arm n put u in a headlock. either during sex or not. what do u think his reaction would be?? 😭
unimpressed or secretly flattered or amused but not that crazy about the idea orrrrr
i was going to answer this normally and then i got possessed
You're on your hands and knees, though you're barely able to keep yourself up through the haze of pleasure. It just feels too good, so good in fact that all you can do is gasp his name and whine in pleasure.
Zayne's hands slip from your waist, sliding up your body as he presses himself into you and plants his hands by your head. Your back arches underneath him, desperate to keep him hitting as deep as possible.
"O-oh god Zayne!" You gasp, tears streaming down your face. You're sure you look a mess, trembling through the sheer euphoria that wracks every nerve in your body. Still, you manage to grip his arm, nails digging into the muscle in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.
"I'm going to try something, okay sweetheart? Let me know if you want to stop." Zayne murmurs against your temple before shifting his weight and letting one arm wrap around your neck, bicep tucked under your chin. It's gentle, but just the lightest pressure makes your brain melt. The second you get your bearings and realize Zayne has you in a fucking headlock, his cock slams even deeper inside you.
You think you just saw god.
"Feels good, hm?" His grip tightens just a fraction, making you moan even louder than you thought possible. The part of your brain that's still functioning remembers a conversation you'd had about this.
After an afternoon spent training (and mostly staring at Zayne's arms) you'd brought up the idea of him putting you in a headlock. He'd been hesitant at first, but a little intrigued. So, like usual, he said he'd do some research and get back to you. Now, here you are.
You manage to nod behind his arm, babbling nearly incoherently as he fucks you steadily, each thrust hitting so deep it nearly fucks what little air you can pull in right back out.
"I need words. You can do that for me, can't you?" As if mocking you, his free hand slips to circle your clit. Your hips jerk unconsciously, whining from his touch. You're close and he knows it, which is exactly why his hips slow when you don't answer.
"It-it feels so good Z-Zayne oh my god please don't stop." You grip his arm, nails sinking into the muscle once again.
And when you beg so prettily? Of course he'll listen to you.
Zayne has your back pressed to his chest, his face nuzzled in the space between your shoulder and neck. Your thighs are spread nice and wide for both of his hands.
One hand plunges two fingers into your warmth with ease. Each stroke isn’t slow, but not fast either—just deep, steady motions that earn wet gushes and soft mewls from your mouth. In time, his other hand finds your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling the swollen bud with precise, delicate motions.
The rules are simple.
Don’t come.
“You’ve been naughty,” Zayne murmurs, his fingers crooking in a come-hither motion that makes your walls flutter helplessly around his digits. “Haven’t you?”
You nod, breathless, hoping that admitting to your earlier teasing behavior might earn you mercy.
Instead, his lips curl into a smirk against your skin.
“And what do naughty girls not get to do?” His voice is a soft whisper at your ear before he presses a kiss to the sensitive skin just below it.
You shudder as his movements don’t halt. The pressure bubbles, threatening to boil over. Your pussy squeezes tightly around his fingers, trying desperately to hold it back.
“T-They don’t—nnngh—get to come...”
Zayne’s fingers pump faster, slick and sticky with your need.
“Mmm… That’s right, my love,” he murmurs, the sweetness of his tone mocking the intensity of his touch. “So why are you squeezing me so tightly?”
Your head falls back against his shoulder as your thighs tremble. Soft, breathy moans slip from your lips as you struggle to hold on.
“B-Because m’so close!”
You whimper as the circling on your clit suddenly stops—only to be replaced with a gentle slap. Your entire body jolts at the contact, but Zayne tightens his hold on you.
“Don’t,” he warns quietly as fingers resume their gentle coaxing. “Don’t come.”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you attempt to think of anything else—but you can’t. All you feel is Zayne. His fingers inside you, his lips at your shoulder, his cock pressing hard against your back.
Before you know it, your thighs clamp shut around his hands, moans tearing from your throat as the orgasm you’d been denied crashes through you. You shudder with the intensity, panting as you soak his fingers with your sweet release.
Your eyes snap open, a blotchy flush spreading across your cheeks. Zayne’s motions haven’t stopped, only slowed. You can feel the tension thats radiates off him.
“M’sorry!” You stammer, forcing your legs to relax. “I couldn’t help it… I tried to hold it, Zaynie, I really—haah!“
Zayne’s two fingers slam into your sopping pussy again and again, before he withdrawals and adds a third.
“You just can’t behave today, can you?” He presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s alright. You want to come? You’ll come.”
His thumb and forefinger pinch your overstimulated clit gently. “You’ll come. And you’ll keep coming until I say.”
You twitch and squirm as his fingers find rhythm again, but this time, every stoke, each pass against your sensitive skin is electrifying. Still trembling from your first orgasm, the thought of another—of more—feels overwhelming.
“Mmgh—! Can’t—!”
You try to close your legs, but Zayne immediately nips at your shoulder.
“Hold yourself open for me, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, hands trembling, body twitching. You want to obey—you should obey after what just happened—but you cant find the strength as he continues to play with your pussy.
“Ah—ah.” Zayne shakes his head, unmistakably amused. “That’s not what I asked.”
You whine under your breath, caught between a hazy line of defiance and obedience.
“Good girls listen,” he adds quietly, curling his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you.
With a shaky moan, your hands slide beneath your thighs, pulling them apart. Your pussy glistens as you hold yourself open.
Zayne exhales low against your neck in approval. “Good.”
The sensation builds again, faster this time, tingling your senses and making your vision blur as tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You’re shaking,” he coos, rubbing helplessly at your puffy folds. “Go ahead. Come. You wanted to so badly, so give me another.”
You cling to him arm, fingers curling tight enough to leave tiny marks in his skin. Zayne doesn’t mind, humming as he works you right back to the edge.
When it finally crests, it hits harder, far more intense than the first. Pleasure steals the sound from your throat as your pitch forward with a broken gasp, dripping all over the sheets.
He doesn’t let you collapse for long. Instead, he guides your forward, firm hands directing your pliant body down onto the mattress, lifting your hips until you arch. You’re still trembling when you hear him unzip his pants.
Then the tip of his cock smacks against your entrance.
Xavier doesn't like when you wear Lumiere's clothes. 18+ MDNI
It started with a picture of you kneeling on your bed, a playful grin, and Lumiere's coat draped over your bare body. One shoulder exposed, breasts pressed together, high angle showing off the rest of your body snug in the white fabric.
No matter how many times you begged, Xavier refused to wear the outfit while you fucked. If he wasn't going to wear it, why not you?
Xavier appeared on your balcony a minute after you sent off the picture, tapping the glass door with a serious frown. He barely let you utter a teasing hello before stepping past the threshold and pulling you against him for a searing kiss.
"Take it off," he demanded, tugging at the sleeves.
"But it's so comfy." You pulled out of his arms and sauntered toward your bed.
"I'll give you one of my sweaters then."
"I like this more." You slipped off the other shoulder, tracing a finger down your chest. "Doesn't it look good on me?"
"No."
You were about to snap at him for being so harsh, but he appeared before you suddenly. His unimpressed, lowered gaze as he stood above you made your pussy ache. He slotted himself between your legs, leaning down until you were forced back against the bed.
"I think it looks much better on the ground." His hands gripped harshly onto the lapels and pulled. Without your arms holding the jacket closed, it flew open, revealing your nude form to his eager hands. "So take it off."
That's how you ended up face down on the bed, Xavier plowing his cock into your dripping, abused cunt, with the sleeves of Lumiere's jacket tying your wrists behind your back. He's working you up to your third orgasm.
He pulled the first two from you with his mouth, tonguing your sensitive clit until tears leaked from your eyes. Then, just when you thought he'd forgive you for your little stunt, he flipped you onto your stomach and stuffed you full as you trembled around him, still high off two orgasms. He only tied your hands back when you tried squirming away.
"Lumiere's not going to fuck you like this," he grunts, pulling you back onto his cock like you're his personal fleshlight.
"Ngh—X-Xavier!" You squeal as he pounds into your gummy walls.
"Y-Yeah, that's right. Say my name—only mine."
You whimper his name again as he takes his frustration out on you, and you can't say this isn't exactly where you hoped to end up.
A/N — another drabble inspired by an ask I received :3 comments and reblogs always appreciated thanks for reading (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ divider: @/cursed-carmine
Warnings: Just a little smutty drabble with no plot as such, just my unholy thoughts :D (Caleb x Reader), Pseudocest. <3, smut. <3
The grand hall of the Imperial Palace echoed with silence, the guards dismissed hours ago under the High Marshal's iron command. Moonlight filtered through the massive stained-glass dome, casting crimson and gold patterns across the obsidian throne where you sat—Empress of the Everlasting Empire, clad in flowing silken robes that pooled like liquid starlight around your thighs.
Caleb stood before you, his uniform unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the scars of countless battles won in your name. His dark eyes burned with something far more dangerous than loyalty. The war between the Empire and the Federation had raged for years, but tonight, the only battle was the one he'd waged to get here—to you.
"My baby sister," he murmured, voice low and rough, stepping closer until his hands gripped the ornate arms of your throne. "It's been a long time since we last saw each other."
You shivered at the words, that old childhood endearment twisted now with raw possession. You weren't blood-related—adopted siblings from a shattered past—but the way he said it, like you still belonged to him, ignited fire in your veins.
"Caleb..." Your protest died as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "This is treason. If the council—"
"Let them come," he growled, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing aside the silk. "I've conquered stars for you. Tonight, I conquer this."
Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly, settling you astride his lap as he took your place on the throne—no, his throne now, with you perched atop him like a crown jewel. Your robes parted easily under his insistent hands, baring you to the cool air and his heated gaze.
He freed himself with urgent efficiency, hard and throbbing against you. No preamble, no gentle courtship—this was the High Marshal claiming what he'd promised long ago.
"Look at you," he whispered, guiding your hips down as he thrust up in one deep, relentless stroke. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, the fullness of him stretching you perfectly as you sank onto his length. "My Empress. My baby sister. Sitting pretty on your throne... while I fuck you like you deserve."
He drove into you hard and deep, each powerful thrust lifting you slightly before slamming you back down, the throne creaking under the force. Your back arched against the cold golden backrest, breasts spilling from your disheveled robes as he buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking marks that no imperial collar could hide.
"Caleb—ah—too deep..." you moaned, but your body betrayed you, grinding down to meet him, chasing that exquisite burn.
"Take it," he commanded, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You've ruled galaxies from this seat. Now rule me. Milk every inch while I fill you up."
His pace turned punishing, hips snapping up as he fucked you deeper, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. The hall filled with the lewd sounds of skin on skin, your slick heat coating him, his grunts mixing with your cries.
"You're mine," he snarled, thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. "Always were. Say it."
"Yours," you whimpered, clenching around him as ecstasy crested. "Your baby sister... your Empress... all yours—"
He swallowed your scream with a fierce kiss as you came undone, walls pulsing around his cock. With a final, guttural thrust, he followed, spilling hot and deep inside you, marking his claim on the very heart of the Empire.
Panting, he held you close, still seated fully within you, your foreheads pressed together.
"The cosmos bows to you, my Empress," he whispered against your lips. "But tonight... you bowed to me."
And as the throne room stilled, you knew the real war was just beginning.
-> yandere tyrant xavier x fem!reader (based on the current xavier’s myth) || genre: dark romance, dub-con, yandere, nsfw
warnings: possessive behavior, non-consensual impregnation (babytrapping), overstimulation, dub-con language and dynamics, isolation, size kink, creampie, petnames (princess, chosen one), mind games, manipulative comfort, lingerie mention (Divider credit: @/uzmacchiato)
word count: ~2,000
The wind outside howled against the stone walls of the high tower, but within the heavy velvet curtains and golden glow of the firelight, the world was quiet. Still. Too still. When the revanants urged you to slay the said Tyrant, you weren’t sure what exactly awaited you.
You sat by the hearth, dressed in soft lavender silk — a chemise too delicate to be anything but chosen by someone else, someone with power. The fire crackled beside you, but it did little to thaw the chill in your chest. You could still hear the songs and hymns sung in your praise while your heart fluttered, confusion and haze thickened in your mind like fog. You shiver.
The cold wasn’t from the weather. It was from being so far away. From home. From Philos. From everything that once made you feel free. And then if you add the blurry memories that stab you from time to time… it’s demented torture. It’s hell.
“You look beautiful like that,” came a voice behind you — low, silken, threaded with that slow, measured cadence that never failed to make your stomach twist. Xavier…
You didn’t turn to look. You didn’t need to. Sometimes you evade the harshness of his eyes, sometimes you want to match it like crest and troughs of the ocean waves.
Xavier moved like a shadow draped in royalty. Clad in black and crimson robes trimmed with gold, his dark hair fell just past his shoulders, and that gaze — gods, that gaze — burned with the kind of hunger that no tyrant should ever be allowed to possess.
“You’re quiet tonight, Princess,” he said, voice purring in your ear now as he moved to stand behind your chair. His hand slid across your bare shoulder, fingers tracing the strap of the silk. “Is the silence finally sinking in? Or are you still trying to run your mind galloping like a feeble mare?” Feeble… tsk.
You stiffened. “Help me go back.”
A pause. Then a snort, slow and indulgent. Xavier was usually a serious and stern man, but your presence made things light-hearted almost. He doesn’t want you to go back to Philos. That’s the last thing he wants.
“My Chosen One…” His lips brushed the crown of your head. “There is nothing left to go back to. Philos is ashes. And you? You’re somehow sent to me..” again. Again. Why would he let this chance go. Centuries of delirious and violent yearning had rotten his brain, and heart.
You stood abruptly, heart pounding. “I never chose this. I don’t even know who I am… I just have fragments of Philos in my memory—“
His smile was patient. And somehow twisted.
“No,” he murmured. “But fate did. And I simply obeyed its will.” Oh you… gifted to me with flesh and blood and life not waxing and waning like the moon.
With a snap of his fingers, the lanterns in the chamber dimmed. His evol, no doubt — his control reached every inch of the fortress. He circled you like a predator playing with his food, his metallic gloved hands tracing the marble pillars as he walked.
“You’ve been here for three weeks now,” he said thoughtfully. “Three weeks of warm soup, silk sheets, and me keeping my hands to myself. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”
You swallowed, fists clenched.
“And yet,” Xavier continued, his gaze dragging over your body with unrepentant lust, “you still pretend like you don’t feel the bond that ties us together. Like you don’t ache when I look at you.”
“I don’t want you,” you snapped.
He was in front of you in an instant.
“That’s not what your body says when you cry my name in your sleep,” he whispered.
You slapped him. So he has been watching you sleep… deliriously… the hell. Yes, you do moan and sometimes scream his name. You see a different version than this cruel Tyrant. You see your lightseeker….
The sound echoed, sharp and defiant. Your breath came in fast bursts as the silence pressed down between you.
Xavier’s expression didn’t twist with rage. It softened. Darkened. The kind of expression only a man with absolute power could afford to wear.
“So we’ve reached that point, then,” he murmured. “You’re trying to punish me. Break me. Deny me.”
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, and even though you hated the warmth that flooded your core, you couldn’t stop the tiny gasp that left your lips. “I guess I deserve it, most of it. I made you feel abandoned at a time you don’t even remember.”
“Fine,” he whispered. “I’ll stop waiting for you to admit it.”
He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing, ignoring your yelp, and laid you down on the massive four-poster bed, draped in red and black sheets. The same bed you hadn’t dared to sleep in yet.
Tonight, that changed.
“Xavier—” you began, but he covered your mouth with his own — a slow, possessive kiss that stole your breath and made your thighs clench. His tongue moved with cruel precision, coaxing your body to respond even as your mind screamed no.
“You can pretend all you want,” he growled, breaking the kiss. “But I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. Heard the soft little moans you make at night.”
He pulled your silk chemise down, revealing your bare chest to the cool air and his greedy gaze.
“And I’ve waited long enough.”
You pushed at his chest. He didn’t budge. Meek and fragile. Almost pathetic. Almost like you wanted & yearned for it.
“You’re going to take this, Princess,” he whispered, “and you’re going to learn exactly what it means to be mine.”
He shed his robe slowly, deliberately — his broad chest and taut muscles bathed in firelight. His belt came next, and you turned your head, heat creeping up your neck in spite of yourself.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t.
He grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, the silk riding up to your hips. You whimpered, both from the shock of exposure and the sheer power of his grip. It was sure to bruise at your thighs purple.
“Don’t make me bind you to the bed,” he warned, voice far too gentle to sound like an actual threat.
He slid his fingers between your folds, and you hated the way your hips lifted into the touch. A smug grin plastered over his face. “See? Pathetic and needy but you wouldn’t admit it would you?”
“Already wet,” he purred. “See? Your body knows who it belongs to. Wish your stupid mind could accept soon.”
You bit your lip, trying to contain the sob building in your throat. He was too much — too big, too close, too certain. And too good.
And then he was inside you. Before you could blink, you could resist, or you could mentally prepare yourself to actually accept him. All your thoughts are numbed down.
He didn’t give you time to adjust — just slow, stretching pressure that had your back arching off the bed, mouth open in a wordless cry. He bottomed out with a groan, his grip bruising on your hips. Thick cock with veins eager with centuries of contained lust. You would be his broken doll tonight.
“Shh, Princess,” he whispered against your throat. “Let me fill you up. Let me make you a mother.”
Your eyes widened in horror. Somehow mingled with anticipation, too. You couldn’t even understand what you wanted at this point.
“No—Xavier, you can’t—”
“Oh, I can,” he said, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into you. “And I will.” His weight made the force of his thrusts delicious and delectable, thick cock scraping against your velvety walls. Over and over and over and over—
Each thrust was a claim — brutal, deep, consuming. He fucked you like you were a vessel for his legacy, like your body existed only to carry his heir. Like all the torture he went through needed an outlet. Like he finally can show you how crazy you’ve made him.
“You’ll be round with my child by the next few months,” he growled, his breath ragged as he fucked you harder. “No more Philos. No more running. Just you. Mine. Forever.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks. But so did slick.
Your body betrayed you — hips rising, walls clenching, every overstimulated nerve lighting up. He felt it. Smirked.
“That’s it, Chosen One,” he murmured. “Come for me. Let me breed you properly.”
You tried to resist, but your climax hit like a storm — your back bowed, a broken sob ripped from your throat as your body spasmed around him. And he didn’t stop.
He kept going.
Over and over.
You lost count after the second orgasm. He flipped you on your stomach, lifted your hips, and drove back into you like a man possessed. Your legs trembled. Your vision blurred. m
“Take it,” he growled, voice low and animal. “Be good for your Tyrant. Isn’t that what I am? Your Tyrant Xavier who will annihilate everything on sight if it dares to take you away from me again.”
And when he finally tipped off the edge — with a deep groan and his seed spilling hot and thick inside you, he stayed buried there, holding your shaking body against his chest.
“You’ll carry our future,” he whispered against your ear. “You were born to. You came back to me for it. You’re my second chance.”
You sobbed once, exhausted, broken. But even then, he didn’t let you go.
He wrapped you in his arms and covered you both in the heavy crimson duvet. His hand rested low on your belly, possessive and warm.
“You’ll see, Princess,” he murmured as you drifted into sleep. “In time… you’ll thank me for this. All in due time.”
And even though you don’t understand Xavier’s feelings, even though you wonder what made him this way. When your memories would come back, maybe you’d be happy that your sparring partner is still by your side…
Taglist (Comment on the Taglist post on my Pinned for tagging): @kithyyy @dramaticalsachan @sheismaryy @freeprincesslove @litnerdwrites @whmnx @strawberrydragon24 @eve-rockin-blog @bakugoushotwife @santaluna @insidious-innocence @angstyfrog @lucreied
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere men, they’re a bit scary lol, but they’re just in love, i’m powering through all the requests hehe i hope you guys like them
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your escape attempts never work
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
- Rafayel doesn’t believe you’re trying to leave at first. You’re his muse. His obsession. Why would a painting want to walk off the wall?
- When you collapse in the middle of the greenhouse, petals sticking to your skin, he kneels beside you and whispers: “Are you punishing me? Or are you just fragile on purpose?”
- Smothers you in overstimulation afterward, princess beds, dizzying perfumes, endless new dresses. “If you’re going to faint, at least faint in couture.”
- Carries you like a sleeping child back to the art studio, then paints you exactly how he found you, desperate, undone, divine.
- Lashes out once, slamming a vase when you wake and cry. “Why are you always trying to leave me?” Then sinks to his knees and cradles your hands, kissing them like a madman. “I’ll break your legs if I have to. I swear I’ll love you better.”
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
- Zayne knows every detail about your condition. He monitors your vitals even when you think he’s not.
- The first time you collapse mid-escape, just outside the property, your body hitting the ground like a broken doll, he doesn’t yell, he scoops you up in surgical silence.
- The next morning, you wake up fully restrained to the bed, IV drip in your arm. He’s seated beside you, not angry, disappointed. “Why would you hurt yourself like this?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.
- Punishes you softly: no stimulation, no movement, full medical lockdown. If you’re going to run, he’ll make sure you’re too weak to walk without him.
- Upgrades your bedroom with surveillance and biometric locks. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s safe to try again.”
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
- Xavier doesn’t stop you. The first few times, he just watches you stumble around the vast halls, eyes half-lidded, body giving out.
- When you collapse mid-step in the elevator, he catches you before your head hits the railing. Carries you back up to the penthouse like it’s all part of a dream.
- Leaves riddles by your bedside like: “If you leave without me again, you’ll sleep forever. Let’s not test the prophecy, little star.”
- Appears beside you no matter where you run. Always calm. Always smiling. “Is this a game?” he asks as he picks you up again. “Because I’ll always win.”
- Eventually outfits the penthouse with fainting couches, plush rugs, soft lights. “At least faint into something beautiful,” he hums, kissing your crown.
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
- Sylus is furious the first time. Not that you tried to escape, but that you risked blacking out alone in the cold. “I spoil you, and this is what you do with my gifts?”
- You pass out halfway through trying to hack one of his bunkers. When you wake up, you’re gagged, wrist-cuffed, and shackled to a luxurious chaise.
- Sends a message by disabling your meds and upgrading your collar with an alert system: if your vitals dip, the house locks down.
- “You can’t outrun me, kitten,” he murmurs against your temple, “But you’re welcome to keep trying. It’s entertaining.”
- After every failed attempt, he brings you back stronger: silks, tea, and massages… before he chains you to his desk chair while he works. “At least stay where I can see you fall.”
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
- Caleb is terrifyingly calm when he finds your limp form near the penthouse door. Carries you inside like you’re made of glass, brushing snow from your lashes.
- Cradles you while you sleep, muttering to your unconscious body: “You’ll learn, pipsqueak. It’s me or collapse.”
- Has the penthouse fitted with emergency auto-doors that lock if your heart rate spikes. Your body is betraying you, and he adores how helpless it makes you.
- Shows up every time, your knees buckle in the corridor, and there he is. “You always fall toward me,” he says with a grin.
- Tells his staff you’re a medical priority, but privately, he whispers to you: “If you run again, I’ll clip your wings. And you’ll thank me.”
First timer here. I love your work. May I humbly request for Yandere LADS men wherein their darling sick and they are trying to resist being treated by them in captivity
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandereeeee, fluffy ig? they’re a bit crazy, they have the best intentions guys :(, drugging ig
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You fight so hard even when your sick
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
You’re burning with fever and still trying to open the windows to scream for help but nobody other than the fish in the ocean can hear me. He’s watching you from the hallway, silent, sad, disappointed.
- “You’re so mean when you’re sick…” His tone is breathy, pouty, but his eyes are dangerous.
- Scoops you up when you collapse and cradles you in his arms like a broken seashell. He holds you too tightly, murmuring softly into your hair, “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
- Throws a tantrum and locks the windows. Every inch of the house becomes temperature controlled, he’s pacing the floor barefoot, muttering to himself while you lie in a bed buried in layers of plush blankets and pale-blue humidifiers.
- He keeps trying to spoon-feed you, and you swat his hand away. He flinches. Looks like he’s about to cry.
- “You hate me. I know it. Even now, when I bought all your favorite teas and picked the pink shell cup.”
- But the moment you cough too hard or groan in pain? Instant panic. “Okay okay okay shhh! I’m here! You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ll fix it—”
- “You can hate me. But let me love you, please, please, I’ll die if you don’t let me love you…” His nose is pressed to your burning cheek, voice trembling with raw desperation.
And when the fever breaks, and you’re too weak to push him away anymore? He whispers,
“See? You need me. You always did. Now stay sick with me a little longer, won’t you?”
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
Your fever’s high, and you refuse his help, crawling to the bathroom with shaky legs instead of calling him. He’s silently furious, but his voice is calm, too calm.
- “You’re trembling. Let go of the sink.” He’s behind you in a flash, lifting you effortlessly despite your weak protests.
- Strips you out of your soaked clothes like a surgeon prepping a patient, his tone clinical, but his hands linger just a bit too long on your skin.
- The bed is cold. He changes the sheets in seconds and carries you back like a doll. You thrash weakly, and he just sighs.
- “You could’ve died. Is that what you want? You want me to lose you?” He’s never raised his voice before. Now it’s low, broken. Guilting you works better than force.
- Keeps all the medicine locked away. He only administers it personally. You want to heal? He decides the schedule.
Eventually, you wake up in his arms, drugged on antihistamines and chest to chest. He’s shirtless. He hasn’t moved from that spot in hours.
“Better,” he murmurs. “Now stop fighting me, darling. You’re mine to care for.”
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
You collapse trying to pick the lock to the balcony. The world spins, and he’s suddenly beside you, silent as a shadow.
- He doesn’t say anything at first. He wraps you in a silver blanket and carries you inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling you like you’re porcelain.
- “You’re burning up again. Did the world outside promise to love you more than I do?” His voice is empty but soft.
- You protest, and he just kisses your eyelid. He gently brushes your sweaty hair back and administers tea with a dropper.
- You try to roll away, and he holds you gently in place. “I’ll tie your legs if I must, my love. But I’d rather not.”
- Slips in beside you under the covers when you cry in frustration. Strokes your back until you fall asleep.
- Has disabled all alarms. You will never know what time it is again. Just Xavier, the soft hum of the purifier, and the lavender steam of your humidifier.
At night, he murmurs, not knowing you’re awake:
“If I could take your fever myself, I would. If you’d only let me stay like this forever…”
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
You tried to throw a thermometer at him and called him a psychopath. He laughed. Then you passed out on the floor.
- Carries you to bed with the air of a man putting away a precious weapon, careful, reverent, but irritated.
- Keeps you in one room only, the warmest and most monitored. Full of silk sheets, luxury humidifiers, nutrient IV drips if needed.
- “You’re making this harder than it has to be. Just lie down and let me spoil you.”
- Adjusts the covers over you with practiced efficiency. You try to argue, and he force-feeds you with a silver spoon like it’s a game.
- Smirks when you spit it out. He loves that you’re fighting it. He just thinks it’s cute. Temporary.
- “Oh, you still think you can win? Fine. Be difficult. But you’ll recover in my arms. And once you’re better, I’ll show you what your punishment costs.”
- Sits in the room with his laptop open. Watches you sweat through the fever with narrowed red eyes.
He doesn’t blink when you cry yourself to sleep. But in the morning? A single cool kiss on your temple.
“Good girl. You made it through the night. You always do better when you listen.”
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
You told him to let you go. That you don’t want his help. You fainted in the kitchen, and he caught you mid-collapse with a low growl.
- “No more running. No more stupid pride.” He’s not gentle. He carries you bridal-style and glares at the locked door like it insulted him.
- Puts you in bed himself. Pulls the curtains, dims the lights. Sits next to you and wipes your forehead with a cold towel while you beg him to let you go.
- “You’re sick, and you think I’ll let you crawl out of my care like an animal? No, pipsqueak.”
- Installs biometric locks after that. You’re not leaving the penthouse again. You can’t even unlock the fridge now.
- He spoon-feeds you while softly talking about his missions. You flinch with every touch, but he never yells. His control is worse, he waits for you to break.
- “I want you to get better. So when I keep you here forever, you’ll remember I was the only one who saved you.”
He sleeps at the foot of your bed, always touching you somehow, a hand on your ankle, your wrist. Just enough to remind you: you’re not alone anymore. You never will be.
What if mc wants to return to work after some time in marriage? Like, mc felt nostalgic after looking at old photos, or she just started feeling useless, felt like she wasn't bringing any real benefit to society. And I'm not saying that they already have children, it just happened at some point. Just imagine the mc wanting to go to work and get back into her old form and the boys wanting that to not happen. It looks comical in my head.
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, scary men, fluff, brat tamer energy again, i honestly took this idea and made it dark cause i had so many other requests with a yandere version of this
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They will never let you go back into the real world
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
CRASH.
The heel hits the door with a dramatic bang.
Another one follows. Your voice is high, whiny, furious.
“I said I don’t want to sit in this stupid mansion all day! I’m bored, Rafayel! You’re always out at meetings or sketching or — or. I want to go back to work! I’m losing my mind!”
The bedroom is a chaos of thrown pillows, frilly dresses half-ripped from your vanity rack, tiara crooked in your hair like a war crown.
And there he is.
Standing at the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a pastel lollipop. He’s blinking slowly, messy purple hair, dressed in a half-buttoned silk shirt like he just woke up from a nap.
He stares at you for a beat.
Then, very calmly, he speaks around the lollipop.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
Your breath catches.
He walks in slowly, each step echoing through the marble tiles of your shared estate. Your tiara slips a little more with each stomp of your bare feet, but you stand your ground.
“I’m not yours to keep locked up like some kind of, of pet!” you snap, trembling now. “You can’t just keep distracting me with dresses and jewels and, and kisses and expect me to shut up!”
He stops in front of you. He’s smiling now, all drowsy and sugary-sweet.
“Except I can, sweetheart. And I do.”
He takes the lollipop out of his mouth and gently taps it against your lower lip, tilting his head.
“Throwing shoes? Hm? Is that how you tell me you want attention now? I thought we were using our words.”
You pout. Glaring. “I was using my words, you weren’t listening!”
He exhales dramatically.
“Okay, tantrum princess. Strip.”
You blink.
“…What?”
“Strip. Off with it. The robe. The tiara. The attitude.”
You stay frozen.
So he comes closer, grips your chin gently, tilts your head up, and looks at you with that glowing, patient, deranged love.
“You don’t want to work,” he murmurs. “You want to scream and pout and fight so I’ll manhandle you into my lap and make you feel wanted. You want me to kiss the brat out of you until you’re soft and giggly and dumb again. Don’t you?”
Your cheeks heat. Your knees wobble.
“…n-no…”
“Lie,” he whispers.
And then his lollipop is discarded, and you’re in his arms, being tossed onto the nearest couch like a misbehaving doll. He looms over you, fingers slipping your robe off your shoulders as he hums:
“I’ll give you a little real-world reminder, sweetheart. You’re my wife. My spoiled, pretty, housewife. You don’t belong in boardrooms. You belong right here, whimpering in silk, covered in bite marks, too dazed to remember what a ‘job’ is.”
And god, you melt under him. Brattiness gone. Gasping and pliant and ruined. Just how he likes you.
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
The designer heel hits the marble wall with a crack, the second one skidding across the floor like it’s in a rage of its own.
“I’m sick of this!” you shout, voice sharp and dramatic as your silk robe flares behind you. “I’m sick of doing nothing! I used to have a job, Zayne! I used to matter!”
He says nothing.
He doesn’t even flinch.
You turn around, chest heaving, mascara already smudged from your fury tears, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe of your walk-in, arms crossed over his scrubs, lips pressed into a perfectly neutral line.
He tilts his head.
“Are you done yet?”
His voice isn’t cold. But it is calm, calm in that deadly Zayne way that makes you want to sob and submit all at once.
You glare at him, trembling, pout threatening to wobble.
“I just— I could’ve been someone, you know? Not just your stupid little—your—your housewife!”
“My stupid little housewife, hmm?”
He steps forward. Slow. Controlled. You try to take a step back but he catches your chin before you can even flinch.
“The same housewife who sleeps until noon. Whose closet is worth more than the average surgeon’s yearly salary. The one who pouts when her bath isn’t the right temperature and throws tantrums when the staff forget to bring her lavender pastries?”
You go quiet. Red-faced.
His fingers trace along your jaw, so gentle, so cruel, and he tilts your face up to look him in the eye.
“You want to go back out there?” he murmurs. “Back to that cold, thankless job where they ran you dry? You want to give up all of this? Give up me? Because that’s what this tantrum is saying.”
You try to speak, but the lump in your throat won’t let you.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
“You can keep throwing things. I’ll wait. But we both know you don’t really want to go. You’re just acting out because you’re overwhelmed.”
He finally leans in, brushing his lips over your tear-damp lashes.
“So stop acting like a brat. Be good. Let me take care of you like I promised.”
And god… your knees just give out right there.
You cling to him, burying your face in his chest, voice soft and cracked:
“I’m sorry…”
His arms curl around you like steel and silk.
“There she is,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “My sweet girl. No more nonsense, alright? Let’s clean this up and get you back in your slippers. You’ve got a lunch reservation at the garden lounge in an hour.”
And you nod. Obedient. Docile. His again.
Like you were always meant to be.
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
THUD.
Your pearl-studded purse hits the floor with a dramatic smack. “I’m bored!” you shout across the pristine, minimalist penthouse. “I’m bored and spoiled and useless! I want to go back to work, Xavier! I want to leave this penthouse, just for one day!”
From the kitchen, Xavier slowly turns his head.
He’s barefoot, wearing one of his loose, half-buttoned shirts, silver hair still a little messy from his nap. He’s holding a slice of lemon in one hand and a tiny crystal fork in the other. His expression?
Blank.
He blinks.
Once.
Then, softly, so softly it’s almost bored:
“…You’re being loud.”
You blink. “Xavi! did you even hear me?! I’m going stir-crazy in here!”
He gently sets down the lemon slice. Walks toward you with that lazy, barely-awake gait of his, eyes unreadable.
You start again, stomping your fluffy-slippered feet: “You can’t just keep me here like a little trophy! I used to be a hunter—I had missions, Xavier! I had—”
“No.”
His voice slices like a blade through velvet.
You freeze.
He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.
“You’re not going back,” he says. “You’re mine now. You don’t need to be anything else.”
You open your mouth to protest,
He raises one finger.
“Shh.”
You blink again. Shut it.
And then, then, he cups your face with his cool hands and leans in so close your pout quivers.
“You don’t want to work. You want to be pampered and spoiled and reminded you’re my pretty little thing. You want to yell until I pin you to the bed and kiss the noise out of your throat.”
You whimper. Weak.
He hums softly.
“Do you want me to ignore you again?” he whispers. “Like last time? For hours? Until you crawled into my lap and begged to be good?”
Your cheeks go red.
“…n-no…”
“Mm. Thought so.”
Then he scoops you up, just like that, princess-style, and walks you back to bed.
He doesn’t scold you. Doesn’t punish you.
He neutralizes you.
Lays you down gently. Crawls on top of you with the weight of someone who never rushes, who never loses control. His silver hair brushes your cheek.
“You’re not useless,” he murmurs, brushing kisses along your collarbone. “You’re mine. That’s more than enough.”
And your bratty tantrum?
Gone. Melted into kisses and breathless apologies. Because Xavier always wins.
Always.
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
You slam the cabinet door, hard enough to shake the glasses inside.
“I’m going insane,” you snap, pacing the length of the regal, high-security safehouse in nothing but your silk robe and fury. “I need to go outside. I want to go back to work. I want to do something, Sylus, anything that isn’t being locked in here like a spoiled doll—!”
Behind you, the fridge clicks shut.
You turn.
There he is.
Leaning against the counter, black gloves still on, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a single dark brow arched above those infernal red eyes.
Unbothered. Unimpressed. Unmoving.
“Try it, princess.”
Your stomach flips. Heat rushes to your cheeks. But you cross your arms anyway, trembling.
“I mean it, Sylus. I’ll walk out that door. I don’t care what security code you set”
He holds up a hand.
You go dead silent.
“One. More. Word.”
And just like that, he pushes away from the counter, strolling over like a predator to prey. Every step deliberate. Every click of his boots against the marble floor a countdown to your surrender.
You try to back up. You hit the wall.
He cages you in.
His gloved hand curls beneath your chin, dragging your gaze up to meet his.
“You don’t get to care about the outside world anymore,” he murmurs. “You gave that up the second you said yes to me.”
Your pulse hammers in your throat. He leans in, nose brushing yours.
“You are my wife. My darling, pampered, silk-draped little housewife. And if you think I’d let the world have even a fraction of you again, you’re more delusional than I thought.”
His voice drops, smooth as poison.
“You walk out that door, and I’ll burn the city behind it. So go ahead, sweetheart. Try it.”
Your lips part. But no sound comes out.
He smiles.
“That’s what I thought.”
Then he picks you up with no effort, slinging you over his shoulder like you’re weightless, carrying you into the master suite like a misbehaving pet that needs re-training.
You pound on his back, breathless.
“Put me down! Sy, I’m not a prisoner!”
He tosses you on the bed.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says smoothly. “You’re mine. There’s a difference.”
He unbuttons his cuffs, slow. Deadly.
“Now. On your knees. I want to hear that sweet little apology before I fuck the attitude out of you.”
And you obey.
Of course you do.
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
“I said no!”
Your voice bounces off the walls of the Skyhaven penthouse, high and frustrated, your tiny fists clenched as you stand in your fluffiest slippers and pink satin robe, glaring at him across the living room like you’re not half his size.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Caleb! I can make my own decisions! I can think for myself, I don’t need you watching my every move and deciding what I wear, eat, or do like I’m some dumb little pet!”
He sets his tablet down.
He doesn’t even blink.
Just tilts his head, watching you like a scientist studying a tantruming creature.
Then, gently, so gently, he stands up and walks over, the floor quiet under his polished boots.
You try to back up.
He catches you first.
Two gloved hands slide around your waist, pulling you in until your forehead is pressed against his chest.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, so soft, so calm. “Is that what we’re saying now?”
You open your mouth to snap again, but his thumb’s already under your chin, guiding your face up.
“You used to look at Gege just to figure out if you liked strawberry or lemon candy.”
You squirm. “That was when I was littl—!”
“You still do it,” he says. “You still look at me when the waiter asks what you want. You still can’t pick what earrings to wear unless I nod. You still curl up in my lap and pout until I fix it for you.”
You whimper.
His lips brush your forehead.
“You can pretend all you want, pipsqueak,” he whispers. “But you don’t want freedom. You want your Gege. You want to cry and throw things and make a fuss until I carry you back to bed and kiss the brat out of you.”
And oh, you’re trembling now.
“So let me take care of it, yeah?” he murmurs. “Let me handle the big stuff. You just be my good little wife. That’s all I ever wanted, the hunter association doesn’t deserve my sweet girl.”
You nod.
Teary-eyed, shamefaced.
“There she is,” he coos. “There’s my good girl.“
And then he scoops you up, effortless, practiced, carrying you back to the velvet-draped bed like nothing happened at all.
He tucks you in. Brushes your hair from your face.
And before you fall asleep in his arms, you hear him whisper:
“No more yelling. I doesn’t like when my pipsqueak’s voice gets so hoarse.”
You thought you were cute. Sassy little smiles, crossing your legs slowly in that tight-ass dress, ignoring Caleb's warnings all evening like he wouldn't do something about it.
You should’ve known better.
Now you’re straddling him in the driver’s seat of his parked car—your dress bunched up around your waist, tits spilling from your bra, and his thick cock buried inside you. The windows are fogged, the streetlamp outside barely lighting the scene of your punishment.
And Caleb?
He’s got you locked in a brutal chokehold, your face pressed into the crook of his arm while he fucks up into you like he’s trying to split you open.
“Thought you were real fuckin’ funny tonight,” he snarls against your jaw, teeth grazing skin as he slams into you again, and again, and again. “Now look at you. Can’t even talk.”
You can’t. Not with how tight his arm is, not with how deep he’s hitting—how hard his cock is pounding against your cervix like it’s punishing you for every bratty thing you said earlier.
His hand sneaks between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and grinding in tight, merciless circles.
“Your pussy’s so wet, baby,” Caleb growls. “You like being manhandled like this? You like knowing anyone could walk by this car and see you getting used like a fucktoy?”
You moan—choked and broken—and he just laughs, low and mean, like he already knows the answer.
“Pathetic little thing,” he whispers, cock twitching inside you. “You were begging for it. All that mouth just so I’d fuck the attitude out of you.”
And that’s what he’s doing.
The car is rocking under the weight of him. You’re limp in his lap, arms barely working, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your neck blurs your vision in the best way. You can’t even lift your head. You’re drooling on his shoulder. His name comes out in pitiful whimpers.
“That’s it,” he hisses. “So cockdrunk you can’t even pretend you hate it.”
You cum with a shudder—legs locking up, your cunt clenching around him so tight he snarls and pins you down harder, arm flexing as he fucks you through it.
You’re gasping, twitching, a mess on top of him.
Caleb’s thrusts get even rougher. Meaner. His voice cracks.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants against your cheek. “Gonna fuck a bratty baby full of my cum so she can remember who she belongs to.”
You try to respond—but all you get out is a broken, needy sob before he slams into you one final time and spills everything inside your overstimulated, aching pussy.
His cum’s so hot you swear it burns. It floods you—deep, messy, thick—and you feel it drip down as you pulse around him helplessly.
He keeps you there, stuffed full on his lap, panting and twitching. His arm still around your neck—not choking now, just holding. Keeping you right where he wants you.
And then?
He grins.
“You're not putting your panties back on,” he says, voice all low and smug. “You're gonna sit there, leaking my cum down your thighs while I drive you home. And if you even think about mouthing off again?”
His fingers trail between your legs, scooping up the slick mess of you both, then shoving it right back inside with a curl of his digits.
💭 : p in v , changing positions, mating press, prone bone, doggy, dumbification, slight degradation with praise
you didn’t know what he was doing. every time you thought he’d stop, he’d settle, he would change positions. acting like he was trying to find something inside of you that you didn’t even know was there. but your body did.
every time caleb thrusted, you clenched around him in pleasure—but it felt like he was missing something. every time he changed positions—from your legs on his shoulders, bending you in a way you didn’t even think was possible, to putting all his weight on top of you as you drool into the pillow—he blubbered something about knowing that it was somewhere inside, that he was so close to finding it.
every thrust was restless, a thrust deep—short, fast, a bit too the right, far to the left—you felt it through the fuzzy haze that muffled your hearing and overstimulating you. you felt your brain turn into mush, seeping past your lips as drool with every buck.
“c-caleb,” you slurred, face pressed against your pillow as he lifted your hips and pressed your ass against his pelvis. “‘leb, what’re you do—hah!” he quickly hushed you, thrusting harshly again, seeking for something—and you thought he hit it before missing it by a fraction. “know it’s here somewhere. fuck, fuck—gonna find it—gonna make you squirt, baby,” he panted.
he moved your hips to the side—thrusted. moved them slightly down—thrust. up again—thrust. until he pressed down on your back, making you arch against the matress and moved his knee—
he hit it and it felt like your brain popped.
you let out a sharp scream (one that your neighbors will probably call 911 thinking you were murdered) and you squirted. loud, wet, and dirty as your jaw dropped. he let out a choked gasp and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. he let out a long groan, head tilting back. “fuckkkk… there ya’ go. all dumb and fucked out for me, huh?”
he drew back, just to slam back, tip pressing against your gspot again that made your legs fly around and hips buck. “as you should, right? you like being so dumb for gege. your drooling your brains out, sweets,” he chuckled, grinding against the spot as you sobbed into the pillow.
Content warning: dubcon, toxic dynamics, babytrapping, possessive/obsessive behavior, power imbalance, degradation/praise mix, breeding kink, and yandere themes, caleb calls you meimei, you call him gege.
Do not continue if you’re uncomfortable with dark content.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Caleb breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice warm, almost syrupy—too soft for the way his hips are pinning you down, grinding slow and deep. “Not when I’ve worked so hard to get you like this… all dumb and messy for me.”
Your nails scratch at the sheets, legs trembling from overstimulation, but he just laughs gently—like he’s proud. Like he planned this.
“Poor little pipsqueak,” he coos, lips brushing your temple as he presses another thrust into your fluttering cunt. “Told you not to run from me, didn’t I? Told you what would happen if you kept acting like you didn’t need me.”
You can’t even speak. You’re too full, too stretched, his cock battering against your cervix like it’s knocking on heaven’s door and dragging you back down to hell in the same stroke.
“Aww, look at you,” he hums, voice sweet as poison. “So fucked-out and perfect. My little angel. Gege’s perfect little meimei.”
His hand cradles your lower belly then—there. Pressing right there.
“Right here, baby,” he whispers, smiling against your cheek. “Gonna make it take. Gonna fill you up and make sure you’re mine forever. You hear me?”
You whimper, try to twist your hips, but his other hand slides under your thigh and hooks it high around his waist, locking you in deeper.
“No more running. No more being difficult.” His breath hitches, and his next thrust is brutal—sharp and punishing—but his voice stays so heartbreakingly soft. “You’re gonna give gege a baby. You want that, don’t you, pips?”
You sob—helpless and shaking—as he presses kisses along your neck, sweet nothings dripping off his tongue like venom.
“I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think anymore. Just be mine. Just lay here like this, pretty and full, while I fuck a future into you.”
He’s close now—his rhythm stuttering, a low, desperate growl curling into his chest. And then, with your name on his tongue and madness in his voice, he spills inside you with a moan like worship.
thinking of caleb handcuffing mc to the bed and not being able to find where the keys are after they fuck so hard… they’re just lost bro. and the problem is they’re not just any shabby pair of handcuff’s from your average sex shop (of course they’re not) they’re his handcuffs that he uses at the fleet base. so they’re like, military grade type shit.
so here he is, trying not to completely panic in front of her. and he’s totally trying to play it off by saying he left them somewhere else in the house and she’s just sitting there waiting for him to find them until it dawns on her that he’s been taking a little too long.
“caleb…” her voice is full of warning and simmering worry. he pads down the hallway slowly.
“okay, i know where they are. they’re just not… here.”
“then, pray do tell, where the hell are they?” she’s trying her best not to yell at him. bitch mode was about to be activated if he didn’t resolve this shit asap.
he’s still naked, cock bobbing as he walks towards her. his hair is rumpled from his hands anxiously running through them, garnering scratch marks and bruises down his neck and chest.
“… they’re in my office. i texted liam to bring them to me. he shouldn’t take too long.”
she huffs in annoyance, twitching her arms that are sore and still pinned above her to the headboard.
“okay. wanna tell me why you’re still hard?”
caleb smiles sheepishly, kneeling between her legs again as he gets back onto the bed.
“okay don’t be mad. but you’re like… so hot like this. like, at first it was for fun. buuut now you’re super stuck.”
she rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath, her fringe moving from her face.
“bastard.”
he smirks, hand snaking around her neck again, lips kissing down her soft skin.
“we have 6 minutes left ‘til he gets here. be a good girl, yeah?”
Neighbor!Caleb meets you on your very first day just as you're dragging a box half your weight up the stairs, breathless and sweaty from the move. He’s just returning from the gym, all sun-warmed skin, and casual ease. Insists on helping with the boxes, brushing off your protests with a laugh, then stays to help you assemble your furniture following you inside like a shy, golden retriever with broad shoulders and gentle hands.
Neighbor!Caleb becomes your friend easily. Greeting you every morning jogging past as you lock your door for work. When a package of yours ends up in his hands, you exchange numbers. From there, it’s dinner invites when he’s “accidentally made too much,” movie nights every other Friday, long talks about the tiny aircraft models you notice scattered around his place, strange little tokens he claims calm him after work.
Neighbor!Caleb is observant. Almost too observant. He notices the scratches on your hands from a hunt before you mention it. Tracks your schedule without needing to ask. Prepares little meals for you when you’re too busy to cook. The kind of man who says it’s “just kindness,” but it feels more like precision. Like he's memorized you.
Neighbor!Caleb who for all his openness, you realize you know almost nothing about. Vague job titles, inconsistent work hours and frequent, unexplained travel. Any real questions are laughed off with charming deflections “Trust me, it’s so boring I might cry if I talk about it.” and you laugh too, because he makes it easy. His presence is so bright, it makes you forget to look for shadows.
Neighbor!Caleb calls you Pipsqueak now teasingly, affectionately. He’s overbearing in a way you’ve grown used to. Asking what you’re up to, if you had your meals, if you're feeling ok, offering to order you take-out, holding your phone a beat too long while he installs a tracker. And later, he’ll smile at your exact location from his with a fondness that borders on worship.
Neighbor!Caleb Your friends swoon over him during sleepovers. He’s the topic they never tire of. “How is your sexy neighbor not your boyfriend yet?” they tease, while Caleb smiles next door watching, listening, always near. He likes when they talk about him, likes it more when you blush, and he likes you the most when you're unaware of just how much he already knows.
Then, one night, everything shifts.
Neighbor!Caleb who you see at 3am while its storming when you both arrive home at the same time. Rain clings to you both, words drenched in silence. He's wearing a Colonel’s uniform, his posture is rigid. Eyes sharp on you. Everything about him looks... wrong. Unsettled, you stare at him, breath caught. He says nothing just unlocks his door and disappears inside.
Neighbor!Caleb who the next day, is back in joggers and a hoodie, cheerful as ever. Like it never happened. Like you imagined it. You never see the uniform again. And maybe you never were supposed to.
Neighbor!Caleb who when you casually mention a café you like, just a week later, he’s there before you. Smiling, waiting. “Total coincidence,” he laughs. But it happens again, and again. Your favorite bookstore, your gym. Even a remote trail you walk to clear your head in, he always has a reason. You stop believing it's just coincidences.
Neighbor!Caleb helps you when more than once you find your door slightly ajar, though you swear you locked it. Caleb is the first to show up when you mention it concerned, too concerned. He says, “This place really isn’t safe. You need someone watching out for you.” The next day, there's a new lock on your door. You didn’t install it. He gives you a key and smiles.
Neighbor!Caleb whose desire gnaws at him like a ravenous beast, blue light paints his features in his dark room as he stares at your face on his screen. The hunger inside twists tighter watching you pleasure yourself in your room. Unbeknownst to you how he imagines tracing the lines of your body, memorizing every curve, every shiver, every gasp. His hands ache to claim you to mark you as his. He wants to reach out, to touch, fuck into.
Neighbor!Caleb who monitors you at night, slow footsteps pacing outside your window. When you check, there’s nothing but the scent of his cologne that lingers in the cold air, thick and overwhelming, like he’s breathing right next to you.
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A/N i like to think he owns the building and already knew you were moving in and now pretends to be your neighbor lol, he also avoids renting that apartment besides yours that way. I have more stuff thought out already to make him crazier but yeah uh here's something a bit different. :)
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, manipulation, dependency, power imbalance, forced domesticity, isolation, a tiny bit infantilisation, this is me getting yall slowly used to dark content
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They shaped you to be exactly how they want
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
You used to be so independent. So opinionated, so decisive. A skilled hunter of the Deep Space Hunter Association, Graduated top of the academy. And now?
You’re a delicate little thing wrapped in lace and pearls, sitting in Rafayel’s lap at a velvet booth in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. His hand strokes slow circles on your bare thigh, keeping you calm as your wide, pretty eyes flit nervously over the menu.
Not because you can’t read it. But because, “Raffy,” you whisper softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, “…I can’t pick..”
He beams. Oh, you sweet, helpless thing. “Mm, my baby wants the saffron lobster risotto,” he murmurs against your temple, curling a lock of your hair around his finger. “You always get pouty when the rice is undercooked anywhere else, remember?” He tucks the menu away without you even touching it. “And we’ll share the strawberry mille-feuille after. No cherries. I’ll kill them if they bring cherries again.”
You nod obediently, letting him order for you, your fingers fidgeting with his sleeve like a lost child. You don’t even notice the way the waiter looks at you with pity. Or is it fear?
Rafayel doesn’t mind. He lives for this. For your dependency. For the way you look to him like he’s your entire world, because he is.
You don’t shop anymore unless he’s there to tell you what’s pretty.
You don’t eat unless he feeds you the first bite.
You won’t even open the curtains without asking him if it’s okay today.
And when you’re home, swaddled in your frilly little outfits, toddling after him barefoot in your designer slippers, asking “Raffy, can I put ribbons in my hair today or are we staying in?”, he nearly collapses from how cute you are.
You can’t function without him anymore. And he made sure of that. Sure, It took a while to get you to this state but he managed.
Rafayel hums softly as he spoons the first bite into your mouth. “That’s it, sweet girl. Good, isn’t it?” His smile deepens when you nod happily, your lips still parted a little for another bite. “See? You don’t need to worry about anything. Just let Raffy take care of it all.”
His voice is so soft, so gentle. But beneath it is that familiar edge of obsession.
If you ever did try to choose something without him now,
If you ever said, “I think I want—” instead of “Raf, What should i—?”
he’d smile at you just the same.
But the look in his eyes would turn terrifyingly cold.
Because you’re his. Utterly, helplessly his.
And he won’t let you survive without him.
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
Your life is so easy now. No stress, no pressure. Just floating through luxury in silk nightgowns and diamonds, curled up in Zayne’s lap in the garden pavilion or lounging in the marble tub he has drawn for you daily at 7pm sharp. He handles everything. He decides everything.
You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore.
And he made sure of that.
⸻
You’re out for dinner with him, very rarely, only when he says it’s safe enough, and you’re clinging to his arm, face half-hidden in his shoulder as the waiter approaches.
“Have you two decided?”
You blink at the menu like it’s written in another language. You didn’t even read it. You looked at Zayne the moment you sat down, your hand resting lightly on his thigh under the table, eyes wide and waiting.
He glances down at you briefly, one of his hands sliding protectively behind your back. “She’ll have the roast duck. Glazed, no herbs on the skin. And the red wine reduction on the side, she doesn’t like it poured over.”
He doesn’t ask you. He knows.
You give a little hum and lean into him, relaxing instantly. “Thank you, Zaynie…” you whisper against his collarbone.
The waiter leaves. Zayne stays silent for a moment, sipping his drink, then gently shifts your chair a little closer to his. Always keeping you within arm’s reach. Always watching you.
“You didn’t even glance at the menu,” he murmurs, tone unreadable.
You blink up at him like a kitten caught doing something wrong, but you can’t tell if he’s displeased.
Zayne watches the way you shrink slightly, how your lips pout just faintly. His hand reaches under the table and settles possessively on your thigh.
“…Good,” he says after a long pause, his voice soft and deep. “You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that anymore.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting across your cheek. “You’re not built for decision-making. Let me handle it.”
And you do. Always.
You wake up when he tells you.
You eat what he places on your plate.
You wear what he’s laid out on the bed each morning, with the jewelry box open for you like a princess.
When you feel anxious, you bury your face in his chest and ask softly, “Zay, what should I do…?” — and he holds you like you’re breakable, whispering, “Just follow me. That’s all you ever have to do.”
He’s spent years making sure you rely on him so fully you wouldn’t last a day without him. And the way you smile when he decides everything for you? Like being cared for is the only thing you’ve ever known?
Zayne would never admit it aloud, but he lives for that look.
You’re not just his housewife. You’re his porcelain doll, the soft and helpless girl he locked away from the world just to protect and control.
And he loves you like that.
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
It’s subtle, with Xavier.
So soft you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve sunk into him, how utterly dependent you’ve become.
You don’t remember when it started. When your “What do you think, baby?” turned into “I don’t know unless you tell me.” When your curiosity, your opinions, your sense of direction, all slowly dissolved into him.
Now, you’re just his. A sweet, soft-spoken housewife who waits by the window for him, dressed in his favorite pale colors, your hair styled just the way he likes, your entire world revolving around when he comes home.
You don’t even know what you like anymore unless Xavier whispers it in your ear.
⸻
You’re out with him, rare, but he allows it. Only in quiet, secure places. Tonight, you’re seated across from him in a secluded booth at a lantern-lit garden café in the upper rings of Skyhaven.
There’s a pretty dessert menu in front of you. You tilt your head at it like it’s written in another language.
“Xavi,” you murmur softly, tugging at his sleeve with both hands, “…what do i want?”
He smiles at that. Not in mockery. Not in amusement. In devotion.
“You want something warm,” he murmurs gently, sliding the menu away and taking your hand, long fingers threading through yours. “Something gentle. Not too sweet.”
He strokes his thumb along your wrist as he places the order. You lean forward, pressing your cheek against his hand as if to say thank you for thinking for me, again.
You always look to him before making any move. You won’t even stand up without asking, “should I follow now?”
He picks your dresses.
He braids your hair in the morning.
He brushes your teeth for you when you’re sleepy.
And when you’re nervous about anything, even something as small as picking the scent of the room diffuser, your first instinct is to turn to him and whisper, “What would make you happy…?”
And he always gives you an answer. Always, so quietly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to guide you.
Because you’re his pretty housewife. His soft little wife who doesn’t need to think. He’s the one who bears the burden of decision. You just have to smile, stay close, and let yourself be loved.
“You’re happiest when you let me think for you,” he whispers against your temple one evening, as he tucks you into the massive bed in your penthouse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… I’ll never let the world confuse you again.”
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
You don’t make decisions.
You don’t even pretend to anymore.
You flinch when someone asks you, “Paper or digital receipt?”
You hesitate in boutiques, waiting for Sylus to tilt his head before stepping toward the display.
Even at home, you sit quietly beside him, legs tucked under you, waiting for him to decide what you’ll eat, wear, watch, or do.
Not because he forbade you.
But because he’s so perfectly, ruthlessly conditioned you not to.
⸻
Tonight, you’re seated beside him at a private luxury tasting hosted by an ally syndicate. Glittering cityscape behind you, violins playing faintly. You look divine in the dress he chose. The one with the daring back and delicate sleeves that makes you look more like a prize than a wife.
A waiter steps forward. “And for the lady?”
You blink, clearly startled. You hadn’t been paying attention, just tracing lazy shapes on Sylus’ thigh, face resting against his shoulder.
Sylus doesn’t even let you speak.
He lifts his wine glass without looking at the man. “She’ll have the truffle risotto. No onions. She won’t touch it if she smells even one.”
The waiter hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. Sylus gives him a single glance, cold, razor-sharp. That’s all it takes. The man practically bows and disappears.
You blink up at Sylus. “I didn’t even realize I don’t like onions…”
He smiles, so smug, so fond, so terrifyingly pleased. “You don’t. You used to pretend you did. For appearances.”
You didn’t even remember that.
But Sylus did. He remembers everything. He’s constructed your new life down to the minute. You don’t have to know anything. He’s already decided what you should.
And it’s so easy to let go.
⸻
You once stood against him as a force. A powerful figure with opinions, ambitions, sharp edges. Took him a while to break you down but now you’re a perfect little thing in designer heels and soft perfume, standing half a step behind him and gripping his sleeve like a doll.
And he loves it.
“You used to challenge me,” he’ll murmur while brushing your hair, voice velvet-slick. “Now you ask me which hand to wear your rings on. How far we’ve come, my little bride.”
You’d never survive without him. Not because you couldn’t try.
But because he made sure you wouldn’t want to.
Why would you?
When Sylus gives you everything you could ever want, except freedom?
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
You’ve been his since you were four years old.
Even then, Caleb was the one who brushed your hair, tied your shoes, and chose which dress you wore on school days. Even when he was just six, he took responsibility for you in a way that was unnatural. Fierce. Obsessive.
So now, as his wife, you don’t lift a finger without him.
You don’t have to.
Because Caleb has spent every waking moment of his life making sure you wouldn’t know how.
⸻
You’re seated beside him in the Skyhaven Officer’s Club, plush and extravagant, your legs swinging beneath the table, perfectly dressed in the soft pearl chiffon gown he picked out for you. His gloved hand rests on your lower back, keeping you steady and close.
The menu sits untouched in front of you.
“Baby,” he says lowly, voice calm, “read it.”
You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “I don’t know what I want,” you murmur shyly, fingers twisting in your lap.
“No.” His purple eyes cut to you sharply. “You don’t make decisions. I do.” He places a single gloved hand over the menu, slowly sliding it toward himself. “But I want to see if you even remember how.”
You go quiet. Embarrassed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
He stares at you for a moment longer before softening, sighing under his breath. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, low and satisfied.
He orders for you. Cuts your food into bites for you. Swaps your glass of water when he sees the condensation has made it too cold. When the waiter brings a side dish that has even a hint of spice, he narrows his eyes and says, “My wife doesn’t eat that. Fix it.”
And you, so sweet, so dependent, you look up at him after every bite like you want praise for just chewing. It makes his chest tighten. He lives for this.
You ask him what to wear.
You ask if it’s okay to sit on the balcony.
You even ask if you’re allowed to use the pink lipstick he bought you.
He trains you into this kind of helplessness. Not through cruelty, but through constant, overwhelming control. Quiet discipline. Every time you make a decision on your own? He gently corrects you.
“Pips, that’s not your job,” he’ll say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Your only responsibility is to look pretty and wait for me.”
And you do. You really do.
He’s raised you into this. His good girl. His housewife. His soft little thing that wouldn’t know how to breathe without him reminding you.
And that’s exactly how he wants it.
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