Turles x fem!reader yandere ficlet
Tags: dominance/control, yandere, stockholm syndrome, collars, objectification?
Not entirely explicit but still suggestive
A/N: Guys I love Turles so much I am so sick, should I write for him more? Or more for DB in general, inbox me if you think so ♡
You used to be someone. A person. With a job, a name, a future.
Now you’re just… his.
He doesn’t even use your name anymore. Pleasantries have been forgotten for a while. Only soft, dangerous little titles that make your skin crawl: pet, doll, sweet little thing. Every syllable rolled off his tongue like silk over a blade.
Turles watched you with those unblinking, calculating eyes. Always entertained. He’d already decided that you're the most fascinating thing in his collection. One that he'd never let go.
“You're adapting well,” he purred, tail lazily swaying behind his hips. “I knew you'd be obedient with the right methods of….persuasion.”
You knelt where he placed you. Not because you wanted to. But because last time you resisted, he made an example of your disobedience in ways you’re still recovering from. Not cruel. Not violent. Just awfully precise, awfully adapted to curtail any drop of insolence.
Despite his methods in battle, he didn’t punish like a brute.
He punished like it was an experiment. Like it was a test. A test to see how much you could withstand before you broke in the most beautiful of ways, all because of him. You impressed him often. That was why he had chosen you.
Now, you knelt. Quiet. Head bowed, trembling hands holding onto one another in your lap. He liked you like this. Soft. Subdued. Domesticated.
"See?" he said crouching down in front of you now. A rough finger tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Was that so hard, sweetheart?”
You flinched.
That made him smile. Just a little bit.
"I could crush anybody in seconds," he murmured, brushing your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "But I’d never hurt you, my darling. Not my precious little pet.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Not unless you asked me to."
You hated that part of you—the part that had gone numb, the part that flinched less every time he touched you. The part that listened to his praise and clung to it like it meant something.
“Now, come along,” he said simply. Not a request.
You swallowed hard. “I want to go home.” Your voice was small.
His smile didn’t falter. A soft, wicked laugh bubbled from his chest. “This is your home. You know that.”
You shook your head. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you knew better than to let them slip. He hated it when you cried. Not because he was empathetic and it upsetted him. But because it was ‘unnecessary’ when you had him to ‘cheer you up’.
A single tear escaped your lash line.
He sighed and stood, towering over you again.
“Do I need to put the collar back on?” he sighed, almost bored.
You whimpered.
He tilted his head, waiting. “Should I repeat myself?”
“…No,” you whispered.
“That’s my good girl.” His voice softened into velvet. "Good behaviour gets you rewarded, you know. And bad behaviour..." His tail coiled lazily to its home around his waist. “Well, let’s not do that again.”
You nodded. You hated how easy it was now. How natural your submission was. To exist only in the space he had carved out for you in this twisted little habitat.
He dropped something in your lap.
A collar. Not the collar. This one wasn’t leather. It was softer, more pliable, with a little ribbon at the front.
You stared at it.
He stared at you.
"...Put it on."
You swallowed.
Because there was no point in playing pretend anymore, not when this was some sort of dream that you could not escape.
Your fingers trembled as you grabbed the collar.
His gaze never wavered. Sharp, possessive, yet almost tender beneath the surface.
Slowly, you lifted it, feeling the soft fabric slip around your neck. The ribbon brushed against your skin like a whisper too soft for the circumstance. You fastened the buckle.
He stepped closer, his body heat pressing in, making it impossible to think straight.
His hand curled gently around your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
“Good,” he murmured. Hands drifting to the sides of your arms to help you up, pulling you against him.
Then he bent his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that was everything — demanding and soft, fierce and reverent.
Your breath hitched as his mouth deepened the kiss, tongue tracing promises you didn’t fully understand yet craved anyway. His canines brushed against your bottom lip, pinching and pulling. You whined.
His hands slid from your jaw down your neck, thumb and forefinger curling around it and squeezing. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you who you belonged to. With your body pressed against the firm warmth of his, you melted into him, surrendering to the fire that roared beneath scarred skin and battle amour.
The world around you blurred until there was nothing but his lips, his touch, and the quiet thrum of your racing heart.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes glinted with satisfaction.
“Now let’s go give you that reward,” he whispered.
