obsessive!sukuna notices the instant someone drifts too close to you, like a wire pulled tight inside him. Even across the room, his attention snaps to you, crimson eyes tracking every inch of space between you and the stranger. He doesn't bother pretending like he’s not watching every interaction between you and the stranger. He STARES, like he’s memorizing the threat.
obsessive!sukuna doesn’t trail after you like a shadow. He’s too smart to hover over you all the time; he knows it will give him away. Instead, he shows up exactly when he wants to be seen, like he’s been there the whole time. You turn a corner, and boom, there he is, like his ass has been there the entire time. Leaning up against a wall like he was waiting for you specifically, eyes fixed on you with that sinister smirk. He doesn't blink, he doesn't look away, he just watches. “Out here alone?” he asks, his voice low, almost sultry. The slight smirk on his face makes it obvious that he already knows you are. He always knows.
obsessive!sukuna lovessss when you talk back to him. Everyone folds when he stares, but you? Never. You roll your eyes, you snap back, you meet his sharpness with your own, never backing down. It shouldn't thrill him the way it does, but it does every single time.
obsessive!sukuna always seems to sense the moment you’re uncomfortable. You never have to say a word. One second, you’re trying to get yourself out of a conversation. The next thing, he’s there standing at your side like he was waiting for his cue. His presence alone shifts the air. The other person stiffens and suddenly becomes unsure. “Problem?” sukuna asks, voice lazy and drawn out. But there’s a razor- thin edge beneath it that makes it very clear that the only answer is no.
obsessive!sukuna gets PISSEDDDD when you ignore him. Not anger, just a deep annoyance he doesn't care to hide. You walk right past him without a glance, pretending you don't feel his eyes watching your every move. A moment later, you feel a hand catch your wrist, pulling you to a stop. Sukuna looks at you with a smirk, “Running away already? I thought we were having fun?”
obsessive!sukuna never understands why anyone would think they have a chance with you. The MOMENT someone has the balls to ask if you're single, you hear him laughing behind you. Loud enough to make the question die on their tongue. A hand settles on your waist, firm and unmistakably possessive. “You should try to pick easier battles,” he says, like he’s trying to give friendly advice. His eyes flick to you for a second before cutting back at them sharply, “this one is already mine.”
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
a/n: ugh sukuna will always have a special place in my heart w his fine self. i also didn’t proofread this either so js ignore if something doesn’t make sense LMFAOO
Summary: Gojo Satoru was in love once. She died. He didn’t. You were the one who came after the great love, after the tragedy, after the ring that wasn’t meant for you. He turned grief into an aesthetic and you into a rumor. Everyone knows the story of Gojo Satoru’s first wife: the love, the loss, the lifelong grief. No one bothers to learn the story of his second.
Warnings: Infidelity, cheating, emotional abuse & neglect, unhealthy relationships, toxic/arranged/loveless marriage, second wife, past character death, grief, public humiliation, unplanned secret pregnancy, secret child, absent father, missing spouse, police involvement, media harassment, misogyny, classism, family pressure, family expectations, breaking up, leaving, & soft revenge. WC: 1.4k.
A/N: Gojo Sensei being a cheater in any universe 🌌 is propaganda I refuse to believe in, but I kinda wanted to hurt myself today.
You weren’t his first wife.
That part was never a secret.
No one lied to you when the proposal arrived neatly wrapped in family obligation, legal contracts, and the unspoken currency of trauma-passed-down-through-generations.
They said Gojo Satoru had once loved someone—deeply, utterly, ruinously.
That she had died. That he had not. That they needed you.
Not for love.
For legacy.
You agreed. Not because you were weak.
But because you were tired of pretending love was anything but endurance with pretty curtains.
You wore the pale ivory gown. You wore the ring that had once belonged to her. You wore the silence. The crowd cheered when he kissed your cheek, but his lips never met your mouth. That wasn’t for you. That was hers.
---
The first few months were polite. Cool. Almost frictionless.
Gojo didn’t treat you cruelly—he barely treated you at all.
He wasn’t home much, and when he was, he’d drink quietly, texting someone or staring at a blank wall with his sunglasses still on like the world was too ugly to look at without her.
You didn’t beg.
You didn’t pry.
That made it worse.
He started testing limits. Showing up with perfume on his collar. Whispering other women’s names in his sleep. Not hers—new ones. Living ones. Replaceable ones. Flesh. Not ghost.
You said nothing.
Why would you? You never thought you’d be loved. You didn’t even think you were owed respect. You weren’t delusional enough to think you could eclipse a dead woman—especially not one Gojo had buried with more reverence than he ever gave to the idea of a future.
---
But then came the dinner.
The one where he brought a woman—laughing, drunk, bright and sharp like she didn’t even know who you were. Or worse, she did.
“I thought you were out of town,” you said calmly, looking past Gojo to the girl in heels still dangling her bag on the edge of your antique side table.
You simply stood up, poured yourself a glass of water, and sat back down.
The girl eventually left. But Gojo stayed.
Not out of guilt.
Out of comfort.
He thought your silence was permission.
---
By the second year, everyone in the elite circles knew what you were—the second wife. The not-her. The barren one. The tolerated one.
Your name wasn’t whispered in reverence but in pity.
“Poor thing,” they’d murmur. “She must be so lonely.”
You weren’t.
But you were humiliated.
And Gojo? Gojo was thriving. His grief became aesthetic. His affairs became symbols of tragedy—“He just can’t let go of his past, poor man.” As if the women in his bed were stand-ins for mourning, not choices.
---
You tried once.
Just once.
Not to seduce. Not to win.
To connect.
You asked him, “If there is an afterlife… do you think you’ll see her again?”
He didn’t even flinch. “Yeah,” he said. “I hope so.”
You nodded.
“And if you do,” you asked, voice quiet, “will you tell her about me?”
He looked at you like you’d asked something absurd. “Why would I?”
That was the last time you asked anything of him.
---
Your bedroom turned into your prison.
Your prison turned into your womb.
The doctor said the pregnancy was a surprise. Not a miracle.
Just a biological accident that came from one of the nights he came to you—not out of passion, but out of stress, or boredom, or grief.
You didn’t tell him.
Why should you?
You watched your belly grow alone. In private. Like a wound healing inward.
Not out of revenge.
Out of dignity.
---
The final insult came in winter. You arrived early to a gala you weren’t supposed to attend, only to find him in a back room—on his knees for a woman who looked nothing like his dead wife.
He didn’t even look ashamed when he saw you.
Just annoyed.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
You said nothing.
You just turned.
Walked out.
Drove home.
That night, you packed your suitcase.
Not out of rage.
Not even sadness.
Out of an understanding that you’d never been his.
Not really. Not ever.
---
You left the ring on the table.
The original ring. Her ring.
And next to it, you left a note:
“I hope you find her in the end.
I hope she looks at you the same way you looked past me.
I won’t haunt you.
I wouldn’t know how.”
---
When the baby was born three months later in another city, you put Gojo’s name on the certificate. Not because you wanted him in the child’s life.
But because one day, your child might ask, Who didn’t love us?
---
Gojo Satoru didn’t notice she was gone—
not the first day, not even the first week.
He noticed the silence first. The kind that wasn’t passive. The kind that hummed like a warning.
Her things weren’t missing.
They were unplugged from his life.
The closet looked the same, but her nightgown smelled like nothing. Her ring was on the dining table. And her toothbrush, God—for some reason, that was the thing that broke him. Just sitting there, stiff with dried paste. Abandoned. Like a crime scene cleaned too fast.
Still, he didn’t panic. Why would he?
She’d always been quiet. Unbothered.
He thought maybe she’d just gone to punish him. Make him notice.
He didn’t know she’d been pregnant.
---
His family called first.
“Where is she?” his mother asked flatly.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“You’re her husband, Satoru.”
“Was,” he snapped before he could help it.
Silence.
“...you need to fix this,” she said coldly. “The police came to our house.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because you’re the last person she was seen with, and now she’s a missing, pregnant woman, and your record with women isn’t exactly a fucking lighthouse.”
---
The first time it hit him was at the precinct.
“She was three months along when she left,” the officer said, flipping through the sparse file. “Medical records confirmed it. You didn’t know?”
“No,” Gojo said.
“You didn’t notice your own wife was pregnant?”
“No.”
A pause. The officer raised an eyebrow. “Was she depressed? Suicidal? Did you two fight?”
“No.”
“Did you cheat on her?”
Gojo stared at him.
The officer clicked his pen. “Sir. This is on record.”
“Yes,” Gojo said eventually. “With multiple people.”
The officer said nothing.
Just wrote MOTIVE on the margin of the file.
---
He tried to call her. Her number was disconnected.
He searched hospitals. Clinics. Funeral registries.
Nothing.
The media got hold of the story next.
Not because they cared about her, of course.
Because she was his.
“Second Wife Vanishes Without a Trace: Gojo Satoru Under Scrutiny”
“Ghost of the First, Widow of the Second?”
“Business World Tragedy: Has the Gojo Clan Lost Another Bride?”
They called it romantic.
They turned her into an echo.
---
Then one day, two months into the fallout, he received a letter.
Not handwritten. Not scented. No return address. Just typed.
“I’m alive.
The child is safe.
We are not coming back.
I was not suicidal.
I was not broken.
I left with a clear mind and a full heart—just not for you.
Please tell your mother I never wanted the title of Gojo matriarch.
I was only ever trying to survive the role.”
Gojo stared at the letter until the ink blurred.
No apology.
No explanation.
No signature.
---
He could have hunted her down. He had the resources.
But something stopped him.
Maybe it was the finality of the phrasing.
Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe it was shame—real shame, the kind that clots behind your throat and doesn’t move.
He remembered her asking once:
“If you meet her again in the afterlife, will you tell her about me?”
And now he wondered what his first wife would have said—if she could’ve seen this.
Maybe she would have walked away too.
Maybe they both should have.
---
Two Years Later.
A friend saw her in a seaside town.
Hair longer. Skin tan. The child was walking, toddling beside her, a little blue bucket in hand. They looked ordinary. Peaceful. Completely disconnected from the aristocracy that had once suffocated her.
Gojo didn’t follow up.
Didn’t interfere.
He just sat on a bench later that night, overlooking the same ocean, and whispered:
“I should’ve asked your name more often.”
A/N: If you are feeling sad like me, here a lil headcanon for this fic, the first wife may or may not have been Suguwu (in Go-hoe's case). 😞
Also, WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?
Like, personally, I would have permanently removed all his body hair, but that's just me. ;D
Baby!Yuji realizing his resemblance to dad!Sukuna.
°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔
You noticed that six-year-old Yuji had been looking in the mirror a lot lately. He was constantly studying his face and playing with his hair. As he did the exact same thing right now, a fond smile touched your lips. You walked up behind him, resting your hands gently on his small shoulders.
"Looks like someone really loves looking in the mirror."
He turned to you and smiled.
"Mommy! I look like Daddy!" he said.
"Ah, so that's why. You were discovering how much you look like your dad."
"Look, my eyes and my hair... just like his!"
His excitement made you giggle. You ruffled his hair and kissed his rosy cheeks.
"Yes, baby. You're a mini version of your dad."
Lately, everyone who saw him kept saying how much he looked like his father. The boy had heard it so many times that he actually started to notice the resemblance himself.
When Sukuna walked into the room, Yuji shared his discovery with him too.
"Daddy, look at me!"
He widened his tiny eyes as if to prove it and pointed at his pink hair.
"Look, we're exactly the same!"
A small, smug smile appeared on Sukuna’s face.
"You're your father's son, kid."
Hearing his dad's words, Yuji's face lit up. But then, a sudden thought about you seemed to cross his little mind.
"I don’t look like Mama."
You pouted slightly.
"You didn’t have to say that right to my face, Yuji."
Sukuna let out a short chuckle, a lazy, playful smirk on his lips.
"Sorry about that," he murmured. "My genes are just a bit too stubborn."
You rolled your eyes.
Encouraged by his dad's laughter, the little boy turned back to the mirror with a proud grin.
"My lips, my nose... all Daddy!"
You let out a soft laugh.
"Yeah... You really do look like your dad."
"I didn’t know you loved your father quite this much," Sukuna teased, a hint of deep amusement in his voice.
Yuji hugged Sukuna's legs tightly and looked up at him.
"I love my daddy sooo much!"
Sukuna ran his hand through Yuji's pink hair, ruffling it gently.
⏾ ⋆.˚ fem darling wakes up in an unfamiliar surrounding.
⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔
turns out chloroform isn't anything like it's portrayed in the movies.
it actually takes quite the bit of time to reach your brain and render you unconscious. around 2 or 3 minutes, and you spent the first couple seconds thrashing wildly against your unseen attacker while he hushed and told you everything would be okay.
that didn't ease your nerves, if anything it only made your heart pound harder in your chest. you recognized his voice, the softness of his tone, you just couldn't pinpoint where exactly you heard it before.
you didn't have time to think of that now. instead you stomped on his feet and slammed your elbow into what you guessed was his abdomen. the groan that erupted from his throat told you had guessed right.
you had stunned him for long enough to thrash out of his clutches and rocket yourself in the opposite direction while he clutched his core in pain. after that you ran into your room and dialed 911 on your- yea im just fucking kidding you aren't going anywhere.
the intruder ended up slamming you hard against the wall in retaliation, then he wrestled you down where you crashed on the floor.
the impact knocked the wind out of you. your helpless whimpers were muffled against the cloth he firmly pressed to your lower face: you had no choice but to breathe into the toxic fumes.
you put up a bit of a fight; he didn't mean to hurt you. but he had to admit his lost his nerve for just a second when you elbowed him. he was, after all, just as excited as you were! that's why his arm was so tight across your chest as he dragged you into his lap and straddled your waist from behind.
he was scolding you right now, but you couldn't hear a damn thing from the ringing in your ears.
'that was quite the tumble, huh? you're so much rowdier than that i thought. it's okay...everything's okay, i've got you.'
you tried to hold your breath, but it was too late for that. what little air you were allowed from the cloth was poisoned, and with each second you lost more control of your muscles.
your head involuntarily lulled back on his shoulder, then you met with the sight of the intruder's eyes under his baseball cap: more specifically his gentle gaze and smile too kind for the context of what he was doing to you.
begging was your best bet now, your last one. even if it was with your tearful eyes and desperate whimpers. he just chuckled and kissed your forehead in response. you were so cute when you were begging, he'd be sure to make you do a lot more of it when he brought you back home. your real home.
you, however, had other plans and waking up restrained to a bed was absolutely not one of them.
you would make sure that your captor knew that. you screamed until your throat was numb and vocal cords ached, (though he appreciated the few days of silence until your voice came back)
you refused him at every corner; meals, hygiene, even sleep. as for the quiet times where he just wanted to exist next you to in silence, you wouldn't have that either. just being within his line of sight was pure torture.
though he expected you to be feral for the first few days and like any stray you would just need to be tamed. but now you were just being unreasonable, and it was starting to hurt his feelings.
he had to dumb you down with sedatives just to get you to eat, now you were slouched back on the arm rest, melting into the plush of his sofa while he spoon fed you like a baby.
'ah-' he beckoned, nudging the spoonful of what looked like tomato soup against your bottom lip, 'say ah, darlin'. yes, that's a good girl.'
there would be times he'd tire of your disobedience. you were a lot more stubborn than he expected, but that was fine. this was a learning process for the both of you.
he never punished you in the traditional sense, (you hadn't pissed him off that much yet) in the beginning he had a general aversion to 'harming' you, but this gave him unconventional ideas for consequences.
that's how he figured out your weakness. you would melt eventually, all he had to do was hold you tight enough, kiss you more often. all of the sweet stuff you fought him tooth and nail over.
he was always so slow with you too, like he was afraid of surprising you. and his understanding and familiarity with your body was scary to say the least.
over time, he was slowly turning you into a version of yourself you couldn't fully control and the worst part was that you didn't even notice.
he could make you arch like a kitten when he had you across his lap, belly first on his thighs while he palmed at your lower back. you had spent the previous night chained up on the uncomfortable basement floor so you couldn't help but to relax, lean into his warmth.
sometimes he'd hover over you, grinding his rock-hard bulge against your bare sex. the warmth in your abdomen was too heavy to ignore. your hips uselessly bucked against his, until you begged him to just come in already. desperate in a way you could never admit when you weren't sedated.
you were only ever pliant when he was going down on you. but even then, he had to tie you up and press his heavy hands on your hips to keep you from bucking him off.
if you got to keep your hands free, you would be clutching your pillow for dear life: either trying to suffocate the moans he forced out of you or deafening yourself from the erotic noises of his mouth devouring on your clit.
'o-okay..okay! i-i...' you struggled to speak, 'i-i'm sorry...i'm sorry fo-for biting y-you...i'm sorry.' you finally relented, tears pouring out of your eyes, you prayed he wouldn't make you climax again.
he never wanted to hurt you, he would rather force you to confront exactly how vulnerable you are.
⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔
a/n: there are a few asks that some of you sent i haven't responded to yet, no i didn't ignore them, they're just sitting on the back burner at the moment.
The sun is streaming through the kitchen windows, the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes is filling the air, and you are currently standing at the stove, flipping a slightly burnt blueberry pancake.
Sukuna is sitting at the kitchen island. He’s fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants, his damp pink hair falling into his eyes. He’s scrolling through his phone, sipping his black coffee, completely relaxed.
“Hey,” you say, not looking away from the frying pan. “Can you grab the syrup from the pantry?”
“Yeah, I got it babe.” Sukuna rumbles. He stands up, his massive frame easily reaching the top shelf of the pantry. He sets the bottle on the counter next to you, leaning in to press a lingering, warm kiss to your bare shoulder. “Smells good.”
“Thanks, babe,” you smile, leaning into his touch.
It’s a normal morning. A perfectly domestic, quiet morning. And then, the patter of tiny, bare feet echoes down the hallway.
Yuji waddles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas, his spiky pink hair sticking up in every possible direction. He’s clutching an empty plastic sippy cup in one chubby hand, looking incredibly serious for a toddler who just woke up.
He stops in the middle of the kitchen floor. He looks at you. He looks at Sukuna.
Then, he takes a deep breath, puffs out his little chest, and yells, “Babe!”
You freeze. The spatula in your hand halts mid-air. Sukuna stops mid-sip of his coffee. He slowly lowers the mug, his eyes blinking in confusion.
“Did he just…” you whisper, slowly turning your head to look at your husband.
“There’s no way,” Sukuna mutters, his brow furrowing. He looks down at the two-year-old. “What did you say, little man?”
Yuji marches over to Sukuna. He stops right at his father’s bare feet, tilts his head all the way back to look up at the towering 6’4” wall of muscle, and holds up his empty sippy cup.
“Babe,” Yuji says, his voice completely clear and demanding. “Juice. Pwease.”
Sukuna’s jaw drops.
You slap a hand over your mouth, your eyes going wide. “Oh my god.”
“Did you…” Sukuna stammers, looking from Yuji to you, completely bewildered. “Did he just call me babe?”
“He definitely just called you babe,” you wheeze, a laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Yuji, growing impatient with the lack of service, turns his attention to you. He waddles over to the stove, tugging on the hem of your pajama shorts.
“Babe,” Yuji insists, pointing a chubby finger at the frying pan. “Pancake.”
A loud, booming bark of laughter erupts from your husbands chest. He throws his head back, his massive shoulders shaking as he braces his hands on the kitchen island. “Holy shit,” he wheezes.
“It’s not funny!” you scold, though you are biting your lip so hard to keep from laughing that it actually hurts. “He’s going to go to daycare and call his teachers babe!”
“The kid’s got swagger, what can I say?” Sukuna laughs, wiping his eyes. He crouches down, bringing himself to Yuji’s eye level. “Hey. Buddy. Who am I?”
Yuji looks at him like it’s the stupidest question in the world. He reaches out, patting Sukuna’s tattooed cheek with a sticky hand. “Babe.”
Sukuna bites his fist, his face turning red from the effort of holding in another hysterical laugh. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Stop swearing!” you hiss, swatting Sukuna’s shoulder with the spatula. You kneel down next to him, putting on your most serious, gentle mom-face. “Yuji, sweetie, look at me.”
Yuji blinks his big, golden eyes at you. “Yeah?”
You let out a long groan, dropping your head into your hands. Sukuna is practically vibrating next to you, completely useless.
“No, baby,” you say, looking back up. You point to yourself. “I am Mama. Ma-ma.”
Yuji stares at you.
You point to Sukuna, who is currently trying to compose his face into something resembling a responsible parent. “And he is Dada. Da-da. Not babe.”
Yuji looks at Sukuna. He looks at you. His little eyebrows furrow in deep toddler concentration. He’s processing the information. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“Mama,” Yuji says slowly, pointing at you.
“Yes!” you cheer, clapping your hands. “Good boy!”
Yuji then points at Sukuna. “Dada.”
“Exactly,” Sukuna nods, looking incredibly proud. “Nailed it, little man.”
Yuji smiles, a massive, gummy grin that lights up his entire face. He looks thrilled with himself. He holds up his sippy cup again, looking right at Sukuna.
“Dada babe! Juice!”
“I give up,” you sigh, standing back up and walking over to the fridge to get the apple juice. “We’re raising a tiny frat boy. This is entirely your fault.”
“My fault?!” Sukuna gasps from the floor, trying to catch his breath. “How is this my fault?!”
“Because you call me babe every five seconds!” you argue, pouring juice into the plastic cup. “You never use my actual name! You never call me mama! He literally thinks ‘babe’ is a universal pronoun!”
“You call me babe too!” Sukuna defends himself, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. He looks entirely too amused by the situation. “I haven’t heard you call me ‘dada’ unless we’re in the bedroom, and even then—”
“RYOMEN SUKUNA!” you shriek, your face flushing a shade of red as you shove the sippy cup into his chest. “Not in front of the child!”
“What? He doesn’t know what that means,” Sukuna smirks, standing up and effortlessly pulling you by the waist until your back is flush against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, wrapping his arms around you.
Yuji happily takes his juice, taking a long sip before waddling over to the living room to watch his cartoons, completely oblivious to the absolute crisis he just caused.
“We have to actively start calling each other Mama and Dada around him. Seriously. I am not having my two-year-old walk around the grocery store yelling ‘babe’ at me.”
“Alright, alright,” Sukuna chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “We’ll be better. Strictly Mama and Dada from now on.”
“Promise?” you ask, turning your head to look up at him.
“Yes, mommy..” he laughs, kissing your cheek. You groan, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “I hate you.”
an: i'm laughing my ass out with the tiktoks of toddler calling their parents babe! please let me marey Sukuna :c art by: umeka ryomen on pinterest here! the dividers and GIF i got from pinterest! please let ne know who the owners are if u know!
GentleYandere!Boyfriend is the definition of a gentle sanctuary. In a world that constantly screams at you to be louder, faster, and more practical, he is a quiet, unyielding wall of support. He looks at your art not as a "silly little hobby," but as the very extension of your soul. He is the type of boyfriend who bought you a high-end, professional easel for your birthday, setting it up in the brightest corner of his apartment before you even officially moved in. He treats your sketchbooks like sacred texts, never opening them without your permission, but looking at every page with absolute, breathless awe when you do show him.
The psychological warfare your family inflicts on you is something he takes deeply personally, though he keeps his rage completely hidden beneath a polite, charming smile. Every holiday dinner or family gathering is a minefield. Your parents will casually ask when you're going to "grow up" and study for the MCAT or the LSAT, dropping passive-aggressive remarks about how your cousins are buying houses while you’re "still playing with crayons." During these moments, your boyfriend’s hand will find yours under the table, his thumb rhythmically rubbing the calloused skin from your pencil grip, grounding you so you don't shatter right there over the roast beef.
GentleYandere!Boyfriend handles your family gatherings with a terrifyingly polished, passive-aggressive defense strategy. He doesn't yell, but instead, he kills them with a terrifyingly polite, upper-class civility. When your father laughs and says art won't pay the bills, your boyfriend will casually sip his wine and chime in with a smooth, dangerous calm: "Actually, sir, their latest commission was acquired by a private collector for more than most entry-level associates make in a year. But then again, true talent is quite hard for the corporate mind to quantify, isn't it?" He delivers the insult with such an innocent, dazzling smile that your family doesn't even realize they've been insulted until the drive home.
His yandere nature is entirely focused on isolation through comfort. He actively weaponizes your family's cruelty to cut you off from them, and he does it so gently you think it's entirely your idea. After a particularly brutal dinner where your mother reduces you to tears over your life choices, he will wrap you in a massive, heated blanket in the passenger seat of his car, hand-feeding you your favorite comfort food. He’ll kiss your temple, his voice a low, soothing purr. "They don't deserve your beautiful mind, my love. Why do you keep letting them bleed you dry? You don't need their approval. You have me. I can fund your studio for the rest of your life. Let's just block their numbers. Just create for me."
When the pressure becomes too much, and you have a full-scale, devastating mental breakdown in your studio, crying until your ribs ache, tearing up old sketches, and screaming that your parents are right and that you're a failure, GentleYandere!Boyfriend is there within seconds. He doesn't try to give you logical advice or tell you to calm down. He will physically drop to the floor into the mess of charcoal and ripped paper, pulling your shaking body into his lap. He will pin your hands gently against his chest so you stop hurting yourself, burying his face in your neck, letting you cover his expensive clothes in tears and stray paint. "Let it out, little bird. I'm right here. I've got you. They are blind, but I see you. You are a genius. I will take care of everything."
GentleYandere!Boyfriend takes care of your physical needs with a doting, overbearing intensity, especially when you enter a "flow state" and forget the rest of the world exists. If you spend forty-eight straight hours locked in your studio working on a canvas, he won't get angry about the lack of attention. Instead, he will quietly slip into the room every few hours to place a fresh glass of water, a plate of cut fruit, or a warm meal right beside your palette. He’ll stand just behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders, giving them a firm, grounding squeeze. He loves watching the manic, beautiful light in your eyes when you paint because he knows that as long as you are consumed by your art, he is the only one holding the safety line, keeping you attached to reality.
GentleYandere!Boyfriend has a secret, deeply obsessive collection that you know nothing about. Every single sketch you throw away, every "ruined" canvas you discard in the trash, he secretly retrieves. He has a private, locked room in his office where he carefully flattens out the crumpled papers, frames your failed watercolor tests, and hangs your half-finished oil paintings on the walls. To him, even your mistakes are masterpieces. He will sit in that room for hours in the dark, sipping a drink, completely surrounded by your mind, utterly satisfied by the knowledge that your family is losing you more and more every day leaving you entirely to him, your permanent patron, your protector, and your ultimate muse.
Nanami had never considered himself a jealous man.
possessive, perhaps, in small ways. protective? certainly.
but jealousy? it was messy. the sort of thing that clouded judgement and made people act irrationally.
Nanami preferred facts.
and the fact was that you were free to spend time with anyone. the fact that your smile didn't belong to him. and the fact that he trusted you completely.
but why—why had he spent the last twenty minutes staring at his phone?
the photo on the screen was harmless for god's sake!
a group picture from a company dinner. you sat near the center, smiling oh so sweetly to the camera.
but the problem is there was a man sitting beside you.
nothing appropriate or suspicious. just a coworker. a coworker whose arm was slung casually over the back of your chair.
a coworker who seemed to appear in every photos your friend posted. a coworker whose name you had mentioned bunch of times this week without realizing it.
Nanami locked his phone and set it face down on the table.
he hated this feeling. Not because he distrusted you.
there was no reason for the knot tightening in his chest.
there is no logical explanation for why he suddenly found himself wondering whether you smiled that brightly around everyone. or whether you looked at everyone the way you looked at him.
the apartment door opened suddenly, snapping him out of his trance.
"Kento?" your voice drifted through the hallway.
you stepped into the living room, smiling when you saw him.
"There you are."
Nanami returned the smile automatically.
but as you sat beside him and started talking about your day, he found himself listening for one name. and when it finally appeared in the conversation? his jaw tightened.
your words faltered. "Kento?" you looked at him carefully.
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
then, quietly, you asked. "Is there something wrong?"
he met your gaze briefly before looking away.
the silenced stretched. not uncomfortable, just heavy. Nanami wasn't entirely sure how to answer.
you knew your husband too well to notice when something was off.
"Kento."
"Hm."
"You're doing that thing."
his brows furrowed slightly. "What thing?"
"The thing where you pretend nothing's bothering you."
you moved closer on the couch, turning toward him fully.
"Did something happen at work?"
"No."
"Did someone annoy you?"
"Not particularly."
"Are you tired?"
"Always."
your expression only softened.
your fingers reached for his hand without thinking. you interwined your fingers with his.
"C'mon, talk to me?"
you waited patiently, giving him space to speak.
Nanami hated that he was making this difficult.
eventually, he said, "Who is he?"
you blinked. "...who?"
"The coworker."
your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."
for several seconds, you said nothing.
then, "Are you jealous?"
Nanami closed his eyes briefly. "Perhaps," he sighed.
your expression softened even further.
you shifted closer until your shoulder rested against his.
"I found him annoying," you started. "He talks too much, he steals food, he's arrogant too."
the corner of Nanami's mouth twitched. you caught it immediately.
"There he is."
"I was here the entire time."
"No, you were somewhere in your own head."
you brushed your thumb over his knuckles.
"I don't smile because of him," you sighed. "I smile because i was having fun."
his gaze softened. "I know," he admitted.
"Then why are you suffering by yourself?"
a faint huff escaped him, not quite a laugh.
"Because," he pulled your joined hands closer. "I was hoping it would stop if i ignored it."
"Did it work?"
"No."
you laughed. "That was unfortunate."
he laughed along with you. "It was."
the knot in his chest began to loosen.
not because the jealousy had vanished. but because you were looking at him exactly the way you always had.
summary: more dumb texts .. normally nonchalance is unacceptable but i'll make an exception for fratkuna!!!!!!
warnings: fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns, names like girl/girlfriend, etc.), actual overuse of exclamation marks do NOT take a shot everytime they're used or you will DIE, cursing?, mention of emotionally unavailable suguru (mommy i'm scared.......)
a/n: hi did you miss me? i'm back take these PLEASE TAKE THEM AAAAAA PLEASE IM SCARED
art creds: 1 (couldn't find the artist's tag so i linked the pin)
♡ TW: noncon, toxic relationship, misogyny, chauvinism, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, other toxic traits, sorta spineless reader, but not really
♡ FEM reader
♡ PS: sorry to anyone named Franny or Carrie. The story required a couple of girl names.
You're on your way home in the dark.
It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge.
Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.
Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.
You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.
Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there.
But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.
You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy, you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking.
Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you.
You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral.
Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you.
This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.
You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.
Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.
That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour.
He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.
Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”
But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”
“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad.
You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.
“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”
You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.
Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.
The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”
Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”
His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”
You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.
“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”
He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”
It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?
“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”
He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”
And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.
And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.
No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.
He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits.
And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.
“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.
“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”
He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”
“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.”
Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.
Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”
He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”
You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”
Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”
He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this.
You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.
“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.
But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”
You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”
He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”
Yeah… You end up dating.
In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms.
You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.
Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back.
Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.
Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.
He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.
Is what you thought until, well…
After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.
It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal.
Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.
It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing?
At least, that’s what it feels like…
Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.
But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.
“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.
You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.
“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.
“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.
You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”
He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”
You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”
His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”
You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.
“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.
“Just the lounge down by the pier.”
He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”
You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.
When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”
“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”
“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.
“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.
Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”
It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”
And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.
“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”
You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.”
He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin.
“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.”
Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint.
“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”
It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning.
You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough.
And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”
To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”
Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly.
You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.
“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.
You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend.
Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”
“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.
Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”
Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”
Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”
You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”
That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”
You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.
“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.
“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”
Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”
You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”
There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.
Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”
You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.”
You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”
The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.
You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want.
Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.
Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.
“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot.
It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.
If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.
“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”
“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.
“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.
He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”
You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.
He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”
“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing any of it.
Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”
You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”
You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.
He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.
The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.
You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself.
“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.
“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.
“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”
With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”
You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”
“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”
He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.
“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.
“Just sit.”
You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will.
In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.
“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.
“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”
You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.
But little good it does you...
In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.
“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—”
His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it.
“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.”
Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored.
“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.”
He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.
And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles.
“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next.
“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?”
His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.
“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.”
You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties.
There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.
“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”
The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place.
“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop.
Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”
You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.
“Good,” he affirms.
His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.
He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you.
“Come on. Bathroom.”
His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.
You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.
“Let’s get all this clown shit off.”
His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.
Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off.
You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.
“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead.
You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling.
“My pretty girl.”
He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.
“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”
You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.
“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.
“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.
To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…”
He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”
tw: 18+ ONLY, MDNI, DARK CONTENT, noncon/dubcon, ddlg dynamics, use of daddy, implied kidnapping, implied stockholm syndrome, uh brat taming?, spanking, pet play as punishment, sexual content, derogatory language
a/n: this came from the most depraved corner of my brain. 😂 enjoy!
in another life, yandere!nanami kento thinks he might've been a good girl dad. he loves the process of waking you up in the morning, helping you brush your hair and teeth, picking out a cute little outfit for the day, making you breakfast.
at the kitchen table, while you swing your feet happily and eat your fruit cup (you're settling into captivity so nicely!), he writes out your daily chore list on the whiteboard attached to the fridge. it's simple stuff for the most part, just activities to keep your mind and body occupied while he's at work. things like making your shared bed, putting away the clean dishes, and completing a few pages in the university prep workbook he bought you. naturally, he would never dream of letting you leave him to go off to university, but you need to keep your mind sharp, sweetheart!
his favorite moments, though? when you misbehave. because those are the moments when he can indulge in his real fantasies, the ones that involve you naked and bent over his lap, begging him to stop spanking you, that you're sorry for ignoring him when he came home from work. he never listens and he's never truly satisfied until you're stuffed full of him and he's kissing your tears away while you promise you'll never be a brat again.
you're lying, of course. you're always looking for ways to act out. you love your daddy, but there's also the teeny tiny problem of how he kidnapped you in the first place. how rude! so you like to push his buttons a little bit. it drives him up the wall when you throw temper tantrums. they're usually harmless, like refusing to do your chores, wearing clothes deemed too "mature" for you, or staying up past your bedtime watching grown up movies. those infractions are easily corrected with a firm hand and a stern scolding. sometimes, though, your fits turn dark, more dangerous. sometimes, they even frighten your captor.
when you're really mad, you trash the house while he's gone. you tear wallpaper off the wall, shred the couch cushions, break all the dishes in the cabinets. it happens enough times that he has to install new security cameras throughout the house that alert him as soon as you're up to no good.
the punishments after your fits are nothing close to the spankings you get for being a brat. no, ungrateful bitches who destroy his house get locked up in a big kennel for hours on end. you're no longer allowed to wear clothes, or speak. you wear a collar every day and eat out of a dog bowl at his feet. if you're lucky, he might allow you to sleep in the bed next to him. most of the time, you're relegated to a plush dog bed on the floor with a light pink fleece blanket to cover you up.
this goes on until he deems you're fit to be his good little girl again which, if we're being honest, is only a couple days into the punishment. he can't stand that sad look you give him for long.
i honestly loved the recent angst smau and ik part 2 isn't sure but if it did.... just know i am ready hehe. it'd be satisfying to have reader get her lick back 😁 they deserve a lot more than a block
*✩‧₊˚THEY COME CRAWLING BACK
(a part two to this one)
TEXTS starring Dick, Wally, Roy, Jason, Bruce, Hal
cw: NSFW +18, MDNI, gn!reader except in hal's where the word 'gf' is mentioned, FWB situationships, suggestive/explicit texts, they're extra mean/toxic in this one, swearing, angst, you're NOT in a 'sugar baby' relationship with bruce he's just pathetic
OMG REQUESTS ARE OPEN LETS SEE More Finn?The Cat boy? Please? I grovel before you. And question. How do you come up with your ideas? You write as if you exprienced it before..... As the yandere or the darling i do not know. Also Hi PG!
I don’t come up with ideas. I see the words ‘cat boy’ and do what feels natural, usually in the format of a few hundred words. Thinking is for the weak and creativity is a concept manufactured by capitalists. I refuse to indulge it.
Title: Commitment Issues.
TW: Implied Abandonment and Past Trauma.
~
This would be the third time you had to buy a new set of glassware.
It was Finn’s favorite hobby, as of late. If you had a normal cat, you could be more diligent about where you kept your dishes, or buy a few locks for your more valued possessions, but any Hybrid was smart enough to check inside a drawer and loud enough to complain if you started ‘keeping secrets’, as Finn so often phrased it. The first time, it was cute, and you let him off with a lecture, and you couldn’t be mad the second, not when his eyes were so wide and he was so curious to see if this bowl was as breakable as the other dozen he’d tried. It felt different, though, this time.
It felt malicious.
His eyes were narrowed, now, focused on shards littered across your tiled floor as he rolled over his next projectile in his hand - a glass cup, clear and patterned and so, so expensive to replace. Nothing about his posture would suggest it, his back hunched in concentration and his legs crossed underneath him, making it seem as if Finn was just protecting his territory on your kitchen island as fiercely as he could. The only hint of his discontent came in the form of his tail, curled and motionless, forming a curved, bowing arch behind him that only occasionally twitched when your gaze met his. Neither of you had spoken, not since Finn spotted you in the doorway, and he saw fit to break the silence with a heart-stopping, finance-straining crash, the cup soon in pieces at your feet, Finn already selecting his next target from the slowly shrinking hoard beside him.
“You’re mad,” You announced, aiming the statement toward no one in particular. Finn was the only one around to hear it, and he certainly wasn’t listening. “Am I allowed to ask why?”
A plate, this time, one of your nicer ones. It splits down the middle, forming two lopsided pieces. “I don’t know what you mean. My hand slipped.” He bent down, picking up one of the larger shards and letting it drop. You raised an eyebrow, and Finn scoffed. “It slipped again.”
You crossed your arms, only to uncross them and lurch forward as he shoved your favorite mug of the tabletop’s edge, Finn watching as you scrambled to catch the utensil by its ceramic handle. With more force than you probably should’ve used, you slammed the mug down on the countertop, taking Finn’s wrist when he reached out to take it back up. You’d come home less than an hour ago, your shoes still on and every cell in your body still exhausted, but safe-guarding your possessions came first. Unless you wanted to come back to the scraps of whatever Finn’s tantrum left behind. “Tell me what’s wrong, alright?” You tried, sympathetically, softening your tone and squeezing his hand affectionately. “I don’t want to put a deadbolt on the cupboard, again, and I’m not going to fight with you. Just… tell me what’s bothering you. I’ll do whatever I can to make it right.”
Finn took a moment to evaluate your offer, the tip of a pink tongue emerging to absentmindedly trace the shape of his fangs. When he spoke, he did so hesitantly. “Promise?”
“Anything,” You said, pursing your lips. “Within reason.”
That was all the permission he needed. Swiftly, he jumped down from his perch, short nails hooking around the hem of your sleeve and pulling you forward, urging you to follow as he made his way deeper into your apartment. You tried to think of where he wanted to take you, for a second or two, but by the time you formed a list of possibilities, you’d already arrived at the entrance to your cramped bathroom, the door quickly pushed open with Finn’s shoulder. He was a head shorter than you and weighed half as much, but you were too stunned to fight back as he shoved you into the open shower, letting you trip over a low wall and fail to catch yourself on smooth tiles, your back eventually hitting the floor with a hollow thud. A dull pain sparked at the base of your spine, etching itself into your mind with a series of aches and throbs, but if Finn noticed, he didn’t feel the need to show it, his lips pursing into a thoughtful scowl as he scrambled to dislodge the showerhead. His efforts were persistent, but sloppy. A result of never feeling the need to practice, not without another person’s help.
“Finny, I don’t--” You stopped, abruptly, bracing yourself just in time to be hit with a spray of ice-cold water. It was a graceless assault, clumsy and too sudden to be gentle, but thankfully, Finn thought to move away from your head quickly, leaving your hair soaked and your chest seeped of its warmth, your clothes seeming to hold the chill against your skin longer than it had to. You considered attempting to remove a layer or two, if only to alleviate the discomfort, but decided it was better not to think about it. Finn was already panicked. You didn’t want to make things worse. “Stop,” You urged, your tone too light for the demand to be a true order. “What are you… Why? I can’t believe--”
“You smell like someone else.” The explanation was brief, but he spat the words as if they were venom on his tongue, harsh and passionate and awful. More awful than anything you’d heard him say before. “You came home like that yesterday, too, and the day before. Someone’s been touching you.” His lips curled back, teeth emerging in a sharp, observant snarl. “You’ve been touching someone else.”
“You’re being irrational.” Finn’s grip on the showerhead tightened, but he didn’t move to stop you as you moved to push yourself up. The steam came to focus on center of your stomach as you stood, turning off the water with little more than a twist of your wrist. Stripped of his only weapon, Finn’s surrender came without further argument, the showerhead dropped and his face soon buried in your shirt, claws beginning to kneed into your hips in a silent plea for forgiveness. You opened your mouth, but he didn’t give you time to speak. His breathing was still labored, his eyes still shut in an effort to block out the rest of the world. Part of you felt bad at him, even if you were the one left dripping wet.
“The last one started coming home like that, too,” He mumbled, snow-white ears flattening against his scalp. “She brought another scent home, then she brought someone else home, then she didn’t come home at all. You’re gonna leave, too, and you’re not gonna come back. You’ll leave me.”
You sighed. You sighed, and you ran a hand through his hair, scraping over his scalp and scratching at the base of his ears, doing all the things you always did when he doubted your commitment. In return, Finn leaned into you, his weight settling against your own until there was no doubt you were the only thing holding him up.
You did all the things you were supposed to do, and yet, you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to tell him you’d stay.
