Newly turned Vampire Darling muzzled and shackled by their master so they aren't roaming around biting humans their owner would deem filthy and unfit for consumption, but Darling has a particular energy to them that reminds their master of a starving stray so it feels like punishing a puppy for chewing up the sofa.
"Though I do not deserve the kindness, I ask you find it in your heart to forgive me someday. It's only temporary until you are able to keep your urges under wraps."
"There's no need for you to apologize, Sire. I understand."
"..."
"Please- Don't give me that look. It's for your safety, Beloved."
"Look?..."
Darling tilts their head as they ponder, lips wrinkling in discomfort as they struggle to wrestle their fingers between the gaps in the cage of their muzzle. With a sorrowful whine, they roll their tongue against the raw, swollen gums encasing their growing fangs to soothe the ache.
"...itchy....Ah- What look were you speaking of?"
"...I've bathed in the blood of man, and this is what makes me feel like a monster."
Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…
You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either.
Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck.
The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.
Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.
He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right?
Fuck, he’s hungry.
“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.
The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.
It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked.
What the fuck’s going on with you?
He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.
He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.
No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.
He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.
“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”
His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”
“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him.
“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”
She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor.
What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies.
It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?
Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?
He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.
It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.
Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything.
But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.
No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.
And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.
“Hey…”
It’s you.
“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.
But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.
“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”
As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.
And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?
“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?”
No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?
“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”
It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?
“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”
You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”
“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”
You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”
Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.
“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”
“But—”
You shut the door. On him. In his face.
His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?
You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember.
Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?
He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex.
He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.
You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.
And yet, he can’t let you go, either.
He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.
How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?
He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!
He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.
He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.
But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.
“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.
You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.
“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”
You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…
You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault.
“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”
You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”
“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”
His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.
It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.
“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.
“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”
A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”
Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”
“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.
“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”
His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.
“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs.
A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.
“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”
cw: yandere, pregnancy, confinement, medical horror, sedation, inspired by nanami kento, geto suguru, dick grayson and clark kent
Thinking about men who turn yandere the moment you get pregnant.
Because in their eyes, you’ve given them the greatest gift, you’ve just tied yourself to them forever. They suppose it's only natural, then, for the doors to stop unlocking. For the keys suddenly to vanish and be locked away. For the windows to stick tight in their frames with locks you can't reach. For the house to slowly become less a home and more a nursery they’ll never let you leave.
At first, there's this feeling of excitement within your lover. Their hand never leaves your stomach, even before you’re showing, rubbing circles there as if coaxing life awake. Their lips brush your shoulder every night before bed with whispered thank yous as they hold you close, with promises that you’ll never have to lift a finger again. But then you notice how the door knobs won’t turn. How your key doesn’t fit anymore. How they murmur “shh, don’t worry about that, darling” while guiding you back to the couch, stroking your hair until you forget what you were trying to ask.
And as your belly swells, so does their obsession. Their touch suddenly becomes even more overbearing all of a sudden, a leash disguised as tenderness. Their heavy palm pressed into the small of your back to steady you. Fingers curling around your wrist whenever you stand too quickly. An arm banded around your waist when you try to shuffle down the hallway on your own. They don’t just hover - they attach themselves, bodies brushing, eyes glued to every move you make.
The house changes with you. Sharp corners are padded over, rugs laid thick on the floors. Your clothes, your real ones, suddenly vanish, replaced with soft cotton pajamas that make you look less like yourself and more like someone’s porcelain doll. Meals appear on trays you’re not allowed to carry, and when your hands tremble, they lift the spoon to your lips themselves. And when you beg and plead for space, when you cry that you’re trapped, they press pills into your hands, kiss the tears off your cheeks, and hush you with lullabies until your eyelids grow heavy.
By the time you’re swollen, waddling, your body slow and aching, they’re almost delirious and lovesick. Their hands never leave your skin. They kneel to kiss your stomach constantly with soft murmurs to the baby inside and to you, that you're going to be a wonderful mother. Every wince, every contraction, makes them beam with giddy pride - teary-eyed and trembling with joy.
And when the first pangs of labor seize you, when you cry out in fear, they hold you tighter, voice thick with love as they whisper against your ear:
“It’s time. Go on push. You don’t really have a choice anymore, darling.”
Tags: x reader, yandere, dub-con, smut, bullying, bully x victim dynamics, penetration, fingering, p in v, virgin reader, public sex, humiliation, dead dove do not eat
Trapped… oh god, you were trapped. You felt so utterly stupid letting him herd you to such a place. The football team’s locker room had as much tact as you expected. Boxers and other articles of clothing were strewn about, and the unmistakable stench of man sweat and BO. But that wasn’t all you were worried about. They would be back any minute with their practice finished.
It was embarrassing enough wandering in. But to be found spread out naked on the bench with the quarterback on top of you? That was a real scandal.
Of course, he was enjoying every second of it. Licking his lips like a damned predator as he watches you shrink under him, clothes ripped off and all. Even if you could theoretically get away, your clothes are less than useless now, adding another layer to the seemingly never-ending humiliation.
He lazily tugs off your panties with one hand, while the other holds you in your vulnerable position. You whine low and pathetic, afraid that if you were to make too much noise, others would hear.
There’s no sense of urgency as he cups your sex, shamelessly grinding it into his palm. You stiffen, swallowing any meek sounds you want to make. It’s clear he doesn’t have the same fear that you do. He relishes the attention. The act of marking you, staking his claim while arguably the most influential figures of your school witness it. He’s hard just thinking about it.
Tears prick your eyes as he unceremoniously jams three of his thick fingers into your pretty cunt. You couldn't believe that your first time would be with him. You were pretty sure he was supposed to use lube, with how much it burned.
You make another pitiful attempt to get away, but he curls his fingers, halting your movement. Your hands fly to cover your mouth as your back arches. He finds this hilarious. “What? Won’t let me hear those pretty sounds of yours?” He lowers his head to your ear, nipping playfully. “Afraid someone will hear?…”
You don’t dignify his teasing with a response. His movements are less about your pleasure and more so exploration. He brunt forces his way through your walls, exploring every point of your intimacy, like it was his to chart. He’s slow, lazy even, but that only makes the pleasure in your core build. You’re almost at your edge with another sharp curl of his fingers. Your legs twitch as you continue to desperately clamp your hands over your mouth. You’re so incredibly grateful that he decides to pull out.
Again, he laughs at your struggle; this time it reverberates throughout the locker room. You had half the mind to cover his own mouth if you weren’t so preoccupied with pulling yourself together. “C-can I please go now?” You practically beg, shifting yourself up. “Oh, you think we’re done?” He gives you a shit-eating grin as he leisurely takes his shorts off. “You haven’t even seen your big surprise.”
You gawk at the erratic cock that eagerly bounces from his boxers. You’ve seen cocks on the internet, but that could have never prepared you for reality. It’s completely massive, and the straight girth is insane. You immediately shut your legs, but he pries them open just as easily.
“W-wait- that won’t fit in me.” He glances down at his member, then slowly back at you, smirking. “It will; your body will accommodate me.” You want to argue. Want to leave nude and all with your virginity intact. But he grabs your shoulders and thrusts into you.
You fight the urge to scream as breaches vulva. It burns like hell, and all you can feel is him as he conquers your tight hole. He moans carelessly, relishing how much you squeeze him.
Your practically bawling as he reached your cervix. Hot tears stream down your already blazing cheeks as your mind goes completely blank. He hooks his arms under your legs and pounds into you mercilessly. Each thrust sending you into a new high.
Panic claws at the back of your consciousness as louder and louder moans are ripped from you. But all your caution is swept away in the tsunami of your pleasure.
“Fuck- t-this is what you deserve- treated like the slut you are.” He begins to thrust faster. “Y-you thought you could ignore me- thought you could pay attention to anyone but me-“
You would have slapped him if you weren’t so preoccupied trying to keep together. But with one final thrust, you both come undone, untangling the knot that gathered when he first entered you. You fall back, gasping for air, savoring the end.
Fuck, he’s still inside of you. You attempt to push him off, but he just burrows deeper into you again. Lazily, he presses his forehead against yours. “You’re going to be mine forever.”
Wooooo, second post!!!! Let me know what other dynamics you would like to see, and maybe I'll write them. As always, dont be afraid to give feedback and tell me what you think.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐂𝐊 — a confident athlete who turns into pathetic putty at the thought of you . . .
nsfw / sixteen + content / smut / gender neutral reader / yandere content / sub!yandere / masturbation / pervert yandere (he literally breaks into the locker room for your shit) / olfactophilia/osmolagnia (scent/smell kink) / dacryphilia (kink for crying) / breath play / yandere oc x reader
masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . .
a/n: haven't wrote smut in awhile, so im a bit rusty . . .
Lucas dangled the keys in his hands, a grin playing on his face as he walked towards the locker room—using the key to unlock the door—it was pretty easy grabbing the keys from the janitor's room, not that this school was particularly secure with their locks. It would be pretty easy breaking in, if he tried hard enough . .
Lucas scanned the area, looking through each locker trying to find which one was yours . . he had your lock combination memorized, though he did get a little help from a friend in order to figure it out.
His hands reached for the clothes that you had left in your locker, lifting it up to his face, eyes going half lidded as he inhaled your intoxicating scent, he felt his face growing warm and his body growing weak. Lucas leaned down onto the lockers for support, almost losing balance as he slid down onto the floor.
Lucas pressed the flimsy piece of clothing further onto his face, engulfing himself in your smell—so much so that he could almost taste you—all the while his other hand travelled downwards, clumsily unbuckling his pants in a hurry . . hasty movements contradicted his rational mind, not bothering to care if he'd get caught.
He slid his pants down, just enough to reveal his semi-hard cock—a soft whine escaped him at the feeling of the cold air—his free hand now teasing his tip, as he relaxed his body, closing his eyes shut . .—imagining how disgusted you'd be seeing him in this pitiful state— . . that really turned him on, he cussed under his breath at how pitiful and pathetic his thoughts were . .
Lucas wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, slowly moving his hand up and down—his vision growing hazy—as he let out breathy sighs of pleasure—whines growing louder when he moved his hand faster.
Lucas stuffed the clothing he took, and pushed it into his mouth—drool escaped the corners of his mouth—blocking his ability make a sound, as he moved his hand faster around his cock—little tear droplets stinging his eyes, as he felt his legs shake slightly at the sheer pleasure—he used his now free hand to pinch his nose, closing his only source of air . . .
All he could taste was you, the clothing taking away all the moisture in his mouth, as tears begin to escape his eyes, saliva escaping the corners of his mouth, dripping onto his clothing—his legs began to convulse—his back arching slightly, as he finally came, all over the floor . . .
Lucas spat out the fabric, "fuck", the bell rang . . How is he gonna clean up this mess fast enough? . .
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@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.
WARNINGS: stalking, obsessiveness, breaking and entering, nsfw, masochist yandere, overstimulation, thigh riding, bondage, male masturbation, unhealthy behavior, average yandere tendencies, male yandere oc (he’s very pathetic and perverted, it’s giving “step on me” energy.) gender neutral reader
A/N: heyyyyy guess who isn’t dead.. i literally open tumblr every 3 minutes i just haven’t been posting. but i’m hereeeee lol. here’s a random yandere oc post, sorry it’s not mortal kombat. (tbh i have faded away from my mk obsession and now i am obsessed with until dawn, the quarry, tlou, and rdr.)
part two here!
superfan! yandere boy that buys all of your merchandise and streams your music on loop 24/7. even while he sleeps.
superfan! yandere boy that commissions artists to draw you and him together in different styles. some of them may depict him on a cute date with you, and some are more explicit and depict you stepping on him or choking him.
superfan! yandere boy that sneaks into your concerts if he didn’t manage to buy a ticket. no matter how strong your security is, he will always manage to find a way in and pretend he's just a regular fan.
superfan! yandere boy that will even sneak onto your house and film you through your window for hours, and then he would go home and touch himself to the footage of you.
superfan! yandere boy that wants to buy meet-and-greet tickets to see you, and be able to feel your presence up close and be able to speak to you personally. but as much as he craves your attention, he knows he wouldn't be able to handle it and would crumble immediately the second you look him in the eyes.
superfan! yandere boy that pays people to stalk you and take pictures of you when he can't do it himself. especially ones when you have a wardrobe malfunction.
superfan! yandere boy that goes to sleep every night fantasizing and dreaming of you. his particular favorite wet dream is of you letting him ride your thigh, grinding against your skin as a desperate attempt to feel any friction on his cock. your hands would roam around his body as he relishes in your attention, no matter where you touch him. any small nudge or brush against his skin would set his heart on fire and oh no where'd his pants go-
superfan! yandere boy that thinks you could do no wrong. you said something offensive and got yourself cancelled? he is your number one defender and would be threatening your naysayers on the internet. he would even go as far as to learn to hack just so he could delete their accounts.
superfan! yandere boy that almost WANTS to get caught. he knows he wouldn't be able to handle your attention, so he avoids it, but a part of him wants to get caught and outed for his perverted, stalker ways. he wants to hear you cuss him out and degrade him. he wants to see the disgusted look on your face as he is exposed for everything he did. spit on him, kick him, treat him like vermin, he doesn't mind. he gets off on the thought of you punishing him. he has a particular fantasy where your punishment for him is by tying him up and overstimulating him until he is crying, whimpering, and almost fainting. but he would still beg for more. no matter how long it lasts. it could be a week long and he still wouldn't be satisfied.
Cleaning out my drafts and stumbled across this horror piece. Minors DNI please.
Yandere Head Canons: The Dollhouse Husband
Yandere Living Doll x GN Reader x One Sided Neglectful Toymaker Husband
TW: yandere themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, obsession, neglectful husband, unhappy arranged marriage, murder, horror, and gore (mentioned)
His face was beautiful, just like your husband’s, yet he wasn’t your husband. No, this adonic doll was an imposter. A crude imitation of your distant beau. A creation your husband, Jonathan, made out of cruelty so you’d stop clinging to him and your desire for him to love you. A doll he crudely named Johnny. The nickname you affectionately called your emotionally constipated husband.
A marriage that was arranged since the two of you were young and yet your husband would not lie with you. No… he’d rather play with his toys. Jonathan told you he had made you this doll to play with so you’d leave him alone…
“What’s wrong dear?” A smooth voice whispered in your ear as lanky arms wrapped around your body to pull you closer to his. His skin felt like ice and you didn’t even feel a heartbeat… was this man undead? He wasn’t human, but you weren’t even sure if he was even living. “Is my appearance not to your liking? Your husband did his best to make me exactly in his image.”
“…” you frowned at his words, your words died off in your throat before they could even be uttered. How could you forget that your toy maker husband built you a living doll to be a crude imitation of him all because you expressed a desire for more attention. Yet it felt as if you were not worthy of having the real husband. Only this doll. A doll that would do anything you asked of it to an almost unhealthy degree.
Everywhere you want, Johnny followed. If you were in the garden, so was Johnny. If you were in the tub, Johnny would wash your hair and back for you. It didn’t matter that you were disinterested in this lifeless mockery of your husband, the doll would follow you.
“Dear? Do you not like me?” The doll asked once more as his porcelain arms wrapped around you tighter. His perfect face remained unmoved, but you swore his tenor voice sounded anxious. “I’m just as good as he is! I dote on you! I take care of you and your needs! I’m made as a perfect replica-“
“But you’re not my husband.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, your eyes filled with sadness. “Your body is as cold as ice and you have no heartbeat… your presence does nothing but make me sink into a larger pit of loneliness.”
“So you desire warm skin and a heart?” The doll asked in a hushed tone. His glassy green eyes admired your form. “If I were to be more human… would you like me more?”
“…yes.” You just wanted the conversation to be over. To bury your head on your pillow and sob until you passed out from the loneliness and pity that consumed you. Were you that unloveable that your own husband gifted you a living doll?
If only you noticed the way Johnny rested his head on your shoulder as the cogs in his mind turned. You’d love him if he had skin and a heart? He’d do just that…
How were you to know that this doll would present you Jonathan’s heart the next day in a heart shaped box with a smile that could only be described as uncanny? Not to mention the porcelain white skin that was no doubt from your husband’s own face that rested on Johnny’s like a mask.
“I have the traits you desire… so won’t you like me now? I’m better than him in every way!” He shouted as he set the box down on the dining room table in front of you. He took his pointer fingers and curved the loose skin around his lips into a smile. “We can be happy here in our dollhouse! Please! Please say you like me now!”
You felt numb as the heart in front you leaked crimson all over the box. Perhaps… this was all your own doing due to your selfishness? Of begging to be loved all your life that only a living doll would pay you any mind?
You let out a shaky sigh before you gulped. The alive burned your throat like it was acid. Your gave a fake smile to Johnny who eagerly awaited the four words he longed to hear for his entire existence.
