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m1dn1ght-r0t · 3 months ago

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Plausible Deniability

Yandere!creepy coworker x gn!reader

TW: creepy/perverted behavior, implied stolen belongings & stalking, mentions of sexual harassment, murder (of a side char), delusional & unstable behavior, some NSFW towards the end

There’s this coworker of yours that, for some reason, unnerves you.

You don’t know why. He mostly keeps to himself, save for the occasional nod of acknowledgement when you cross paths in the break room or the elevator. Other than that, he’s harmless.

In fact, you think he's a complete pushover. A doormat people dump their responsibilities on, only for them to take all the (undeserved) credit when a project succeeds.

You honestly can’t count the number of times you've had to stand up for him, drawing boundaries he refuses to set for himself. (Not that you're doing this out of kindness, it's just a matter of fairness.) You've learnt that his default is to sit still and take every punch thrown his way.

Sure, now you find coffee and a granola bar on your desk every morning, which you suspect is from him. Not a hard mystery to crack when he's always the first in the office and constantly sneaks glances at you the second you sit down.

But that still doesn't explain this strange, visceral reaction you have to him. None of this should be setting off alarm bells. Why should it, when he hasn't done anything but… exist?

Yet, there’s a pit nestled deep in your stomach that won't go away.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been on edge lately, catching him staring at you in a dazed, trance-like state.

Maybe it’s the way he knows things about you he shouldn’t. Like the time you offhandedly mentioned not getting enough sleep, and he told you that looking at your phone before bed was poor sleep hygiene, that you shouldn’t scroll so late into the night. You had laughed awkwardly and agreed, chalking it up to coincidence. But he had only smiled, pleased.

Or maybe it's because items have gone missing from your workspace. Your favorite pens, your used tissues from the bin, a coffee mug you once left unwashed. Again, you had brushed it off as your mind playing tricks on you.

Until you saw him using a pen identical to your missing ones, right down to the blue cap. They even had the indents where your teeth had pressed into the plastic.

At that point, you were convinced he was the culprit. But you can’t prove it. What if he just… also chews his pens? You’d look like an idiot, accusing him of theft over something so mundane.

Then there’s the matter of the random men’s handkerchiefs left on your desk. At first, they seemed innocuous. Until you discovered, to your abject horror, that they had an off-white crusting on the fabric, characteristically reminiscent of dried cum.

Are you crazy for thinking it's somehow connected to your coworker? Because you know it is. But again, no real proof. You're stuck in this infuriating limbo, unable to do anything.

To make matters worse, you’re losing sleep over your direct manager’s hands-on approach. The unwanted groping, the sexually inappropriate comments disguised as jokes, the veiled threats passed off as favors. None of which you can escalate to HR, given your manager’s influence.

As a result, the quality of your work is tanking, but you couldn’t quit this shitty job even if you wanted to. You need that promotion and the raise that’s promised with it. So you have no choice but to endure.

So yeah, maybe all of this is warping your otherwise sharp instincts, making you paranoid and causing you to believe things that aren't true.

Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re at your wit's end. Like a dam slowly filling, waiting to burst.

And then, one mundane night, it finally spills over.

You’re heading to your car in the basement parking lot after a late overtime shift when someone calls your name. You whip around.

It’s your coworker, emerging from behind his car’s trunk. “Hey, finally done with work? Stayed back pretty late tonight, huh?” he says casually.

The coincidence barely registers. You're too exhausted, too focused on getting home and crashing. “Oh, hey. Yeah,” you sigh. “I’ve just been put on this project, and—”

Something red catches your eye. Your gaze flicks downward, and nothing could have prepared you for what you see.

“What…” You breathe out, face paling.

He’s walking toward you - is that a pep in his step? - clutching a fistful of your very dead manager’s hair, hoisting his limp body like a ragdoll.

And just like that, every alarm bell in your head finally makes sense.

Your coworker is truly, utterly fucking insane.

Eyes wide and stricken with panic, you stumble backward. “What did you do? Oh god, what did you do?”

He cocks his head, as if you're the one acting strange. “What do you mean? I got rid of him because he was bothering you.”

The body's shoes scuff against the concrete as he drags it closer. Up close, you see just how grotesquely its bent - joints twisted at impossible angles, akin to a contortionist. Bile rises up your throat.

“You won’t have to put up with that disgusting pervert anymore.” Please stop talking.

“Work won’t be as stressful now that he's gone.” Shut up. I don’t want to hear this.

“Aren’t you happy? I did this for you.” He smiles, watching you expectantly, as if waiting for you to rejoice and praise him for his hard work.

Exasperated, you snap. “Where the hell did you get that idea? Why would you even think to do something like this?”

His brows scrunch in confusion, hesitation blooming on his face at this unexpected development. “But the signs… y-you looked miserable. I hated seeing you lose your spark, your confidence. Every day, because of that asshole.” He grits out the insult, voice thick with bitter resentment.

Then, softer, like he‘s trying to reason with you, “You were hoping I’d notice, weren’t you?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Signs? What fucking signs screamed ‘I want him dead’ to you?”

He blinks, unfazed. “Well, you did say you wanted him dead.”

“I never said that! When did I—” And then it hits you.

You did say that. Half-drunk at a work gathering, tipsy off cheap cocktails, and ranting to your colleagues: God, I wish that man would just drop dead.

Your stomach lurches. "You can't actually be…oh my god," you whisper, panic surging. He murdered someone because of you. Does that make you complicit? Could you be charged for this?

“I wasn’t actually being serious," you say, desperate now. "You know that, right?”

“But you—”

“That doesn’t mean you can just murder him! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

This… he seems to take offense to. His face crumbles. Like you've just rammed a stake through his heart.

Without warning, except for the slight quiver of his bottom lip, he bursts into tears.

"O-oh… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. God, I'm sorry." He hiccups between sobs, devolving into a full on breakdown. The corpse, long forgotten, lies rotting on the concrete.

“I-I didn’t mean to upset you… I’m sorry. I thought,”—sniff—“I thought you’d be glad he was gone! I didn’t think you’d be…”—sniff sniff—“mad. I’m so so sorry. This is my fault. My fault my fault my fault.”

You stare. Because what the actual fuck is happening?

But disturbingly, you feel bad for him.

Suddenly, you’re all too aware of where you are. It's late. You’re in an open parking lot. If someone walks in and finds you here - with him, and that - you’re fucked.

And given his fragile state, he might do something rash, like confess. You can’t have that happening. So you sober up and keep your voice steady, trying your best to calm his nerves, even if it means lying.

“Look, I’m not upset. Just… shocked.” You hesitate before reaching out, hovering a hand above his trembling shoulder.

“Don’t cry, okay? It’s—uh—it’s all good.”

Jesus, you’re terrible at this. How do you even comfort someone for killing a person?

But you must be doing something right, because at that, he perks up a little and stops crying. He peeks up at you from behind his hands, sniffling.

“Did I do… good?”

And you realize then, in that moment, he’s still searching for your approval. Still waiting, like some kicked puppy, for your validation. For some reason, witnessing him in this state invigorates a sort of power trip in you.

Something else clicks. You can use this. Your manager is dead. That promotion is yours. No more bullshit. No more suffering.

A win-win, in your eyes. So you reach out carefully and pat his head. “Yeah," you murmur. "You did good. But we need to deal with the body. You know how to dispose of one?”

His eyes shine with glee. And to your relief, he nods. “Y-yeah. I’ll clean up real good for you.”

You don’t ask how he knows. Some things are better left unknown. ~

The moment you leave, he practically stumbles to his car, ripping the door open in his haste. His hands tremble as they grip the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

He's been hard ever since you offered that quiet crumb of praise - so hard it hurts.

Thank god you didn't linger. Any longer, and he would’ve cum in his pants right then and there.

Desperate to rub one out, he fumbles with his belt, shoving his slacks down mid-thigh. His cock is already leaking, twitching against his palm as he wraps a fist around it.

He replays the moment over and over - your voice, your touch, the way your fingers had absently twined in his hair. So soft. So gentle. His hips jerk at the thought, a strangled whimper escaping.

"F-fuck," he gasps, stroking himself in frantic, uncoordinated motions. He pictures you above him, pressing your palm to his head again, whispering sweet approval in his ear. The phantom weight of your body, the warmth of your breath - shit, he’s close.

His free hand fumbles through the glove compartment, grasping for a handkerchief. He barely manages to brace himself before he’s falling apart, shuddering as he blows his load into the fabric, your name spilling past his lips like a reverent prayer.

For a moment, he just sits there, chest heaving and fingers flexing weakly around his softening cock. Then, almost instinctively, he folds the damp handkerchief neatly, setting it aside.

It's not enough. It never is. But tomorrow, he'll see you again. And for now, that’s enough.

The next morning, you find coffee, a granola bar, and a neatly folded men’s handkerchief placed on your desk.

#male yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere writing #yandere oc #yandere male #male yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yancore #yanderecore #tw yandere #yandere imagine #yandere coworker

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Say It

18+ homelander x f!reader, second person (no y/n), possessive behavior, dubious consent, mild torture (not of the reader), canon typical violence, psychological warfare, unhealthy relationship. chapter index. AO3.

Homelander finds you in an empty hall with a man he doesn't recognize.

You don’t know the man either, and he doesn’t know who you are. That doesn’t stop him cornering you against a wall to ask your name and tell you about what good money he makes, about how good he’d treat you if you would just let him make use of that pretty mouth of yours.

If he knew who you were, he wouldn’t have done that in Vought Tower, even if the floor is supposedly empty, under construction. You certainly hadn’t thought anyone would be here.

“Well, hey there.” The sound of Homelander’s voice sends a sharp chill down your spine. Anyone else would hear the smile in his voice, but you know better. His jovial tone is a veneer, his smile is thin and stretched too wide. Your heart races. You want to be relieved, but you don’t know what he’s going to do. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Nothing,” you race to say. The man leaning over you simultaneously stands up straight. His smile looks sincere, maybe even a little awed.

“Wow! Homelander, wow. Big fan!” He says, and you want to shake him. Yell at him to stay away. How does he not see it? Looking at Homelander, you don’t see America’s favorite hero. You see a wild animal without bars, shoulders squared, hands folded behind his back.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Homelander throws right back at you, his stare piercing. He hasn’t even acknowledged the man standing next to you. “Sure didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, and that’s when something begins to click with the man who’d cornered you.

Of course he heard everything. He’s The Homelander, and you belong to him.

“Nothing happened,” you correct yourself. You take solace in the idea that if he truly heard everything, he knows that. He heard your rebuffs. You haven’t done anything wrong.

Looking between you and where Homelander is blocking the hallway exit, the man gives a nervous chuckle. He’s finally picked up on the miasma-thick tension in the air. “Hey, listen, I don’t want to—“

“What were you going to do with it?” Homelander cuts in, the weight of his stare leaving you and landing squarely on the man. This man has no idea that he’s fighting for his life right now.

“What?”

“Her mouth,” Homelander answers, his smile still broad, teeth pearly white and sharp. “Let me guess. You wanna fuck it?”

The man’s own mouth hangs open, and he begins to fumble up a response, but Homelander lifts a finger, and starts closing the distance between them with slow steps, like a stalking tiger. “Ah, ah. C’mon. Let’s be real,” he says, voice low. “You wanted to fuck her mouth, right? I mean, I get it,” he says, voice fading off into a mirthless laugh. “I do it all the time.”

You feel your cheeks turn hot, your stomach churning. Beyond the humiliation, it’s like you aren’t even here. Just a useful object to be discussed.

“I didn’t know,” the man says, lifting his hands placatingly. “I didn’t touch her, I swear to god—“

Homelander takes hold of the man’s head and slams him against the wall so close to you, you feel the sleeve of his jacket brush your arm. You throw your hands over your mouth to muffle your own cry of surprise, pulling away from the wall with stumbling steps backwards.

The man looks delirious. His head is sunken back into the perfectly shaped indentation his skull has just made in the wall. “I don’t give a fuck what you swear to god,” Homelander hisses in his face. “You’re talking to me.”

“Don’t!” You plead, horrified. The sound of his skull cracking against that wall is still echoing in your mind. “Oh my god, please don’t kill him!”

“Oh, relax,” Homelander dismisses, laughing airily. It’s frightening how rapidly he can bounce between these moods, looking at you like you’re the one overreacting. “What’s wrong, were you enjoying yourself? Did you want him to fuck you?” He asks, tone remaining perfectly even, despite the way his jaw sets at the thought. His tone drops again, “Is that why you didn’t break his fucking nose?”

“No,” you answer immediately, mortified. “No, no, I didn’t want—“

“Say it. I want to hear you say it,” Homelander cuts you off, his palm pressed over the man’s mouth, muffling the gradually building sounds of distress. “Say ‘I wanted him to fuck me.‘“

You can hear the wall strain with the pressure Homelander is applying. The skin around where those red leather gloves press in has already begun to darken.

“Stop it!” You’re not above begging, but you know what he’s asking you to do. He’s setting you up for punishment. He will use this to justify whatever he deems necessary to keep you under his thumb. “Homelander, please—“

“Tick tock, tick tock,” he taunts, his smile curled up like a snarl. The man’s screams are dulled behind Homelander’s palm, but they’re loud in your ears. Veins are straining in his neck. His nose is covered, he can’t breathe. You’re not sure if he’s turning purple from that, or because of the building force Homelander is pressing against his face with. Homelander practically sings your name, dragging out each syllable. “You gonna let him die?”

A bone somewhere in the man’s face cracks, and it shatters something inside you.

“I wanted him to fuck me!” You sob, covering your ears, screwing your eyes shut. You don’t want to hear this man die. “I wanted him to fuck me! I wanted him to—“

Gloved hands close over top of yours. It’s not until you feel how steady and unyielding Homelander is that you realize how badly you’re shaking, each sob tearing through you. When you open your eyes, vision bleary through tears, Homelander’s expression is serene. Amused, even. His golden hair is backlit by the fluorescent bulb above, giving him an artificial halo. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel.

Homelander gently pries your hands away from your ears. Even when he’s careful with you, his hands feel like thousand pound machines. Resistance is a joke. He makes that clear every day.

With your hands down, you hear now that he’s hushing you, his lips pursed slightly. He brings your hands down to your sides, and then places his hands on your shoulders. Your ears are ringing. The man is limp on the floor, but you can’t bring yourself to look at his face.

“Well…” Homelander begins, thoughtful. “No more wandering around empty floors, hmm? Next time you want some attention, you can just ask, you silly-billy,” he says, giving your shoulders a subtle little shake. His smile isn’t so thin anymore. He looks delighted.

You’re doing everything in your power just to breathe. You hear him purr a soft ’awwww’ as he pulls you in against his chest, the textured fabric of his suit pressed to your cheek. You know he likes you best like this. Tormented, fully at his mercy. He’s made it clear that you’re a plaything, but what’s important is that you’re his plaything.

Homelander strokes your hair. It’s gotten longer. He prefers it that way. His other hand is splayed firm against your lower back, but when you don’t reciprocate the affection, hands hanging limply at your sides, he does take a moment to lift each of your arms, wrapping them around his own middle before he returns his hands to their positions.

“You made a mistake, didn’t you?” He prompts, giving you an opening. You know that it’s a baited trap, but you nod anyway. You even hug him a little tighter, and you feel him lean into you when you do.

“And you’re gonna make it up to me, aren’t you?” He pushes further. You feel like there’s a giant knot in your stomach, balling up and getting heavier with each word he speaks. Your throat is too tight. You just nod again.

“Good,” he says. You can hear his grin. “There’s my good girl.”

( Chapter 2 )

#homelander’s characterization here is so insanely accurate #gnawing at the bars of my enclosure #so so well written I’m in love

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter two)

18+ 3k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, somnophilia, drugging, eventual smut. AO3 | fanfic directory

You’ve been hand-chosen by a god; plucked out of your meager, mundane existence and set delicately into the lap of luxury. Your every need will be met, your every whim and wish made real. By any measure, it’s a dream come true. A life safe from pain, from toil, and from the crushing weight of choice. In exchange, all he asks is that you devote yourself wholly to him.

“What happened?” You ask, voice frayed. Your movements are sluggish, hands rubbing the disorientation from your eyes one at a time.

Homelander catches his own reflection briefly in the mirror across from the bed–making sure he doesn’t have a hair out of place for this crucial meeting–before his gaze moves back to you. “Only the most important day of your life,” he says, feeling as though he’s about to tell someone they just won the goddamn lottery. He watches you rise slowly up into a sitting position, never taking your eyes off of him. He knows that you’re nervous–can smell it on you–but he doesn’t worry himself with that. It’s to be expected initially.

“You just so happen to be the luckiest lady in America,” he tells you, putting on his most charming smile.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, your confusion deepening. He can see the tension in your body rising as well, the pace of your heart lifting to a rabbit-like thrum despite the molasses thick haze of the anesthesia in your system.

He laughs softly, lifting his hands in an encompassing gesture. “I saved you.”

Almost instantaneously, the tense line of your shoulders droops and your eyes soften in a way that erupts a wave of butterflies in his gut. You look nearly ready to fall back into bed with the weight of relief that moves through you, causing you to sway slightly. He feels nearly delirious with the giddiness of the moment, his fingers twitching, itching to touch.

“What do you remember?” He asks, daring to inch closer to you. His hand settles on the bed, fingertips nearly brushing your blanketed knee.

“I remember someone grabbing me. A man. He put a rag over my mouth,” you say, lifting a hand to touch your lips. His gaze drops to follow the movement. He subconsciously licks his own. He’d been such a gentleman while you slept, but that hadn’t stopped him fantasizing. He cannot wait to taste you again. “It smelled like grass or something. I fought, but he was so strong,” you say, a tremble like reverence or fear in your voice. Maybe both.

When you realize that his strength is yours, you’ll never need to fear it–or anything else–ever again.

“And then I blacked out. You saved me from him?” You look up at him with wide, watery eyes and he could almost laugh at how cute you look, cluelessly putting together mismatched pieces of the little puzzle going on in your brain. The breathless wonder in your voice–the way you’re looking at him with such hope–makes his chest swell with pride.

You’re in for a real treat.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, lifting his hand to give your knee a gentle squeeze through the blanket. “That was me,” he says, his smile broad and proud. “What I saved you from was ever stepping foot back in that dingy little apartment of yours again. From that mind numbing mediocrity and the tedium of your mundane little life. I brought you home,” he says, gesturing out to his penthouse with a grand sweep of his arm.

A pregnant pause follows.

He waits, but you still don’t seem to get it. Your heart is thumping wildly with no sign of slowing, and that brief flicker of relief has disappeared entirely, the line of your shoulders drawing back up tight. A twinge of apprehension nestles in his chest.

“Well?” He prompts, his smile faltering. “Say something.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you say, gripping the bedding in tight fists. “You kidnapped me?”

“I didn’t kidnap you, you silly goose,” he half scoffs, half laughs. “I brought you home!” He says again, emphasizing the word ‘home’ as if it will speed along your comprehension. Instead, you look more confused and afraid than ever.

He sighs, dropping his hands down into his lap. “C’mon, you could show a little excitement, yeah? I mean, out of the three hundred and thirty million people in America, I picked you. Those are some fucking insane lottery odds.”

“Picked me for what?” You ask quietly, a rasp in your voice that itches uncomfortably at the back of his neck. You sound ready to cry, which won’t do at all. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

“To be mine,” he says, and while he’s still smiling, there’s an incredulous furrow to his brow.

“Be your what?”

His smile thins alongside his patience. “My–mine, my girlfriend, lover, sweetheart, my-my fucking paramor, whatever you want to call it,” he says, that charming facade slipping as his mounting aggravation with your incomprehension creeps further up his spine.

Where’s your excitement? Where’s your fucking gratitude?

“I don’t even know you,” you say, moving away from him to the opposite side of the bed, sliding onto your feet without ever taking your eyes off of him. You brace your hand on his headboard, steadying yourself.

Homelander stands, taken aback. “Of course you know me. You recognized me instantly!” He says, circling the bed.

For every step he takes forward, you take two back.

He’s bewildered by your response: he’s a goddamn hero, the shining light of providence beaming down on America, and you’re cowering from his approach like he’s some kind of fucking pariah, shrinking back against the mirror when you hit it, cornering yourself.

“You know exactly who I am, and I know you,” he says, uninvited irritation slipping into his voice.

“I know that you like to cook, that you can’t hold your alcohol, and that the best part of your day is the little sweet treat you get yourself after work. You laugh at bad jokes and you watch worse television. Videos about sad animals make you cry, even when they end happy. When you’re depressed you shop online and look at house listings you’ll never be able to afford. I know you, alright? Down to your goddamn skincare routine. So just calm down already.”

Fuck, he needs to reign himself in. He’s gotten too worked up, and you’re stubbornly not calming down at all.

“You’ve been stalking me?” You ask, gaze darting from corner to corner like an animal seeking an avenue for escape. The horror in your voice, in your expression, churns his stomach terribly.

Relax. Relax. Give her a sec. She’ll figure it out, coos a much more confident voice in the back of his mind. He closes his eyes briefly, taking in a slow breath, inhabiting that same confidence.

Everything’s going to be fine.

There’s no other option now.

“It’s–heh–it’s a funny story, actually,” he says, forcefully lightening his tone. He wants you to enjoy this story. Hear the romanticism in it. “I was on patrol, you know, watching for crime, or danger, people in need of saving–I do that a lot–and that’s when I saw you,” he says with a slowly broadening smile, hands lifted towards you like you’re on display. “You were on your way to work, and you handed some homeless guy a box of–”

“John,” you interrupt, staring at him with apprehension.

Homelander’s expression turns stricken, not knowing why you would possibly call him that. In his underlying agitation, he sees flashes of a cramped room behind an enormous door the color of fresh blood. His hands felt so small beating on that terrible door. His throat constricts, and he barely chokes out, “What?”

“John,” you say again, visibly concerned by his reaction. “The man I give food to, his name is John.” Of course it is. As common a gutter name as any.

“Oh,” he says, the muscles in his face tight. It takes him several seconds to recover, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. So, you… Well, I saw you, and you were rushing, working, and you’d come home, rush and work again, and the food, you’d–” Fuck, he’s lost the thread. He feels like he’s coming unspooled, an awkward mess spilled out on the floor. This is not how he wants you to see him.

If only you hadn’t said that fucking name.

He brings his hands up, covering his mouth and nose as he takes in a deep breath, eyes closed. He drops his hands in front of his chest, palms clasped together. He smiles tensely as his eyes open back up. “I’m gonna start over. Hey, hi, I’m Homelander,” he says, slipping into his stage voice without realizing it, speaking the way he would if he was addressing a crowd. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

He splays his hands at that, as if waiting for an applause for his performance. You don’t appear to be of the mind to offer him one.

“Okay… so you have been stalking me,” you say, pressed so tightly against the mirror you might actually crack it. He resists the urge to roll his eyes. You’re just working yourself up now, focusing on the wrong parts entirely. He assumes you’ll be more reasonable when all the adrenaline in your blood wears off. The smell of it on you is terribly sour. “And now you’ve drugged and kidnapped me.”

He lets out a terse breath. “I–mm, I feel like you’re missing the point just a little bit here,” he says through his teeth, heat prickling his neck where his collar touches it, the fabric suddenly growing irritating against his skin. “I was not stalking you. I saw you a few times, and I wanted to meet you. And again, you’re not kidnapped!”

“I’m free to go, then?” You ask, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Yes, obviously,” he laughs, though there’s tension in it. It takes everything in him not to forcibly uncross your arms himself. He much prefers how you looked in sleep, or when he observed you from a distance. This harsh, closed off version of you is making his skin itch. He wishes he could start the take over, the way they do when he’s filming. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Ever seen Paris? Hell, summer in Italy is–”

“Home,” you say. “I’d like to go home, please.”

“Would you-!” His tone is too sharp, too loud, and he cuts himself off, but not before his volume makes you flinch.

He sucks in a breath, bobbing his pointer finger at you. “You-mmm,” he hums, clicking his tongue as he continues to force calm into his voice. “You are home,” he says, giving into his impulse and taking hold of your wrist, tugging your arms out of that tight cross with ease. He pulls you behind him, deciding that if telling won’t work, showing will have to.

Once you see it, you’ll understand. You’ll understand that all of this has been for you.

“Here, look,” he says, throwing open the door to the closet. Your closet. It’s lined with outfits he’s spent the last several weeks choosing for you. Weeks spent finding a balance between your aesthetic and his. You’ll have to match him, of course. He made sure that they compliment his suit while also carrying similarities to the color palettes you’re drawn to.

He spreads his arm towards the display, fingers twitching. “See? Yours. All of it–and whatever else you want,” he says, hyper aware of how delicate your wrist feels in his grasp. You may as well be a bird in his hands, hollow-boned and fragile. “The kitchen, too, it’s yours,” he says, gesturing vaguely off in the direction of it. His attention snaps back to you, laser focused. He gives your wrist a reflexive tug, fighting with himself to keep his own strength at bay.

“I did all of this for you,” he says in a low voice, pinning you with his stare. “Tell me you understand that.”

If there’s an undercurrent of desperation in his tone, he ignores it.

Your eyes are wide and watery, a deer caught in the golden headlights of all that he is. Your breaths come in shallow waves, and the terrible fear that radiates from you makes him want to shake you. Your gaze slides from him to the closet, flitting between the myriad of garments that hang in the closet. All in your size. Some of them are nearly identical to pieces you own, but manufactured by the original designer instead of a cheap knock-off plucked from a department store rack.

And still he can give you so much more. All he asks is that you love him for it.

There’s a tremble running through you. Your throat clicks on a dry swallow, and slowly your attention drifts back to him, sweeping him from head to toe, taking account of him in his entirety for the first time. He tenses. It’s a little strange to be so seen by you, but it feels good, too. He squares his shoulders, wanting you to see the best in him.

“Why me?” You ask quietly, your eyes meeting his. You still look lost, but what he finds endearing is the underlying conviction he sees. You’re always quick to move towards a solution. He likes that about you. He’s not sure what it is that you’ve decided, but it’s clear you’ve made a choice somewhere in your mind.

Because you’re like me.

“Because you deserve it,” he says, drawing you in at the same time he turns his body towards yours. “You’re underappreciated. Undervalued. You’re capable of so much more than the world gives you credit for,” he says, his grip on your wrist flexing. Every one of those glorified pen-pushers at Vought should choke for the way they ignore him, hoisting their agendas onto him while dismissing his ideas. “And you’re lonely.”

Your eyes widen a fraction. Bullseye.

Sensing vulnerability, he moves a step closer, taking hold of your other wrist. He offers both a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to be.”

Neither of us do.

“This is insane,” you whisper, but the inflection of your voice makes it sound like a question. Like you’re considering it. “You’re… You’re Homelander,” you say, as if that should explain everything you hold in your gaze.

And I’m nobody, you must be thinking. Maybe you were once, but no longer. You’ve been elevated in the way only someone chosen by God can be.

“And you’re here. With me,” he counters, his own voice lower now, quieter in the intimately narrow space between your bodies, both hands wrapped around your wrists. There’s a flush crawling up your throat, warming you all the way to your ears. His thumb absently strokes your pulse-point. “Safe. I’m a hero, remember?”

“So, you’re not… going to wear my skin, or eat me?” You ask, voice filled with such dread at the notion he thinks you might have actually believed that was his intention.

He barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, first of all, no more Silence of the Lambs for you,” he says, relinquishing his hold on your wrists to slide his hands up your arms, squeezing your shoulders. “Second, no. I’m not going to wear your skin. Or eat you.”

Well… Not like that. He can’t promise he won’t devour you, though. Pin you beneath the weight of his strength–he could keep you down with nothing more than his pinky–put his head between your thighs and trace his name with his tongue until you’re screaming it. The thought makes his cock throb, stiffen. He licks his lips subconsciously, glad for the cover of his cup.

“Okay,” you say, snapping him out of his daydream. “Then you want me to…?”

It seems ridiculous to him that he would still have to explain it. He’ll blame it on the anesthesia.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, taking his hands from your shoulders to motion to the rest of his penthouse. “Cook, don’t cook. Read books, shop, get in arguments on the internet over fictional characters,” he says, swirling his hand in a vague gesture. “Whatever makes you happy,” he says, gaze drifting back to you. All you have to do is do it with me. “Pretty sweet deal if you ask me.” He offers you the sharp edge of a smile, leaving little room for discussion.

You stare at him for a moment that’s too long and too quiet for his liking before your eyes wander, taking in the rest of his room. The balcony beyond the threshold. The mirrors and paintings on the walls, the statues in the corners, the rich dark colors. Everything has been decorated to make the space feel grander, more open. No blank walls. No doors that lock. It’s his home.

And now it’s your home.

“Okay,” you say eventually.

His brows shoot up. “Okay?”

You look back to him, your expression difficult for him to parse. Despite years spent practicing and learning facial expressions–all part of his camera training–he cannot read yours right now. He would be more bothered if he weren’t so distracted by the spark of hope that flares in his chest. “Okay,” you say again, adding a small nod this time.

He exhales a breathy laugh. “Yeah? Yeah! Okay. Alright. Wow, that’s… that’s great,” he says, his grin wide and a touch incredulous. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a sense of suspicion, but his elation smothers it. He had dreaded that you might face an adjustment period, be confused, that there would be tears or anger. You were really starting to get under his skin with all that talk of kidnapping.

As if he were some sort of common thug or criminal, and not a savior.

In his exhilaration, he cups your face suddenly. He feels your pulse spike in his hands, but his focus is solely on your eyes.

“I’m going to make you the happiest woman alive,” he vows with a soft gaze and an eager smile. He leans in close enough to feel your breaths on his lips, tempted to kiss you, but he stops himself. There will be plenty of time for that, and he doesn’t want to remember your first kiss alongside the acrid tinge of your fading fear. His thumbs brush your cheeks, learning the shape of them under his touch.

He’d been wrong when he first took notice of you. You’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he draws away, placing his hands on his hips. “Now… How about we get you a little more comfortable for bed?”

( chapter three )

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Sketch Memory [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sketch Memory [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Chisaki lets you indulge in your little hobbies. But he’s starting to suspect that you’re taking advantage of his “generosity.”

For request: @hello-lucky-luka said: Remember that one ask about overhaul’s angel having a boyfriend? Can I request a scenario where she misses her boyfriend a lot that she draws pictures of him to the point where overhaul got his attention and get jealous?

Word count: 2700ish

You’re not lying, you reason. You’re not, technically speaking, hiding anything. Overhaul never asks to see your sketchbook. And he never said you couldn’t draw someone you know. So the fact that you have been drawing your boyfriend every day since your captor gifted you the hefty, nicely bound thick sketchbook is something you force yourself not to worry about.

Keep reading

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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♡ TW: implied noncon, break-up, toxic relationship, crazy ex-boyfriend, intrusive thoughts, anger issues

♡ FEM reader

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.”

♡ INSPO

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Denki, Kirishima ♡ BLLK – Nagi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Where’s My Language App? [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: Where’s My Language App? [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: You don’t know who he is. You don’t even know what he’s saying.

Just a short lil thing inspired by some recent posts from @stupid-sloot-headcanons on a darling with a language barrier.

Word Count: 1722

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, English-speaking reader/language barrier

You don’t know who he is. You don’t know why he took you. You don’t even know what he’s saying. Not that he’s said all that much since you woke up in a dimly lit room, arms bound in front of you tightly with rope that has gone from itchy to uncomfortable and now bordering on painful as your circulation has waned.

It’s been… three days? Four? You’re not sure. There’s nothing to accurately measure time with. Only the comings and goings of the man who kidnapped you, which don’t seem marked by any particular time of day, give you any sense of time passing.

Keep reading

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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I love the idea of a yandere who gives you your own separate bedroom where you're being kept. If you behave, they might even let you decorate it exactly how you want, although this may depend on the yandere in question.

Even if it's not exactly to your liking, the bedroom is something like a comforting space. You're allowed to sleep in there sometimes, you're allowed to sit quietly and spent time alone if you say you want to recharge, you can sit and do little hobbies with the door shut and be yourself (whoever that is, anymore) for a little while.

But this freedom, this little sanctuary where you're allowed to retreat to, comes with a price.

They can give you that little comfort, that ounce of freedom--and they can take it away.

Run away, squirm, fight, yell, bite, or generally act out? Your bedroom door gets taken off. No more privacy, no more shut door, no more ounce of comfort that you get from being alone for a little bit.

Refuse to let them snuggle with you, argue about sleeping in their bed a few times a week? Your bed goes away, and you sleep with them until further notice.

In the end, the bedroom may be yours on the surface, but it's theirs to do with as they like. They can choose to yank away the comfort you get from it at moment's notice.

So do your best to be good for them, okay?

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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Yandere Sugar Daddy

Money can't buy love, but maybe it doesn't have to.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's very nouveau riche. Who has the wealth of the elites but none of their good breeding.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's awfully young for someone so wealthy. Barely out of college when his tech startup went public and the cash started pouring in.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who is still painfully awkward around women.

Being a rich man in a big city means there's no shortage of models and influencers vying for his attention. And Yandere! Sugar Daddy never fails to get flustered when they're introduced to him.

Long legs, perfect skin, tiny ski slope noses... They're the kind of girls who wouldn't give him the time of day back in college and suddenly they're running their hands up his chest and whispering that he's just so clever, so accomplished. What guy wouldn't fall for it?

But he can never keep them around for long.

Their interest slowly dies out when he starts rambling about software development and production scale and AI integration. Money is a great motivator but all his girlfriends seem to leave for greener pastures. For millionaires with better social skills and better taste.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ran into you entirely on accident. The club was too loud, the girls too pretty, the alcohol too rich. He slipped out of VIP and into the street, pressing his forehead against the cool brick and trying not to spew on the new designer shoes his ex persuaded him to get.

And that was when you came into his life. Cool hands on his shoulder and a voice telling him to take a deep breath and drink some of your water.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks up at you through his lashes, his face flushed from too much booze and being too near you. He can't fathom it. A girl helping him not because of his cash or connections, but because they're actually a kind person.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your hand when you turn to go. Your friends are calling to you to stop messing around with random drunks and he manages to slip you his business card, begging you to call him so he can thank you properly.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wakes up with a killer hangover and your face burned into his eyelids. Who feels his heart jump when he opens his phone and sees a text from you.

Hope your night got better - y/n

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who immediately zooms in on your profile picture. A candid shot but it still makes him blush. Before the morning is over, he's already tracked down your social media.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who pores over every inch of your life. Your job, your studies, your friends...

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who retypes his message at least a dozen times before he finally responds to you. Who invites you to the most exclusive restaurant in the city as a thank you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who picks you up in the most expensive car he owns. Who smiles a little at the careful way you close the door and buckle your seat belt. You're just as uncomfortable around luxury as he was.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who doesn't expect much from the date. He's learned not to go on tangents about technology and work, but without it he feels lost.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you're more than capable of carrying a conversation. You're energetic and funny and interested in what he has to say. He feels himself opening up to you and before long, he's deep into a rant about data safety and you actually listen to him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who realises you compliment him. Like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who ends the night with a lipstick stain on his cheek and a big, goofy grin on his face.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who calls you the second he wakes up and invites you to spend the afternoon learning to horse ride.

And when you tell him you have work, he just laughs and tells you he'll triple whatever you're getting paid for the day. You nearly faint when he keeps his word and sends you a deposit worth more than your monthly cheque.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who wants to call you his girlfriend more than anything. His girl. He loves the way it sounds.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who tags along when you go grocery shopping and whips out his card to pay for it all when your back is turned.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who sends you a huge bouquet every week because you once mentioned liking lillies.

And the closer you get, the more time you spend kissing him and curling up in his bed, the more he spends on you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who uses spring break to take you on a tour of the Mediterranean. Who rents out entire villas and chateaus to impress you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who has your birthday dress custom made by an actual high fashion house. Who zips you up and kisses your neck and says he's never met a more beautiful girl.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who spends shareholder meetings daydreaming about you. Who has to pinch himself to stay focused.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who's helpless to stop himself falling for you. You're so real, so empty of pretence and greed.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who showers you with all the wealth he has and is blind to how uncomfortable it makes you.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks at you with a vacant smile when you try and break things off. Who pulls out his phone and sends you a deposit with so many zeros you have to rub your eyes to make sure you're seeing it right. Who asks if that's enough for more of your time or if he should double it.

Do you want a new car? An apartment? He'll give you anything, anything in the world.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who looks like a kicked dog when you say you don't want any of it. You hate feeling indebted to him. You hate feeling like some vapid trophy wife. You hate living off his charity.

He can't understand it. You could work for decades and not afford even a quarter of what he can give you. Is he so unpleasant, so unlovable, that you're wiling to turn your back of a life of luxury?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who comes up behind you and slams the door shut when you try to leave.

You've always seen him as a nice guy, someone awkward and gentle. But the look in his eyes now makes you question all of it.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy whose voice is a low, broken rasp. He sounds on the verge of tears and on the verge of fury all at once.

You think you can just leave after everything you've been through together? After the fortune he spent trying to make you happy?

No way baby.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who grabs your wrist and yanks you up against him.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who laughs when you threaten to scream. Luxury penthouse, remember? Totally sound proofed. Totally private. No one gets in or out without his permission.

It's just you and him, like it should have been from the beginning.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who squeezes your wrist hard enough to hurt. Who kisses you so rough you cut your lips on your teeth.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy who yanks at the pretty dress that he bought you. You want to be an ungrateful bitch? You want to throw his kindness back in his face? Oh, he's going to teach you a lesson.

You fucking owe him.

And he's going to use your body until that debt is paid.

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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⤷ YANDERE NERD .ᐟ dakota b.

ʚ⁺˖↬ INFO. male yandere x gn!reader, 3.0k word nsfw/18+ oneshot. READ PART ONE HERE.

ʚ⁺˖↬ CONTENTS. sub!male yandere, reader has no mentioned genitals, general yandere/obsessive behavior, panty/underwear sniffing, getting caught, reader is a mild sadist, degradation, (male) whimpering, handjob, edging/denial

ʚ⁺˖↬ NOTES. it's a good thing that writing pathetic men comes so easily to me because i was freaking myself tf out over this one <3

my patreon saw this one week early! if you want to view my early access content and receive patreon exclusive works, join my patreon!

dakota stands on the other side of the door to your dorm room, and he feels like he’s going to throw up.

your name is printed right there on the door, on a little name plate. he can’t find the bravery to knock, not yet, not when his stomach is so full of butterflies; he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to get the trembling in his fingers under control before he works himself up to knock on the door.

he’s been anxious before; he’s never been the most social, the most confident, the most outgoing. he was always more of the wallflower, the one who didn’t speak until someone spoke to him. but this was different— it felt almost like his entire life had, somehow, led up this very moment, where he was standing outside your door and waiting for you. always, for you.

he swallows thickly, taking a deep breath. just don’t act like a fucking freak, he tells himself, just be normal, do whatever they need for the project. you can do that. you can do that much for them, at least. don’t mention any of the other shit.

the other shit, of course, being that he’s thought about you nonstop since they day he met you in class. how your fingers felt when they brushed up against his, how the sound of your voice rolled over his skin like warm oil, how the taste of your name felt rolling off his tongue.

finally, he raises his hand— the last thing he needs is to make himself late to your study date because he’s too busy standing out in the hallway reminiscing, getting hard all over again just from the mere thought of you. his knuckles rap against the wood of your door, and he hears shuffling around inside, before footsteps come closer— and the door opens.

all the pep talks, all the lead up, and his breath is taken away almost the second it swings open, and you stand in front of him. fuck. he forced himself to smile, hoping it didn’t come out awkward or forced.

“kota!” you greeted, and his heart leapt into his throat at the shortened nickname. did you think you guys were that close already? close enough to call him by a nickname? “just on time, come on in— my dormmate’s gonna be gone for most of the night, so go ahead and make yourself at home,” you say, stepping out of the way of the doorway and ushering him inside. your eyes are on him, and it’s almost like he can feel it the same as if you were to reach out and touch him. he feels a zing up his spine, and he has to force himself to ignore it.

“thanks,” dakota breathes in, the smell of you mingling with the cool air; there’s some notes of something off, a shampoo or a body spray that he doesn’t recognize, and he thinks that must be your roommate. there’s a weird, sharp feeling in his gut, almost… annoyed that he can’t breathe in the raw, unfiltered smell if you without something else getting in the way. he enters, stepping past you, shoes tapping softly against the linoleum floor. his fingers clench around the strap of his bag, which is thrown over his shoulder, subtly wiping away the sweat that seems to have mysteriously formed on his palms.

he turns to look back at you as you close the door behind him, locking it out of habit. you face him, hand falling away from the doorknob, and smile at him again.

“brought all the stuff we need,” dakota says, a bit abruptly, forcing himself to not fall into the spiral of staring at your perfect face and getting lost in the way you smile. he shrugs his shoulder, a small gesture to the school bag hanging off it, heavy with classic literature textbooks. “for whenever you want to get started.”

“oh, cool,” you say, brushing past him casually as you head further into the room, to where one of the dorm desks is pushed against the foot of a bed— it must be your bed, he thinks, his eyes tracing the shape of it, memorizing the way the blankets on top are folded and arranged, counting how many pillows you have. he’s not sure what he would have pictured, but this feels right. it feels like you. his eyes snap back to you in the middle of your next sentence, reprimanding himself for missing even a word of it. “…about project distribution?”

he scrambles for a second, before deciding to play it safe, nodding his head. “uh, yeah— sure.”

“great,” you say, and he breathes an inward sigh of relief that you didn’t seem to notice his lapse in attention. you shift the desk chair a bit to the side, and move across the room to your roommate’s side to grab their desk chair as well. dakota swallows, standing still in the middle of the room; the desk is big enough for you both to comfortably work at, but the idea of sitting so close to you…

you turn back to him, and your smile once again catches him off guard.

“c’mon, come sit down, make yourself comfortable,” you offer, sensing the awkwardness that runs through him on some level and trying to make it a little easier for him. he watches you pull out your chair and settle down into it before pushing out his chair as well. your gaze pulls him in, gets his feet moving finally, and he shuffles across the floor towards your desk, and lowers himself down into the seat next to you.

it’s almost disarming how easy it is to fall into a rhythm with you.

calm, lofi music plays from your phone, sitting on the raised back of the desk in between the two of you. you work in a comfortable silence— dakota, however, is occasionally thrust back into the reality of the situation everytime your elbow brushes against his, or you shift in just the right way and the smell of your shampoo wafts towards him. he’s pretty sure the only saving grace in his life right now is the fact that you haven’t been talking, which has given him less chances to absolutely embarrass himself, and even less chances to get turned on by just the sound of your voice.

dakota startled slightly as you groaned, setting your pencil down and leaning back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head.

“i’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you announce, putting you hands on the desk and pushing back, your chair skidding on the floor before you stand up. “’s just down the hall, so i’ll be right back. oh– there's a vending machine on the way, want me to grab something?”

dakota quickly lifts his head. “no– no, don’t worry about it, i’m okay,” he says, like he can't imagine asking you to do anything for him.

you shrug your shoulders. “m’kay. be right back,” you say again, pulling your shoes back on before you make your way out of the dorm room. dakota swears he can feel the temperature of the room drop when you disappear.

the door closes behind you, and he hears your receding footsteps down the hallway. he was suddenly overcome with the urge to get up, to look around, to touch and see and search– it itched under his skin, a restless energy that was all consuming.

maybe just… a quick look around. you wouldn't know if he looked at a few things, right? he could be fast– he could be discreet. he wouldn't even steal anything this time–

and then, as he begins to look around for a starting point, he spots the hamper of dirty clothes on your side of the room, butted up against the closed wardrobe in the corner behind your desk. simultaneously, he feels a sinking in his stomach– because he already knows he’s not going to be able to pass this up– and a wave of warmth rolling over his skin.

he swallowed thickly, suddenly aware of the heat in the room and his body, the sweat he could feel breaking out at the back of his neck and his palms. with a quick glance back to the closed door, dakota stood up, his feet carrying him the short distance that it took to get from the desk to the wardrobe.

the hamper was full; you must not have done laundry for a little while. he stood hesitantly in front of it, his eyes tracing over the crumpled fabric inside, nearly spilling out over the top. he could recall the days you wore some of those clothes– that t-shirt, those pants.

and then– peeking out near the top of the pile, under a pair of jeans all crumpled up and turned inside out… he spies a swath of fabric that is definitely underwear.

he can’t stop himself.

with shaky fingers, he reaches out and tugs it free. he holds it in his hands for a second, fingers running across the waistband and the seams. his head fills with some of the most vulgar thoughts he thinks he’s ever had, and he can’t help it, not when your underwear is right there in his hands. there isn't an alternative: he lifts the fabric, and presses to his face, covering his nose and his mouth. his glasses are bumped up to the top of his nose, pressing into his skin, and his shoulders rise and fall as he takes in a deep inhale. his senses are flooded with the muted smell of you, raw and musky.

the groan that he lets out as he exhales is involuntarily, spilling out of him as blood rushes from his head and straight to his cock. he holds the fabric over his face with one hand, his eyes fluttering closed, and his other hand snakes down to palm at the bulge at the front of his jeans that is suddenly almost painful. he feels dizzy, head rush over taking him as he breathes in another deep breath.

his legs feel weak as he palms at himself, just barely managing to control himself enough to keep his hand from pushing past the waistband of his jeans.

he needs to stop– needs to drop this and get back in the chair and try desperately to hide his raging hard on. he pulls the fabric away from his face, reluctantly, his head swimming. he pauses just once more, pulling his other hand away from his jeans to run his fingers over the underwear, wondering what it would feel like wrapped around his cock, considering breaking his earlier rule and shoving them in his pocket–

“oh my god– what the fuck are you doing?”

kota felt his blood run cold, and his head snapped to the door– only for his gaze to land on you, standing there in the doorway, watching him. he felt his world crash down around him, blood pumping through his veins as he scrambled to do anything but stand there and look like and absolute fucking creepy.

“i-i…” he stuttered, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth, his throat feeling too tight to breathe, lungs constricting. a cold sweat broke out over his skin, and he finally forced himself to drop the underwear back into your hamper as if they had burned him. “it’s not what it looks like, i–”

he finally registered the look on your face as you took a slow step into the room, pulling the door shut behind you and locking it. your gaze trailed down, away from his face– and to the tent at the front of his jeans. something flickered in your eyes, a heat that made dakota want to melt into the floor even as your lips curled in disgust. holy shit– were you into this?

“oh, it's not what it looks like? so you weren’t just getting off over my dirty underwear like a complete fucking pervert?”

dakota stands there dumbly, your words shooting through him like a flash of lightning, shame and arousal flooding his senses. you sound disgusted, but he doesn't miss the intrigue in your eyes, and fuck– if he gets any more rock hard he might just pass out from the lack of blood in his brain.

“well?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest, taking a single step closer. “i asked you a question, didn't i? is that not what you were doing?”

dakota opens his mouth, but you quickly add: “and don't you dare lie to me.”

swallowing thickly, dakota feels like his knees might just give out. “i… was,” he admits, shame crawling across his skin like squirming insects, a painful shiver up his spine.

you scoffed, lips curling back as you looked him up and down, shaking your head. “jesus. who knew you were such a creep?” you say, the venom laced into the word ‘creep’ doing nothing but making dakota feel weak in the knees. he could tell the front of his boxers was slick with precum, and any minute now the front of his jeans would be wet with it too.

and then you started to advance on him.

dakota can't move, his feet rooted to the spot like they’re glued to the floor. he only steps back when you get too close, pressing your hand against the center of his chest and forcing him back until his shoulder-blades hit the wardrobe, followed by his spine as he presses himself back all the way.

blood rushes through his ears, his heart pounding so fast it might just give up at any moment– and you press against him, like you’re trying to kill him. dakota sucks in a breath, the aching between his legs unbearable, especially when your hips brush up against it… and then your hand flattens against his stomach, before slowly sinking down.

“you weren’t just looking, were you? no, i bet you were sniffing them like a creep, huh?” you taunt, his face flushing more red than you’ve ever seen.

his heart feels caught in his throat, his body practically vibrating with a nervous energy that he fears might just tear him apart at the seams. he wants to touch you, but he doesn't move– doesn't dare cross that line until you tell him he can, if you ever do. you quirk a brow at him expectantly, your hand stopping on his lower stomach when he doesn't answer, a subtle threat. it kicks him back into gear.

“…yes,” he admits, his voice coming out weak and shaky. but the corners of your lips quirk up into a barely contained grin, which you quickly conceal as your hand starts moving again.

his hips jerk involuntarily as your palm presses against the outline of his cock, and he swears he can see his entire life flash before his eyes.

“wow,” you comment, “you’re really worked up. all this just from creepin’ around in my laundry?” your palm slides over the denim, stroking him subtly through his clothes, and dakota swears he might just melt into a puddle on the floor.

“jesus–” he gasps through clenched teeth, and he can feel the front of his jeans beginning to get damp, your hand applying pressure and forcing the mess of precum staining his clothes to soak through.

you keep him pressed back against the wardrobe, your hand rubbing against him. “you really are pathetic, aren’t you? bet i could make you cum in your pants and barely even have to lift a finger to do it.”

the sound that tumbles out of his lips is half broken, too close to a whimper for him to feel anything but ashamed. but the look in your eyes is nearly triumphant— sadistic and still part disgusted, so reeled in by his pathetic display that you just can’t quite stop.

your fingers work to unbutton his jeans, reaching inside before his brain can even catch up with whats happening. his head is absolutely spinning— how did he get here? how did this happen? did he die, and this is his version of a fucked up heaven?

but then your hand is yanking down his jeans and his boxers, and your skin touches his, and fuck. he can’t think about anything anymore, not when your fingers wrap around his aching cock, becoming slick with the precum that’s smeared all over his length. just a single touch from you, and he’s practically coming undone; you have him so worked up, just by existing. nothing else has ever felt this good… nothing else will ever feel this good, and he knows it. his hips jerk as you tighten your grip, stroking up and down.

“you should see the look on your face,” you tease, your tone mocking and cruel and sinking down into the burning depths of his gut, adding gasoline to the fire.

“f-fuck— please, i’m—” dakota pants, the muscles in his abdomen tightening, a tingling sensation taking root in his limbs. his fingers reach for you, and his hands plant themselves on your hips, desperate to ground himself— to feel anything, to feel you. you let him, let his long fingers curl around your sides, dull nails digging into the fat of your hips.

“aw, what– you’re gonna cum already? you’re gonna make a mess in your pants from just my hand? i’ve barely even touched you.” you taunt, tilting your head at him, and dakota struggles to hold onto your words. a strangled cry gets caught in his throat, coming out as a choked moan as he clenches his teeth together, hips bucking against your hand, fucking into the circle of your fingers.

he’s right on the edge, burning hot and ready to tumble over, ready to feel ecstasy at your hand—

but then your hand is gone, pulled away just before he can crest that final hill, leaving him bucking into the air and crying out, his hands shaking as they rest on your hips.

“too bad,” you hum nonchalantly. “we have things to do, and you’ve been naughty. maybe i’ll think about letting you finish after we get our work done, hmm?” you taunt, before you hold up your slick hand in front of his face, your fingers sticky with his precum. he pants, his breaths fanning against your fingers, cooling your skin. “now lick it up so we can get back to work.”

intellectual property of ©️darling--core. do not copy, repost or translate my works without my explicit consent. do not use my works to train ai.

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 Virgin Yandere x Reader

⟡ AN: virgin yandere drabble bc I got horny again :/ ⟡ CW: 18+ ONLY, NON-CON kidnapping, sex toys, bondage, pathetic men,

Yandere's who beg for you to take their virginity.

He's whimpering as he crawls on top of you, tearily nuzzling into the valley of your boobs as he humps your bare thigh.

His penis is hot against your skin. Flushed and heavy, dribbling precum down your leg as he tries to get some semblance of relief. His balls are big and full, dusted a soft red color like they're aching for release. You wonder how long he's been denying himself, it looks kind of painful...

"Please" he whines around your tit, sucking on your nipple like a pacifier. "I've been waiting so long baby. I can't lose it to anyone else. Only you~"

You genuinely don't know how to respond to him. You didn't even know this man existed until a few hours ago, now you're naked, tied up and ballgaged in his basement with a rabbit vibe shoved deep in your pussy.

"Y'just gotta nod baby. Just one little nod and we could both feel so good." he moans, nibbling at your collarbone, "Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything for you..."

You shudder as he grinds his dick against your mound, smiling up at you languidly, "I promise I'll try to be gentle..."

You shake your head no fervently, trying to shuffle away from his greedy hands as they snake down to your dripping cunt. His face falls, he looks almost hurt.

"Hmph. Whatever..." he huffs indignantly, standing up.

You feel like you can breathe again for a moment without his weight on your chest, but your breath is quickly taken again when the vibrator in your cunt starts pulsing.

He smirks down at you, flicking through the different settings on the remote nonchalantly, watching with a giddy smile as you squeal and buck.

"You sound so cute when you feel good baby~" he coos, kissing your forehead, "I'm gonna go upstairs and run a few errands, 'Kay? When I get back we can try again."

You're left sobbing in a puddle of your own juices.

characters: hinata shouyo, bokuto koutaro, tooru oikawa, miya atsumu, jean kirstein, armin arlert, gojo satoru, mahito, shigaraki tomura, izuku midoriya, kirishima eijiro,

✤ PART 2 ✤

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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i saw this thing where you make responses to darling saying “it hurts” but it gets meaner and meaner and i immediately thought of you and yanderenightmare bc y’all wld eat it up 🦋🦋

WHEN IT HURTS

WARNINGS: DUBCON, PROFANITY, ASPHYXIATION

DABI, KEIGO TAKAMI, KATSUKI BAKUGOU

“Ouch!” You squeal, pushing back against the deep set v-line curving his waist. His hips arch, bending forward closer and closer despite your protests. “Wait, wait! Stop, it hurts!”

He does as he’s told, halting with a dramatic pout. “Sorry.” A thumb prods your clit roughly, sliding upwards to pull the sticky hood back. “Want me to go slower?”

“Mhm..” Your knees slacken, dropping back down against your chest after the initial panic of being speared on his fat dick subsides.

Except, he doesn’t go slower. He continues feeding the length through the tight tunnel of your pussy. Sensing the oncoming fear that pulses through your body, he clasps two palms over the back hinges of your knees, folding you down flatter until your toes brisk the cartilage of your ears.

“Ah — Ow!” This time, your yelp comes out staggered. Whimpering while your legs kick and jerk in the air. You bring your hands down through the space of your thighs, pressing back against the hard plane of his stomach, clenching as he refuses to budge. “Babe, stop!”

His teeth grit, poised behind his lips in annoyance before he pulls back again, huffing with a creased nose. “What?”

Blinking up at him with flickering timid eyes, you warble. “..Hurts.”

You don’t catch his hushed grumbles, cursing under his breath as he begins to rub your swollen pearl a little more harshly, spiteful as he tries to press more slick out of your already puffy cunt.

“Not so rough..”

He begins to get pissed off with your incessant nagging. Flicking his wrist abruptly, he almost raises his hand to spank the pussy juice out of you. “..Babydoll” He purrs, thumb twitching as he stops himself from digging the blunt edge of his nails into your clit. “We can’t make love if you don’t let me inside.”

“I know! It’s just..” You shuffle back on your bum, but he only pulls you closer, squeezing your waist in his palm.

“Just what?”

He eyes the way you squirm, lips raising in a silent snarl as you fold your arms over your chest, all sweet and innocent as you cry from just the tip.

He’ll fuckin’ give you a reason to cry.

Your pleas fall on deaf ears as he shovels the rest of his cock inside, grunting once the pudge of his ballsack finally presses against the crease of your ass. He leans over you, using his combined weight and mass to keep your legs open while he drills you against the mattress, making you sound like a squeaky dog toy with every thrust.

“Shut the fuck up.” He claps a hand over your mouth, pinching your nose shut as-well in the hopes that you’ll pass out. God forbid he has to listen to you whining ‘till he nuts.

“We’re fucking now.”

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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something i have been thinking about today is a yandere and their reaction to their darling’s medications. of course, there are yans who would never dream of getting in the way of this; who are insistent on your med routine, who will jump through hoops to get them and loom over you whilst you take them and double check how you’re feeling every day as if this isn’t something you’ve been able to do for yourself for years. the suffocaters and the coddlers and the soggily obsessed ones.

and there are yans who think they know better. perhaps they’re in medicine by trade; perhaps they’re germophobes or control freaks. they put you on their own regiment of pills and vitamins. they hold your mouth open with latex-gloves hands and force you to swallow, pinch at your tongue to check you’re not hiding them. perhaps they have experimental medical treatment they’ll try themselves for your ailments—

then there are yans who will withdraw medicine as punishment. who see your painkillers and pocket them because if you hurt too much to move, you hurt too much to fight back or try to escape. they might be kind about it - might put your head on their lap and coo apologies and tell you if you’d just been good . . . or they might be stern and unforgiving about it; might tell you it’s all your own fault, and you have to earn the privilege. these yans watch you spiral and beg and work out withdrawal pains or other side effects of going cold turkey and they bite back the smile knowing that you will be well-behaved from now on.

and then . . . finally, there are the ones who simply watch. perhaps they’re interested in the you without your meds; perhaps they’re obsessed and curious, watching you and probing you with questions, tilting their head innocently to one side because it’s just a couple of silly little pills, right? oh, do tell them more about the hallucinations you’re having from sleep deprivation without your sleeping tablets! they just think you’re so cute when you’re babbling and incoherent. it’s just so much fun to watch you break down and beg. maybe they let you have your meds when their curiousity is sated.

maybe they don’t.

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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New Year

Pairing: Yandere Mahito x GN!Reader

Notes: i wrote this while high and didn't edit it so sorry if it's funky

WC: 792

Notes: Yandere, implied kidnapping, implied death (not of reader), nonconsensual kissing, Mahito being a menace.

“Look what I got you!”

The words that left Mahito’s mouth instantly have you on guard. You warily turn towards your captor, narrowing your eyes at the generic bag that he excitedly shakes in your direction. Anything Mahito gave you was never what it seemed - there were no gifts without strings, nor was anything given to you without purpose. Whether it was to terrify or to sicken or to make you beg for him to stop, there was always a reason.

Mahito ignores your expressions and bounds over to you, dumping the bag out all over the couch cushion next to you. It takes you a moment to register what you’re seeing, your eyes darting between Mahito and the pile on the couch.

Next to you sits a pile of various items, the one thing they had in common being their reason for existence: the celebration of 2024. The new year…? It couldn’t be. It’d… there was no way it had been that long. Mahito kept the time and date from you, but you swore you’d been somewhat accurate in counting the days that had passed. You want to ask him if this is some kind of joke, but no words make it past your scratchy throat.

You look up at him, mouth parted - and the unnaturally large smile that seems to span his entire face answers the words that refuse to pass your lips. Mahito’s hand comes to your face and for one millisecond you think it’s all over before he simply squishes your cheeks together with his fingers.

“Are you so happy you can’t speak?” Mahito presses his fingers into your cheeks upward to push your lips into a crude smile, only stopping when he presses so hard that you whimper. “There you go. If you can’t speak, you can at least give me a smile after I went to the trouble of getting you this stuff.”

Mahito grabs one of the accessories from the pile - a party hat with a generic New Year quote - and places it on your head, adjusting it so that the band under your chin is just so. He grabs a noise maker for himself and startles you by leaning forward to blow it in your face, leaning back to cackle when you jolt away.

“You know, this is one of those human holidays I don’t really get.” Mahito waves the noise maker as he speaks, specks of glitter falling to the floor. “All the humans I took this stuff from seemed to be having fun. Especially the couples.”

The humans…? Your blood turns ice-cold in an instant. While Mahito rambles, you force yourself to look back at the pile. You hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a faint, metallic smell in the air. It was different than the sickeningly sweet stink of rot that clung to Mahito.

It smelled fresh.

If you looked hard enough in the pile, there’s no doubt that you’d find several things spattered with blood.

Mahito startles you out of your shock when his hands are suddenly on your shoulder, the icy cold chill of his skin biting even through your clothing. “Hey. Are you listening?”

You nod, still unable to speak, but Mahito doesn’t retreat from your space. He presses in forward until his lips nearly rest against yours, and you struggle not to recoil at the scent of iron that clings to his mouth.

“We were supposed to kiss at midnight, but since you don’t know what time it is, now is as good as ever.”

Mahito places his lips against yours, surprisingly chaste, and pulls away. “I forgot to tell you. You’re the only person I’ve kept long enough to see a new year go by with.” He gives you no time to react before he leans in again to capture your lips in a domineering kiss, ignoring your groan of discomfort when he wrenches your mouth open with his inhuman tongue and licks the inside of it. He stops again, pulling back in full this time.

Mahito places his hand on your shoulder like you’d seen him do before to the many humans he’d mutilated and forced you to watch. Paralyzed by fear, feeling ridiculous with the hat on your head that had most definitely belonged to a now-dead person, you finally manage to squeak out a plea for mercy. “Mahito, please don’t hurt me!”

“Calm down, cutie. I just wanted to wish you a proper new year for our first time together.”

Mahito lifts the noise maker he’d shoved in his pocket to his lips and blows it hard, giggling like a child when he pulls it away from his mouth.

“Happy New Year! And if you’re lucky, you’ll be here next year too~”

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

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... "Re-connection Session" ...

A/B/O Platonic Yandere! Dick Grayson & Jason Todd x f! Reader

You never should have let Damian sleep in your lap, especially after rejecting Dick and Jason's request for attention. Now you have their jealousy to resolve. ... Dick and Jason are alphas and you are an omega. People can purr in this AU. ... TW: Blurred lines between family and intimacy, post-kidnap, non-consensual touching, forced proximity, being forced to undress, non-sexual nudity, traditional secondary gender roles

You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror in silent dread.

Dick's old shirt hung low on your frame, the neckline falling past your collarbones and the hem dropping to your fingertips. The sleeves, thankfully, covered you to your elbows, but the desired effect was the same: easy access to your body.

This, accompanied by your underwear and Jason's basketball shorts were all you were allowed to wear.

Fear sat in your stomach line a rock. You were sure you were releasing enough panic pheromones to alert the whole house, but there was no frantic knocking to save you. Just you, your pounding heart, and the two men on the other side of the door.

Wiping your sweaty hands down your pants, you gave yourself one last look before leaving the bathroom. Dick's bedroom spread out before you, filled with old memorabilia and a large, plush bed in the center.

Dick and Jason were leaning against the wall in wait, arms crossed and heads tilted back. Dick grinned when he saw you.

"Alright, good," he said, slinging an arm over your shoulder. "It's a little late for an afternoon nap, so movie time?"

Dick's scent clung to you like a cologne, sweet and tangy. An alpha's smell was already stronger to omegas, but being wrapped in his shirt and pressed into his side was almost overwhelming. Jason, whose scent was more earthy and metallic, was a small reprieve.

Jason looked you up and down, appraising your posture and expression. You knew it was useless to try to hide your feelings, but you couldn't fight the urge to look away. You crossed your arms to cover yourself.

He reached over and ran a hand over your temple, brushing back stray curls. Jason, while never the most emotive on a day-to-day basis, had a cloudy expression today. His gaze bore into you, drinking up every micro-expression you tried to hide and cataloguing each one.

"No trash TV," Jason finally said. He dropped his hand and fell into stride with you and Dick, who was guiding you to his bed.

Dick dipped his head down so his cheek brushed your forehead. "What do you want to watch?"

"Anything is fine."

"Nope, that's not allowed," Dick lightly scolded. "This weekend's all about getting familiar. You need to learn how to go along with the family."

Your mind blanked as you scrambled to remember any move you've ever seen before. Embarrassment pricked your cheeks. "Maybe Pixar..."

Dick stopped you at the edge of the bed. He ruffled the back of Jason's hair before slapping his back, earning his hand a hard swat.

"You first, little wing."

Jason rolled his eyes and climbed on the bed, flopping into place on the silk covers. Dick ushered you on next with gentle hands, not giving you an inch of space as he followed suit.

You were settled into Jason's side, your front pressing into the long expanse of his body. Jason shifted and pulled off his shirt with one hand, tossing it off the bed before leaning back into you.

Your insides lurched at his naked chest, and you were boneless when he guided your head to rest on his shoulder. Jason's body was warm and sturdy. He eclipsed you in ways that made your heart flutter.

You tighten your arms around your chest to keep these stray feelings at bay.

Dick settled behind you with a happy sigh, shirtless as well. He weaseled your arm out of your hold and settled it over Jason's chest to maximize contact, then rested his hand on your waist.

His breath fanned the back of your head when he whispered, "I'm going to lift your shirt up now."

You held back a whimper when his hand slid beneath your shirt, trailing up your stomach to settle between your ribs. His palm spread flat, fingers reaching the better half of your stomach. He was dangerously close to brushing your breasts, but remained careful not to stray too far up.

Jason's hand trailed in next, gliding over your hip and up your spine, where it settled between your shoulder blades. His thumb brushed up and down in slow, even strokes.

They were everywhere. Their arms lay flushed against your body, touching as much skin as they possibly could, while their stomachs pressed into yours where your shirt had slid up. Their nudged your legs until you were tangled in theirs.

As hard as you tried to fight it, it was instinctual for pack members to seek physical contact. Touch was one of the most primal and easiest ways to show affection and community, so you knew that your days of solitude were numbered.

But this...

Tingles spread through your whole body, exacerbated by how touch-starved you were. The feeling of oneness, of unbridled intimacy with your family, sank deep into your heart.

Resist, resist, resist. You're stronger than these urges.

Your breathing accelerated. You knew what to expect going into this, but nothing could have prepared you for how emotionally penetrating it was. It was as if your very nature and mind were at war.

A steady purr rumbled in their chests as they basked in your company, soaking in as much of your warmth as they could. Jason's nose brushed your forehead, placing feather light kisses where he could reach. Dick was crooning.

Cold sweat prickled your skin.

Your hand tightened around Jason's back as claustrophobia set in. The purring turned to a low rumble and the pheromones in the air turned sour.

"Hey," Jason said softly. "You have to settle down."

You swallowed thickly to abate your fear. "You guys got defensive."

Dick nudged his nose on your neck, right above your scent glands. "Because you started smelling scared."

Oh.

You inhale shakily to calm your nerves. Jason hummed in your ear, a low, pleased sound.

"Good girl," he said. "Keep doing that. We have you."

You sucked in a sharp breath in defiance. Jason humphed. Dick laughed against your skin and squeezed your stomach playfully, grinning as he said, "You're as bad as Damian."

They nestled you tighter between them, purrs rumbling anew. Amidst the panic in your chest stirred another feeling. Maybe it's because you're getting drunk on an alpha's attention, but you felt a childish need to complain.

"How long will this take?" You asked, shifting uncomfortably between their sandwiched bodies.

Jason's face tightened around his eyes. "As long as it takes."

"For what?" you asked, frustration bubbling up your throat. "I've more than made up for turning you down yesterday."

"You need to want our touch," Dick said. He hesitated, mulling over if he should continue, then went on. "I think that if you let your guard down for a second and trusted your instincts, you would understand how much you need this."

"My guard is down. I'm completely defenseless," you hissed.

"Not what he was talking about. And that's what I'm not understanding, either," Jason said, frowning. "You're confused. You're completely out of touch with yourself."

The silence was heavy. They were waiting for you to speak, but you didn't trust anything that would come out of your mouth. You let the silence stretch on.

Jason's grimace deepened. "Are you having trouble being an omega because you were never taught how to be one?"

You scoffed, scandalized. Your frustration sparked into flames. "Because I don't know my place in an alpha's narrative?"

"No," Jason said defensively. "Because you don't know how to purr."

You couldn't respond.

You hadn't purred in years because there was no reason to. You weren't young, haven't dated in ages, didn't have any kids, and you definitely weren't about to purr for the Bats.

"I haven't heard you croon either. Or even ask to be held," Dick mumbled in thought.

Heat crept up your neck. They were wading in embarrassing waters now. You weren't a loser, just a little lonely—that's the only reason you stopped doing omegean things. And being their captive was a good enough reason to withhold everything.

These thoughts were enough when you were alone, but the shame creeping up your chest was startling.

Jason's hand drifted to your face, fingers sliding gently over your cheek. He used a knuckle to brush the tears from your eyelashes.

"It's okay to face these scary feelings," Jason whispered, face mere inches away. He looked at you with sad, loving eyes, while his scent was a whirlwind of conflicting emotion. Hope. Pity. Anger. Love.

Dick kissed the shell of your ear, thumb gliding over your skin where his hand rested. A soft rumble drifted from his chest. He said, "You're safe with us. It'll come naturally if you just let it."

The crux was that you didn't want to try. You wanted to withhold every valuable part of yourself from them and to make them pay for ruining your life.

But at the same time, you yearned to have a family. There was a vital part in your heart that was missing, one that could only be filled by belonging and love. You didn't want to ignore your secondary gender but you didn't want to share it with them, either.

Don't whimper. Don't smell like you want help.

You clamped your jaw shut and squeezed your eyes closed. Their pheromones filled the air with comfort, home, want, and it took every ounce of willpower to ignore the alphas' scents.

Jason kissed your eyelid, cupping your head in his palm. His purring and crooning joined Dick's, and it nearly drowned out your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

---

You passed the night in a daze. They nudged you to try to croon or purr, washing you with their scents and physical contact, but their efforts didn't yield results. Outwardly, that is.

Inside, you were swimming with panic and haziness.

Skin-to-skin touching was starting to take a toll on you. In a stronger headspace, you could ignore the pleasant allure of touching them, but your boundaries and primal needs were beginning to blur.

They felt good. They felt safe. You wanted to cling to Jason's chest and sob in relief at finally being wanted. You wanted Dick to keep cooing and petting you like you were the most cherished thing in his life. Each kiss stoked a fire you were desperately trying to put out.

At the same time, your defiance was making them restless. Dick and Jason had begun to smell more potent and move more assertively. Omegas weren't meant to resist their alpha pack members, especially in a domestic setting.

Despite a tiring night of caressing and pleading, you didn't loosen your tight control on your emotions. Dick and Jason were still completely cut off from you, and you could tell they were thinking of ways to get you to fold.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, accompanied by the muffled voices of Sunday morning cartoons. All of you were on Dick's bed and eating in silence.

The soup in your lap was one of Alfred's "sick soups." It was hardy and chock-full of vegetables and pork, and made especially to ease the tension in the room.

Their heavy gazes kept your head bowed as you tried to eat what little food you could.

Dick's bowl clinked as he set it on the floor.

"Submission isn't shameful," he said suddenly. "Is that what this is? You think it makes you less of a person?"

You look down into your soup, lips tightening. "No, I know it's fine... I would just prefer to keep things how they are."

"Why?" Dick said, scooting closer to you.

"It's my choice."

"No, why?" Frustration cut into Dick's voice. "I'm trying to work with you."

"Is bodily autonomy not a good enough reason?" You bit back. "I don't know, Dick. 'No' should be a good enough answer."

Jason's hand touched your back, making you lurch forward. Soup nearly spilled from your bowl, but Dick caught it in time. Jason sighed angrily while Dick set your food on the bedside table.

"This isn't normal," Jason said hotly. "Omegas shouldn't flinch at their caretakers, especially when they're treated as well as you are."

You gripped the bed sheets, guilt filtering in at the truth in his words. "Sorry," you said meekly.

Jason deflated slightly, then brought his hand back up. It settled on the nape of your neck, his large palm cupping the entire surface. Tingles rippled through your body and ignited goosebumps across your back.

Jason rested his head on yours, absently rubbing the scent pad in his cheek on your hair. He said, "Did something bad happen that made you afraid?"

"No," you said quickly. Aside from being kidnapped by them, that is.

Dick moved in closer. His voice was soft. "Then why?"

"I just..." You brought your knees up to your chest and covered your eyes with a palm. "This domesticity just isn't for me."

"You need to practice," Dick reiterated. "Maybe we can give you a simple command and you follow it? So you'll get used to how it feels?"

You peek between your fingers to glare at him.

"No, really. I read some omegean blogs that said yielding to your alpha's orders feels really good." Dick looked between you and Jason hopefully. "Or we can read some articles by older omegas so you know how to handle your feelings?"

You held back a sharp comment about where he can shove those articles. Instead you said, "Only people with religious agendas write those things."

Jason looked like he agreed, but he didn't take your side.

"We can't do nothing," Jason said, eyes flitting up to Dick.

Dick sucked the inside of his cheek. "And she's unresponsive to positive reinforcement and suggestions."

Fear brewed in your gut. "What are you implying?"

Dick touched your knee, drawing your attention to his face. "You need to purr. Or present submissive pheromones. It'll break the dam so everything comes out easier."

A blush swept up your face and you jerked your knee away from him. "You can't just ask that. No. My answer is no."

Dick's gaze returned to Jason's. Dick frowned, then quirked a brow. "People purr to self-sooth, too."

You tensed. "Dick. Stop."

Jason hesitated, face pinching at the fear in your scent. "What do you suggest?"

"Full body contact and commands. It'll overwhelm her, so she'll self-sooth then default to the natural order."

"Jason." Your voice was high and sharp. "Make him stop. This is wrong."

"Jay," Dick said, looking every bit as sincere as he sounded. "I know you're apprehensive, but she won't come to this conclusion herself. She needs to be guided in a controlled environment."

Jason's face screwed up in worry. "It's traumatic."

"Temporarily. She'll be in our care the whole time," Dick reassured him. "It'll be over the moment she submits."

"Please, Jason, no!" You pushed your face into Jason's chest, clinging to his chest. Tears poured down your face as you shook. "I'm sorry, I'll try harder. Whatever this is, don't do it."

Jason's jaw set, the muscles in his neck flexing. "Then purr."

"What?"

"I'm giving you a way out. You have to trigger your primal state and ask for our care. It's not something you can do manually, so start by purring."

"I..." Your breath caught in your lungs. You were too scared to purr, much less seek their comfort for anything.

You swallowed hard and coughed weakly, trying to activate your secondary vocal cords.

Several moments of silence passed before a small huff of a rumble left your throat. It sounded pathetic to your own ears, probably more-so to theirs, and your throat constricted from embarrassment.

"Forcing me won't make me want to... do that," you said weakly, breath hitching from your tears. "Isn't there another way?"

Dick sighed deeply. "Thanks for trying."

He leaned in and kissed your neck, rubbing his hand in comforting circles on your back. You tilted your head to the side to give him better access, still shaking against Jason's chest. Dick smiled softly and kissed your neck again before drawing back.

"Jason," Dick said, "hold her feet down."

Jason's hands clamped around your legs before you could register Dick's words. Your world tilted and you were on your back before you could shout.

"No! Please!" You thrashed against his hold when Dick descended on you.

Dick put a hand on your chest to keep you down, then pinned you with his knee. Your hands clawed everywhere you could reach, but they paid no mind.

"You're fine. You're wearing underwear, right?" Dick asked. His finger hooked on your waistband, pulling it up to confirm. "Yeah. Look, just focus on breathing."

"No! No!" you shrieked as your pants slipped down your thighs.

Jason kept you from kicking, although it probably wouldn't matter either way. Their bodies were hardened from years of vigilante work and they moved together like a machine.

They unhooked your pants from your ankles and dropped it off the bed. You tried to curl into a ball, but their weight on your body kept you immobile.

You begged again, reaching out to Jason for help. His face was twisted in pain but he made no move to stop it. The comforting scent he pushed out did nothing to quell your panic.

Dick hushed you gently, face pleasant and movements slow, and reached for your shirt.

"I'm not wearing a bra!" you shouted hysterically, trying fruitlessly to push his knee off your chest.

Dick looked down at you patiently. "Then slip your arms in your shirt and cover yourself."

You stared up at him with wide eyes. Was he really, really about to do this? Trigger you so it activates your omegean instincts?

When he grabbed the edge of your shirt, your heart jumped up your throat. You wrangled your arms inside your sleeves and covered your breasts as well as you could.

Dick took his knee off your chest and dragged the shirt up over your body. It slid off with ease, leaving you in only your underwear.

You sobbed loudly.

Jason scooped you into his arms and pulled you up the bed. He settled you on a soft pillow, nuzzling his cheek against yours in silent apology.

You immediately curled into a ball when their hands left you. To your horror you saw them strip off their pants as well, leaving them in only their boxers.

"God, stop," you plead, voice breaking.

"It's okay," Dick whispered as he slid into place in front of you. "We do this all the time. It's important."

Perhaps he was referring to the after-workout cuddle piles, but even those had longer pants and chest coverage for girls.

The heat from their bodies sank into your flesh and disrupted your frantic thinking. Your alphas—no, Dick and Jason, you corrected—held you like you were sacred. It was a feeling of your deepest daydreams come true, to have a pack that was so open about their care for you.

If only they hadn't kidnapped you.

The compulsion to accept their love dug deep in your mind, and you found it harder and harder to remember the reasons why you shouldn't. Your anger began to seem trivial compared to the safety and adoration they promised.

Tears fell down your cheeks again, and you clung to Dick's chest to anchor yourself. He laid several kisses on the crown of your head.

"I'm going to give you some orders, okay?" Dick said. "You'll be compelled to follow them."

"I don't want to," you croaked.

"That time has passed," Jason mumbled, stroking your arm with his thumb.

Dick cleared his throat, and your blood ran cold in anticipation.

"Hold Jason's hand." Dick's alpha voice struck you like a cannon.

The command wound around every corner of your mind. It strangled your freewill in a vice hold, suffocating any lingering thoughts of freedom until all that was left was them.

An alpha's command wasn't absolute, but it was damn near close.

Your insides rattle with a urge to hurry, hurry and complete alpha's orders. Make Brother happy.

Cold sweat spread across your back, making you feel sickly and sticky. Your eyesight narrowed to Dick's chest as you fought off the intrusive thoughts, not noticing anything but your vision blackening around the edges.

Please, no no no no no.

Jason's hand hovered next to yours, making it easy for you to obey.

"I... I c-c..." you stuttered.

Follow, follow, follow, your mind screamed at you. Brother will be disappointed.

You clung to Dick's bicep and screwed your eyes shut. A disapproving growl bubbled in Dick's throat.

"Take it," Dick ordered, grabbing your wrist and holding it above Jason's hand. "It's for your own good, so take it."

Jason bumped his head into yours and pushed you towards Dick's neck. You tried to squirm away, but their bodies kept you immobile, leaving your only option to settle your nose into Dick's neck and breathe.

The smell was intoxicating. It was impossible to fight off—his warm and strong scent flooding your head and making your mind melt.

Without you realizing, a broken whine left your throat. Dick and Jason reacted instantly. They hugged you tighter, shushing you and peppering kisses wherever they could reach.

Their scent changed too. Frustration was pushed out by love, comfort, love, and it smothered your senses. You whimpered, your whole body shuttering from your tears.

Fuck, you wanted your alphas so badly. Your brother's comfort enveloped you and left nothing else to do but welcome it.

Your guilt and doubt multiplied at rapid speed. Maybe you were wrong for rejecting this. Being close and following their orders felt as good as Dick had said, so maybe they were right about other things, too.

"She's defaulting" Jason said, words fast and nervous.

You whined again, broken and airy and filled with all the conflicting misery you felt. Your sense of self slipped between your fingers like water, making room for the person they wanted you to become—who you were commanded to become.

The heat of their bodies made your world spin. Their loving touches make your mind blank.

Dick shushed you and cooed comforting words, and the resilient voice in your head silenced.

Oh god, they felt like your soulmates. This seemed predestined, like you were born to be in their family.

Your exposed bodies pressing together destroyed the illusion of self, giving way to their truest law: you were theirs, body and soul.

"One more time," Dick muttered. His voice deepened to say, "Hold Jason's hand."

You moved without thinking. Your fingers tangled into Jason's, your palm laying flat over his hand.

Relief bloomed in your chest, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted. The compulsion was replaced by deep satisfaction, one you found yourself craving again.

You listened and did good. Brothers are happy. You are loved.

Dick's grin was radiant. Tears sprung in his eyes as emotions overtook him, making his blue irises shine like gems. Quiet sniffles came from behind you, and by the jerkiness in Jason's body, you knew he was crying.

"Good girl," Dick praised, voice watery. "My baby."

Jason's nose pressed into your neck, taking shaky breaths of your scent. It calmed him slightly, yet his voice was still uneven. "She's feeling better. Do another one, Dick."

"Kiss me," Dick ordered.

Your lips pressed against his shoulder, and again on his collarbone. Dick laughed and sniffled, unintelligible croons tumbling from his mouth.

Your mind was a haze, unable to process anything but the two alphas around you. Your brothers were here and you were safe. How had you lived without this love for so long?

It was like an avalanche of pent-up emotions poured into your body. You were relieved to be free, angry at the pain you inflicted on yourself, and so, so happy to belong to Dick and Jason.

"I love you," Jason muttered into your hair.

Dick kissed your face, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb over your skin. "I love you so much."

Your inner omega melted.

Love, love, love. Their scent consumed you.

You felt defined by their love, and felt like you would be nothing outside of it.

---

Dick's head was light from glee. "Did you see her stumble out of bed? She was still riding that high."

Jason didn't respond. He sat at the edge of Dick's bed while the aforementioned brother paced around his room.

Dick was too worked up to wait for a response.

"I bet it'll only take a week or two before she seeks the pack out. The attention's like a drug, you know. " Dick waved a hand. "I forgot the chemical. Whatever. But she definitely can't go back to being detached."

Jason's stomach squeezed at Dick's prideful smile.

"I feel slimy," Jason said, gripping his hands together tightly.

Dick abruptly stopped. "What?"

Jason didn't respond. He stared up at Dick with a grim look.

Several expressions passed Dick's face before he said, "That's all you took away from this?"

"I've written papers about why overpowering omegas is outdated and wrong."

"Yeah? I agreed too until we had a hurting omega in our care," Dick said. "Besides, if you feel like that then why didn't you say anything?"

Jason's jaw muscles tightened. "I said using an alpha's command was shitty, not unnecessary."

"It was beautiful, Jason," Dick hissed, temper flaring. "And she'll be happier because of it."

Dick stormed out, his good mood evaporated. The door slammed behind him, and Jason waited until he couldn't hear Dick's stomping before heaving a long sigh.

Jason hoped you wouldn't be too upset once you accepted their care. He made a vow to keep you safe and happy, and he would fulfill that promise even if you hated him for it.

Still, it hurt.

Jason's eyes drifted back to Dick's bed, to the spot where you had been lying. He crawled over and laid down, pushing his face into the sheets, and inhaled your fading scent.

---

For more yandere batfam, visit my masterlist!

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m1dn1ght-r0t · 5 months ago

Text

Title: Going Live.

Pairing: Yandere!Nanami x Reader (JJK)

Word Count: 7.6k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Camgirl!Reader, Kidnapping, Physical Intimidation, Long-Term Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Delusional Behavior, Slight Exhibitionism, and Panic Attacks + Disassociation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were a lot of things to Nanami Kento – his world, his light, his love – but above all else, you were the reason he looked forward to getting home.

Calling it ‘infatuation’ would’ve been a disservice to the depth of his feelings for you. It’d been love at first sight; instant and wholehearted, a shackle snapped shut around his neck that he had no will or desire to escape. His eyes were on his watch as soon as he crossed the threshold, his coat shrugged off and abandoned along with his tie in the doorway. He didn’t bother turning on lights or taking off his shoes, doing anything to make his empty apartment seem more lived-in, his focus solely dedicated to reaching his home office with as few disruptions as was possible, with Gojo and the higher-ups still attempting to contact him about the curse he’d finished exorcising less than an hour prior. They could wait. You wouldn’t.

He was smiling by the time he collapsed into the leather-cushioned chair, his laptop still on his desk from the night before – the last time he got to see you. The motions were automatic, practiced to the point of reflexivity. One hand glided over the keyboard while the other found his phone, silencing it in the same motion as he tossed it haphazardly onto the desk, out of his view. He checked his watch one more time; 6:59. Good. He was early.

His grin brightened, as did his laptop. Your stream flickered to life a second later and with it, your smiling face. The relief was instant, pure warmth accompanying it. The bittersweet tinge – as subtle as it was prodding – came only a moment later, but Nanami did his best to ignore it.

You were the sole reason Nanami Kento looked forward to getting home. The center of his world, the sole light in his otherwise bleak life. The person he loved more than anything, more than everything.

It was only a shame, then, that you had no idea he existed.

One of his favorite things about you had always been your meticulousness. For tonight’s show, you were splayed out across the foot of a queen-sized bed, surrounded by pastel pink satin sheets and a fleece comforter of the same shade, a matching dormant hitachi vibrator (Nanami’s favorite and, guessing from how often it made an appearance in your shows, yours too) nestled between your thighs. Your outfit was aesthetically pleasing – a set of lacey, baby blue lingerie with white, knee socks – but paired with your set up, casual enough to give the impression that you hadn’t realized the camera you were posing in front of was actually on, as if you weren’t entirely prepared to be seen by a thousand or so strangers just yet. The fact that you didn’t start talking right away, only humming as you idly toyed with your hair, only added to the nonchalance of it all. You would make a good actress, if you ever decided to pursue something more, for lack of a more applicable phrase, legitimate.

Nanami’s attention drifted from you to your chat, slowly starting to fill with impatient viewers. Despite himself, he felt his absentminded smile waver, an irk of irritation momentarily tainting his bliss. He knew you weren’t entirely real, that he didn’t have any right to be possessive over a performer, but he loved you. It would’ve been difficult for anyone to watch someone they loved be exposed to so many prying eyes.

user34333: fuck she’s hot

hotbox420: looking good y/n!!!

lostandconfused: why does she still have her clothes on?

The only silver lining was how oblivious you seemed to it. Another minute passed before you straightened, yawning slightly as you pushed yourself up, legs hanging over the foot of your bed. “Welcome home,” you started, with a quick stretch and a playful wave towards the camera. “Everyone’s already put the kids to bed, right? I’ve got a very special surprise I want to bring out a little later, so nobody’s allowed to leave early.”

Your tone was light, melodic, saccharine. Already, Nanami could feel his cock beginning to harden against his thigh, straining at the material of his pants. You were always mobile during your shows, prone to flitting from one position to another, but tonight, you almost seemed antsy as you pulled your legs back onto the mattress, tucking your knees underneath you and bowing your head, your neutral smile taking on a shy undertone. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” you admitted, speaking quickly enough for the words to blend together. Then, with more composure, “Who wants to get us started?”

Nanami’s hand was already on his keyboard, waiting for your cue. Somehow, he was still too late.

blueeyeswhitedragon sent 150 credits!

blueeyeswhitedragon: Bra first, pretty please.

You giggled as you raised your hands, leaning forward to give the camera a better view of your chest as you undid the clasp at the nape of your neck. Nanami’s breath hitched as the thin fabric fell away, revealing the soft curves of your breasts and your pretty, perfect nipples – already hard, already enough to make saliva pool underneath his tongue. The lower clasp was next, undone with more effort and more bouncing than what seemed absolutely necessary, but Nanami couldn’t complain, not when he was struggling to undo the fly of his dress pants without ever looking away from you. There was another giggle as the article fell away entirely, then a third as you cupped your chest with both hands, groping gently. “I used to be so shy about taking my top off on camera…” You trailed off, batting your eyes. “But, you guys think I’m pretty, right?”

Your requested affirmations flooded the chat in an instant. Nanami grinned, slumping back in his chair. He could compliment any part of you earnestly, but aside from donations, he rarely let himself participate in your chat. Speaking to you so openly, being one of a dozen people whose username you’d glance over in a second – that wasn’t what he wanted. Anonymous adoration wasn’t the shape his affection took.

Eventually, you collapsed back onto your bed. “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” you went on, as Nanami wrapped a fist around the base of his cock. “What next?”

There was another offer – 300 credits for your panties, 400 if you took them off with your back to the camera. You obliged, bent at the waist, inching the silken fabric down your thighs at an almost sadistic pace. After you finished, you seemed ready to move onto the main show, but another donation cropped up in your chat.

user34232 sent 75 credits!

user34232: for the socks pls

That, as far as Nanami could tell, seemed to catch you genuinely off-guard. He could see you blushing as you leaned towards the camera – or, he supposed, the laptop you had positioned underneath it, as if you’d misread something. “…my socks?”

Nanami stifled a grown, tightening his hold. With his free hand, he reached for the keyboard,

n. kento sent 200 credits!

n. kento: Don’t take them off.

You played your part perfectly, sighing as you let your head lull to the side. All it took was you batting your eye lashes while letting out the sweetest murmur of “Well, I don’t know if that’s fair, but…” for your chat to dissolve into a bidding war, donations ranging from five credits to five hundred. If you were making any earnest attempt to keep track of which side was winning, you clearly had no motivation to call it too early on – pulling your legs onto your bed and kicking your feet out playfully towards the camera. “Some of you guys ask for such weird stuff,” you went on, rolling your left ankle. “If someone doesn’t tell me what to do soon, I think I’m just going to have to change into another outfit.”

Nanami let out a breath of a chuckle, only half aware he was typing.

n. kento sent 1,750 credits!

n. kento: You look beautiful. Keep them on.

You laughed, and this time, Nanami chose to believe it was sincere. “I get it! We’ll move on.” You were already leaning back, rolling onto your stomach, giving your viewers a perfect view of your ass as you reached for something off-screen. “Normally I’d ask for a suggestion,” you said, as you brought what you’d retrieved back into frame – a pale pink rabbit vibrator, the penetrative half of the forked wand ribbed. “But I have something I’m kind of looking forward to. I promise, I’ll try to get past the boring stuff quickly.”

You thought too little of yourself. Arousal drooled from Nanami’s flushed tip as you positioned yourself on the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide and slick, glistening pussy fully on display. You were already wet, but he knew you would be. It was something you joked about often – how sensitive you were, how something as minor as a wet dream would have you soaking through your panties. Normally, he would’ve figured you were just playing it up for the sake of your viewers, but it was hard to deny the evidence in front of him.

A whimper slipped past your parted lips as you eased the head of the toy past your entrance, stretching yourself out on its bulbed tip. Now, now, he started to move his hand, pumping his fist over the length of his shaft in short, slow strokes, matching your tempo as you rocked your toy into your pussy. A dull hum fills the room as your thumb finds the switch built into the handle’s underside, and your expression immediately goes from dazed to pained, your tongue peaking out from between your lips and your eyes fluttering shut as your hips bucked against the vibrator. “It—It feels—” Your thighs threaten to twitch shut, but you hold them open, determined to give your audience the best possible view of your pussy clenching around your toy. “I really—I wanna get some bondage gear soon, so that I can—”

Whatever you might’ve said was replaced by a bubbling moan, and just like that, Nanami was fucking his fist without restraint. He knew how pathetic it was, but it would’ve been impossible not to imagine it was his cock sinking into your dripping cunt rather than an inanimate toy, not to wish it was your pussy clamping down around his length rather than his own fist. He wondered what you smelled like, if you wore perfume, what it would be like to have his face buried between your thighs. He was aware, vaguely, that your chat was the most active it’d been all night, people trying to catch your attention with donations and tips and compliments, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t watching you, not really, not the same way Nanami was. He knew you, well enough to know that you couldn’t think once something had been stuffed inside of your cunt. He loved you, enough to wish he was the one making your mind go so euphorically blank.

There was more moaning, more failed attempts to speak, but you didn’t let yourself cum. You were visibly trembling by the time you switched the toy off, and it took agonizing seconds to ease the wand out of your disappointed pussy – seconds Nanami watched with rapt devotion. More out of sympathy than anything else, he lets go of his cock entirely, gritting his teeth and attempting to ignore the pulsing ache forming in the pit of his stomach. What was next was better. What was next was worth waiting for.

You took a few panting breaths, your voice still airy by the time you managed to speak. “I have a—” You paused, grinned. Nanami smiled too. “I have a surprise for all of you, tonight. I think I mentioned that already, but— oh, right.” You perked up, playing excited. “We have to move to the floor, for this next part.”

You slipped off-screen, and a second later, the camera shifted to follow you – falling onto a corner of your room less staged than your bed, but just as pristine. Abstract, pastel tapestries obscured the walls, but the dark floorboards were left bare. On one side, most of a dog kennel was visible, decorated with string lights and clearly meant for one of your more niche shows, and on the other, he could make out the bottom corner of a poster – not for anything kinky, or sensual, or in any way suggestive, but an underground band, a local band. You probably hadn’t realized it was in the shot, let alone meant for it to be. You were usually more careful about giving away anything even remotely personal, but Nanami couldn’t be mad.

After all, it’d been that poster that’d let him find you.

He could still remember the first time he ever saw you – actually saw you, not through a screen, but in person. After he knew that you lived in the same city as him (the same district, even), it’d only taken a few more days to find your name, your age, your address. Still, he put off visiting you for weeks, telling himself that it didn’t matter, that you wouldn’t recognize him, that you wouldn’t want to see him. And, in the end, you hadn’t seen him at all – you hadn’t needed to.

That night, he’d watched your show from the rooftop of the building opposite of yours, straining to see you through a bedroom window left carelessly open. Even now, the guilt was almost tangibly agonizing, the shame practically unbearable.

Almost as unbearable as the temptation to go back.

But, that part would come soon enough. You were on screen, again, holding something he recognized.

“I have some exciting news,” you chirped, as you kneeled on the floor, holding a pitch-black dildo, a suction cup attached to the base. Despite its color, Nanami could make out defined veins running down the silicone shaft, a noticeable girth to the base. A perfect mirror of the cock currently pulsing for attention in his lap.

He felt himself grinning, as you went on. “I got my first real fan gift!” You held up the toy to your cheek, like a child showing off their first stuffed animal, before planting it on the floor between your thighs. “It’s so big, too,” you said, showing off its size, where the blunt tip rested well above your navel. “Everyone say thank you, Daddy Kento!”

Your chat was instantly flooded with predictable responses, but Nanami couldn’t look away from you. You were enjoying yourself, clearly. You must’ve thought you were so smart, renting out a P. O. box, going on and on about how grateful you were to your dedicated fans when he reached out to ask if you accepted physical donations, and you were smart. It was only a shame that Nanami loved you enough to look past all of your attempts to keep him away.

As you began to move onto your knees, he allowed himself one more intervention.

n. kento sent 3,000 credits!

n. kento: Take it to the hilt.

It was cruder than he usually cared to be, but as your eyes flickered towards your monitor, your lips quirked into a slight smile. You didn’t respond verbally, but you nodded, and sunk down onto his cock.

Immediately, his hand wasn’t enough, but he tried to make do – matching your agonizingly slow pace, imagining what it would feel like to have you lower yourself down onto his real cock, rather than a cheap imitation. Trails of iridescent slick dripped down the dark silicone, your camera positioned strategically to catch every bounce of your breasts as your breathing hitched, to provide the optimal view of your pussy stretching around the tip, then the head, then the shaft as you lowered yourself slowly. “It—It’s so big,” you repeated, bringing a hand up to your stomach while the other remained on the floor, keeping you stable. “I mean, I knew it would be, but—fuck—” Another inch, Nanami’s fist moving over the same part of his cock. You let out an airy laugh. “Just be thankful I’m so tough.”

“I am,” Nanami muttered, his voice echoing off the bare walls of his office. “You’re perfect.”

“I really wanna cum on this one, too – to, like, christen it, or something. Been keeping myself pent up all day for it.” With a pitchy keen, you brought yourself a few inches higher, then dropped. Your free hand shot away from your stomach and back to the floor as you continued to bounce on the toy’s length, getting just a little deeper each time. “Welcome it to family, y’know? Maybe make it a regular, for you sadists out there.”

Nanami stiffened at the thought of you fucking yourself on a replica of his cock in front of thousands of people twice a week; drooling and panting as you told your viewers how big he was, how good he felt inside of you. With his restraint brought to its limits, he fucked his fist carelessly, his attention fixed on the steady movements of your hips as you rode his toy. Your eyes didn’t flutter closed, this time – they clenched shut, and you couldn’t seem to keep your voice under control, little mewls and half-conscious whines bubbling up from your chest as you struggled to take that much more of him with every thrust. When you did manage to speak, your voice was uneven, whiney, so sweet it made him want to dig his teeth into something and tear. “I’m so close,” and then, as you brought yourself back down, so close to bottoming out, “I wanna cum!”

“You will,” Nanami whispered. He knew you couldn’t hear him, but it was true – you would, and if he’d been able to, he would’ve made you. He would’ve let you fuck yourself on his cock whenever you asked, would’ve woken you up every morning coming undone on his tongue and made sure you fell asleep with his cock buried inside of you. If you were with him, you’d never have to think again, never have to feel anything but pleasure – any time you wanted it, every time you wanted it. He’d make sure—

You didn’t moan as you reached the toy’s base, you screamed. One of your hands moved to the space between your thighs, two fingers rubbing quick circles into your clit as you nursed yourself through your orgasm. Nanami didn’t stand a chance, still chasing his fantasies as he spilled over his hand; searing hot cum pooling on his lap, soaking into the material of his shirt, spilling onto his desk. He didn’t stop moving his hand, though, not until you went limp – bending at the waist, bracing yourself on the floor. Finally, you managed to raise your head, flashing that brilliant smile towards the camera. Of course, Nanami smiled back.

In a daze, he watched you ease yourself off of the toy and wrap up your stream, so familiar from your script that he would’ve been able to recite it with confidence. Even after you signed off, the screen going black, he didn’t move, only letting his head roll to the side with a shallow sigh.

It was pathetic, just how much he loved you. It was painful, being so far from someone who made him feel so irrationally happy.

He could only count the days until he wouldn’t have to limit himself to only watching from a distance any longer.

There was a man in your apartment.

A man you didn’t want to be in your apartment, just to be clear. You’d heard the front door open, seen a bulky silhouette moving through your living room, and now, you were listening to him riffle through your bedroom as you hid in the en suite bathroom – crouched in the smallest corner you could find with both hands locked over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound of your own breathing. The door was locked, but that didn’t matter. You didn’t want to find out how much a thin sheet of wood would do to protect you. You didn’t want to give him a reason to acknowledge you at all.

As far as you could tell, there was only one intruder. You could only hear one pair of muffled footsteps, with second-long gaps between every little movement. The air caught in your throat as you heard him edge closer, closer, then pause. There was a dull clack, the sound of metal clashing against plastic, and you relaxed, sighing into your palms. Your filming equipment. It was expensive, but nothing you couldn’t replace. If you were lucky, he’d take what he could carry and leave.

And that was what he seemed to be doing, too – more rustling interrupted every so often by a few moments of heart-wrenching silence. Soon enough, you heard the intruder start to move again, his footsteps edging closer to the bathroom door as he moved to leave your bedroom entirely, and—

“(Y/n)?”

Fuck.

You didn’t say anything, holding your breath and digging your nails into your cheeks, willing yourself not to move, not to think. You didn’t make a sound, you couldn’t have, and yet he kept talking.

“I know you’re in there. Please, come out.”

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t know. You’d kept the lights off, and you hadn’t moved in minutes, and—

He tried the knob, and something cracked deep inside of your chest. There was an airy sigh, then a dull thud, like he was leaning against the door frame. “Please,” he repeated, sounding more exasperated than angry. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“Y-you can take whatever you want,” you stuttered, your voice unsteady, just a touch louder than it really had to be. That was fine. You didn’t have to pretend to be brave, so long as you made it out of this alive and uninjured. “I won’t call the police – I can’t call the police, I left my phone in the kitchen. You can take it, too. I… I don’t have a lot of cash, but my camera, it should be worth—”

“I don’t want your camera, love.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded wistful. “Come out, or I’ll break down the door.”

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to you that he could.

It took a second to pry your hands off of your face, and another to push yourself to your feet – your legs shaking as you struggled to stand. Almost mechanically, you moved towards the door; unlocking it in the same motion as you pulled it open. Light from your bedroom spilled into the entryway, revealing—

God.

He was taller than you’d expected him to be.

Six feet at least, with a build to match. The sleeves of his dress-shirt were rolled up to his elbow, showing off arms so muscular, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d planned to tear your door off its hinges with his bare hands. He had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, visibly full, but you could still see your equipment standing untouched behind him, and you couldn’t imagine anything else he would’ve wanted to take. His blonde hair was swept back, out of his eyes, and he was holding a butcher’s knife in his right hand, the blade wrapped in leopard-spotted fabric. Surprisingly, though, his weapon wasn’t what concerned you the most.

He was smiling. No, actually, that wasn’t right.

He was beaming.

“(Y/n),” he said, again. You didn’t let yourself wonder why he knew your name. “I—I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself earlier. I might’ve gotten a little carried away – I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“…it’s okay,” you managed, your voice barely audible. “Are you going to kill me?”

His expression dropped. “No. Of course not.” And then, after a brief lapse, “I’d never hurt you. I…” You saw his right hand flex around the grip of his knife, and thought you might black out. “I’m a fan.”

Instantly, you felt the blood freeze in your veins.

Fuck. Fuck.

You knew you should’ve gone into accounting.

“I… You’re a fan?” You tried to smile, but it might’ve come across more pained than relieved. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to meeting people who’ve caught my stream. Should I know what to call you?”

And just like that, his grin was back, any momentary tension assayed. You wished he would’ve put down the knife, too, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Kento,” he said, and for the first time, you noticed the pink hue creeping over his cheeks. “Nanami Kento.”

You grit your teeth as you struggled to place him. After a second, it came to you.

Kento. Right. The dildo guy.

Somehow, knowledge provided little comfort. Still, you soldiered on. “It’s really nice to meet you, Nanami.” You clasped your hands behind your back, rocking gently on your heels. “I—I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting any guests. If you want to step out for a couple minutes, I can change into something more comfortable, and show you how appreciative I am for your—”

“I’m not an idiot.” He cut you off, still grinning. “You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t let your smile waver, either. “And, if I didn’t want to go with you…?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t about what you want, anymore.”

You meant to say something – opened your mouth and everything – but nothing came out. Your heart tightened in your chest, a not inconsiderable portion of your mind screaming for you to run, run, run. And yet, when he took you by the wrist in a feather-light hold, leading you through your own apartment and out into the hall, it was all you could do to smile and follow after him.

The first thirty minutes of the car ride passed in silence. Nanami – because you couldn’t stand to keep thinking of him as ‘that guy who bought you a dildo shaped like his own dick and paid you thousands of dollars to ride it live on stream’ – kept his knife in his lap, his hand falling away from the wheel and onto its hilt whenever you so much as took a deep breath. Eventually, your eyes fell to the clock built into his dashboard, and you broke through your paralysis with a nervous laugh.

“It’s a little funny,” you started, for lack of anything else to do. “I’d actually normally be getting ready for my stream, around now.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him swallow, his jaw tensing. “I know.”

Great. Okay. Whatever. “I don’t mind, y’know,” you managed, before you could let yourself fully consider what you were going to say. “If it means we don’t have to go through with the whole kidnapping thing, I really wouldn’t mind sleeping with you – you can even take pictures, if you’d like that, or record, whichever you’d prefer.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I haven’t tried a lot of hardcore stuff, but I wouldn’t mind if that’s what you’re into. We don’t even have to go back to my apartment, you could just pull over, and—”

“That’s not what I’m interested in.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone left no room for protest. “I’m not going to… I’m not going to just fuck you once and leave you by the side of the road. I’m doing this for your sake.”

As if you’d willingly climbed into a maniac’s car. “I… I’m not following, Kento.”

“It’s for your own protection. Once I thought to look, it took me hours to find out everything about you.” He spared you a quick glance, that same uncanny smile. One of his hands left the wheel and, rather than moving to his knife, found your knee, squeezing gently. It took everything you had not to scream. “Imagine what someone could do with that kind of information. They could blackmail you, if they found your full name, or track you down if they pieced together your address. It’d be a miracle if they were only a stalker. It just wasn’t safe to let you keep going on that way.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. “They could even break into my apartment and abduct me at knifepoint.”

His gaze narrowed, but his smile only softened. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the journey.

After far too long and not nearly long enough, you reached your destination: a housing complex, leagues nicer (and more expensive) than your own rundown building. Calling them apartments would’ve been a disservice; they were more similar to free-standing condos, or miniature villas slotted just outside of the city’s more metropolitan districts. Without a word, you let him guide you into a relatively generic home, its only notable feature being the absolute lack of evidence of meaningful life within it. You wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a rental, leased exclusively to give him someplace to do… well, whatever he planned to do to you. It’d be more off-putting to know that someone actually lived someplace so vacant.

He led you through the empty halls and up a flight of stairs, keeping you in front of him and in his line of sight at all times. Finally, you reached the door he seemed to be looking for and, with a nod by way of instruction, let yourself inside.

Before you stood, puzzlingly, your own bedroom.

Or – the parts of it you could make out on camera, at least. The bed was the same size, the same model, made with the same sheets and littered with the same pillows, but the floor was covered in a harsh white carpeting, the surrounding walls soundproofed with suffocating black foam. Camera equipment identical to your own had been set-up at the foot of your bed, but an unfamiliar silver laptop replaced your own sticker-covered monstrosity. You didn’t see any chains, whips, or shock collars, which was good. You still didn’t know what the fuck was going on, which was bad.

Confused, you turned to Nanami as he crossed the threshold and rather conservatively, shut and locked the door. “There are clothes on the bed,” he explained, with a tone that made it difficult to tell whether or not he knew how weird this was. “A script, too. Memorize as much as you can.”

So he still expected you to stream. Or, that was what you hoped, at least – considering the only alternative was that he was planning to make an extremely elaborate snuff film. “I’m not used to using scripts.”

“You’ll manage.”

You didn’t bother trying to argue, only moving towards the bed and attempting to forget he was there entirely.

The ‘clothes’ he’d left for you turned out to be lingerie – the nice stuff, too, white and lacey and bridal with a babydoll cut. You glanced over his script (which, disturbingly, didn’t exactly not sound like you) as you got dressed and fixed your hair, doing the best you could without any of your usual supplies. You wouldn’t be able to reapply your make-up, but you’d put some on earlier, and—

You almost laughed at yourself, stifling a chuckle.

You’d been kidnapped, and you were worried about your make-up. If you got out of this alive, you swore, you’d never touch foundation or a ring light or a camera ever again.

He didn’t have to tell you when it was time – you would’ve known by instinct alone. With Namami watching from an armchair pushed against the opposite wall, you clambered onto the bed and took your usual position, kneeling in center frame. He’d never asked for your credentials, and yet, when you glanced towards the laptop positioned just underneath the main camera, you found that your own profile was already pulled up, a miniature timer in the corner of the screen counting down the seconds until you went live.

As it reached thirty seconds ‘till, it occurred to you that you were in a soundproof room alone with the man who’d kidnapped you and was currently holding you hostage, and that no one could’ve possibly known where you were or, more importantly, who you’d been taken by.

As it reached fifteen, you realized you were being held captive and being forced to wear bridal lingerie that your kidnapped must’ve picked out with the occasion in mind.

As it reached five, for the first time that day, you thought you might actually start to cry.

And, as it reached zero, you put on your biggest, brightest smile and hoped beyond hope that you’d stop thinking entirely, eventually.

“Welcome home!” Skipping over your normal grace period only felt right. You didn’t think you’d be able to survive sitting in silent, motionless suspension for another second, let alone a full minute. “Sorry if I seem a little nervous tonight – to tell the truth, I kind of am. I’ve got a major announcement, and I just can’t put it off any longer.”

Reflexively, your attention drifted first to your own feed – you looked perfect, as always – then to your chat, moving quickly despite your sudden start. You caught a few of the longer messages in your peripheral.

secretary.lover: Is it just me, or does she seem kind scared lmao?

blueeyeswhitedragon: yeahhh i thought her room looked kinda weird too lol

justheretowatch: fuck ur pretty

rapidfire: let me guess, another fake dick?

“I know I probably should’ve given you guys more of a warning,” you went on, fighting the temptation to break, to yell for them to call the police, to give up entirely and make a run for it. “But…”

You forced yourself to laugh, to beam, to clap your hands together in front of your chest like a schoolgirl – excited to tell her friends that she’d gone through with her first ever confession. “I’m getting married!”

You didn’t have a ring to show off, but you tried your best to preen regardless, to not let any amount of fear or discomfort or hesitation show on your shining expression. After a show delay, congratulations and well-wishes filled your chat (some genuine, others more reluctant), and you did your best to go on without letting the sizable knot slowly gaining mass in the back of your throat smother your voice entirely. “This is going to be my last stream – for a while, at least, until we get settled in. And…”

You tried to remember what’d been listed next in Nanami’s script, but your conscious mind was bogged down by a thick layer of buzzing static, your sense of improvisation dulled by a heavy dose of anxiety. Your eyes flickered to where Nanami was sitting behind your equipment, only to find that the chair he’d formerly occupied empty. You didn’t have time to panic before the edge of the mattress dipped under a new weight, and you remembered what you were supposed to say. “My husband actually wanted to cameo on my send-off show. I was a little hesitant—” Another dip in the mattress, this one much closer than the last. “—but he insisted. I thought you all deserved a chance to meet him, too.”

As soon as you finished, you felt a large hand on your shoulder, a sudden presence at your back. Your gaze fell back to your feed, your own image now accompanied by that of your captor – on his knees behind you, one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, the framing positioned so that his head was cut off just above the mouth. The lower half of his face was covered with a black surgical mask, and you had to stop yourself from frowning. You hadn’t expected him to be stupid enough to show his face on camera, but still.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you felt his hand fall away from your shoulder, slipping underneath the lace camisole of your babydoll. You tried not to move, not to flinch, but you couldn’t stop yourself from jerking forward as you felt his hand slip under your bralette, the angular ridges of his knuckles visible through the thin silk. Despite everything he’d said about not hurting you, about doing this for your protection, he made no attempt to be gentle – the calloused pads of his fingers pressing into the curve of your breast with enough force to bruise. You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sincere reaction. If you wanted to go home, you had to put up with this. He’d never said anything about pretending to enjoy it.

(In the back of your mind, you knew he hadn’t said anything about letting you go home, either. Still, you didn’t let yourself dwell on such discontinuities).

You should’ve known better than to think he’d attempt to follow the normal flow of your stream, and yet, it still caught you off-guard when his unoccupied hand found its way to the waistband of your panties, then to your clothed sex. You weren’t overly sensitive, despite how you might’ve acted in front of your viewers, but you were still on edge, still panicked, and while the adrenaline being held at knifepoint might’ve sparked was beginning to fade, having your kidnapper grope you on camera was enough to bring on a fresh wave. Reflexively, you pressed your back into his broad chest as his thumb traced over the length of your slit, pausing only momentarily to press into your clit with a dull, oppressive sort of pressure, biting down on your bottom lips to stop anything vulnerable and pathetic from escaping. If Nanami was affected by your stoicism, it wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the flimsy material to the side entirely and slipping two fingers into you, your now-slick cunt providing humiliatingly easy access. In the same motion, the heel of his palm pressed into your clit, the friction immediately too harsh, too much. It would’ve been too much if he wasn’t touching you at all. It would’ve been too much if he was still sitting alone in his dark, empty house – getting off to the idea of degrading someone he claimed to care about so publicly.

It didn’t help that you were wet. Not dripping, sure, but wet enough for there to be an audible, slick clicking-type noise as he pumped his digits into you, never taking the pressure off of your clit. You could feel his cock pressed into your ass, already hard, already too familiar not to be nauseating, but he didn’t seem to be in a rush to move past your exhibition; his pace measured and experimental, his fingers prone to spreading apart and curling inside of you. To distract yourself, you moved your attention back to your chat, trying to pick out the longer messages between donation notifications.

user84343: girl i call dibs when you’re done with him

hotbox420: no seriously y/n are you okay???

bunnygirl69: still can’t believe you’re leaving us for him </3 can’t say i don’t see why tho ToT

absolutely.soaked: Blink twice if you’re in danger lmaoooo

“G-guys, I’m totally—” Your breath hitched as he forced another finger into you, the stretch now a touch past ignorable. His other hand kneaded at your chest, blunt nails scraping against tender flesh, and momentarily, you wondered if it really would’ve been so bad to take your chances and let him kill you right away. “I’m totally fine, I’m just—” His nails bit into your skin by way of warning, and you allowed yourself a single, stilted moan. “I’m just so happy that I finally get to—to—”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to say, but it didn’t matter. Nanami’s hand dropped from your chest to your side, his arm locking over your midriff and hauling you that much closer. You couldn’t stop yourself this time – whimpering as the tempo of his fingers sped up, as tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes. You glanced around the bedroom, searching for anything familiar, anything you could use to stabilize yourself, anything that you could start to find comforting. Instead, your eyes landed on the duffle bag he’d carried out of your apartment, the zipper now partially undone. You couldn’t see much, but you could make out the handle of a pink hitachi. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the rest of the bag’s contents looked like, what he’d spent so long riffling through your possessions to find.

It wouldn’t been pointless to try and hold back the crooked, ebbing sob that leaked past your lips. This time, when you turned to face your camera, it was with tears just beginning to spill and absolute terror written across your expression. “Call the police,” you managed to spit out, making no attempt to be subtle. “I—I don’t actually know this man, and this isn’t my apartment, and—“

It happened too quickly – like he’d been expecting you to do something so obviously short-sighted. You processed that he was pulling out of your cunt as you felt his fingers entangle themselves in your hair, and then your face was being shoved against the mattress, your body folding over itself as he forced you down. You tried to yell, tried to scream, but your voice was muffled by your own fucking comforter as you heard fabric shifting behind you, as you felt something warm and stiff and leaking align with your entrance. You refused to put a name to it, but that didn’t help. Nothing would’ve helped.

His palm pressed into the back of your head, his body slotting against yours as he leaned down, lowering his head so that he could speak directly into your ear. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he whispered, his voice muffled but still painfully audible. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

You didn’t have a chance to response. He was already inside of you – his cock filling you to your breaking point.

You weren’t sure if your viewers could hear you, but you hoped they could. It would’ve been a pity to sob so loudly for the sole entertainment of the sick, sick man currently rutting into you, grinding into your cunt from behind with a kind of animalistic desperation – all desire and no control. It was a struggle to stay on your knees, not to go entirely limp underneath him, but you doubted it would’ve made a difference if you hadn’t, that he wouldn’t have fucked your limp body just as enthusiastically. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could just barely see the monitor – the miniature image of Nanami’s body moving on top of yours, his blond hair still obscuring the other half of his face, and then next to it, your chat. If you’d been thinking more clearly, you wouldn’t have let yourself look, wouldn’t have let yourself fully acknowledge that there were still thousands of people watching you, but you weren’t thinking at all, and you would’ve given anything for someone to say something that made you forget where you were, just for a second.

sniper727: so the bitch likes it rough? hot

callmeanonymous: FINALLY!!! I’ve been waiting for some cnc rp for actual years.

blueeyeswhitedragon: hey i think i might work with that guy

hotbox420: yeah no i’m calling the cops.

Predictably, your efforts were grotesquely unsuccessful.

Nanami didn’t seem as bothered. The weight on the back of your head disappeared as his hands found your hips, pulling up as he straightened his back. For anyone else, it might’ve been an awkward position – holding up your uncooperative form while bouncing you on his cock – but no amount of unpleasant technicalities could’ve stopped him from burying himself to hilt with every stroke, keeping you in a constant state of mind-numbing fullness. You tried to talk, again, to call for help, but fractured mewls and pathetic whines drowned out whatever you might’ve said, and even those were put to an end as Nanami took you by the jaw, turning you to face him as his lips crashed into your – his mask either pulled down or discarded entirely, you couldn’t be bothered to check. The kiss itself was messy, rough, brutal, his tongue raking over yours as you sobbed unabashedly into his mouth – your connection only growing more chaotic as his hand once again found your clit and ground two fingers into the sensitive bundle of nerves. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was trying to do.

And you couldn’t do anything to stop him.

With a ragged sob, you came undone around his cock, any strength you might’ve once had flooding out of your body and dripping down his shaft. Nanami groaned into your mouth, drawing back just far enough to bury his face in your neck and mouth meaningless nothings into your throat as he chased his own climax. He thrusted into you again once, twice, and then you felt pure heat pour into you – a new kind of torture that rendered you entirely senseless. You didn’t try to scream, again.

You were distantly aware of him moving, shifting, pulling something out of his pocket as he muttered a mix of ‘you did so well’s and ‘I love you’s into your skin. When you did finally manage to raise your head, you didn’t think to look toward the remote in his hand or your tattered lingerie or the cum slowly leaking out of your entrance. Rather, your attention landed on the same thing it always did during your streams – your monitor.

You’d never know why, but for whatever reason, you could feel your heart break in your chest as you realized that the screen had already gone black.

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