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…
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from South Korea

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia
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…
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)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”