Tags: male yandere x fem reader, happy ending for once, 1.4k words
The came back wrong trope is a horror and gothic staple. The idea that someone you love and cherish is still with you, but they’re also not. Their eyes are different somehow, the way they smile is just a little off, their voice carries in ways it’s not supposed to.
That hair-raising knowledge that something isn’t quite right, but not being able to put your finger on exactly what it is.
It’s terrible when the man you’re supposed to marry gets drafted and sent to the front lines. But it’s especially terrible when he comes home and you aren’t sure he’s the same man at all.
When you run into his arms at the train station, his whole body goes stiff. He touches you like he’s scared to break you, and when you stand on your toes to kiss him, he turns his cheek to you instead.
“I’ve missed you,” you say softly.
“Missed you too.”
It's not much better when you bring him home. There's a big welcome home party for him — his pa and his great Aunt Betty and all the neighbours who used to say he was such a good kid — and none of them seem to notice the change. He smiles at everyone and laughs politely at their jokes, but his arm is heavy around your waist the entire time.
When the party is over and evening starts creeping into night, you find yourself giving one excuse after the other so you won't be alone with him.
“You really ought to drive Aunt Betty home. Her eyes aren't the best anymore.”
“I'll just run these leftovers over to the neighbours. You know how the kids love cake.”
“Just go on up to bed without me. I want to get this mess cleaned up.”
But all your excuses run dry eventually. He walks with you over to the neighbours and tells the kids he'd be happy to send over some cookies tomorrow. He helps you sweep up and wipe the tables, even though he's still in his dress blues and you know how much he hates to get them dirty.
When the house is spotless and the moon is high, you finally have no way of avoiding him.
“I thought about you all the while I was gone,” he says at last. You can't read the expression on his face. “I did everything I could to get back to you.”
You expect him to kiss you, or touch you with that fire all returning soldiers are rumoured to have. He doesn't. He just gets ready for bed and sleeps on the very edge of the mattress.
You tell yourself that you're being paranoid. Who knows what terrible things he saw during the war? Of course he's going to be a different man after all that violence and blood.
The next morning, you make him his favourite breakfast. You rest your palm on his thigh while he pushes it around his plate. He doesn't eat a single bite.
“What would you like to do today?” you ask.
“Whatever you want. As long as we're together.”
That's another strange thing about him — he's oddly subdued. The man he was before would be all over you, calling you baby and darling and dollface. He'd be proposing half a dozen different places to visit.
You tell yourself that your old fiancé will come back with time. Maybe he just needs to adjust to being back home.
A month passes, and then another. He doesn't kiss you. He doesn't hold you at night. You don't see him eat a single thing.
You still love him. Of course you do. But oh, it's hard. You might as well be living with a stranger.
“What have I done wrong?” you ask him eventually. “Why won't you touch me?”
He looks guilty. And maybe a little frightened.
“I…can't. I'll hurt you. You don't understand how badly I want you, how much I wanted you while I was gone.”
“Please.” You touch his cheek. “Please, just be my fiancé again.”
When you stand on your toes to kiss him, he goes perfectly still. His lips are cool, and he tastes of pine.
“Don't,” he says when you move closer. “I'm not safe. Not for you.”
You pull away, but can't hide the hurt and anger you feel.
“What's the point then? If you won't have me, then maybe we shouldn't be together at all.”
He flinches when you pull off your engagement ring and slam it against his chest. But he doesn't follow you when you leave.
Getting your own apartment and sleeping alone is less of a transition than you thought it would be. You were alone when he was gone, and you were alone when he came back, too. It hurts. It hurts deep inside you, and most mornings you have trouble forcing yourself out of bed.
You tell yourself that it's for the best. He doesn’t want you, not really. If he did, he would have fought harder to keep you. You try to forget about him, mourn him as though he died overseas.
It doesn't work. And when he finally comes to get you back, some part of you isn't all that surprised.
He comes for you on the night of your anniversary.
You wake up to a cold breeze, and when you open your eyes, your bedroom curtains are fluttering in the open window.
“Don't scream,” he tells you pleasantly. He's sitting in an armchair in the corner of your room and you're so shocked to see him that you make no sound at all.
“I thought staying away from you would be the best thing for you,” he says. “But it wasn't any good, not a bit. I kept thinking about you like I was still at war.”
He's in his field uniform. Even though it's clean, the front of it is ripped to shreds. He fingers the holes in his shirt.
“Machine gun. Hurt like a bitch. When I died, you were the last thing I thought about. More than the panic, more than the fear of death, it was you.”
You sit up slowly. You can't take your eyes off him.
“What are you?”
He shrugs. “I don't know. I just know that I died, and they had to leave me behind. There are strange things over there, stories I used to laugh at when we were first deployed. When I woke up, those stories didn't seem all that funny anymore.”
It's his eyes, you realise slowly. It's his eyes that are the most different thing about him. The same colour, the same shape. But you get the sense that something old and terrible is staring out at you.
“What did this to you?”
He sighs and rubs his jaw. “I don't know that either. But I don't get hungry anymore. I tried eating a few times, out of curiosity, but it all tastes like mud. I don't sleep, I don't dream. Nothing.”
“When we were in bed together…”
“I was awake the entire time. When you fall asleep, I like to watch you. You can't understand how much you mean to me. You’re the one thing that kept me going.”
“You say that. You say you love me. So why hide this from me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
You aren't sure you believe him now either. The logical part of your brain is telling you that there's no way a dead soldier can just get up off the battlefield and come home. But those eyes…
He sighs again and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His dog tags swing on their chain, catching the moonlight.
“I don't know what I am. I don't know if there's heaven or hell or if I can even die again. All I know is that I love you. I want to be with you. Staying away is impossible, and…dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?”
“Because I want you all the more when I can't see you. It's like I need to mark you up just so I know you're mine. I thought I loved you already, but now I burn up at the thought of being without you.”
Your dead fiancé stands up slowly. You're not afraid of him, because deep down you get the sense that he's still the man who loves you. No, you're far more afraid of the thing you can feel right below the surface. The magic or curse or hoodoo that's keeping him alive.
“Will you let me kiss you, knowing what you know now? Knowing what I am?”
There's only one answer you can give him. Despite your fear, despite the deep-seated sense of wrongness, he's always loved you. And you've always loved him.
Thinking about a boy that loves keeping his fingers inside of you.
It's not as if he doesn't love fucking you, and he certainly does every single day. It's just that there's something more vulnerable about this.
It's always at random timing. You never know when it's coming. That's what makes it so cute, the fear on your face, the sudden stiffening of your body.
Sitting in the couch — he always forces you to sit in front of him, between his legs or on his lap, back to his chest. In bed, you're always spooned by him, feeling his cock dig into your ass through your clothes. Watching mindless TV, or just trying to rest. Whatever it is, it never lasts long before the touching starts.
He keeps one leg hooked over his arm, just to ensure your legs stay open. His other hand is already three fingers in, down to the joint of his fingers to his palm. Curling inside you in that way that makes you whimper, gasp for breath, shudder against the touch. You know he likes that much.
That's it. Give in to it.
He's a very patient man. He likes making you cum once this way first. Thumb rubbing into your clit, feeling your insides twitch, increasingly tight around his fingers until you quiver and squeal and spasm, fluids leaking out across his fingers.
He never fails to shove it into your mouth. Forces you to lick it off. You always taste so good, surely you can appreciate it too.
He would know. He spends plenty of time with his face between your legs too. Hands locking your hips in place so you can't pull away, frantically lapping and suckling at your clit like a man starved, the occasional hum of satisfaction against your sensitive flesh.
Doing this first makes the second orgasm more intense, so it seems, at least from the experimentation he's done. You're already soaked when it goes in, each thrust sending sloppy, squelching sounds reverberating across the room.
But nonetheless, the part that comes before it, keeping you squirming in his lap or against his chest and clamping your thighs down on his hand feels more... intimate, somehow. It's more embarrassing for you. He's the one still perfectly collected, fully clothed, and there's a certain dignity to that. You, on the other hand, stripped down and struggling and whimpering and trembling — it's euphoric because it's done to you for him.
It's not a mutual act, but something done to you. A performance for his eyes and his ears, putting you and only you in the position of vulnerability, something inflicted on you, something given to him, a one-way exchange in which he only takes and takes.
Often times it's almost casual, without any urgency or immediate intention of driving you to orgasm. You can't protest it if your hands are tied behind your back anyway. Just lazily curling his fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out, head resting on your shoulder, attention more immersed in what they're showing on the news than you for the time being. Just an automated motion, no different from how one might drum their fingers against the armrest of the couch. But it's slow, not enough, torturous — he's just accomplishing two tasks at once, tormenting you and catching up on the news.
By the time he turns his attention back to you — his other hand leaves its place underneath your shirt, pinching at the nipples, reaching over to mute the TV — you're shuddering, labored breaths accentuated by pitiful whines. As his fingers pull out, they're connected to your insides by a trail of fluid. The skin of his finger pads are wrinkly from how long they've been practically submerged.
It had the effect he intended. Look at you, rendered into such a mess.
Still, you get to cum once this way before he puts himself inside you. When he's actually railing into you, he's often too overwhelmed and lost in the haze of it all to really take in and savor your expressions, your sounds. This way he can just watch, enraptured by the way your face contorts and your voice gets so high in pitch as you shudder and squirm, the embarrassment that makes tears well up in your eyes.
And it makes the sex better too. You're so sensitive once you've already gotten to cum once. You clench down that much harder, you squeal that much louder, the tears stream down your face that much easier. You're so sensitive now that the pleasure is nearly painful. You jolt and jerk your body forward to try to pull yourself off — it makes it that much hotter when he pulls you back by the hips and rams into you with full force, the way you wail and gasp for breath. It's adorable.
Or if you're really bad, it can be a punishment too. Keeping his hand working you for hours, never letting you reach a peak. Or the inverse, so many times that your insides hurt and you beg for him to stop. It's satisfying either way.
And it's really, really hot to know he has that much control over you with nothing more than his hand. Don't give him that pitiful look though — it's your fault for being so easy to pleasure.
It’s finally the day you’ve been looking forward to all week. Right after midterms, one of the biggest fraternities throw a celebration party for being halfway done with the semester. You slip on your little black dress, slick your hair back so it’s half up and half down, and you put some makeup on to complete the look. You meet your friends in the lobby of your apartment so you guys can leave together.
When arriving at the party, the house was already full. The smell of weed filled the air as drunk bodies were dancing as the lights flashed to the beat of the music. Your first stop was their mini bar they created out of foldable tables and tape.
You grabbed yourself a Cutwater and you let your body take over. You started dancing on someone as they grabbed your hips and began to grind. It honestly felt raunchy, but you were too tipsy to care. While on your way to get another drink, you noticed that all your friends have dispersed. One was playing beer pong, another was sloppily making out with some guy on the couch, and who knows where the others went.
You feel it again. That feeling that someone is watching you, but you’re at a party. A lot of people are probably watching you. Maybe the heat was getting to you, It’s starting to get too hot in the living room with everyone dancing and bumping into each other. You step outside needing to get a breath of fresh air. You stood by the pool in the frats backyard trying to sober up at least a little bit. Less than two minutes go by when a man stumbles out of the back door and immediately starts cat calling you. One look at him and it’s obvious this man is too many shots in. It’s embarrassing that people don’t know how to handle their liquor. You didn’t quite feel comfortable with this man wondering around and you’d feel better if you were in a more crowded area. You enter the kitchen through the sliding back door and grab a bottle of water. Shortly after, that guy from your art class approaches you. You find it interesting that after your first interaction, you feel as if you see him everywhere. You didn’t mind it though. He never made you feel uncomfortable with his long stares or his awkward silence. You found him adorable.
You don’t remember what conversation led to this but next thing you know, is your back is against the wall and his knee is between your legs. Your lips locked on each other and you’re panting, struggling to catch your breath. You’re not sure if it’s because you aren’t fully there mentally but all you knew was that your head was spinning and you were horny. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you humped his thigh, leaving a little damp spot on his pants. He didn’t care, he felt as if he was in heaven. He took this opportunity to suck some hickeys on your neck so people knew who you belonged to. He wanted to get on his knees so bad, pull your panties to the side and suck your pretty little clit, but he had enough respect for you to not do it in a public space. The kissing and grinding will have to do. You suggest that you head back to your apartment and he was quick to take you up on your offer.
The walk back to your apartment felt shorter than usual. As soon as you opened your front door, he walked in behind you, slowly. Taking in the interior decoration. ‘So this is where you live.’ He thought. He took in every detail of his surroundings. From the color of the rug to the color of the sticker on your fridge, he didn’t want to forget a single detail. Pulling him out of his thoughts, you drag him to your bedroom and throw him on the bed. He didn’t expect for you to take this much initiative, but who is he to complain. Especially, when you’re the one who dropped to your knees and unbuckled his belt.
You pulled out his cock and gave it little kitten lick. You wrapped your hand around the base and focused on the tip. You felt something weird touch your tongue. It felt like metal. You’re slightly shocked to learn that this quiet emo nerd has a Jacob’s ladder on the bottom of his cock. Your expression you had on your face was enough to make him cum right then and there. As soon as you put your lips on the tip of his cock, he came so hard. He was slightly embarrassed that it took him less than 30 seconds to cum, but he has bigger things to worry about, like making you cum. He pulled you up off your knees and tossed you on your back on the bed. He took off your heels and kissed your feet, all the way down to your thighs. He’s had dreams about this: being squished by your thighs and then squeezing around his head as he overstimulates you. He’s about to make his dreams come true. He slides your dress up over your head and you’re left in nothing but your bra and panties. Although this was enough for him to die happy, he want to see the rest of you. He unclipped your bra and threw it on the floor. He’s immediately grabs your right boob, fondling it, and sucks on the other one. You moan slightly and rub your fingers through his hair as he starts to kiss down your stomach. He didn’t know you had your bellybutton pierced. He kissed it and kept going. You were about to lift your hips to slide your panties off when he stopped you and told you to leave them on. He pushed your thighs apart as he pressed his nose against your cunt. Inhaling your scent, he started to lick your clit through your panties until you were completely soaked and a moaning mess. Naturally, his hips began to grind against the bed while he started moaning against your cunt. He discarded your panties to the side as he quickly sucked on your lips. You started to grind against his tongue as he started to suck harder. “Mhhhhh, so good..” You moan his name for the first time and that immediately causes him to cum on the spot. You don’t notice though, so focused on your own pleasure. He sticks a finger in you feeling how soaked you are. He continues to suck on your clit while pushing another finger in, now his middle and ring finger inside of you. He uses a come here motion with is fingers to get you off and based on the beautiful sounds you’re making, it’s working. He got this “technique” from his friend who gets around. You start getting quieter and stopped moaning and started panting. Almost like you were struggling to catch your breath. Then your legs started shaking. He sped up the pace of his fingers. You started to beg, “please….please, slow down” it almost sounded like a sob. “I….I can’t” your clit started pulsing around his lips and your hips started to buck against his fingers. You never felt like this before-so overstimulated and overwhelmed. Tears were definitely spilling down the sides of your face as you tried to push him away. “Mhhhhhh I’m cumming” you screamed, but that didn’t stop him. He kept his pace and it felt like you were dying. You could barely catch your breath but you were too overstimulated to run. “Please stop…..I have to pee” you pleaded, but it fell deaf on his ears until liquid started to gush on his forearm. “Holy shit” he breathed. You were squirting. You felt completely sober now and embarrassed. You covered your face when he looked up at you from between your legs. From between your legs, he pinned both of your arms above your head so he could see your face. While holding you, his other hand slipped back down to finger you. “Don’t try and hide your face” he demanded. “I want to see your face when I make you squirt again” you swear you were seeing stars for the rest of the night.
“I’m so crazy I stalk their socials I wanna know everything about them I wanna know EVERYTHING” do you wanna know everything about their hobbies and fandoms, though? Will read up on the complicated lore of final fantasy for them? Will you listen to music genres you’ve never listened to when you literally only listen to Friday night Funkin beats? Learn about the history of vkei which you’ve never even heard about before them? That’s the real question.
Devoted ! I'm devoted ! A devoted guardian angel !
So it's not wrong to follow you home or collect stray hairs from your pretty little head. Not wrong to take photos of you from across the street. Not wrong at all to sneak a tracker into the sole of your shoes
