#stalker!reader

[gloomwitchwrites]

a continuation of Ghost's prompt from this Imagines prompt.

stalker!ghost x stalker!fem!reader

mdni. dubcon/noncon. stalking. kidnapping. somnophilia. dd:dne

Ghost is trapped in your basement…

…and you make him your little plaything, walking him like a dog, forcing him to cum inside you, keeping him as your own personal dildo.

But Ghost loves it, because he’s just as fucking crazy as you are, allowing you to think you have the upper hand in this dynamic. He let’s you have your fun, waiting for that perfect opportunity, flipping the power balance, dragging you back to his place.

Now you’re his plaything. Keeps you gagged, naked, tied up in a special room he made just for you in his basement. Fucks you however he wants, puts you in a pretty collar, keeps a vibrator taped to your clit so he can turn it on wherever he is, forcing orgasms out of you until you pass out so he can have sex with your unconscious body.

If you’re a good girl he might let you out. A little “thank you for coming inside me” earns you a mattress. A “fuck me again, master” earns you fresh water and a meal. You stay on your knees, present your pussy when Ghost enters the room. You’re a good little pet, earning those treats, earning enough trust for Ghost to bring you upstairs.

That’s the first mistake, giving you space to roam. It takes all but a few days to plan your escape, to subdue him and punish Ghost right back.

But Ghost knew you would.

He was waiting for it.

And what’s the punishment?

Back in the basement, restrained with a doggy style spreader bar. You’re a hole now, and Ghost is looking forward to breaking you in.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[indecisivemuch]

Romance isn’t dead

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Summary: You've been obsessed with Luke Castellan for the last few months and on Halloween, you found out he has been hiding something from you (obsessed/stalker!reader x innocent Luke, dark-ish romance (not that intense considering ive seen the dark romance stuff on tumblr), toxic jealousy, uhm...unaliving people, just...kind of fucked in the head, but happy ending, …stalker!reader x stalker!Luke 🫣)

Note: Happy Halloween! Wrote this last year but couldn't quite finish it until now. This is the first time I've ever written something like this. It's 110% outside of my comfort zone, I can only hope I did okay. Also, I’ll be actively editing this piece during the next few days cause I currently don’t have enough time to polish it.

Songs I was listening to while writing: House of Balloons / Glass Table Girls by the Weeknd, and So Far So Fake by Pierce The Veil.

Word count: 5k (forgive me, I’ll cut it down soon)

You love love, but somehow it has never loved you back…never enough, anyway.

It was unintentional, but you have always found yourself as the giver in relationships — constantly the one to pull the rope for both parties; always sacrificing and compromising for their comfort; crossing lines and getting your hands dirty just so the other person was satisfied.

Obviously, they had never asked you directly for it. But that was the thing. Isn’t it nice to have a partner who was willing to do things for you without you having to ask for any of it? Isn't it nice to languidly lie back with wishes hanging from your lips yet never spilt because your wildest dreams were already served on a silver platter?

Unfortunately, you have never been on that other end. You were constantly the one to love loudly and openly. But an engine could only run so far without any oil to refuel it. Soon, the honeymoon stage would fade, and you would eventually realize how lacking your situation was and that your partner was not even trying to match the same level of affection. On top of that, doubt is a parasitic disease. Once it is there, it is bound to eat away at your devotion, making you question everything.

But the thing was that you had always felt “under-loved”. The things your past lovers have done felt underwhelming compared to the things you have done and the things you were willing to do for them. It was exhausting chasing the kind of love that made you feel like you were insane for simply trying relatively above average.

Despite this self-awareness, you once again found yourself in the same situation. You pursed your lips at the thought.

You have done so fucking much for Luke Castellan.

Your eyes swept over the figure resembling the object of your monomania, standing clueless under your gaze — not that he could see your eyes.

Halloween night has always been dull at Camp Half-Blood to you, with annual bonfires that usually die out sometime past midnight. But this year, things have switched up, apparently. Somebody managed to put together a party. Initially, you were not going to attend, but after learning that a certain Demigod was going to be there, you felt obligated to. After all, how could you miss any chance to see him?

You deliberately dressed up as a famous masked serial killer character. That way, your eyes and face were concealed, allowing you to openly observe the Hermes cabin counselor. There were a couple of others at the party with the same costume too, so even if something were to happen, they would not be able to pinpoint you.

Trailing your eyes down from head to toe, your heart hiccuped at the sight of him. You once again fervently traced out every detail about him: those plump lips that you’ve seared the outline of into your mind; the eyes that you wanted to solely be pinned on you; the hands that you wish made home around your throat.

Your chest rose and halted as he swept his eyes over in your direction for a split second. You could have sworn those dark brown eyes had lingered on you for a moment. However, as much as you wished that that was true, you knew it was impossible.

He doesn’t even know your name yet, but you were working on that. In fact, you have crafted the perfect way to enter his life, down to the tiny detail.

Now…why Luke Castellan? You were not entirely sure, but he was a surface-level fascination that quickly bled into an obsession, like an open wound gushing out blood.

It has not been that long since the first time your heart had screeched for him like a vulture who has found its next corpse to devour. You think maybe what had changed was when you first locked eyes with him a few months ago, marking your first “interaction” with him despite residing at the same camp together for three years. In that moment, you noticed a splinter of sinisterness in his eyes and it intrigued you greatly that nobody else had noticed it. You even thought that you had hallucinated it, but after the second time of spotting that same shadow of malice, you knew there was a hidden side to Luke that was much less perfect than Camp Half-Blood had painted him to be. Only then did you become fascinated and pulled into this endless pit of obsessive longing.

You continued loitering in the corner, water-filled red cup in hand, because you needed to be vigilant. You needed to be sober to keep an eye on your favorite counselor. Especially w—

A girl stumbled towards Luke, her accidental tripping reflecting some D-class drama skills. She blurted out a shameless giggle that your ears picked up over the noise. It was a sound that made you want to tear out her voicebox. She pulled Luke down by his shirt to whisper something in his ear before handing him a note, rubbing his arm as a last lingering remark.

Every thought dropped dark as your mind grew pitch black. Every muscle stiffened while your heart dropped, shattering like broken chandelier shards scattering everywhere endlessly and defensively sharp. The plastic cup around your hand suddenly felt like the perfect anger outlet, but you held your control. It took a bit of extra effort to keep your hands from shaking, but you had managed. Your eyes left Luke for the first time that entire night; instead, they followed the girl who had the guts to lay one singular finger on him.

Your attention finally turned back to Luke, and you wondered where he had kept that note she had handed to him. You took a sharp breath, feeling as if he had used a knife to stab you in the heart over and over again because the pain was echoing into an endless tunnel, aching all your nerves away.

He fucking took it.

He took her note. He looked at her with those sweet eyes of his that you now want to carve out so they couldn’t be anywhere but on you. You needed that fucking note. You needed to know what she wrote to him. You contemplated what you would do to that nasty piece of paper. Burning it felt like it would be too easy. Perhaps you’ll shove it down that bitch’s throat. Or…just maybe, you could masochistically keep it in the box under your bed, known as the closet of merchandise related to Luke that you have collected using stealthy hands. It might be a hurtful reminder, but the note was still related to Luke after all.

See? No lovers have sufficed in loving you back just as much as you love them. You had a box dedicated to Luke fucking Castellan and yet, he wouldn’t even bat an eye at you. Instead, he took her note.

Scheming consumed your mind, but your eyes functioned its only purpose — mulling over the only thing worthy of your attention. But instead of sole fondness, you could feel resentment mixing in the cauldron. Longing was exhausting, perhaps your heated gaze would be able to burn holes through his head to punish him for even looking at her.

But Gods, he was fucking divine. You could not even stay mad at him for long. Not when he looked like that. Not when he smiled like that.

However, your gaze swayed again when you noticed the same girl from earlier departing from the party. You didn’t want to leave the Hermes cabin counselor out of sight, but regardless of your wants, there were things that needed to be done. With one last longing look, your eyes once again left Luke. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You knew this was wrong. You knew the temptation for bloodshed and this addiction was not normal. But like many poets and songwriters have said, “love makes people insane.” If so many were preaching that, it must not be as strange as you were thinking it is. Besides, what a foolish girl. You were sure that in another timeline, she would have had a much longer life. Shame it was just not this one.

You hid the shovel where you usually kept it.

Yet, they said romance is dead. You believed that was only because those who say so had never felt the same consuming desire you did, the one that made you kill for love and that instinct lived in your veins like water in oceans.

You made your way back to the party just in time to see Luke Castellan leaving it. Moving swiftly, you took position around the corner to observe where the boy was going.

There he was, walking alone, not even glancing around to check if anybody was following or not. Rather amateur, really. You stayed a safe distance behind, tailing him with practiced movements. Eventually, Luke stopped in the middle of nowhere. The boy then bent down and started brushing leaves aside on the ground. Your brows shot up at the thought that maybe he had something buried. But just as quickly as that theory came, it was refuted when he hooked his fingers through a ring before pulling it upwards, revealing a wooden underground door opening up.

How the fuck did you not know about this?

Your eyes narrowed, feeling displeased again today, but this time because you had managed to let something this big slip past you. The way Luke navigated here seemed too familiar for it to be his first time. So the question was what had he managed to hide from you? Behind the mask, your jaw clenched before your lips pursed at any of the ideas your mind was conjuring up.

However, an opportunity descended into your palm as Luke suddenly searched his pockets for something before sighing and cursing at himself. Within the same moment, he quietly closed the ground door again and evened up the leaves on top of it.

Double-checking your surroundings, you emerged from your place of observation and moved towards where the boy had previously stood. It didn’t take long before your hand felt the cold iron ring that acted as the doorknob to whatever secret was beneath. With ease, you lifted the wooden entrance up, allowing you to peer down into the depth of darkness. Your eyes narrowed once more as you wondered what could possibly be down there.

Your foot slowly placed itself on the wooden stairs that led to what seemed like a bottomless pit of nothing. For the first time in ages, you could feel excitement and thrill course through your veins like an infectious disease. Perhaps this was the gateway that would allow you to peer into the darkness that Luke Castellan has concealed so well from the rest of camp, the one that you had so desperately been wanting to see and soak in. With that, your legs took you down further, the jet black air slowly swallowing any bit of moonlight left.

The pitch black surroundings and ominous air tingled the hair behind your neck as you reached the bottom, but your lips curled at that. Relying on touch, you waved your hands around in hopes that you would be able to touch something. After a bit, you found a switch on a nearby wall. Without much thought, you flipped the button.

Eerie lights began flickering and your visions were flooded with glints of images. You grunted quietly as your eyes adjusted to the blaring brightness that stung your vision. But just as you had gotten used to the new level of lighting, your eyes widened once the view in front of you was fully presented.

What. The. Fuck.

Your heart dropped as the sight before you finally stilled, the lightbulbs no longer flickering. Almost immediately, you tore the Ghostface mask off your face, eliminating any visual obstructions. But the view itself almost became more frightening when you got yourself a clear line of sight.

Surrounding you were four walls packed with thousands of images of you, like a tapestry for worship.

Printed photos of moments where you were unaware that you were being watched. Images of moments you were alone. There were occasional red marker scribbles with obsessive analysis and notes. But the room’s collectibles did not stop at images. On the desk at the center of the box-like room were things you owned that went missing. They were items that you blamed yourself for losing despite your lack of carelessness. Then there were also drawings, such as sweet doodles like hearts around certain frames of you.

Unbeknownst to you, you had stepped foot into your own shrine.

You could not tell how you were supposed to feel.

Fear?

Your heart stuttered.

Thrill?

You licked your lips.

Admiration?

You took a step bac—

Your back hit something soft and warm, swarming your senses with the smell of his cologne. Almost immediately, you felt him lean his head forward. His chin brushed against your shoulder and you could tell he was holding himself back from simply burying his head into your hair. You have never felt such an intense wanting from someone else without even needing to look at them. His desire felt like a sheer force that was threatening to drown you whole.

You stiffened at the long-anticipated moment that came crashing at you like this. This was not how you imagined your first actual interaction to be. Your mind trailed back to the room itself. You had him in a box and he built a secret room to display his devotion to you. This was the great love you had been waiting for, and you didn’t have to chase it for once. No, it came to you, pulling you into its arms.

Oh, how desperate Luke Castellan was to pull you into his arms right now.

Luke doesn’t do love, not for anybody and especially not for you. No, for you, he was infatuated, bewitched and obsessed. Love, to him, was not a big enough term to capture the extent of his feelings.

You deserved more than just love. Love was a weak vow that the passage of time has diluted down to simply a terminology that many teenagers spewed carelessly over someone they wouldn’t witness the next milestone with. Being a spectator to such casual states of “love” at camp only pushed Luke further into detesting the modern idea of it. No, the boy was not looking to give you that. Neither was he looking for promises along the lines of till death do they part.

How finite. How disposable.

He was looking for lifetimes with you, something even measly overused words like ‘forever’ couldn’t define. When the time comes and when you both take your last breaths, he will spend every second finding you in the next one. It was you infinitely or no one. Simple as that. Reincarnations were only worth it to Luke as long as you – the one constant variable Luke ever needed in life – were in them. He’d live different lives with different fates so long as you were also walking the same existence.

His eyes swept over the room that he spent all his time in when away from watching you.

Before, Luke was long over his devoting days. Forced to make burnt offerings to Gods ever since he joined Camp Half-Blood, he didn’t see much meaning to sacrificing and worshiping until you. So, aside from the twelve cabins belonging to the main Olympian Gods that gave residence to their children, there was now one more. Right in the middle of the forest was a carefully crafted man-made ‘cabin’ dedicated to you.

This underground room was a sanctuary and you were his God.

Your breath halted as Luke’s fingers grazed your leg, his touch leaving a trail of heated anticipation in its wake. He stopped up your thigh before reaching just what he was searching for.

“You know, you didn’t have to get your hands dirty for me,” he lifted the sharp object that Ghostface usually used to end their victims, removing it from the holster around your thigh. “Bertha was no threat.”

“You know her name?” You twisted your head a little bit at that to have a better look at Luke. You noticed he had already changed shirts. The one he wore earlier—or the one that Bertha had touched—was now in the bin that you could spot in your peripheral vision.

“I know the names of all your victims.”

Everything was centered around you for him. He couldn’t give a flying fuck what that girl’s name was. He only knew her name because you had graced her an ending. Nothing was worth knowing or doing to him unless it was in relation to you. Why did he become the best swordsman? To be worthy of you someday, and to protect you if time ever comes. Why did he become a camp counselor? So it would be less suspicious if he was spotted out late visiting this room that he had created and shadowing you in whatever you were up to, protecting you from afar. Everything. Everything that he had done and pursued in the last three years had been just for you.

Everything else was an afterthought compared to you.

Cold fingers lightly moved from your cheek down to your chin before holding there delicately, redirecting your gaze towards one corner of the room. Your eyes widened at the content there. The space he wanted your attention on was littered with names of certain people who have “disappeared” from camp. The left side was labeled “Mine” while the right side had the first letter of your name scribbled on top.

The same hand that handled more Demigods than you ever did slowly caressed your cheek with care.

“But I guess she should have known better than to touch what was yours,” Luke whispered softly, yet so steadily and surely as if that had been an established fact all along, sewn onto the fabric of fate. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear enough that I knew.”

Reassurance in a relationship is hot. Something that you severely lacked in previous “relationships.” They never knew to make you feel secure, yet here Luke was, casually worshipping you like his world had not existed before you and would cease to be without you.

You realized then that Luke Castellan had wanted you for a long, long time, maybe even before you had even noticed him, and unlike anyone you had been involved with in the past, he had worked for it. He spent ages watching you, memorizing every detail to the point his body felt like they were only atoms made of facts about you, his brain bound to thoughts of you. He was the devotion you had been wishing for but never knew you already had.

You knew he wanted you, and you knew exactly what you wanted too. You wanted him. But what had you dazed was how willingly he was putting himself on the altar as an offering. He was offering his devotion and everything he had to you. You finally had what you wanted, him right in front of you, all yours. Yet your past experiences held you back.

You had always been the one to confess first. You had never been on the other end, which meant you always let your past lovers set the pace. Here you were, in their shoes and you really did not want to mess it up. Theoretically, you know slow and steady is good. However, right that second, you wanted to kiss Luke so badly and what you had in mind was anything but short and sweet. But what if that was too much? What if he did not even want to kiss right now? You didn’t want to mess this up or scare him off and lose him by doing something that was too much. The idea of losing Luke Castellan with barely a taste of him felt like a punch in the gut.

“Stop thinking, just take whatever you want,” Luke whispered when he could sense your brain overworking.

“Don’t give me such free rein,” you grunted a small complaint.

“Alright…what do you want from me right now then? What is the first thing that popped into your head when I asked you that?”

“I want…” you grew shy all of a sudden. How ironic, considering you could off someone without batting an eye. But then again, you never had someone actively seeking out what you wanted so you never had to voice your desires out. You took a deep breath. 

“I want to kiss you right now…” your voice was low and super quiet. But you knew the boy had heard you from the way his eyes dilated further from your words. He steadily took a step closer, cutting down the distance between you two. Again, his cologne engulfed your personal space.

“How do you want to kiss me, sweetheart?” Luke asked, his voice was hoarse. Your eyes snapped back to him at his question.

Flashes of scandalous images flooded your mind as you envisioned exactly how you wanted to kiss Luke. Your mouth grew dry at the idea of describing exactly what you had imagined, and he could tell by your flusteredness.

“Too shy to tell me? Show it to me then.” As if that was easier. You were growing slightly irked and embarrassed by his suggestion. Your eyebrows furrowed and once again, he seemed to clock into the frustration.

“Come on, you wanted me to know I’m yours, right? You spent months doing it from afar, but can't show it directly to me?” Luke strategically pushed your buttons on purpose. He hummed after a moment of silence from you, smirking when he saw your eyes narrowed at his words.

“You know, I had better expectations of you considering your kill count and possessive behavior. But maybe it’s all for show then, or maybe it’s just fake confidence and for the chase. They do say “fake it till you make it”, but I guess sometimes that just doesn’t happen.” Just to rub more salt to the wound, the boy added “I guess I’ve over-estimated you but that’s alright. What a shame though…”

That did it for you, because the next thing Luke knew, you had shoved him hard. The boy landed in the swivel chair behind him with a loud thud, air slightly knocked out of his lungs. Despite the momentary shock, his eyes immediately snapped back to you, because where else do they ever look?

Luke could feel the impatience and rage in your footsteps as you diminished the distance between you both. You placed a hand on Luke’s chest to push him and the chair back against the table. The boy’s eyes flicked down when you hiked a leg up and placed your knee onto the furniture on one side of him. Almost automatically, Luke’s hand raised to settle on your thigh, but you slapped his hand away harshly.

He did not deserve it, at least not right now.

Heat consumed Luke’s eyes as he registered your action, but he did not fight against your decision. He was well aware of the potential consequences of his actions. Before he could think further, Luke felt fingers trail from his collarbone around to the back of his neck before they aggressively grabbed onto his hair and yanked back, forcing him to look up at you. The action caught him off-guard, causing a gasp to fall out of his lips, but the noise was quickly swallowed away by your own as you clashed your mouths together.

His mind blanked.

Then, the second Luke finally realised what he had longed for for years was coming true, his mind was breathed back to life. His hands flew to your waist like they were magnetized to and he started returning your kiss with three years of unspent yearning. He was fervently pressing his lips against yours as if passing every unspoken confessions and thoughts into this shared moment. Luke was not sure if it was possible to go through withdrawal without an addiction to begin with, but he was consuming the kiss like he had been parched for decades and you were his oasis. Yet, despite his fervidness, the boy knew he was still in the backseat when it came to this kiss.

You were taking the lead, and Gods, were you making sure it was torrid and messy. Your hand was still tangled in his hair, tugging it in such an enticing and punishing way. But then you took a step further by snaking your other hand around his neck slowly. The delicate touch left anything but a soft effect on the boy because a groan immediately echoed against your lips. Luke had never been in this position before, but Gods did it feel good with you. More so, if it was something you wanted, he was wholeheartedly ready to grant it. He squeezed your waist once to ask for more. At his greenlight, your fingers gently tightened teasingly, and the action unleashed scorching pleasure across the Hermes cabin counselor’s body, drawing something almost like a moan from him.

“That’s it, baby…” sweet praise soaked against your lips, then came a soft urging, “Keep taking…”

Because all you’ve ever done before was give.

For once, you let greed consume you, and you took his lips as yours with pure selfish needs. You pushed him deeper into the chair, licking his bottom lip.

“Open.”

He eagerly opened his mouth without hesitation at your command. In fact, he seemed pleased at being ordered around by you. His hands were squeezing your waist ardently as you continued kissing him.

Quite frankly, the Hermes cabin counselor found that his life consisted of only two parts: before you and with you. The second half had long made him forget what the former was like. Not that that was a big deal, considering he had no desire to remember either.

Time became irrelevant as you continued bruising his lips with your own. When you were assured that his lips were swollen enough, you pulled away, feeling fulfilled and that your longing had been satisfied. However, your withdrawal drew out a wrecked, tantalised sound from the Hermes cabin counselor, almost like a whimper. His lips chased after yours as if they could not bear another second away from home. But Luke didn’t push for more. He didn’t take. He simply sat there, sucking in deep breaths like he had been underwater for too long. Though his hands remained on your waist, slightly sliding down to your hips before settling there as if they had found their new favorite place.

Then, for a minute or so after that, none of you said anything. The room was just filled with heavy breaths and quiet looks. Your fingers that were gripping his hair earlier were now gently playing with Luke’s dark locks. You watched as his eyes fluttered shut from your actions, his lips curled in an almost pleasing smile. 

“I like you,” you whispered almost hesitantly. However, you wanted and needed to put that out there. Luke slowly opened his eyes again and you noticed somehow his pupils seemed to enlarge even more.

“I know…you have a box for me,” your lips curled at the mention of your box that had things of his and things related to him in there.

“I do. You know about it?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“I should have done more if I knew you built all of this for me.”

“It’s okay…nobody can be on my level on the get-go. But practice makes perfect, sweetheart,” you wanted to scoff at his cocky reply, but you knew he was joking. “But hey, the box is perfect. I love it. You put a lot of effort into it, thank you,” he added, but it was the kind of validation and acknowledgement that somehow no other lovers of yours had put forward.

His reply felt like a defining moment for you, sealing the deal. You imagined for a second what it would be like this time around. You would like to think Luke would accept you for who you are. At the same time, you knew that you tend to become too intense and lose control sometimes, shedding blood in the name of love.

“I’m scared that I’m too much…or that I’ll be too much for you to handle,” you whispered out in honesty, eyes leaving him.

“Nonsense,” he scoffed lowly immediately, as if the idea that you were thinking that was already enough to upset him. “So what? I love handling you. Keep taking the lead, keep taking. I’ll give you whatever you want to take. Besides, have you not seen what I’ve done for you?” he gestured to his kill list on the wall as opposed to yours. You might be taking the lead right now, but he was for sure taking the lead there.

Luke smiled softly up at you before pulling you down onto his chest. He then wrapped both his arms around you to embrace you, keeping you safe and secure. For once, you were content with the silence. Vicious, insecure thoughts were no longer spinning in your mind. You didn’t feel any worry that usually gnawed at you to question whether the other person was just as enamored as you were. You were at ease and your eyes fluttered shut.

“No more doubts?” Luke’s voice lulled you into a warm blanket of security.

“No more doubts,” you echoed back softly, yet surely, before pulling him in for another kiss.

You used to love love, but somehow it had never loved you back…

Yet, that did not matter much to you anymore, not when Luke Castellan could prove that love wasn’t worth your attention, but he does and so does whatever feeling beyond love that he was planning to drown you in.You and him were the proof that romance is far from dead.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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[cameronsbabydoll]

SWEET AS ROT

loser!rafe x psycho!stalker!popular!reader

WARNINGS: stalking, breaking & entering, blackmail, obsession, perverted behavior, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, implied sexual harassment, noncon/dubcon undertones, unhealthy relationship dynamics, isolation

A/N: divider by @cyberangel-graphics

you pick him the way some people pick a stray cat — not because he wants you, but because you’ve decided he’s yours.

rafe cameron, transfer student. always in the back of lecture, hood up, jaw tight. the type of boy who looks like he’s holding a grudge against the whole world. he’s handsome in that tense, bad-tempered way, but clearly broke, clearly bitter, clearly trying not to exist.

most people take the hint.

you don’t.

the first time you speak to him is in the hallway after class.

he’s digging in his backpack, earbuds in, when you tap his arm.

“you dropped this,” you say, holding out a pen you found on the floor.

his eyes flick from you to the pen and back again. “…thanks.”

“you’re welcome.” you keep smiling at him, watching the discomfort pool in his face.

he doesn’t smile back.

you like that.

—

it starts small.

you change your seat in lecture so you’re two rows closer. you time your coffee runs to match his, standing in line right behind him and asking about his order like you’re just curious. you start wearing your hair the way you did the first day he looked at you for more than three seconds.

he never says much, but he starts noticing you. you can tell by the way his eyes flicker to you in class, quick and sharp like he’s trying to catch you doing something.

you let him catch you.

the first time you follow him home, it’s raining.

he takes the back streets, hood up, headphones in, cutting through alleys until he disappears into a crumbling apartment building on the edge of campus.

you write down the address in your notes app.

by the end of the week, you’ve figured out his schedule — when he leaves for class, when he’s gone for groceries, how long he showers.

the lock on his apartment door sticks if you jiggle it.

you’re inside in under a minute.

his place smells like laundry that’s been left too long in the washer — damp and sour. there’s barely anything on the walls, just stacks of paper and a bed that looks like it hasn’t been made in months.

you touch everything.

the lighter on his desk. the hoodie hanging on the chair. the mug by his bed that still smells faintly of coffee.

you open drawers, find receipts, loose change, a half-empty pack of gum. you pocket the gum and the lighter.

before you leave, you pull the hoodie over your head and look at yourself in the mirror.

—

the first time he notices something’s off is in class.

you’re wearing his hoodie — too big, sleeves covering your hands.

his eyes stick on it like they’re glued there.

“cute, right?” you murmur when the lecture ends, brushing past him.

he doesn’t answer.

—

it escalates fast after that.

you start slipping notes into his bag during class.

i like your hair when it’s messy.

you smell like soap today.

you left your window unlocked again.

you text him from an unknown number: nice boxers.

when he ignores you, you send a photo — him in his kitchen, shirtless, drinking water.

he catches you two weeks later.

you’re sitting on his bed, flipping through the notebook he keeps shoved in his backpack, when the door opens.

he freezes in the doorway. “…what the fuck are you doing?”

you glance up like you’ve been caught reading a magazine. “waiting for you.”

“how did you even get in?”

you tilt your head. “door was unlocked.”

his jaw tightens. “bullshit.”

you smile. “fine. i made a copy of your key.”

he takes a step toward you. “give it to me.”

“no.” you close the notebook gently, set it on the bed beside you. “you know, you’ve got some really interesting thoughts in here. especially the ones about… women.”

his face goes pale.

“imagine if the wrong person read those,” you say softly. “wouldn’t look good for you.”

he swallows. “you’re insane.”

“maybe.” you stand, brushing past him on your way to the door. “but i’m not wrong.”

after that, he stops telling you to leave.

you show up at his apartment whenever you want. you sit at his table while he eats. you lean over his shoulder while he works, your chin resting on his hoodie-clad arm.

he still doesn’t talk much, but you notice the way his body tenses less when you touch him now.

sometimes, when you catch him staring, you smile slow — just so he knows you’ve noticed.

—

one night, you let yourself in while he’s asleep.

you climb into his bed, curling against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he stirs, voice thick. “what are you doing?”

“warming you up.” your fingers slide over his stomach, resting there like you belong.

“get out.”

you press your mouth to his ear. “if you make me, i’ll scream. and when the cops come, i’ll tell them you begged me to stay. who do you think they’ll believe?”

his breathing goes sharp.

you smile into his neck. “good boy.”

—

the thing about boys like rafe is they think they’re hard to.

but you know better.

you just have to make sure there’s nowhere left for him to run.

and by the time you’re done with him, there won’t be.

[cherrywineisawaltz]

pope getting turned on after he figures out you’re stalking him. i just want to match his freak 🥵

Stalking pope omfggggg 

Thinks it's just a coincidence he starts seeing you so often. Always flashing him a pretty dazzling smile, striking up conversations that he thoughtlessly meanders his way through, slowly and subtly being coaxed out of his shell. Becoming a frequent fixture in his day to day life, your sweetened tone lilting when you see him, seemingly going out of your way to greet him when you wind up in the same places. You ask him questions about his life, staring intently as he spares the details he feels comfortable, unbothered by the antisocial behavior that would suggest he doesn’t enjoy talking to you, which he very much does. It takes him a few ongoing weeks to figure out that you are infact stalking him. At first he’s beside himself to know that you have been following him, the familiar glint of your car headlights flashing in his rearview a few hundred feet behind him on the road more frequent than what was considered coincidence, sure that you must be working for the police. He looks into it, the job you had told him you had, sure that he would find a vacant building in its stead, or that you had never truly worked there or had been let go months ago, but that wasn’t the case. He began following you from home, day by day following your routine, every day you would pass infront of his home, slowing to the sight of his car missing from the driveway and park down the road. You’d get out, look in through the windows, and search through his mailbox. 

It excites him. Slips into conversation when he’ll be home, when he won’t be, just to follow you as you leave your home to continue your routine. Will leave his phone to use the restroom, watching from around the corner as you go through it. Starts leaving his front door unlocked, goading you to walk inside, go through his things, take advantage of his space while you believe he’s none the wiser. Fucks his fist to the sight of you sitting all pretty outside his house, waiting for him to come home late at night. Tugging on his cock while you’ve got your phone in your hand, phone buzzing in the passenger seat, asking him if he's busy tonight, undoubtedly trying to see if he’s with someone else, a frustrated furrow creasing your brows when he doesn’t respond immediately, too busy spreading the beading precum that leaks down his cock at the sight of your phone lit face. 

[secretmattshroom]

Toxic Ex!Reader, who isn't Johnny's ex at all. He's just some guy he almost sucked off outside a bar.

Johnny gets a call from his Ma, rushing him home, telling him that she knows everything.

He's quick to get in his car, arriving in record time. Damn near knocking the door down to figure out what the hell his mom was talking about.

Just to see your face, sitting on the couch, laughing with his sister.

His mom pulls him into a hug, shushing him when he tries to speak.

"I know what you like, it's okay"

"I'm just happy you found someone"

"I wish you told me sooner"

His Da joins the hug, telling him about how heartwarming it is that his boyfriend cares so much.

You had gone to them, telling them that you and Johnny have been arguing and you're oh so worried.

He's fucking furious, naturally.

How did you find his parents??? Why did you tell them you're dating?? They weren't supposed to know he was gay!!

Now he has to sit through dinner, failing to swat your hand when you grab his thigh under the table. Trying to hide his disgust as you tell him how sorry you are for what you said, and to give you another chance. His parents encouraging him to accept your apology. You even brought his favorite flowers.

How do you know that information? He has no clue.

[orellazalonia]

I See You

Summary: You’ve been quietly following Bucky Barnes for months, convinced he hasn’t noticed your obsession. But when he finally confronts you one night, everything you thought you controlled begins to unravel. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x stalker!reader)

Word Count: 2.2k+

Disclaimer: Stalking. Unhealthy obsession/love. Dark!Bucky. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You’re good at hiding. You always have been. Quiet enough to melt into a crowd, ordinary enough that no one ever really looks twice. Which is perfect, because it gives you time to look, to watch.

And Bucky Barnes is so easy to watch.

At first, it wasn’t obsession. You saw him by accident during a chance encounter. A flicker of him across the street, broad shoulders in a worn leather jacket, and his hair tied back in a loose messy knot that looked like he hadn’t really meant to do it right but somehow still made your lungs stop working.

Then you saw him again.

And again.

Until “coincidence” became choice. You started lingering in places he frequented whether it was cafés, grocery stores, or even laundromats.

You didn’t follow him at first. You just made sure you existed nearby. Occupying the same air, skimming your fingertips over the same apples he inspected in the produce aisle, or sitting on the same bench five minutes after he stood up.

You memorized the sound of his footsteps. The slight limp in his left leg when he’s tired. The way he tugs his gloves tight over his hands like he hates the feel of air on his skin. And his eyes… God, his eyes, that rare blue-gray that should’ve been cold but felt like smoke curling low around a flame. You learned what time he left his apartment, what routes he took to avoid busy streets, and tracked the shift in his schedule when it rained.

Not because you meant to, but because it felt as natural as breathing.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You really didn’t. But now, he’s everywhere in your head. Like a song you can’t stop humming, even in the silence.

Your apartment is practically a museum of him: his name scribbled in notebooks, little sketches of his profile, receipts from the places you “coincidentally” visited minutes after he did.

It’s not creepy, you tell yourself. It’s affection. Tender and pure, in its own way. You’re not hurting him after all. You’re just close, just careful, and just in love.

But he doesn’t know, or maybe he does.

Regardless, he’s never turned around. He’s never looked over his shoulder and called you out. Never confronted the shadow trailing just far enough behind him.

And you?

You take that as permission to keep going.

As time passed, you’ve developed a rhythm to it now.

You wake up before the sun, just to check if he’s left early. You don’t even need an alarm anymore. Your body knows when it’s time. You stretch, brush your teeth, and dress in layers. Never anything flashy. Nothing that could catch light. Then, you slip out into the morning, unremarkable and invisible.

You know where he’ll be.

He always starts at the corner deli.

The same one every morning. The tiny shop with the flickering neon “OPEN” sign and a grumpy man behind the counter who calls everyone “kid.” Bucky’s there by 6:47. If he’s running late, 6:52.

You never go inside though. You wait across the street by the phone booth that no one uses anymore, pretending to scroll your phone even though your thumb doesn’t even move.

And when he walks out with a coffee in one hand, you follow.

Not too close, never too close.

You’ve mapped out the perfect distance. Close enough that if something were to happen, if someone tried to hurt him, if he tripped, if he faltered, you could be there in seconds. But far enough that if he turned around, he wouldn’t see you. Not unless he really looked.

Sometimes, you think he might. You swear there’s a shift in his shoulders when he rounds corners. A brief pause, like he’s sensing something but he never looks, never turns, and never stops.

That’s part of the thrill.

You know everything about him now. The soft way he says “hi” to the old woman with the red walker who feeds pigeons in the park. The way his face tightens when he passes children like it hurts to see them laugh. Even the way he lingers, just a second longer than necessary, outside the little bookstore he never enters.

So you do it for him.

You go in, when no one’s watching, and buy the old book he looked at. The one with the cracked spine and dog-eared corners. You keep it for a week, just to touch it. Then, one morning, you leave it on his windowsill tucked neatly behind a flowerpot. You don’t stay to see what he does with it. But later, it’s gone.

You do this again. Not often. Just enough.

A protein bar he favors, slipped into the gap under his door. A new glove when one goes missing. A replacement pair of headphones left outside his building when you see his break. You never leave a note and you never ask for thanks.

It’s not about being seen. It’s about being useful. It’s about giving him the quiet, invisible kind of care you know he needs but never asks for. The kind no one ever gave you.

He doesn’t throw the things away. He doesn’t talk about them to anyone, at least not where you can hear, but he keeps them.

And in your own way, you take that as a conversation.

A thank you.

An I see you.

But still… he never turns around.

Until one night, the pattern breaks.

You follow him like always, quiet as a shadow and soft as a ghost. A half-step behind but never too close or careless. You know his demeanor better than your own now. The shift of his weight when he walks, the subtle tilt of his head when he hears something off. Tonight, you’re especially careful. The streets are quieter and the air is heavier.

You think you’re being good. You think you’re invisible.

But when he slips into that narrow alley between the shuttered bookstore and the mechanic’s garage, you follow. You’ve followed him down this shortcut at least nine times before. Same steps, same rhythm, same ending.

But this time, when you turn the corner, he’s not there.

You pause and tilt your head confused. He should’ve been halfway down by now.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

And then—

A hand grabs your wrist.

It’s like being yanked into another reality, your back hits the brick wall, and suddenly he’s there. Pressed too close as he caged you in with his body. You don’t even register the pressure of his grip, just the warmth of his palm and the way your heart ricochets against your ribs.

His voice is low and smooth.

“Hi, doll.”

It’s not cruel, not even cold. It’s something worse, warm. Like a secret you’re both already in on.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You can’t breathe past the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes dark with something unreadable. Amusement? Interest? Hunger?

He tilts his head. “Y’always walk this route, or just when I do?”

You swallow thickly, trying to move, but his grip shifts, tightening ever so slightly. It’s not harsh, just… deliberate. His thumb brushes over your pulse, noticing your movement.

“You’re real quiet for someone so obsessed with me.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as shame prickles at your skin. You’d imagined this: being caught or confronted. But not like this. You never imagined it with him smiling down at you like he’s proud.

“Though, I gotta admit,” He says, leaning a fraction closer, “You’re good, real quiet. I almost thought you were just a ghost.” His lips curve into a smirk. “But then you kept leavin’ those little presents. You really think I didn’t notice?”

Your stomach knots. He noticed. He noticed everything. You part your lips to speak, but he shakes his head almost playfully.

“No, no. Let me guess. You were just ‘in the neighborhood,’ like every other night.”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Your hands are cold and clammy at your sides. Meanwhile, he’s too close and too calm. You’re trying to figure out if he’s playing with you or hunting you.

But then his smile changes into something soft.

“You’re cute, y’know that?” He murmurs.

He releases your wrist slowly, and your hand falls to your side, but you don’t dare move. His arm wraps around your waist instead, pulling you in. Not violently or roughly, just like he’s claiming what was already his.

“I figured I’d let you keep goin’,” He says, almost conversational. “See how long you’d last before I caught you.”

He leans down, his mouth a whisper from your ear.

“You lasted way longer than I thought.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

His fingers press into your lower back as he murmurs, “You gonna keep followin’ me?”

You nod before you even think. A small, desperate gesture.

His smirk deepens.

“Good.”

Then he kisses your cheek, not in rushed or teasing way. This was slow and final, like a signature. Like a reward.

“You’re mine anyway.”

And in the stillness of that moment, it clicks.

He knew the whole time. He let you obsess over him. He let you watch. And you realize the truth is darker than you imagined, he wanted it.

And now that you’ve stepped into the open, he’s never letting you out of his sight again.

That night doesn’t end the way you expect.

He doesn’t let go of you. He simply pulls you deeper into the alley, still holding your waist like you belong pressed against him. He talks in a low voice, asks how long you’ve been watching him, what you like most about him. He doesn’t mock you or act angry or disgusted. In fact, he smiles when you stammer through your answers. He laughs, soft and warm, when you admit you memorized his coffee order months ago.

And when he touches your cheek, it’s with the kind of gentleness you’ve only ever seen him show in passing to strangers.

He doesn’t take you home, but he doesn’t walk away either.

He lets the moment stretch and lets the line blur, makes sure you know he saw you, chose you, and isn't afraid of the dark corners you live in.

And when next morning arrives, you don’t go to the coffee shop.

You wake early before the sun even touches your window, but you stay in bed, tucked beneath the blanket like the walls of your home can keep the memory of last night out. Your heart still races like it’s trying to catch up with something, or someone.

You don’t change into your usual clothes. You don’t lace up your shoes and slip out the door like you always do on Thursdays. Instead, you lie still, staring at the ceiling. Listening.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not sure. Maybe you expect a knock at the door. A phone call. Footsteps on your fire escape, but none come.

Still, the air feels heavier now. Not with guilt or regret, no. Something quieter, more possessive like you’ve been marked. Like he's still watching.

You try to convince yourself you’re being paranoid. That it was just a strange encounter. That he didn’t really mean it when he said you’re mine in that low, silken voice. That the way he touched your face wasn’t… real. That it was all heat-of-the-moment, curiosity, or indulgence.

But your skin still tingles where his fingers had lingered.

You should be thrilled. You were thrilled, last night, when he didn’t push you away. When he called you cute. When he looked down at you like he’d known the truth all along and didn’t care.

But now… now you feel like you stepped off a ledge you didn’t realize was there. You feel seen in a way that’s no longer safe. No longer one-sided.

So you stay in.

You don’t follow him today. You don’t take your usual routes, peek around corners for him, or position yourself where you know he’ll be. It’s the first time in weeks, months, that you choose silence and distance.

You think maybe this will reset things. Maybe if you disappear, he’ll forget. Maybe he wants you to stop. Maybe that night was just an indulgence. A warning or a game.

So you wait.

And when the sun dips and evening starts creeping through the blinds, you move to lock the window, not because you’re afraid, but because… for the first time, you think he might come through it.

You’re halfway across the room when you notice it:

A small object, resting neatly on your windowsill. Something that hadn’t been there this morning.

A protein bar. The same brand you always leave on his ledge. Next to it, folded once with crisp precision, is a note.

Don’t go quiet on me now, doll. – B

Your hands tremble.

You stare down at the offering, his version of a breadcrumb. It wasn’t just a message, it was a claim.

He didn’t knock or call. He left it without a sound. The same way you always did. And now, for the first time, you understand what it feels like to be watched, hunted, chosen.

You don’t sleep that night. Not necessarily out of fears but out of anticipation. Because you know it’s only a matter of time before he shows up again. This time, not on the street or in passing, but right here.

When he decides you’ve played hard to get long enough. And deep down, beneath the adrenaline, beneath the shallow breath and pounding pulse…

You can’t wait.

Taglist: @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @atieredcart

[benjaboyisatwink]

So, one time I was reblogging something and had a fun idea about stalker!Simon... i finally started it! It's probably not gonna be more than 2 parts, I just cut it bc it made more sense honestly. Anyways... I took a while to go around writing this huh

❀ EDIT: The original post I said I rebbloged that sparked this idea was this amazing fic by my lovely moot @milkk--t !! Please check it out, it's probably way more flushed out than my silly idea ;)

.𖥔 ݁ 🍯 Stalking! Mentions of stealing underwear and clothes, breaking into each other's places & taking unconsented(kinda) pictures ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Simon took a leave, a months long leave, one he wasn't exactly keen on taking, but Price was having none of it, and sent him off field for a long while, or else the lieutenant was going to be the reason Price is chewed by the administration.

So he was...off field. Which left him stranded. He had nothing to focus on, nothing to put his skills to use, to drown out the overwhelming silence of his flat. So he started walking, getting to know the city, going to different cafe's and random shops; which is how he found himself walking into this specific coffee shop.

He was just looking for a coffee to go and something to eat, but when he reached the counter, he hesitated. See, he may be closed off, but he knows a pretty thing when he sees it; even when said pretty thing's hair is messy, bags under their eyes and tense shoulders. But you smiled at him with a somewhat knowing look in your eyes that had him resisting the urge to ask if you understood the weight of the aching silence in his life, the deafening static that made him feel like he was going crazy.

He didn't, though. He just stared until you frowned, feeling his stomach twist at how adorable you looked frowning up at him, tilting your head and asking if he was okay. When he nodded dumbly and mumbled his order, he couldn't help but swoon a little at the giggle that left your pretty lips. Paying with a heavy tip and admiring the way your eyes when wide before you glanced up a him through your lashes.

"Do you have a name?"

You had asked softly, a little teasing, unable to resist it when this big ass man was acting like a shy schoolboy from ordering a black coffee and a pastry.

"Simon"

He grumbled. Not bothering to ask yours when he had already repeated it a million times over in his head the moment he saw it on your name tag. You nodded and went to making his coffee.

When you finished, he took it and sat on a table in a corner, watching out he corner of his eyes the way you'd flit around cleaning tables and making coffee and talking to customers. Something heavy and crazed nuzzling it's way to his chest as he looked at you.

You had locked onto him the moment he stared dumbly at you. Even more when you felt his gaze on you for the entirety of your shift (and your way back home). The feeling of his gaze and unwavering attention left you in a daze; weighting heaving in your stomach and pooling like molten lava in your tummy in a way that had you holding back on slipping into your work's bathroom and easing some of the tension off with your hand, but you didn't want him to know it yet, you let him think he was doing a great job at stalking you.

It was easy, easy knowing he'd be back in the coffee shop, easy warming up to him, letting him think you didn't know about how he'd walk you home (so romantic!) like a guard dog, making sure the shady men around didn't even glance at you. It was also easy giggling and asking in a sweet whisper for his surname, a simple.

"And this coffee is for Mr..?"

"Riley"

He had said, and you wrote it in the paper cup, commiting it to memory. It wasn't just important for when you looked into who he was later, but it also was important since now you could start deciding the important stuff, like if you'd take his last name, or he would take yours.

Then, it was smooth sailing. He'd come in every day, order the same things (safe for the days you talked about any other pastry or drink, where he'd immediately buy one of it for him), sit in a corner and watch you. And you'd start your own routine, search him up, find out who he is, what he does, where he lives. It was easy getting anything out of him; he thought you were so innocent and oblivious, he wasn't about to be doubting you when you still casually locked your door and went to sleep soundly despite the many times he slipped in at night.

You used the days you knew he was in your flat to ask for the day off and go to his place. Go over his documents, find out everything you could, map out his house (decide where your plants and furniture and decorations would go). You could make out the type of guy he was just for his house and documents, so after that it was just some careful threading and you got yourself his usual routine.

When he wasn't stalking you, you were stalking him. It was a fun cat and mouse game (a good story for your kids); you'd casually show up in the same grocery shop as him, then coincidentally be running at the same park he runs every morning, maybe even daring to wear some more skimpy running outfit just to feel the warmth of his stare on your body. He saw you everywhere, and when you were at the coffee shop, he always came back, every time his gaze was even more intense, like a visible force growing until it broke, and it left you giddy.

Simon was sure it was some kind of divine intervention. You were it for him, he was sure. He saw you everywhere, ever since that damned day on that random coffee shop where he first saw you and felt that crazed, horrible weight in his chest, he couldn't stay away. He knew he shouldn't, but he sat there and watched. Watched you move, watched you hum along to the music of the shop, clean tables, make coffees, talk and laugh to regulars, and the more he watched the more this dreadful feeling settled in him, he was almost in a haze as he followed you home, staring at your complex, physically restraining himself.

He hadn't planned on getting worse, see, it was just something to focus on when not on the field, it was easy, stalking, gathering intel info about you, keeping watch. He just went to the cafe, ate and drank some coffee, and followed escorted you to your flat.

But then you suddenly were everywhere, always just passing through, not even looking at him, not even noticing how he's always in the sidelines even when he's not the one going after you. Maybe once or twice you'd recognize him and wave before going your merry way, and he'd plant himself on the spot he was in an attempt to not follow you like some stray after you feed it once. Every time you were around, it was never quiet.

On the run at the park where he saw you in that tight, skimpy running outfit, it wasn't quiet in the way his mind was filled by the things he wanted to do to you. When he saw you at the grocery store, you were humming along to the song playing on the speakers. When he saw you at the bar when he was out with the others, you were laughing with your friends.

It wasn't quiet, it wasn't ecstatic that had his ears ringing and chest tightening and head full yet feeling hollow. No, it was full, you filled in, filled in the silence, the hollow, you were sound and warmth and presence and he needed it, needed you, just a little more, just enough he wouldn't go batshit crazy while out of the field.

So he broke in your apartment. So what? He wasn't going to rob you or anything. He actually was making sure you were safe, because he didn't want his pretty thing exposed to risks. He mapped it out, took note of the locks in the doors and windows, fantasized of having your trinkets fill in the empty spaces and hollows of his home rather than this simple flat you lived in, fantasized on you filling in that silence and void in his life he just so recently found out you can fill up.

But he didn't do anything wrong, he didn't touch you, never would, he's a gentleman despite everything, and he wouldn't want to risk losing the calming sound of your breathing at night just because he got too greedy. He settled on taking one of your underwear, he wouldn't touch you, but theres only so much he can do when seeing the type of clothes you use to sleep.

He'd make sure you were safe and all you had to do is stop the silence, that was it, it was enough for him, more than enough, he was sure, he told himself the same thing each time, even when he got bolder, when he'd trace your cheek while you slept, when he'd leave you new groceries so you didn't have to use of you low salary for it, when he at last left you bags with your favourite snacks and sweets, even if he knew you'd be paranoid when you saw them, he'd just be more careful, he was just trying to be good to you, thank you for helping him.

Simon Riley was the one for you. He was it, you were sure. He always tipped nicely, he was fun to talk to, made dumb jokes, listened to whatever others were talking about, was surprisingly caring when he wasn't keeping up his walls. Sure, you knew all that from desperately watching and listening to him on his bar nights with his task force coworkers, and sure, he'd always smile at little more to Johnny, Johnny is how he is saved on Simon's contacts, the scot with a mohawk was pretty fun too, and you understood while Simon liked his company.

Aswell as being a good man, he was attentive and protective, always walking you to your flat, always coming in to see you at work, always helping you sleep with his gentle caresses, not once touching you without consent, he really was a sweetheart! And when he started buying groceries for you? Buying any products of yours that was on the end and putting them right where they always were as if you wouldn't notice how adorable that is?

The final straw was when he bought a bag of your favourite snacks and sweets and let it on your counter after a particularly bad day. You couldn't help but let out a shaky sigh, it really felt so good to be cared for, and you were falling, hard. So, of course, you wanted to thank him!

Simon was once again staring at the photos he took of you on his phone, late into the night, unable to sleep, but the silence had begun to be too loud, so he put your playlist on his headphones and stared at the photos. That is, until a notification appeared. He frowned, his personal number doesn't usually gets wrong texts. He was about to block when he noticed what number it was. Your number, your number? Did you find out it was him? How did you find his number? Were you scared, were you going to cuss him out?

Hii! Just wanted to thank you for the snacks, it was sooo sweet of you!! How about I pay you back on a date? Next Friday you know I'm free. You pick me up here and we go to that restaurant you like! Xoxo!

He stares at the message, that sense of dread that had been building suddenly vanishing, and he can't help but laugh, shaking his head as he saves your number and stares at your smiling profile picture. Somehow, knowing it had been you who went through his office and who vanished with one of his shirts had him smiling.

"Bloody hell"

He murmured, already making reservations at his favourite restaurant and thinking of what to buy you tomorrow when he goes to see you at work.

[rskdoll]

𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝖽 ♡ jason todd !⠀͡꒱

: ♥︎ : 𝖮𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖭¹ ─ ( 𝑉𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑤/ 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 + 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑐𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑒 ) . . . 🥟 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾; 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗍. want one ? ? ? > 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾!

: ♥︎ : content WARNING; Jason Todd × Stalker!Reader, brief mentions of Dick Grayson × Reader, stalking, obsessive behaviour, blood, mentions of mental illness, fighting, smut, rough sex, chocking, spitting, teasing, crying, slapping, piv, toxic relationship. +18 MDNI.

For years, her fixation had been Dick Grayson. There was something in his effortless charm and acrobatic grace she ached to unravel. She didn’t love Dick—love was a clumsy, human thing beneath her nature. Instead, she hunted him, stealing fragments of his life. A hoodie pilfered from his gym bag at a Wayne Foundation event. A dog-eared journal lifted from his apartment during a moment of trust. A single lock of his dark hair snipped while he slept on her couch after a patrol. These trophies were hidden in her dorm, locked behind a false panel with her anatomical sketches—some human, some not.

But Dick was cautious.

When he began to pull away, citing “different worlds,” her obsession didn’t fade... it sharpened into a need for control, for destruction.

She didn’t want him back; she wanted him broken.

Then she met Jason.

Jason was all raw edges and barely contained rage.

Her perfect canvas where she could paint with chaos.

Y/N slipped into Jason’s apartment unannounced as always. The place was filled with the scent of cigarette smoke, and he was hunched over the screen, his focus on some case file. She wore Dick’s hoodie, its sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem riding up to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. She didn’t speak, just draped herself across his bed, her hair spilling over his pillow like ink.

Jason didn’t notice at first, too engrossed in his work, his fingers tapping restlessly on the keyboard. But when he turned, his eyes locked on her, and the air crackled with tension. His gaze snagged on the hoodie.

“What the fuck,” he growled. “Is that Dick’s?”

Y/N tilted her head. “He gave it to me,” she lied, each word a needle slipped under his skin. “Said it looked better on me.”

Jason’s face twisted.

He’d fought with Dick over her before; arguments she’d orchestrated with whispered lies. Seeing her sprawled on his bed in Dick’s hoodie, his world tilted.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice cracking, betraying the doubt she’d sown. “Why the fuck would he give you that?”

She shrugged, her lips curving into a smirk that taunted him further. “Why wouldn’t he? Dick’s always been… generous.”

She stretched languidly, letting the hoodie ride up, exposing the expanse of her stomach, the curve of her hip, knowing it would pull his gaze.

Jason stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, the sound like a blade on bone.

“Stop it,” he said. “Stop fucking with my head.”

She blinked up at him, her expression shifting to a perfect pout, her lips trembling just enough to seem genuine.

“I’m not doing anything, Jason,” she whispered. “Don’t you trust me?”

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands seizing her wrists and pinning her to the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight. The hoodie bunched beneath her, and she felt his pulse hammering through his grip.

“You’re wearing his fucking hoodie,” he spat, his face inches from hers. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re always doing this—”

Her smile returned as she tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Am I?” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “Or are you just seeing what you want to see?”

Jason’s control snapped.

He kissed her with a violence that bruised, his teeth sinking into her lower lip until blood bloomed, the metallic tang mingling with their spit. The pain sent a jolt through her, a spark of electricity that made her pulse race, her body arching into his. He tore at the hoodie, his fingers clawing at the fabric, ripping it apart with a savage rip. The navy material split down the centre, exposing her bare skin, her breasts heaving with each breath, her nipples hardening in the cool air.

She laughed, a throaty sound that drove him wilder, her eyes gleaming with triumph as the torn fabric fell away, leaving her in nothing but a pair of black lace panties.

Why was she laughing?

“You’re fucking sick in the head,” he growled, his hands tearing at her underwear, the lace shredding under his fingers, leaving her completely exposed.

But she wasn’t afraid... instaed her smile widened, her eyes locked on his, daring him to break her.

“You love it,” she hissed, her nails raking down his chest, tearing through his shirt, drawing blood that beaded on his skin like rubies. “You love how I make you feel.”

He shoved her thighs apart with a roughness that made her gasp. He freed himself from his jeans, his thick cock already leaking with need. He didn’t wait, didn’t ease her into it—he thrust into her with a brutality that made her cry out, her walls clenching around him so hard he almost came.

The stretch was intense, almost painful, but she revelled in it, her hips rolling to meet his.

Each thrust was a punishment, the bedframe slamming against the wall, the sound a primal rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, leaving bruises that bloomed like dark flowers, his nails breaking her skin, drawing thin lines of blood. She met him with equal ferocity, her nails clawing at his shoulders, tearing through skin, her teeth sinking into his neck until she tasted iron.

“Harder,” she taunted. “Make it hurt.”

He growled, his hand shooting to her throat, fingers tightening until her breath hitched, her pulse fluttering under his grip. Her smile never faltered, even as her vision blurred at the edges, even as he fucked her with a savage intensity, his cock driving deep, hitting spots that made her body shudder, her slickness coating him, dripping down her thighs.

She pushed him back, straddling him in a fluid motion, and she rode him with precision, her hips grinding in slow circles, then slamming down hard, taking him deeper. Without a single word she spat in his face, the saliva hitting his cheek, and his reaction was instant, his hand tightened on her throat, flipping her beneath him again, pinning her with his weight.

He slapped her hard, her cheek blooming red, a faint handprint rising on her skin.

“Show me,” she gasped. “Show me how much you hate me.”

Jason’s anger was consuming him as he thrusted harder, each one driving deeper. He slapped her again, harder this time, her head snapping to the side. But instead of complaining... she laughed, and it pushed him further into the abyss.

He was hers, and he knew it, even as he fought it.

Her walls clenched around him, milking him, her slickness obscene, the wet sounds of their bodies filling the room. He choked her tighter, her breath shallow, her face flushed, but her smile remained, a taunt that drove him mad.

“Say you’re fucking mine,” he rasped, his eyes watering as he felt himself unraveling, almost pleading her. “Say it.”

She didn’t answer.

She just leaned up, her lips brushing his, her tongue licking the blood from her own lip before kissing him.

“Jay,” she whispered, her voice a siren’s call, her nails digging into his back, tearing deeper, blood welling under her fingers.

He came with a sob, his release a flood of heat inside her, his body collapsing against hers, his cock pulsing as he spilled, his tears scalding her skin as he buried his face in her chest.

He was her plaything, and he hated it—hated her, hated himself, hated the way she’d burrowed so deep into his psyche that he couldn’t escape.

Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, her touch deceptively gentle. “Poor Jason,” she murmured, her voice a mockery of affection, poisonous. “You’re so mine.”

He didn’t respond, his breathing ragged, his body trembling against hers. She had Jason’s heart, his rage, his everything... and she wasn’t stopping until he was nothing but hers.

© RSKDOLL 2025 — written by me and only me.