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yanderedbdimagines · 2 months ago

Note

May I please request Yandere Trickster and Yun-jin, both if them fighting over s/o? S/o was Yun-jin's assistant while there were back on Earth during NO-Spin and the Trickster's solo career. S/o as a survior is more of a support type, their perks are based around helping others complete gens, unhooking, tunneling the killer and healing. Thank you.

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I presume the reader is Yun-Jin’s s/o? Because I ended up basing this scenario on that. I do like the thought of the Trickster actually wanting someone for the first time in his life during his career, only for her to fall for someone like Yun-Jin instead who, in this case, became a yandere in the realm.

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Yun-Jin Lee Vs the Trickster

The low hum of the trial echoed through the thick fog, but Ji-Woon didn’t care. Not when you were here.

The moment he saw you, just like every other time, the realm fell silent. The hunt, the survivors, the Entity’s demands… None of it mattered. Not when he could see you again.

You had been his muse long before the Fog. Long before the fire. Back when the stage lights still bathed him in gold and the screams from the crowd were for an encore, not mercy. When he still wore a mask of charm and you were Yun-Jin’s. Her assistant. Her partner. Her love. But also always near him. Always smiling, laughing and accidentally brushing his arm in passing.

He had hidden himself well then. No knives. No blood. Just carefully curated lyrics and glances that lingered a little too long. He wrote for you. Songs softer than anyone would've guessed from a star like him, your name tucked subtly between verses, your essence captured in harmonies only he understood. But you never looked deeper. Or maybe you did and just looked away.

Even after the fire, even after NO SPIN's screams had burned themselves into his memory and his new songs were laced with newfound ecstasy, he still thought of you. Still wanted you. As the soft melodies curdled into tracks built from shrieks twisted into synths, your memory was the only gentle thing that remained.

But Ji-Woon was never soft for long. He never had been. Even as a child, he’d drawn blood behind victorious smiles and earned applause through spectacle. What others called disturbing, he called divine expression. Every sound mattered. Every scream could be a song. And the moment his bandmates perished, the moment their final cries were directed only at him, it was the most beautiful composition he’d ever heard.

So when he saw you in the Fog, a spark flared deep in his chest. Fate had delivered you to him. But not unclaimed. You were still Yun-Jin’s.

And now, Yun-Jin saw him clearly. She no longer mistook his obsession for artistry. No longer believed the illusion he once projected. The moment she realized you were here too, she caged you.

She whispered warnings. Painted him as a monster. As if he hadn’t once crafted entire albums just to feel close to you. As if she didn’t know how much he held back for your sake. How many victims hadn’t made it into his music because the thought of your disappointment curdled most of his appetite.

But you believed her.

You saw him now not as the idol who gently tucked affection into his lyrics, but the predator with a bat slick with blood. You mistook the hunger in his eyes for malice, when it had always been longing, tinged with this hunger. That was Yun-Jin’s doing.

Yet still, you were different. Even in the Fog, you clung to your new purpose. Healing others. Fixing what was broken. Putting yourself in danger to buy others time. Ji-Woon watched, captivated.

He admired it. Yun-Jin feared it.

She knew it made you vulnerable. She watched the way some killers stared too long. She noticed how Ji-Woon’s gaze lingered like it had before the screams and the fire. So she made herself a barrier. You never strayed far from her reach. She kept you close, close enough to kiss your cheek, to remind you that you were hers. That you had chosen her.

And yet Ji-Woon burned.

He could still hear the sweet notes of your voice from backstage memories. Still feel the silence after you stopped visiting the studio. She had stolen you from him, long before the Entity ever did.

The trial neared its end. Only three remained.

He had silenced the others with blade and melody alike, their cries hidden beneath his humming as the Entity took them. Now it was just you, her and him. The final chorus.

He found you.

You didn’t flinch. Even now, with his presence looming like a shadow across your skin, you held your ground. Steady. Defiant. The same steadiness he used to admire backstage, when the world knew nothing of real monsters.

Yun-Jin was already there, rooted between you and him like a wall he could never seem to climb. Her eyes burned, jaw clenched, shoulders squared. She wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not anymore.

"Give up," she snarled, her voice laced with venom and something rawer beneath. Desperation.

Ji-Woon's lips twisted upward, amused at first.

"You think you can keep [Y/N] from me forever? You always were the controlling one, Yun-Jin. Always pretending you knew what true love meant."

His gaze shifted to you, softening, if only for a breath. The glint in his golden eyes wasn’t fury. It was longing. Severely corrupted, yes, twisted by time and hunger and triumph, but still real.

"You belong with me," he murmured, the words almost gentle. "You know that. You always knew, 공주님1."

Your reply struck faster than a spotlight.

"I never will."

A tremor passed through him, so brief it could be missed, but it shattered something behind his smile. A twisted smile slowly bloomed on his lips, curving upward with unnatural delight. And then, a psychotic little laugh slipped out. Quiet, high-pitched, almost playful.

Your words were cold. Clear. Final. Like the last note of a song that ends too soon.

The hatch suddenly groaned open behind Yun-Jin.

His body moved on instinct, driven by panic disguised as purpose. But she was faster. Always faster when it mattered. One sharp shove from her and you stumbled backward, vanishing into safety before your hand could even reach for hers.

Gone. Again.

Ji-Woon froze, breath caught in his throat as he stared at the spot where you’d fallen away from him. A scream swelled in his chest but never left his lips.

Then his eyes snapped to Yun-Jin.

Still standing there. Still smirking like she’d won some great battle he hadn’t been invited to fight in. Like this wasn’t the hundredth time she had stolen you from him.

His laughter cracked through the Fog, jagged, low and bitter, echoing off invisible walls like broken glass.

"아직 끝나려면 멀었어, 누나2," he hissed, voice low and feral as his smirk curled cruelly. A vow. He had learned to hate her since the moment they both arrived in the Fog. Arrogance wrapped in designer clothes and false concern. Her defiance, her need to be in control, her holier-than-thou glances. He despised it all now. She had taken everything he loved, and worst of all, she had managed to rip the curtain back and reveal to you the monster beneath. Every stolen moment, every foiled trial, every smirk from that old fox only stoked the flames in his chest, burning hotter each time your hand reached for hers instead of his.

Yun-Jin tilted her head, that maddening calm never faltering. "아, 알아요3."

And just like that, she slipped into the black mist herself, leaving him alone in the quiet aftermath.

He stood in the Fog, bat in hand, breath shallow, heart pounding a rhythm that no song could ever match.

He had tried to be soft.

He'll get you, one way or another.

But for now, the next song would scream. And it would be for Yun-Jin's ears alone.

공주님 = Gongjunim = Princess

아직 끝나려면 멀었어, 누나.= A-jik kkeut-na-ryeo-myeon meol-eosseo, nu-na = It’s far from over, sister.

"아, 알아요." = " Al-go i-sseo." = "I know."

#yandere #dbd x reader #dbd #dead by daylight #reader insert #ji woon hak #the trickster #yun jin lee

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yanderedbdimagines · 2 months ago

Text

Hello, I really like the way you are writing! So what would you think of yandere Frank, Jake, David, the doctor and the spirit (together or seperate, you decide),with an obsession (survivor) that is very sarcastic, always fighting back and always doing the opposite thing they want from her/him, just to annoy them? If you don't have time or don't want to write about this, it's ok. Just ignore this request then. Have a good night/day!

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Part 1 - Part 2

Warning!: Cussing.

The Doctor

It’s truly fascinating how predictable you are. How defiant you can be. And yet, you still captivate him.

Most survivors break or start to crumble under fear. They scramble. They beg. They cry. They always end up submitting to him.

Not you. At least, not in any trial he’s ever seen you in.

You stopped fearing him long ago. Stopped treating him as the incomprehensible terror that others do. Instead, you regard him with nothing but seething defiance, as if he were some insufferable nuisance rather than the very monster that dictates your suffering. A beast whose authority you refuse to acknowledge. A force you meet head-on, teeth bared, unyielding even in the face of certain death.

He learned that quickly. Herman Carter is a man who thrives on absolute control.

And yet, here you are. Still running. Still fighting.

Still making his pulse thunder with every sharp glance, every scathing retort, every reckless refusal to submit to him. How infuriating. How utterly delightful.

His boots slam against the frozen earth, crushing brittle ice beneath his relentless pursuit. Snow scatters in his wake, the cold biting into his skin, though he hardly notices. Not when he’s so singularly focused. The crackle of electricity hums at his temples, a steady, pulsing rhythm that casts erratic shadows along the decayed walls of Ormond Lodge.

But he doesn’t need to rush. Not this time. Not when he knows you.

He has studied you. Mapped every instinct, memorized every habit, every desperate maneuver. Others are mere test subjects, their fates inconsequential, but you… You are something else entirely. Something infinitely more precious.

Which is why, when he catches you, he’ll be gentle. A rare kindness. A mercy reserved for you alone. Because he’s long since decided he’ll be keeping you.

You feel him before you hear him.

That low, insidious hum. The telltale whisper of something unnatural lurking just beyond your senses. Waiting. Watching.

But then… The unmistakable thunder of boots, pounding against the frostbitten ground, closing in like a death knell.

Your muscles coil, but not with fear. No, something much hotter surges through you, igniting in your chest, curling in your gut. Fury.

“Damn it, you son of a bitch! You ever take a day off?!”

The words rip from your throat, sharp and scathing, slicing through the frozen air with all the venom you can muster.

You should be focused on escape. Should be calculating every possible route, should be maneuvering, strategizing, weaving your way toward safety.

But no.

Because it’s him.

And the moment you hear that sound. That scrambled laugh… Something in your core twists. Warped and guttural, his amusement is fractured, distorted, bleeding through the static-laced air like the death rattle of something far beyond human. The charged atmosphere crackles against your skin, tiny jolts prickling along your spine.

Your instincts scream at you to run faster.

But instinct alone isn’t what drives you.

You hate him. With every fiber of your being, with every ragged breath, every aching muscle. With a fury so visceral it borders on something vicious, something that dares to eclipse mere survival.

And that’s why you refuse… Refuse, to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes.

Sadly, it’s amusing to him.

Most survivors, when they know they’re cornered, when they feel the predator breathing down their necks. They scream.

You? You snarl. Like a caged animal, he managed to corner you. Wild and untamed. Teeth bared, hackles raised, rage burning in your glare, daring him to take one step closer.

And Herman. He simply laughs. A low, indulgent chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound distorted, fractured, like static slithering between radio frequencies. His massive frame looms over you. A monolith of raw strength and something far more insidious. An intelligence that does not simply crave, but calculates.

The wires threading through his scarred, muscular arms pulse with restrained energy, casting eerie, flickering light over the snow-laden ground. The dim glow accentuates every ridge and contour of his form. To the broad expanse of his shoulders, the brutal scars that mar his flesh, the twisted remnants of past experiments etched into him like a morbid masterpiece.

And you… You’re trapped. Caught between him and the rusted remains of a snow-covered trash container, your breath clouding in the frigid air. But you refuse to cower.

He sees it in your stance, in the way your fingers twitch, flexing with anticipation. Ready to shove him, strike him, fight him.

You always fight.

But he doesn’t want a struggle. Not this time.

Not when he’s spent so long learning your little habits, your little games, your little weaknesses. He’s mapped you down to the finest details. The quickening of your pulse, the shift of your weight when you prepare to run, the fire that ignites in your glare just before you lash out.

No, he wants you perfectly intact, he reminds himself.

His rough, cracked hands move with uncharacteristic care. Calloused fingers reaching, not to strike, not to seize, but to touch.

His fingertips graze your cheek, the contact featherlight, and yet… Electric. A faint, tingling charge lingers in his wake, sending shivers racing down your spine. Your breath hitches, unbidden, and his amusement hums through the air like an unstable current.

A little gift from him. A reminder.

That he is here. Inside your skin. Inside your head. Inside of everything.

He drops his weapon, and his other hand finds your wrist, curling around it. Not restraining. Just keeping you. Holding onto what is his.

"Still so stubborn," he muses, his voice a low, distorted murmur, warped through the device prying his mouth into an unrelenting grin. "So resilient."

He tilts his head, ever so slightly, his gaze unwavering as he watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest. Your breath warm against the frozen air, your heartbeat hammering just beneath his fingertips.

You are furious. Fuming. Every muscle in your body is tight, locked, poised for a strike.

And yet… He knows you’re resisting the shiver.

His breath hitches. Sharp, measured and absolutely predatory.

"I wonder, dear girl… would you still fight if you knew I wouldn’t hurt you?"

Your glare sharpens, unflinching, a firestorm of rage and defiance.

"Shut up. I know you will. Don’t fucking lie to me, you freak."

A slow drag of his finger down the warm curve of your clavicle, his touch a contradiction. Gentle, reverent, yet injected with something far more wicked.

"Amusing," he murmurs, voice dropping to something darker, richer, threaded with something too close. His lips strain against the cruel device forcing his mouth open, his fingers lingering at the dip of your collarbone, pressing down ever so softly against it. Just enough to feel the way your pulse jumps.

"Well, I believe you’d bite and claw until your very last breath."

His head dips lower, impossibly close, his voice threading into something quiet. Something intimate. "And still… I’d be delighted if you did."

His unblinking eyes widen further, reveling in the way your body betrays you, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the rush of your pulse beneath his touch.

How thrilling.

How utterly fascinating.

Your pulse, thrumming beneath his fingers. The fire in your eyes, burning even as the cold air licks at your skin. The way you refuse to bow, refuse to break, refuse to be his.

His mind drinks in every flicker of defiance, every breath, every tremor, savoring the moment as though he could carve it into permanence.

But then…

A blaring siren.

The sound rips through the frozen air, shrill and unrelenting. Self-explanatory. The exit gates.

Herman’s fluorescent eyes snap upward, his entire form going rigid. A flicker of darkness ignites in his gaze, clearly ugly and inconvenienced.

He should have known.

You feel it before you see it. The subtle shift in his grip, the tightening of his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. He would never break his most important test subject.

But enough to send a very, very clear message.

"Not yet…"

The words slither past his teeth, low and vibrating with something dangerous and final. His voice, even warped and distorted, drips with quiet promise.

But you…

You steal that moment right from underneath him.

That fraction of a second where his mind, sharp as it is, is not completely focused on keeping you still.

Your body moves before your mind can fully process it, instincts roaring to life. With one violent, wrenching twist, your wrist slips free, burning against the friction of his grip.

Then you run.

The frozen ground is slippery beneath your feet, each breath a ragged, desperate heave. Your legs scream, muscles searing with exertion, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Because you know he’s behind you. Of course he is.

Boots slam against the earth, snow scattering as his towering frame cuts through the fog, relentless and determined. Electricity crackles, the very air warping around him in unstable pulses of static-laced hunger.

But you don’t dare look back.

Not until your trembling hands slam against the control panel, then pressing down, activating it.

And then you squeeze right through, your body twisting as you throw yourself through the opening, the icy air slicing against your skin.

The Entity’s fog curls around you. Safety at last.

Herman stops in his tracks, his weapon left behind.

His form stills, his sharp, manic grin frozen in place, his breath halting in his chest.

He watches… Watches as you vanish out of his sight.

The static around him pulses almost wild and erratic, before crackling out in an abrupt, deafening silence.

He slowly exhales.

His body shudders, fingers twitching, his jaw flexing ever so slightly. A low, near-silent chuckle bubbles up from his chest, crawling past his teeth like the remnants of some dark, twisted amusement.

"Ah."

His head tilts, electrodes sparking faintly, his ever-gaping grin twitching as his unblinking eyes remain fixated on the space where you once stood.

"Fascinating."

His tongue drags across the inward-facing side of his bottom teeth, his breath slow, measured.

The laugh starts as a small, fractured sound, then grows, unraveling into a series of quiet, warbling giggles, his shoulders quaking with the force of it.

Because, deep down, he knows.

Knows this isn’t over.

Knows you belong to him, whether you realize it yet or not.

And next time?

Next time, there won’t be an exit.

The Legion (Frank Morrison)

It’s almost unfair how much fun he’s having.

You can hear him before you see him. Quick, eager footsteps crunching against damp grass, weaving between broken fences and half-rotted wood with a kind of purpose that sets your nerves alight. And then…

"Wow, for a guy who thinks he’s terrifying, you sure are easy to outrun. Need a head start?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Sharp, mocking and dripping with challenge. And they hit their mark.

Frank stops mid-step.

For a moment, just a moment, there’s silence.

A shift in the air. The unmistakable hum of tension coiling tight. His head tilts slightly, the eerie, frozen grin of his mask staring back at you, his breathing even. Too even.

You always do this.

You always say things that make his fingers twitch, make his thoughts spiral, make him want to grab you and shake you and-

God, you don’t even know, do you?

Frank has been in love with you for longer than he’s willing to admit, tangled up in something sharp-edged and uncontrolled. Not because you fear him, no… Because you refuse to. Because you mock him behind his back, call him a melodramatic wannabe killer with no real bite. Because you fight him at every turn, spitting insults when others would scream, dodging his attacks when others would beg.

Because you never do what he wants. Even when he wants you to love him.

And then, with a sudden, breathless laugh, he bolts forward.

He’s fast. Too fast this time around. He’s already closing in before your mind even catches up.

“You really make this easy, y’know?” he muses, voice smooth, almost affectionate in its mocking. “The others run. They panic. But you?” A chuckle, deep and rough. “You get me fucking excited.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, your breath a frantic, uneven mess as you push forward, weaving between the abandoned fences and rotted garden beds.

A realization too late.

You don’t remember seeing him move, but suddenly, he’s there.

The knife gleams as he swings, but you’re ready, twisting at the last second, the blade missing your ribs by inches. You crash against him, shoulder slamming into his torso. He barely stumbles, fingers grazing the edge of your sleeve as you tear yourself away, sprinting into the mansion.

The mansion is dark, moonlight slanting through fractured glass, casting eerie streaks across his mask. His breath is steady, unhurried, even as he steps forward, like he already knows you won’t escape him this time. Or so he believes.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping into something softer, something meant just for you, “I think I like you best like this.”

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms. You should be thinking of an escape route, of a way to outmanoeuvre him, but something about him- his voice, his posture, the absolute ease in the way he moves, makes your blood boil.

“You’re out of your damn mind.”

His grin is evident, even beneath the mask. “Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

There’s no time to answer. No time to plan. Because in the next second, he moves.

The knife whistles past your shoulder, slicing through the air just as you duck, heart pounding in your throat. You spin, barely catching sight of him lunging before you bolt again, tearing through the manor’s suffocating halls.

A dead end.

Your back hits the wooden frame of a door that won’t budge. You try again, rattling the handle, but it won’t give.

Shit.

A hand slams against the wall beside your head.

The knife follows, embedding itself just inches from your throat, the force of it rattling the wood.

You barely have time to react before his free hand moves.

Not to stab. Not to strike.

To touch.

Fingers glide along your cheek, slow, deliberate, mapping the shape of your face like a sculptor learning their craft. The mask tilts slightly as he leans in, so close that you can hear his breathing from behind the thin barrier of plastic, each inhale measured, calculated, like he’s savoring this moment.

“You keep running,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed, almost gentle. If not for the feral hunger laced beneath. “But it’s pointless. You’re fucking mine.”

His fingers trail down, following the curve of your jaw, pausing just below your ear. His touch lingers, feather-light yet possessive, as if he’s memorizing the very beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“You always fight,” he muses, thumb dragging over the sensitive skin at the side of your throat, pressing down just enough for you to feel the weight of it. “I love that about you. But it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”

His other hand ghosts near the knife embedded in the wood, as if considering retrieving it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stays right there, drinking in every flicker of defiance in your eyes, every unsteady breath you take.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he continues, voice smooth, laced with something almost affectionate. “I don’t need to hurt you to fucking own you.”

Your stomach twists.

“You were never gonna leave this trial.”

The words settle like lead in your lungs, heavy, suffocating.

Then, the siren blares.

Frank goes still.

For a second, his entire frame tenses, a flicker of something ugly flashing through his dark eyes behind the mask. His grip tightens on the knife, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched beneath the plastic. The air around him shifts, thickens, his entire presence coiling with something volatile, something barely contained.

A low and frustrated growl. Dangerous.

Your moment.

With a sharp jerk, you break free, shoving him back with every ounce of strength left in your body. He staggers, just slightly, just enough. His fingers graze your wrist as you rip yourself away.

And then you run back outside.

The ground is slick beneath your feet, each step a frantic, desperate push forward. Your breath tears from your lungs in ragged bursts, legs burning, every muscle screaming at you to keep going. You don’t dare look back.

But you can hear him.

Boots pounding against the earth, his pace relentless, the sound of his chase weaving into the frantic rhythm of your pulse. He’s close. So fucking close. You can feel him, that oppressive weight of his presence looming behind you, thick with something possessive, something hungry.

A snarl, half growled, half laughed.

“Run, baby. Let’s see how far you’ll get.”

Your fingers slam against the control panel, almost fumbling, clearly trembling. The moment the mechanism clicks, you don’t hesitate. You twist your body and throw yourself through the opening, the icy air slicing against your skin like a blade.

The Entity’s fog curls around you. The overwhelming silence of safety.

Frank stops in his tracks.

His breath is heavy, shoulders rising and falling in deep, measured inhales. His fingers flex at his sides, grip tightening and loosening around the knife as his gaze locks onto the spot where you just stood.

Then, slowly, almost lazily, his hand drifts up to his mask.

With one slow, deliberate motion, he peels it off, revealing sharp, angular features twisted in something between amusement and frustration. His head tilts, tongue swiping across the inside of his cheek, the silver gleam of his tongue piercing catching the dim light.

His breath catches once, then twice. Halfway between a sigh and the beginning of a laugh.

And then, finally, it spills out.

Low. Soft. Amused. But laced with something deeper and darker.

“You really think you won, huh?”

His dark eyes gleam, tracking the last wisps of fog as they swallow you whole. His amusement lingers, curling at the edges of his mouth, but beneath it, something colder simmers. Something patient and almost cruel in nature.

Frank Morrison doesn’t need to scream his obsession. He doesn’t need to make it obvious. He’s smarter than that. More patient. Because love… Real love, in his mind, isn’t something rushed.

It’s something earned.

And next time?

There won’t be an exit.

Because next time, he’ll make sure you never fucking run again.

The Spirit

The air in Autohaven Wreckers is thick with rust and oil, the scent clinging to your lungs like a brand. The scrapyard looms around you, jagged metal carcasses stacked high, their hollow frames whispering in the wind. The flickering glow of distant headlights casts eerie, elongated shadows against the wreckage. The world feels abandoned. Hollow. And yet…

You are not alone.

A sharp breath. A shift in the air. A static hum reverberating against your skin, deep and raw, like something clawing at the fabric of existence itself.

Then…

A flicker.

A shape materializes in front of you. Tattered, trembling and wrong. Barely a woman. Her form fractured, as though the universe itself is unsure if she belongs. She fades in and out, her presence tethered to reality by something fragile, something desperate.

The Spirit.

Her body, once whole, now hangs in tatters. Frayed bandages coil around her body in uneven strips, the only barrier between the remnants of what’s left of her humanity and the world that tore her apart. Jagged shards of glass remain embedded in her flesh, glinting under the faint light, half-buried wounds refusing to heal, locked in a state of eternal suffering. Her skin, blueish and streaked with deep, angry gashes, bears the remnants of a violence too cruel to name. Arms and a leg cleanly severed for a torso. A past that refuses to let her go.

And her hair, wild and unkempt, floating as if weightless, frames her face entirely, shifting in the air like something alive. The movement does little to hide the torment in her features, the sorrow carved into every twitching muscle. She is agony made manifest, her form trembling with pain too vast to express, her silence a wail that never finds release.

She watches you with milky eyes. Unblinking. Shuddering with something unseen, something barely contained.

You should run.

Instead, your lips curl, a breathless laugh escaping before you can stop it. "Damn, you really need to work on your bedside manner. You know, if you actually want people to stick around."

The words linger between you like a challenge.

She jerks.

A soundless inhale, a tremor rolling through her body like a current. Her fingers twitch at her sides, jerking toward you, spasming in their hesitation. As if she wants to reach for you, but something in her is splintering apart at the thought.

She moves.

Not in steps. Not in strides. But in glimpses.

One moment, she stands before you, her form flickering at the edges. The next, the world seems to warp, space bending around her as she vanishes, only to reappear inches from your side.

Too close.

A sharp sound rattles in her throat. Her hand snaps up, just shy of your wrist. Trembling, grasping for something she does not dare to take.

You don’t see the heartbreak in her eyes. The way her expression fractures, the way her nails bite into her own palm instead, the sharp pain grounding her in the moment.

You only see the opportunity. Your body twists, muscles coiling tight before you bolt through the wreckage.

She doesn’t follow. Not at first. She stands there, frozen, as if trying to understand why you always do this. Why you always run. Why you never let her get close willingly.

A whisper of sound.

The scrapyard hums with absence, with tension, with the sickening knowledge that she is near.

A gust of wind howls through the wreckage. Metal groans. A shadow shifts.

You barely have time to react before she is there. Only for you to spot the hatch.

Hope slams into your chest like a hammer, but there is no time for hesitation. You dive for it, breath catching in your throat as your fingers grasp the edge. The moment your body slips through, the world above disappears into nothingness.

And she?

She watches.

A ragged breath rattles in her lungs, her body trembling with something awful, something aching. Her fingers twitch, curling toward the empty space where you had just been.

You got away. Again.

She was so close.

You always do this. Always fight. Always push her away.

And the worst part?

You don’t even realize how much it destroys her.

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight #yandere #dbd #reader insert #herman carter #rin yamaoka #the spirit #the legion #the doctor #frank morrison

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yanderedbdimagines · 2 months ago

Note

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I really like the idea of it! Because I made it quite long, I’ve decided to break it up into two parts. This is part 1, and the killers will be in part 2.

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Part 1 - Part 2

David King

"You really don’t know when to quit, do ya?" David’s voice is low and gravelly, his usual bite softened by an emotion you can’t exactly grasp.

You roll your eyes, arms crossed as you lean back against the damp, rotting walls of the Autohaven Wreckers garage. The cold metal seeps through your torn jacket, but you barely notice.

"Sure, Dave. I’m terrified." Your voice drips with sarcasm as you flash him a grin. "Next, you’re going to break my kneecaps? Lock me in your basement? Or maybe, I don’t know, throw a tantrum because I didn’t listen to your stupid ‘stay put’ order?"

David exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching tight. So tight, you half expect his teeth to crack under the pressure. "You’re gonna make me lose my bloody mind."

"Oh? Was there anything left to lose in there?"

His fingers twitch.

You see it. The barely restrained tension, the way his fists tighten at his sides. Not from anger. No, David’s fights were quick and explosive in the occasional moments he ever had beef with another survivor. His fists flew before his brain could stop them.

But this? This isn’t that. It is another thing entirely.

His shoulders rise and fall with every deep breath. The dim, sickly green sky casts jagged shadows across his face, hollowing out the sharp lines of his features. His usual cocky smirk is gone, the line’s unreadable. A look that makes your stomach twist.

"Yeah, yeah. You’re ‘this close’ to losing it," you mock, holding up two fingers barely apart. "Been hearing that all trial, big guy. You should get a new line."

David doesn’t take the bait. Not this time. No snappy comeback. No grumbling curse under his breath.

Instead, he steps forward, slow and deliberate, boots crunching against the gravel as he closes the distance. You shift, instinct kicking in, but you refuse to back down.

Not to him. Not to the stubborn, reckless, half-feral lunatic who’s decided you’re his new favorite problem.

"I told you to listen when I say you can’t do somethin’ stupid," he mutters, voice just a fraction lower than before.

"And I told you to kiss my ass." You grin. "I don’t take orders from ex-fight club boxers with anger issues."

David exhales again, running a hand down his face, fingers dragging through his short-cropped hair. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he mutters something under his breath.

Then, suddenly, he’s right in front of you. Fast. Too fast.

Your back shifts against the cold metal behind you, David’s arm braced against the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in.

Your heart kicks up. Not in fear, but from sheer annoyance. You take a quick sweep around the area with your eyes. The killer for this match hasn’t noticed the ruckus.

Good.

You refocus your attention on the man pinning you to the metal surface. "David, this whole ‘intimidation’ thing? It’s cute. Really. But you do realize you’re not a killer, right?" You cock your head. "Or did the Entity forget to tell you that?"

David doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes, blue and piercing, study your face, searching for something. Then, he smirks.

"Nah." His voice is quieter now. Almost amused. Almost. "Killers ‘ave rules. I don’t."

Your breath catches. Just for a fraction of a second. But that’s enough.

You see it, the flicker in his eyes, the way his smirk twitches like he knows. Like he felt that split-second hesitation. Annoyed at yourself, you double down.

You plaster on your best grin yet and lean in, closing the already small space between you just enough to piss him off.

"Ooooh, spooky," you whisper mockingly. "What, you gonna strangle me? Or is this where you confess your undying love?"

David doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

But then…

Then, his hand moves. Not to grab you. Not to hurt you. His calloused fingers brush your chin, rough from years of bar brawls and beatdowns, from broken knuckles and bloody victories. The touch is shockingly gentle as it travels down to the center of your neck.

You freeze.

David grins.

"You really want me to confess, sweet’eart? Or do you wanna skip right to the chokin’ part? Can promise you a high you won’t forget."

Your stomach twists.

You tilt your head back, rolling your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your skull. "David, if you’re about to get all weird on me, I swear I’ll scream."

His smirk deepens, his thumb brushing lightly over the pulse at your throat. “Go on, then. Scream. Maybe the Killer’s into that sort ‘a thing. Hell, I thought I saw Ghostie lurking ‘round here earlier. Could be fun for us both.”

Your breath hitches. Not because he’s right. You knew he was right. Within the Entity’s Realm, there were no heroes here, no cavalry rushing to save you.

But the way he said it, as if he enjoyed the idea of it, made your skin prickle. That smirk of his deepens. You scowl, a flicker of irritation flaring in your chest. He notices, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Ugh, you’re the worst," you mutter. You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Solid muscle, immovable and stubborn as the man himself.

“Oi. You’re the one who won’t listen to me,” he shoots back, his voice taking on a familiar, cocky tone.

"Excuse me?! I’m trying to escape trials unscathed, like a normal person, and you keep dragging me into whatever weird ‘overprotective caveman’ phase you’re going through."

David snorts, clearly enjoying your irritation.

"Overprotective caveman, eh?"

"If the shoe fits, David."

For a second, his expression softens. The usual fire in his eyes dims. Not gone, but flickering. Like he’s holding himself back from doing something reckless.

Then, just as fast, his eyes darken again.

“You think I’m bad now?”

David’s voice is lower now. Rough and edged with something dark and undeniably lustful. His breath is warm against your neck, the heat of it sending an involuntary shiver through you.

“Try leavin’ me again.”

Your smirk falters, just slightly, but it’s enough. David notices.

And he grins.

“I ‘ave ways to make you reconsider your next move.”

There’s no room for misinterpretation in the way he says it… Slow, deliberate and like a promise laced with warning. His fingers shift, curling around your wrist. Not hard, not painful, but firm enough to make you aware of the strength behind it.

You tense, but you don’t pull away.

Because pulling away would mean admitting that something about this. About him. Actually gets under your skin.

And you’ll be damned if you ever give David that satisfaction. He angles his head up slightly.

“Let’s see how long it takes for you to realize…” His voice drops further, gravelly, intimate, a husky murmur just above your ear.

His fingers flex against your skin, rough callouses dragging against your pulse.

“I am bloody tenacious.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the faint hum of the Entity’s Realm pressing in around you.

A stand-off.

Your lips part. Ready to spit out something biting, sarcastic, anything to break whatever this is. But David beats you to it.

He leans back slightly, his forehead just barely brushing yours, his breath far too close to be anything less than intentional.

There’s no rush to his movements. No explosion of force.

Just pure, agonizing control.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, but you refuse to move. To react.

His smirk lingers, sharp and knowing.

And then, finally, he lets go.

Not in defeat.

But because he knows you’re thinking about it now.

Jake Park

The heat in Grave of Glenvale is suffocating.

Even in the Entity’s rough recreation of the Wild West, the air feels thick, heavy with the scent of dust and decay. The wind howls through the abandoned structures, rattling loose shutters and sending waves of sand skittering across the cracked wooden planks. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the faint creak of a gallows swaying under its own weight.

And behind you, a distinct presence. You sigh, barely masking your annoyance as you wipe a hand down your face. “Alright, Park, you can quit lurking. I know you’re there.”

Silence.

Then, the slow and measured crunch of boots on dry earth.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision, blending too easily with the ruins of Glenvale’s abandoned saloon. The boards groan under a shifting weight. Jake has always been good at keeping quiet, but right now?

Right now, he wants you to know he’s there.

“You always this paranoid?” His voice finally drifts through the air. Calm and infuriatingly composed with just a hint of amusement.

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Only when there’s a creep tailing me through a ghost town.”

Jake steps out from the shadows, arms crossed, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity you don’t quite appreciate. His usual air of disinterest is still there, but it’s more sharp and calculating as usual.

You arch a brow. “What? Are you going to monologue at me about how I need to stay close to you? How this place is ‘too dangerous’ and I need to quit ‘being difficult’?”

Jake tilts his head, unbothered. “Not at all.”

You blink. “No?”

“I won’t waste my breath on you like that anymore.” His voice is smooth and quiet.

You’re about to throw out another sarcastic remark when…

He moves. Quicker than you expect.

One second, he’s standing across from you. The next, you’re pinned against one of the rotting support beams, the rough wood biting into your back as Jake’s forearm bars you in place.

Your pulse spikes. Not fear, but annoyance… Mostly.

You scoff, tilting your head up at him. “Oh wow, big bad survivalist finally decided to use some muscle. Color me impressed.”

Jake doesn’t react to the sarcasm. Doesn’t roll his eyes or crack a smirk.

Instead, he leans in just enough to invade your space. Not fully, not pressing against you, but close enough that his presence is undeniable. Close enough that it makes the map’s heat all the more suffocating.

“I know what you’re doing,” he mutters, voice low, steady.

Your lips curl. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Jake’s grip on your wrist tightens. Not painfully, but just enough to make you aware of it.

“You think if you push hard enough, I’ll snap?” His breath is ticklish against your skin, his tone maddeningly calm. “That I’ll yell, throw a fit or fight you for control?”

He exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost finds it funny. “That’s not how I work.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then what do you want?”

Jake studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally, he speaks; “I want you to stop running away from me.” The words aren’t a request. And that’s what makes your stomach twist.

You scoff, masking the sudden shift in your pulse. “Bold of you to assume I ever run.”

Jake hums. Unconvinced.

"Alright," he murmurs. "Then bold of me to assume you’ll stop fighting when I finally catch up."

Your heart jumps, a strange mix of frustration and something more dangerous creeping up your spine. But you don’t let it show.

You meet his gaze, refusing to be the first to break eye contact.

“Jake,” you sigh, exasperated, “if you think trapping me against a post in the middle of a goddamn Western ghost town is enough to get me to roll over, you really don’t know me at all.”

Jake’s fingers twitch against your wrist.

“I know you,” he mutters. “Better than you think.” His voice is quieter now, warmer, but still threaded with that unwavering, calm certainty.

You swallow, licking your lips before flashing a lazy grin. “Oh yeah? What do I think, then? Enlighten me.”

Jake doesn’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, his free hand lifts, fingertips ghosting over the side of your throat, barely there, yet enough to send a shiver through you.

Your breath catches, and Jake notices.

His lips curl. And then he steps back. Just like that.

But the weight of his gaze tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight #yandere #reader insert #jake park #david king

21 notes · View notes

yanderedbdimagines · 2 months ago

Note

Could you write a few killers who already have their sights on someone, but become obsessed with the reader because they forfeit their own safety to protect others?

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I really like this request, and I picked four killers that I really wanted to write about the moment I started to play around with it. Someone else requested something similar, so it's two in one.

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Warning!: NSFW Elements present! Violence, blood, etc.

The Deathslinger

The wooden stock of Caleb’s custom-built rifle was warm in his grip, slick with a thin sheen of blood. One of theirs, but whose, exactly? He neither knew nor cared. The scent of gunpowder clung to the thick, stagnant air. Mingling with the acrid aroma of rust, dust and decay. The once-thriving outpost of Dead Dawg Saloon stood in eerie silence around him, its skeletal remains a graveyard of splintered wood, abandoned buildings, and the ghostly echoes of men long since put in the ground.

The trial was nearly at its end.

Three of them still clung to life, but their fate was sealed. Prey, reduced to desperation, staggering like wounded animals, their time borrowed and running thin. But there was one among them who refused to fall without a fight.

Yui Kimura.

She was fast, sharp-witted and stubborn as hell. Caleb had chased her across these damned streets, through shattered buildings and over the warped gallows. She had vaulted, juked, and twisted her way out of his reach more times than he cared to count. His patience had worn thin, his hands aching to cut this chase short.

Now, she was cornered.

His keen eye spotted her huddled low behind an old wagon, her body taut, fingers pressing against a wound he had delivered earlier. The crimson stain against her torn sleeve told him what he needed to know. She was weakening.

Caleb exhaled. Settling the weight of his rifle against his shoulder. One well-placed shot, one squeeze of the trigger and it would be over. He aligned his sights. His finger tensed.

And then you appeared.

You had been running toward safety, clear of his reach, your escape route wide open towards an opened exit gate. But instead of vanishing into the fog like any sensible survivor would, you turned. And ran back.

Straight toward the saloon.

Straight toward them.

Caleb hesitated.

His finger hovered over the trigger, his grin faltering for the briefest second. He had seen panic before. He had seen desperation, raw and wretched, as men clawed at the dirt to get away from him. But this? This was something else.

This wasn’t fear.

This was sacrifice.

Your reckless, stupid, godforsaken heroism sent a slow, amused snarl curling over his lips. He admired grit, respected those with enough iron in their spine to fight back, but what you had just done? That was pure foolishness.

He realigned his sights and steadied his aim. The rifle cracked, the harpoon slicing through the air in a deadly whistle.

Yui had no time to react.

But you did.

The iron spear punched through your shoulder, the impact ripping the air from your lungs before you even realized what had happened. Your world tilted as the force sent you sprawling backward, boots scraping against the dust-coated ground. The chain snapped tight and yanked you toward him with ruthless precision.

You hit the dirt hard.

A strangled cry tore from your throat as you skidded toward him, pebbles biting into your skin, the searing pain of the harpoon digging deep into flesh. Caleb didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just reeled you in, watching with an eerie calm as you clawed at the dirt, your body trembling from shock.

Then, at last, you were beneath him.

Looming, towering and waiting.

His shadow stretched over you, the barrel of his rifle lowering slightly, though the chain still remained taut in his grip. His ghostly, sunken eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, raked over you with something unreadable.

“You really are a damned fool, ain’t ya?” His voice was slow, deep, like rusted iron grinding over old bone.

Your chest heaved. You could feel the warm trickle of blood soaking your sleeve, the pain unbearable. But you had done it. Yui was gone. Running. Safe.

The realization flickered in Caleb’s gaze.

A chuckle rumbled low in his throat, though there was no real humor behind it. His amusement had curdled into something darker, something more intrigued. He pressed the sole of his boot lightly against your ribs. Not hard enough to crush, just enough. A reminder that you were at his mercy now.

“You got a death wish, darlin’?” His voice dipped lower, hushed, almost soft, like a secret between sinners. “Throwin’ yourself in front of my gun like that?” His fingers tightened around the rifle, muscles in his forearm tensing. “Ain’t had someone do that in a long time.”

You braced yourself for the hook. For the end.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, Caleb hesitated.

He had every reason to end this right now, to drag you screaming to a hook, to leave you gasping for air as the Entity claimed you.

And yet…

Something about the way you had offered yourself… Not to save yourself, but for another, struck something primal in him. A desire.

A possessive craving.

Something that made him want to keep you, not just kill you. Because that kind of loyalty? That recklessness?

It had potential.

That flicker of interest was your only chance.

With a sharp cry, you wrenched yourself free.

Pain shot through your body like wildfire, the wound in your shoulder ripping wider as you tore against the chain’s hold. The harpoon slid loose with a sickening squelch. And suddenly, the world was spinning as you stumbled to your feet and ran.

Caleb cursed, lunging forward, his chain snapping as he tried to grab you, but you were already sprinting, fueled by agony and desperation.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t dare.

The saloon blurred around you, the ruined gallows looming like an omen. Caleb was already chasing, his boots pounding against the dirt, his rifle swinging downward to fasten his approach.

But then you saw it.

The hatch.

Your only way out.

With a final, ragged gasp, you threw yourself forward. The ground vanished beneath you as you plummeted, the fog swallowing you whole.

The hunt was over.

Caleb skidded to a halt, boots grinding against the dirt. The hatch let out a final thunk as it sealed itself, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

His chest heaved, not from exertion, but from something else entirely. Something unexpected. A slow, twisted grin curled over his lips, his jaw cracking in the process, his fingers tightening around the rifle’s grip.

That was new. That was interesting.

His fluorescent white gaze flickered over the empty spot where you had vanished.

Oh, he’d see you again. Because now? Now you were more than just another survivor. Now, you were his obsession.

And Caleb Quinn never let go of what he deems to be interesting.

The Executioner

The walls of Midwich Elementary School groaned under the weight of something ancient, something wrong. The air hung thick with decay, saturated with the acrid stench of rust and stagnant rot. It was as if the building itself had absorbed suffering, the very bones of its foundation tainted with the echoes of long-forgotten agony. Shadows pulsed unnaturally in the dim light, twisting along the broken tiles, whispering through cracked walls. The voices were not human.And through the heart of this nightmare, he pursued.

A towering monolith of flesh and metal. His form is an instrument of judgment. Silent, relentless and a monstrous man deemed inevitable. He did not stalk like a man, nor did he hunt like a beast. He moved with the certainty of something that had no need to rush, something that would always find you in the end. The Great Knife dragged behind him. Its rusted, monstrous edge carving deep gashes into the bloodstained floor. The sound of metal grinding against tile was unbearable. A screech that set nerves alight, yet it is no more deafening than the suffocating weight of his presence.

Adam Francis ran. He had spent his life educating others, priding himself on patience and on reason. But here? In this twisted parody of a school? Reason meant nothing.

He could feel it closing in behind him. The sheer weight of its presence bore down on him, thick and suffocating, like a shroud wrapping around his throat. He dared not look back, his breaths ragged as he pushed forward and forcing his burning legs to carry him further.

The knife swung.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. A death sentence descending upon him…

But then, you moved. The metal door of a locker slammed open, the dull light reflecting in your panicked gaze as you threw yourself forward, barreling into Adam’s side.

Your body crashed into his with the force of a desperate savior, knocking him off his path, sending him sprawling onto the cold tiles just as the Great Knife carved through the air.

A sharp and searing pain ignited across your back.

You barely had time to scream before the sheer force of the blow ripped you from your feet, sending you hurtling onto the blood-slicked floor. The cold, unforgiving tiles met you with a crack, the breath torn from your lungs as your limbs collapsed beneath you.

Your vision blurred. The pain was immediate, a blistering agony radiating across your spine where the blade had nearly cleaved you in two. Your fingers curled weakly against the ground, shaking, struggling to push yourself upright.

And then… Silence.

Adam’s footsteps faded into the distance, a fleeting comfort.

A shadow loomed over you. Impossibly vast and suffocating in its abyssal presence that swallowed everything in its path. The air itself quivered beneath his weight. The world recoiling as if it knew what lingered above you.

Slowly and deliberately, he stepped forward.

The Great Knife plunged into the ground beside you with a sickening crash, the sheer force rattling the earth beneath your trembling frame. The bloodstained steel quivered, buried deep in the floor beside your face. A statement.

Your breath came shallow and trembling, your body frozen as something huge, unseen, and utterly consuming filled the space between you.

The Executioner was watching you. From beneath that terrible, rusted helm, his unseen gaze bore into you. Studied you.

Your pain. Your sacrifice. Your willingness to suffer for another.

It was not fear that bound you in place.

It was the sheer, overwhelming intensity of his presence.

A gloved hand, which was massive and inhumanly strong, reached out. The white leather of his fingers, slick with blood, traced the line of your trembling jaw. The touch was shockingly delicate.

A shiver crawled down your spine. An instinctive reaction to the sheer power coiled within him.

He lingered. His fingers curled slightly, almost testing. Measuring the fragile warmth of your skin, the rapid thunder of your pulse against his fingertips.

For the first time, something shifted in the Executioner.

And in that moment, where pyramid head stood rigid, you did the only thing you could.

You ran.

Your body screamed in protest, every nerve aflame, but you did not stop. You pushed past the pain, past the overwhelming pull of the Executioner’s unseen gaze, and ran through the endless halls of this cursed place.

The shadows clawed at your heels, the darkness twisting with each turn. You could feel him following, his footfalls heavy. He did not chase in haste. Because he did not need to. He was inevitable. You were no different, in that regard.

But then, the hatch.

Like a beacon in the endless dark, it hummed just ahead.

With the last of your strength, you threw yourself forward.

And the fog swallowed you whole.

The trial was over.

The Executioner stood at the edge of the empty space where you had vanished, the silence pressing against him like a vice.

His great knife, still drenched in fresh blood, lowered.

Slowly, his free hand curled into a fist, the phantom warmth of your skin still clinging to his fingers.

The moment played again in his mind. Your breathless defiance, your willingness to bleed for another. The way your body had trembled beneath his touch, not from fear… Not entirely at least. But from something else, too.

You had changed something.

And now, you were his to seek, and to find.

The rusted helm tilted slightly, as if listening to something far beyond human comprehension.

It was not over. Not even close.

Because no matter where you ran, no matter how many times you escaped… The Executioner would come for you this time.

And next time?

You would not escape him.

The Knight

The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and rotting flesh, smoke curling in dark plumes through the ruined remnants of Shattered Square. What had once been a thriving settlement of merchants and craftsmen had been reduced to a battlefield of blood and embers, its people long gone, their suffering permanently etched into the scorched ruins and broken cobblestone. The streets were littered with the remnants of a life now lost in time. Shattered pottery, splintered carts, iron tools abandoned in the dirt. All remnants of a struggle that had ended long before this trial began. But the trial was not yet over.

Thalita Lyra ran.

Her breath came in ragged bursts and her limbs trembled with exertion as she tore through the crumbling marketplace, past the skeletal remains of merchant stalls and overturned wagons. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, a frantic drum of fear and survival.

And behind her, he followed.

The Knight.

A towering presence of steel and death, his body encased in armor blackened by soot and battle. His crimson surcoat, though singed and tattered from the flames, still billowed with every step, the deep red standing stark against the plated steel beneath. A war banner of a man, a conqueror draped in the colors of blood.

He did not rush. He did not need to. His Guards had done their part. The Jailer’s chains had nearly dragged her down, the Assassin’s blade had come within a whisper of splitting flesh. But he did not rely on them. There was no evading him.

A shadow loomed.

A flash of steel.

The Knight’s zweihänder sliced through the air, a lethal arc of gleaming death.

Thalita’s body twisted at the last moment, barely dodging the strike, but she had nowhere left to run.

Her foot caught on debris, and she hit the ground hard, her body barely able to brace for the impact.

The Knight took one step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down like an executioner looming over the condemned. His zweihänder rose, the tip gleaming with flickering embers of the fires still burning in the ruins.

A sudden blur. The impact was sudden, your shoulder colliding with the steel plating of his side, the force of your weight crashing into his armored frame with everything you had. It was a fool’s act.

His steel-clad arm barely budged against the force of your impact, but it was enough. The zweihänder stopped mid-swing, the momentum of his blade shifting ever so slightly, his body barely shifting from your impact. You may as well have thrown yourself against a fortress.

But that single moment, that single hesitation, was all Thalita needed.

Enough for Thalita to push herself up, stumbling onto her feet, her body swaying as she regained balance. Without looking back, she turned and disappeared into the thickening smoke, her form swallowed by the ruins.

The air around you felt heavier, thick with something indescribable as the battlefield fell into silence.

The Knight's visor tilted downward, the slitted gaze beneath it locking onto you for the first time.

Your chest heaved, your heart a frenzied drumbeat beneath your ribs. Pain shot through your limbs from the force of the collision, but you did not dare to move.

You stood firm.

For someone else, you had placed yourself in his path.

For someone else, you had intervened.

Something shifted in the Knight’s imposing stance.

He had seen many things in these wretched trials. Cowards, warriors, fools who thought they could outlast him.

But this?

This was different.

His gauntleted fingers flexed against the hilt of his zweihänder.

The feeling drummed against his ribs, an unfamiliar rhythm that had no place in a battlefield. It was something new, something he had not felt in so long he had forgotten it existed at all.

His own heartbeat.

Steady. Strong. And faster than ever before.

He exhaled slowly, the sound of it low and controlled beneath his helmet.

For the first time, he did not feel like a warrior in pursuit of his duty. He did not feel like a mere extension of the Entity’s will, nor just another commander of its cruel games. You stepped back, already turning to run away.

With terrifying precision, his free hand lashed out. A hand that could crush bone, that had twisted the life from so many before.

The metal of his gauntlets was slick with blood as his fingers closed around your throat.

A sharp gasp left your lips. Your hands flew up, fingers soon clawing against the unyielding steel, desperately seeking a weakness, a gap, anything that would loosen his grip. But there was no weakness to find. You struggled, your body twisting, your feet digging into the dirt, trying to pull away- to break free. But his hold remained unyielding. He did not tighten his grip. He did not choke you, did not crush your windpipe as he so easily could have. He simply held you there. Like a hunter inspecting his catch.

As if he did not understand why he was doing it at all.

The battlefield around you still burned, the air thick with the scent of blood and smoke, yet he paid it no mind. His focus was solely on you.

Alive. Mortal. Temporary. The words tumbled through his head like an echo. Foreign and unfamiliar, pressing into his thoughts in ways he could not explain.

You were not supposed to matter.

And yet, as you struggled, as you fought against his grip, he remained still, his gaze hidden beneath his visor, locked onto you in silent contemplation.

You were so fragile.

His armor was cold and unyielding. The heavy plating pressing lightly against your skin. He could not feel the warmth of your body beneath his grip. His gauntlets prevented that.

But he could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Could see the way your pulse fluttered at your throat. Could see your face, up close for the first time. Not a fleeting glimpse across the battlefield.

Not another nameless soul in the Fog.

But you.

For a single moment, you stopped struggling.

You stilled beneath his grip, your breath ragged but steadying, your body no longer thrashing against his hold.

You were watching him now.

Just as he was watching you.

A war machine and a mortal. A killer and a survivor.

Then…

The distant roar of the final generator hissed through the burning air.

A sharp stinging pain tore across his grip as you wrenched free. Your nails digging into the cracks of his armor, breaking his hold with a sudden twist of your body.

The Knight’s fingers curled into a tight fist. The memory of your form still fresh against his palm.

Your figure blurred through the smoke and ruin, your form becoming smaller, vanishing into the distance as you sprinted toward one of the exit gates. One that is now open.

He followed.

His heartbeat still thundered in his ears, still demanded answers he did not yet understand.

He would not let you go so easily.

The exit gates gleamed ahead.

With the last of your strength, you threw yourself past them, the fog consuming you whole.

The trial was over.

Tarhos came to a halt.

His armored boots pressed against the dirt. The black spikes of the Entity’s barriers protruding from the ground and keeping him from taking another step.

His blade lowered, his breath slow and controlled beneath his helmet.

His body remained still, but inside, something was not.

That unfamiliar rhythm remained, refusing to fade, a presence in his body that he could not explain.

It lingered.

He lifted his free hand, fingers uncurling, staring at the space where you had once been.

His visor tilted slightly, as if contemplating, as if searching for something invisible.

His head turned back upward, his gaze lingering on the empty horizon where you had disappeared into the Fog.

He had cut down countless warriors, cowards, fighters and survivors alike.

He had hunted many who dared to defy him.

But you?

You had stirred something inside him.

A slow, deliberate step backward. Then another. He sheathed his zweihänder with practiced ease.

The battlefield still burned around him, but his mind was elsewhere. Because you had become something more than just another survivor. Something worth seeking. Something worth keeping.

The Knight turned, stepping back into the blackened ruin of Shattered Square.

He would see you again.

The Oni

The ancient halls of the Yamaoka Estate groaned beneath the weight of time. Wind screamed through broken shoji doors, carrying whispers of the dead across splintered wood and blood-slicked floors. Once serene, the garden had become a shrine to carnage. Maple leaves soaked in crimson and stone lanterns streaked with violence.

David Tapp was running.

He had been running since the moment he saw it. A monstrous figure emerging from the fog and roaring with the fury of a thousand condemned souls.

The Oni.

Not a man. Not even a killer. A legend of wrath made manifest.

David's lungs burned as he tore through the ruined courtyard, the world spinning around him. His legs were lead, his body bruised and battered and every step scraped against the edge of collapse. The splintered and rotting torii gate loomed ahead. A gateway to nowhere.

The Oni was upon him, crashing through the mists like a force of nature. His kanabo scraped deep trenches into the ground. A grotesque extension of his rage. His veins pulsed with glowing fury and his eyes locked on the prey just within reach.

He had him. He would end it.

That was until you suddenly stepped between them.

A blur. Fragile. Human. But in that instant, you were unshakable. You weren’t a survivor. You weren’t prey. You were defiance itself. Flinging yourself between death and the man it hunted.

The Oni struck without being able to stop himself. The kanabo came down with the force of a landslide, cleaving the air with a sound that seemed to tear the very sky apart. There was no time to scream, no moment to flinch. It was too fast.

It did not hit David.

It struck you.

Your body absorbed the brunt of the blow with a sickening crunch. Bones groaning under the unimaginable weight. You were lifted off your feet and hurled across the courtyard like a broken doll. The world spun as you hit the stones, then fell still. Blood filled your mouth. Your vision blurred, mud and blood mixing into an distinguishable haze. Pain wasn't even pain anymore. It was a roaring silence that swallowed your senses whole.

But David was safe.

That was all that mattered.

And yet, the killing blow never followed.

A shadow loomed. The Oni stood over you, massive and seething, his aura flickering with scarlet fury. His breath came in ragged gusts. Fogging the space between you. The kanabo trembled in his grip.

He stared.

And in that heartbeat, he knew.

He had waited a lifetime to feel something like this again. Not rage. Not vengeance. Something else.

But you moved.

Your fingers clawed into the cold, wet earth, slipping once, then finding purchase. The taste of blood coated your tongue, metallic and thick. Your chest heaved as your breath rasped like a dying fire, but still you pulled one knee under you, then the other. You forced yourself upright, trembling, swaying… And standing.

It wasn't just pain that kept you grounded. It was purpose. A desperate, flickering will to survive.

He saw it.

The thought alone of you escaping him sent a surge of fury tearing through his soul. His veins flaring like molten rivers of crimson.

The Oni's eyes burned brighter, a mixture of surprise and rage twisting within the holes of his mask. For a moment, he hesitated, his kanabo lowering ever so slightly.

Then he surged forward, a growl tearing from his throat, muscles flexing as he lunged like a living avalanche. But mid-stride, his fury refocused. He did not want you dead.

With a swift motion, he discarded the kanabo, letting it crash into the earth behind him. From thin air, he drew his katana. Sleek, precise, restrained. It gleamed faintly. A blade not meant to kill this time, but to cut a path to capture.

He wanted you alive.

He would take you with one hand if he had to.

But he was too late.

Your body lurched forward, driven by instinct and terror, your feet dragging through leaves and broken stone as you fled through the mist.

You kept moving, despite the heavy strides that followed you from up close. Lungs on fire, every step pulled from a reserve of strength you didn’t know you had. Stones slipped beneath you. The world narrowed to the gate ahead.

And you ran through it.

Behind you, The Oni roared. But not in triumph.

He reached the edge of the open field, only to be met by the Entity’s cruel barrier. Ebony spikes erupted from the ground, halting him mid-charge. His katana struck one of them with a deafening clang, sending sparks into the eternal night.

He growled low, the sound echoing like thunder trapped in his chest. His aura pulsed around him, wild and furious, but restrained.

He would not forget this.

He had waited a lifetime to feel something other than rage. And now, it was already slipping through his fingers.

He glared into the darkness where you'd vanished, the fog already swallowing your trail. But the trial was not over. Not for him.

He would find you again. Inside the Fog. Inside one of his trials.

And next time, there would be no escape.

#dbd x reader #yandere #dbd #dead by daylight #reader insert #the executioner #the deathslinger #silent hill #reader #the knight #the oni #kazan yamaoka #pyramid head #caleb quinn #tarhos kovács

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yanderedbdimagines · 3 months ago

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Ide, Can I have a detailed story of how yandere Wesker watches his romantic obsession from the shadows outside of campfire? That he notices how the reader noticed him and deliberately murmurs how "He who should not be named" is watching them? That he is unaware that it is a reference to the Harry Potter movies as it doesnt exist in his universe ortimeline?

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OMG! You can’t believe how hard I laughed at that! I practically wheezed at the thought! xD And I like the idea so much, that I’ve made this scenario a bit longer than intentional! And don’t worry. He’ll feel frustration, but it’s with a twist as for the exact reason why that is. :P

It’s fun writing a bit of a crack fic for once xD Though I tried to keep it reasonable as much as I could. This is also the best moment to give Nicolas his cameo!

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Warning!: Hints of NSFW!

The Mastermind

The orange glow of the campfire cast long, flickering shadows upon the thick canopy of trees surrounding the small clearing. The warmth of the flames was a bright contrast against the cool night air. Yet, despite the relative comfort of the scene, an unsettling sensation pricked at the back of your mind. You felt like you were being watched.

The quiet murmur of Nicolas Cage and Feng Min’s conversation filled the silence, but your attention wavered every now and then. As often as you felt comfortable, you found yourself peering into the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. At first, you dismissed it as paranoia. Perhaps a trick of the light against the tall foliage. But as the minutes passed, the feeling only intensified. Someone was there, just out of sight.

You shifted in your seat, your back straightening slightly. The whispering wind carried with it an unnatural stillness, as though the endless night itself held its breath. Your gaze darted towards the trees again, scanning for any sign of movement. It took a moment, but then you saw it. Something shifting just beyond the veil of darkness. A silhouette, barely discernible against the backdrop of the night, clad entirely in black. His form blended seamlessly into the void, making it difficult to distinguish him from the surrounding shadows.

But then, the glint of something unnatural caught your attention. A brief flash, hidden beneath the shade of dark sunglasses. Glowing eyes. A deep, molten orange, burning like embers beneath the obscurity of his dark lenses. They were trained on you.

It’s him.

A slow, deliberate smile curled the edges of his lips as he remained still, his body half-shrouded in darkness. He was enjoying this. The way your shoulders tensed, the way your fingers clenched involuntarily against your lap. The way you knew he was there but couldn’t quite bring yourself to acknowledge it aloud. He relished every moment of your unease, drinking in your apprehension like a fine vintage wine.

A thought crossed your mind, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled past your lips in a hushed, almost teasing murmur: “He who must not be named is watching me.”

The second you said it, you wished you hadn’t. It was a joke. A nervous and accidental one. But the second it left your lips, the weight of it settled like chunks of ice in your stomach.

The fire crackled. The wind whispered through the trees. And yet, everything felt too still, too silent. You had startled yourself, as though speaking had only confirmed what was already true.

Feng Min and Nicolas Cage have heard you, their conversation stilling. You could feel their presence beside you, the quiet tremor of restrained amusement at the edges of their breathing. They understood the reference. But they also understood something else. That you weren’t laughing. That you were horrified by your own words.

Across the clearing, Wesker’s head tilted, his brows knitting together for the briefest moment. Then, his smile faltered, just slightly, just enough to see. As if something about your words gave him pause. As if, just for a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure.

And then he spoke. Low, assured, a quiet certainty in his voice that sent something cold spiraling through you.

“So, you do know who I am.”

Your stomach twisted.

No.

That’s not what you meant. But in his mind, you had just acknowledged him unprovoked. You had admitted his presence, spoken his name in a way that he had interpreted as something else entirely.

He had no idea what you were referencing. That the supposed mastermind, the ever-composed, all-knowing predator, had just unknowingly missed a pop culture reference. But you knew better. He wasn’t from the same world you and Nicolas were from. Feng’s, too. He didn’t know. But that didn’t matter, because he wasn’t questioning it.

The fire popped, embers spiraling into the darkness, and yet you felt no warmth. You looked away, forcing your breathing steady, forcing yourself to act as though you hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

But the weight of his gaze never left you.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the three survivors gathered around it. An hour had passed, but the eerie sensation of being watched still lingered in the air.

You tried to convince yourself that Wesker was gone. Or, at the very least, he had lost interest.

But deep down, you weren’t sure.

Feng Min and Nicolas Cage, who had remained largely quiet earlier, were now snickering amongst themselves, exchanging glances that made your stomach tighten with unease. It took you a moment to realize what they were whispering about, until Nicolas leaned forward dramatically, a hand gesturing wildly in the air.

“Now hold on a second,” he said, eyes wide with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Did you… Did you seriously call Wesker ‘He who must not be named’?”

Feng stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “Dude, I almost lost it when she said that.”

Your breath hitched.

Your stomach dropped.

You quickly glanced toward the treeline, your heart pounding in your chest. Surely, surely he wasn’t still…

But the weight of unseen eyes had never left. The feeling of being watched lingered.

Nicolas, completely unaware of your growing panic, grinned. “I mean, think about it! The guy’s all in black, the weird glowing eyes, the whole ‘I’m better than you’ attitude. He’s like if Voldemort and the Terminator had a blonde baby!” He laughed almost obnoxiously, running a hand through his hair. “And come on. What if he actually knew what you meant? What if he’s just out there, brooding, plotting his revenge while Googling ‘He who must not be named’ on an evil supercomputer.”

Feng nearly choked on laughter. “O. M. G., imagine him sitting through all eight movies.”

Nicolas gasped audibly, clutching his chest like he’d just uncovered the universe’s greatest mystery. “No, no, no. imagine him trying to read the books! Hunched over a desk, those cringy sunglasses on the tip of his nose, flipping through pages at superspeed!”

Feng snickered, her expression turning mischievous. “Also, did you hear what he said earlier? ‘So, you do know who I am.’” She deepened her voice, trying to mimic Wesker’s ominous tone.

Nicolas took it a step further, dramatically leaned forward and dropped his voice to a sultry, overly serious register. “Yes… it is I… the great and powerful Albert Wesker…” He draped a hand over his forehead like a tragic theater villain. “You may have heard of me… from ME, specifically!”

Feng doubled over laughing. “God, that was so melodramatic! Who talks like that?! He sounded like a villain from the 80s!”

You’d long since stiffened in absolute horror.

“That’s not funny,” you whispered, barely able to find your voice. The words felt small, fragile, barely audible over the crackling embers. You swallowed hard, scanning the surroundings yet again, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Why were they doing this? Why now? They didn’t understand how serious this was.

The night air seemed thicker, heavier, pressing against you like an unseen force. The trees swayed gently, rustling with the wind… But was it just the wind? Or something else lurking just beyond the fire’s dim glow?

Your skin prickled. The distant caw of a crow echoed through the trees, but it did little to mask the eerie silence that followed. It was that unnatural stillness again. The kind that told you something was wrong.

Feng wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “Relax. He’s probably long gone. It’s not like he’s actually sitting out there plotting revenge just because you made a pop culture joke.”

Nicolas smirked, shrugging. “Or maybe he is. Maybe he’s standing out there right now, arms crossed, calculating how best to smite us mere mortals for our insolence.” He shot you a playful look.

The flickering light from the embers illuminated their amused expressions, but your stomach twisted into knots. The heat of the fire should have been comforting, but instead, it felt suffocating now. Something wasn’t right.

A soft rustling in the undergrowth made you tense.

Your head snapped toward it. You strained your eyes, trying to make sense of the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. It was probably just one of the Entity’s crows, you told yourself. But the weight of unseen eyes had never left. The feeling of being watched clung to you, unwavering.

Your fingers curled into your lap. You wanted to tell them to stop joking, to lower their voices, to be quiet, but your throat felt tight. You could sense it. The shift in the air, the silent charge of something waiting, just beyond sight.

They didn’t realize he might still be there.

Might still be listening.

And he was…

Albert Wesker remained hidden in the darkness, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tense. He had intended to leave. He truly had. But something had kept him tethered to the shadows, watching from just beyond their pathetic little fire.

And now… this?

His gloved fingers twitched before curling into a slow, restrained fist. He wasn’t angry. Well, not entirely. If this had been simple disrespect, he would have dealt with it swiftly. A lesson. A warning. A demonstration of authority. A reminder of who and what they were dealing with.

But what truly gnawed at him, what unsettled him more than their weak attempt at mockery, was you.

The way your face had flushed, the way your shoulders tensed, the way you instinctively sought him out with your eyes. Searching for confirmation that he was still there, watching. That uncertainty, that fear; pure and unfiltered, was what kept you on edge. But that was the problem.

It was only fear.

Never the kind of heat he wanted you to feel for him.

His serpentine pupils dilated behind his sunglasses, body taut with something far more maddening than rage. Something deeper. More primal.

You didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

You had no idea.

And that ignorance… It was infuriating.

Wesker exhaled slowly, forcing himself to maintain composure, though the tension in his entire torso refused to fade. You, so oblivious, so naively terrified while he stood there in the darkness, his thoughts twisting into something sinful, something possessive. He could feel the frustration simmering under his skin, a restless energy coiling inside him like a predator that had been denied its hunt.

It would have been easier if you had genuinely teased him instead. Mocked him with the other two. Tested him. If there had been even a flicker of something beyond your terror. But no. You trembled for all the wrong reasons, recoiling from the very thing you should have surrendered to.

His fingers twitched again, aching with a need he hadn’t expected to feel so intensely. It wasn’t just about power, about making you understand your place. It was about something deeper, more carnal. It was the fact that your fear felt like rejection, and that alone made his hunger coil tighter, twisting into something he refused to acknowledge just yet.

How much longer would you look at him like that? How much longer would you see him as only a threat? A monster lurking in the dark? You were blind to what he could truly offer you. To what he could make you feel. To the safety net that he could offer you within the Realms in exchange.

A slow exhale left his lips, measured and controlled. But it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath his skin. His patience was thinning. The restraint he prided himself on felt fragile. He had all the time in the world, and yet, right now, he hated that he had to wait.

He flexed his fingers, forcing his mind back to the present.

He could easily make this stop. He could step forward now, letting the firelight illuminate his presence, his dominance. They would fall silent, eyes wide, breath hitching. Would you tremble at the sight of him, too? Would you find yourself unable to speak as his presence consumed the space between you? Would you understand, finally, that this was not at all a game?

He fantasized about the moment you would look at him and truly see. Not with fear, but with the awareness of what he could offer you and how he could make you feel. Your pulse quickening, your breath catching, your mind torn by something you wouldn’t dare to name.

The others would cower. He would see it in their eyes, the dawning realization that they had misstepped. The mockery would die in their throats as his gaze settled on you. And only you.

You would be the first to react. The first to try to mask your emotions, to pretend you hadn’t already been aware of his presence before they had ever begun laughing. But he had seen it. The way you kept scanning the treeline, the way you felt him before you ever truly saw him just a little over an hour ago.

The others were inconsequential. Their presence an afterthought, a small footnote in the story of you.

And yet, as he stepped back into the eternal night, a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Oh, he would make you understand. In time.

An electrical shiver ran down his spine. Raw energy pooling in his gut. It clawed at him, crackling inside his chest, a restless hunger that had long since stopped being about power alone.

He needed to touch you, soon.

Not just to correct this. Not just to remind you exactly who controlled your fate. But to prove something to both you and himself.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, something had unsettled him. Not the careless joke that had fallen from your lips, nor the laughter of those two fools that had followed. It wasn’t even the teasing.

It was the fact that you were afraid of him in the way that you were. That you still didn’t understand.

And that?

That was unacceptable.

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight #yandere #dbd #reader #reader insert #mastermind #albert wesker #resident evil

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yanderedbdimagines · 3 months ago

Text

Hello everyone!

I've been thinking about writing a short story featuring a yandere Trickster. This idea has been bouncing around in my mind for a while now and after receiving several requests that fit well with it, I’ve decided to create a small poll to gauge overal interest.

One thing I still need to consider is where to post the story if any of the three are chosen. I’m unsure if Tumblr is the best platform for it or if another site might be more suitable. If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them. Thank you in advance!

As for the stories itself. Each story has its up and downturns;

1) The first story starts off as a bit of a crack fic but gradually takes on a more serious tone as it progresses. Ji-Woon basically falls for a rather naive and innocent woman who basiclaly has a short attention span. It takes place outside of the Realm, diverging from the original storyline except for a few significant events that occurred after he met her. About 90% of the story focuses on the relationship between these two characters. Essentially, it doesn’t take place in the Fog, which may be a downside.

2) The second story revolves around Ji-Woon becoming obsessed with the reader, who is already in a relationship with Yun-Jin back in their timeline. Over time, Ji-Woon attempts to steal her away while they are stuck in the Fog. The story’s perspective is roughly 60% Ji-Woon and 40% Yun-Jin/Reader. The downside here is that it's split between two characters, and this may not be everyone's cup of tea.

3) The third story follows the reader traveling with an original killer character, trying to find their way out of the Fog while using a bus as their means of transport. Ji-Woon becomes obsessed with her resourcefulness. While it may sound unusual when summarized like this, I believe it offers valuable insights into how I personally interpret the Fog and the killer-survivor dynamics happening within, aiming to stay as true to the source material as possible. Around 80% of the story is focused on the relationship development between Ji-Woon and the reader. The potential downside here is that I use a OC, which may not be to everyone's taste, and the use of a bus.

All these stories could potentially have about 2 endings.

#dbd x reader #reader insert #yandere #ji woon hak #the trickster #question

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yanderedbdimagines · 3 months ago

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Yandere Oni who has sadistic and lustful desires towards an virgin unexperienced female reader?

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Interesting prospect! I bet it’d be the most frustrating thing he’d ever be confronted by! To have received the gift from the Entity to see glimpses into the reader’s past, learning how untouched she is, only to have his sudden bouts of affection thwarted! Obviously coming off too strong... As he always does...

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Warning!: Subtle hints of NSFW!

The Oni

The Fog wrapped around your legs like cold mist, thick and heavy, making it difficult to see anything beyond a few feet. You didn’t know how long you had been trapped in this strange and unforgiving place. All you knew was that escaping wasn’t an option, and surviving was the only goal. But even that had become uncertain ever since he started watching you. After he suddenly stopped trying to kill you. As if he had seen fragments of your past, shadows of thoughts and memories you never shared.

The Oni.

A massive, terrifying figure with powerful muscles and skin streaked with red, like war paint. His crimson mask concealed his face, making it impossible to read his expression. But his presence alone was enough to freeze the blood in your veins. He never attacked you anymore like he did the others. Instead, he lingered in the distance, always close enough to remind you that he was there.

At first, you thought he was just playing with his prey, enjoying the chase. But over time, things began to change.

Once, he caught you, pressing a clawed hand against your throat. His grip wasn’t crushing, but you could feel the deadly strength behind it. His claws grazed your skin, sharp enough to slice with the slightest pressure. But he didn’t hurt you. He only held you in place for a moment, his deep growl rumbling through his chest before he let go. His mask tilted, as if studying your reaction. Other times, he would hunt down the others first, leaving you for last. He never put you on the hook at all anymore. Never harmed you. He only stood there, breathing heavily, as though restraining something violent.

But you weren’t that naive.

You had seen what he was capable of. The sickening crunch of bones, the grotesque tearing of flesh. You've felt it long ago yourself, save for one method you were lucky enough never to experience. You had hidden and watched in horror as he grabbed an unfortunate survivor, forcing their mouth open before wrenching their tongue out. The gurgling screams, the convulsions of their body… It all replayed in your nightmares. No one was spared from his unforgiving wrath. No one except you.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

You weren’t special. You weren’t immune. You had no illusions that you would be the one to tame this beast. Whatever this was, whatever game he was playing… To you, it wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything human. It was a slow, suffocating form of control, a twisted patience that made your stomach churn. He was waiting, yes. But for what?

You weren’t completely clueless. You felt the tension whenever he got close, the way his grip lingered on your arm longer than necessary. But every time you flinched, every time you recoiled from his touch and found a breach in his defenses to ran away, you could feel the frustration in him. Like a predator waiting for its prey to tire, to surrender.

And the worst part?

He thought you would.

Every time you sensed his attention on you, you could sense it in part. His unspoken desires, barely held back. He never rushed, never forced you, but that patience was more terrifying than any physical threat.

He wanted you to fall for him on your own, to crave him just as much and as deeply as he craved you. To gain the privilege of being your first time.

But that would never happen.

You wouldn’t allow it.

You had seen his true nature, the monster beneath the mask. He could try to lure you in, try to convince you that you were different, but you knew better. He was a killer through and through, and whatever sick obsession he had with you wouldn’t change that. No matter how close he got, no matter how much he tried to invade your space, you would never give him what he wanted.

And once he’d realize that, once he saw that you would never be his, would he still spare you? Or would he rip you apart like all the others? If that day ever came, you doubted you would live to see the answer. You strongly believed that he'd pull you into the same violent cycle like all the others, unaware that he's already fallen to deeply to go back to that reality.

You were not being hunted.

You were being stalked.

You were being claimed.

And no matter what he believed, you would never allow that to happen.

#yandere #dbd #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #reader #reader insert #kazan yamaoka #the oni

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

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Ahh, uh, Jake Park and Trickster yandere over the same darling, if possible? Sorry to bother you-

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You’re not bothering me at all! No worries! I struggled a tiny bit with this one, but I hope it’s alright. I did make it a bit Trickster focused, though.

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Warning!: NSFW implications.

Jake Park Vs the Trickster

The Fog does strange things to people. Fear, desperation, obsession, hope… Twisted emotions fester in this eternal nightmare, where death is never the end and survival is never guaranteed. You’ve seen it time and time again, reflected in the weary, broken eyes of your fellow survivors. But with Jake, it has become different.

His protectiveness over you was once a quiet thing. A calming presence lingering just out of reach. At first, it was comforting. A guardian in the dark. Someone who understood that trust was fragile and fleeting in the Fog. A lifeline to something that still felt human.

But over time, his protective tendencies has become suffocating.

Jake watches you constantly. His sharp eyes tracking your every movement, scanning the others for any sign of someone getting too close. His presence is an unshakable shadow, always hovering just behind you, always ready to intervene. You try to brush it off. After all, you’ve seen him throw himself into danger for others before. But this? This is different.

It’s not just about survival anymore. Not with him. The way his gaze lingers on you isn’t the same as when he watches out for the others. There’s a weight behind it, something dark and unreadable. His lips press into a tight line when you speak to someone else for too long. His hands clench when another survivor so much as places a reassuring touch on your shoulder. And when you laugh, when someone else makes you laugh, his entire body tenses like a predator ready to strike.

You started to notice some other things as well. The way he positions himself between you and the others. The way he conveniently finds reasons to pull you away from conversations, away from the group, away from any potential threat he perceives. The way he lingers at the edges of the main camp, ensuring that no one gets too close for too long.

During trials you both occupy, Jake makes it his mission to keep you safe, even at the cost of his own life. He’ll sabotage hooks without any form of hesitation, throw himself between you and the killers, take hits meant for you without so much as a second thought. If you go down, you know he’ll be there, dragging you to safety, no matter the risk. And when the trial is over, his hands linger on you just a little too long, his grip on your arm just a little too tight, as if to reassure himself that you’re still here. Still with him.

But his protection feels more like a cage than a shield at this point in time.

Then there’s Ji-Woon Hak. A killer known as the Trickster. You do not understand how you have managed to capture his attention. Not truly. You are not special. You are not particularly defiant, nor notably fragile. You are not particularly breathtaking. In a sea of suffering, you are merely another bland face, another player in the grand game the Entity orchestrates. And yet, against all logic, against all probability, he has set his sights on you in a way you never thought possible.

If Jake’s obsession is a slow, creeping vine, the Trickster’s is a wildfire. Blazing, untamed and all-consuming. To him, you have slowly become his. A prize. His main source of entertainment. Something beautiful, but currently untouchable. A tantalizing track meant to be claimed and heard by him alone.

Unlike Jake’s quiet, brooding protectiveness, Ji-Woon makes no effort to hide his true intentions. For the most part, at least. His obsession is flamboyant. A twisted game wrapped in dazzling theatrics. Provocative yet draped in his own unique form of secrecy.

During trials, he still plays with his prey, tormenting the others, sending a storm of blades through the air just to hear them scream. He swings his bat with a flourish, delighting in the crack of bone and the strangled sound of pain as its golden blade bites into the flesh.

But you? His true performance is reserved for you alone.

He draws out the chase, savoring every second, every sound, keeping you just within reach but never quite taking you down. Not until the others are gone.

And when it’s just the two of you?

He doesn’t kill you. Not at all.

Instead, he cornered you, liquid gold alight with amusement, voice dripping with honeyed persuasion.

“You could make this so much easier for yourself, you know.” His voice was smooth, each accented word oozing with temptation as his fingers traced the edge of a neon blade, sending a shiver down your spine. He tilted his head, his smile widening into something darker and hungrier… Something far from innocent. “Just come with me. I’ll keep you happy and safe… I’ll give you everything he never will. Never dared to.” His almond-shaped eyes turned to where Jake once stood, his grin curling. “I’ve seen the way he's looking at you. I’ll treat you better than that, 공주님1. Everything for my favorite fan.”

Safe. Happy. Better. These words sound so twisted coming from him.

Of course, you know better than to believe him.

Every time, you found a way to slip away. Using a distraction, an opening, an inch of space to tear yourself free before he can truly sink his claws into you. This time was no different.

Jake’s frustration festers with every shared trial. Every time he sees the Trickster single you out, his manic laughter a blade sharper than the ones he throws, his golden eyes burning with something lustful and insatiable... And every time, Jake steps in.

He takes bigger risks, makes more reckless choices, throwing himself into the line of fire just to buy you time. Even if it means going head-to-head with the Trickster in a desperate bid to pull you from his grasp.

But Ji-Woon? He actually enjoyed it, at first.

Watching Jake scramble. Watching his futile attempts at keeping you safe.

The killer took his time. Toying with Jake the way a cat toyed with a wounded mouse. His blades landed just right. Just enough to slow him down, just enough to watch him bleed, just enough to hear him scream… But not enough to kill.

Because it was fun. Because it was satisfying enough. Because Jake still needs to learn his place.

In Ji-Woon’s mind, you don’t belong to Jake. You belong to him.

And such trials become more dangerous because of it. For Jake, you and anyone else who’d accidentally find themselves in the crossfire. The tension between them would be palpable. Thick enough to choke on.

And when the Trickster finally decided that Jake’s interference has gone on long enough, his patience ran dry. No more playing. No more games. A quick slit through a raw throat. Crimson blooming like a masterpiece painted in a single stroke. A pity, really. Pests always come back.

It’s time to end this. This time, he’ll take you. Back to his place. Where he has all the time in the Fog to convince you. To make you see reason.

And you notice. The last time… That was way too close. And deep in your gut, you know there won’t be another chance if he ever manages to corner you like before again.

Outside of trials, the killer’s presence has become undeniable.

Hiding was never Ji-Woon’s style, but lingering near the campfires? That wasn’t either. Not by a long shot. He never had a single reason to skulk in its shadows like many other killers. Not even with Yun-Jin Lee there. Not until you. Now, he doesn’t just visit. He makes sure you see him. He craves the attention, the thrill of being watched by your eyes. He needs you to see him. And ever since you came into the picture, he refuses to be ignored.

Ji-Woon lingers just beyond the campfire, lurking in the shadows of the Fog, watching your every move. His voice is a whisper in your ear, a song on the wind, his presence curling around you even when he isn’t within your line of sight.

The words are always smooth and playful.

You catch glimpses of him sometimes. Too close to the camp, fluorescent gold locked onto you with unwavering intensity.

And this time is no different. His colorful form is unmistakable within the treeline, a sharp contrast against the muted grays, browns and greens of the Fog-drenched Realm.

You’re alone near the edge of the main camp. Most of the others are currently trapped in a trial. The Entity is clearly hungry. For him, it’s the perfect moment.

“You know I’ll keep coming for you, right? Why not give in? It would only take a few steps towards me." Naturally, you ignore him. Something you’ve always done since the very beginning- the start of his apparent fixation on you.

And then, just when you think he’s done, his voice drops lower, like cashmere wrapping around barbed wires, his next words curling around you like a trap you don’t even realize you’ve stepped into.

“나는 당신을 원해요. 그리고 결국 당신은 내 것이 될 거예요.2”

You don’t understand the words.

But the way he says them… The slow, deliberate way they roll off his tongue, the almost teasing lilt in his voice… It sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze drinks in every flicker of confusion, every fleeting moment of unease that crosses your face as you steal a glance at him. He sees it, and revels in it.

A soft chuckle escapes him, satisfied and amused.

"Ah… you don’t know what I just said, do you?"

His grin stretches wider, drawing out the moment just to savor your reactions a little bit more.

"Good." He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a velvety murmur. "It’s more fun that way."

And as you glance at him a second time, perhaps hoping for a clue, perhaps against your better judgment, he gives you a slow, knowing wink.

Jake sees this too. He always does. Especially when the killer makes it so obvious. And his protectiveness over you reaches a boiling point.

You barely register the other survivor’s presence before his hand is on your wrist, pulling you back. Away from the shadows, away from Ji-Woon’s gaze, away from whatever silent promise the Trickster had just left lingering in the air.

Jake drags you toward the center of camp, his grip firm and unyielding. He moves you behind the many tents and run-down buildings, blocking the killer’s view like an unliving barrier.

The once-silent guardian has become something desperate. He tries to keep you away from the others as well, convinced that they can’t be trusted. That only he can keep you safe. The others have noticed, too. You’ve caught Dwight casting wary glances in Jake’s direction. You’ve seen Meg open her mouth like she wants to say something but ultimately decide against it. Even Claudette, who’s always quiet and thoughtful, has started giving you knowing looks, her eyes often set on the edge of the camp instead. They all see it. They all know.

And yet, no matter how hard Jake tries to protect you… No matter how many times you escape the Trickster’s grasp…

You know the inevitable is coming. Ji-Woon is watching you closely. And when he decides the time is right? There may not be a choice anymore.

Not for you. Not for Jake.

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1 = 공주님 = gongjunim = princess

2 = 나는 당신을 원해요. 그리고 결국 당신은 내 것이 될 거예요. = Naneun dangsin-eul wonhaeyo. geuligo gyeolgug dangsin-eun nae geos-i doel geoyeyo. = I want you. And in the end, you will be mine.

#dbd x reader #yandere #dead by daylight #reader insert #ji woon hak #the trickster #jake park

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

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Hi ! I love your work and I saw requests were open !! I was wondering if you could write something about Trickster going sentient, like reader is a DBD player and Trickster is their killer main and he's becoming sentient ! He starts acting yandere, getting mad when they buy another killer, talking to them through the game etc ? Pleaaase !!

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Thank you so much for appreciating my work!

And of course! Trickster has always been one of my favorite go-to killers as well. He still kind of is! He may not look terrifying at first glance, but what he’s capable of is what truly makes him scary to me. I tried to capture that feeling in this piece as well. Also, I believe his anger would actually be quite subtle, put potent in a way. He's called the Trickster for a reason after all. :P Especially towards his obsession.

PS: If any character in the game somehow became sentient, I’d throw my computer out immediately. Let alone a killer! I would totally freak out! xD

PSS: I don't know any Korean. If I messed it up by using translators wrong, I'm sorry in advance!

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Warning!: NSFW elements present!

The Trickster

Ji-Woon Hak had always been your go-to killer. Maybe it was the thrill of playing him. The way he laughed in insanity, coupled with that crazed giggle as he chased survivors down, and the sheer passion and arrogance laced through his Korean voice lines. His presence in the game simply felt different from the others. All the way down to his disturbingly good chase music, which is an excellent representation to his character.

And as such, he’s indeed a star. Effortlessly charming and dangerously captivating. Before the Entity took him, the crowds adored him for a reason, oblivious to the gleam in his golden eyes when the screams began behind closed doors, embedded into his music like secret, bloody confessions. They never recognized the torture hidden in his music, layered beneath the melody like a secret only he was twisted enough to understand.

Killing wasn’t just second nature to Ji-Woon. It was the purest form of his self-expression.

And to you, that was the real horror. Because unlike many others in the Entity’s grasp, he wasn’t a monster made. He was a monster born. Just another handsome face, smiling for the cameras, waving to his adoring fans. His darkest secrets not buried, but hidden in plain sight. Or more so within earshot. And no one ever dared to hear them until it was too late.

Maybe that was why, after months of playing Dead by Daylight, you never really strayed from him. You bought his skins, experimented with his builds, mastered his mechanics and the precise arc of his blades. He was your constant pick.

So at first, the strange things that eventually started to happen didn’t really bother you.

It began in the character selection screen. His model glitched once. A wide smirk suddenly etching itself onto his features. He turned around more often while you waited in lobby, flashing you that saucy wink of his. There was a slight lag when you hovered over another killer, an occasional stutter in his idle animations, a minor bug where his eyes tracked your cursor just a bit too smoothly.

You decided to ignored it.

Then the loading screens started taking longer. Freezing for a second too long when his face suddenly appeared, as if the game itself hesitated. And once, in the middle of a match, you left the desk for a moment to grab something from your drawer, letting the killer stand idle in a house in Springwood.

That was when you heard it, just as you returned. Faint. Threading between the distant caws of crows and the crackle of the Entity’s realm. A voice, which sounded silky and teasing. Familiar.

"Getting distracted, 자기야1?"

Your hand jerked on the mouse. It had to be a bug. A voice line triggering where it shouldn’t. You brushed it off as a trick of the mind.

Then, after a while, the disconnects started. Not often, but just enough to be annoying. Almost every time you played another killer, you’d be booted mid-match. No error message. Just a sudden return to the desktop. Whenever you played survivor, you almost always found yourself facing the Trickster, with a hint of a stutter as you tried to get your character away from him.

But when you played as Ji-Woon himself? Smooth. No lag. No crashes.

Still, you pushed it aside. Games had bugs. Maybe the servers were acting up. You refused to get paranoid over minor issues, or the fact that barely any other killer ever appeared when you played survivor. Perhaps you just had a weird streak of fate.

Then, one night after watching a video, you tabbed back into the game and noticed that his theme music in the killer selection menu was different. Slower and warped. Like it was played underwater. The Trickster was staring at you. Not in his usual cocky way, but with his head tilted slightly, his smile smaller than usual and his golden eyes literally locked onto yours. As if he were waiting for something.

The screen glitched once, then again, and everything returned to normal. But matches grew even more strange after that. Survivors went down faster, their screams more real and distorted and their models twitching unnaturally. It scared you.

If you played as a different killer, you’d get disconnected mid-match much faster. Yet whenever you switched back to Trickster, the game stabilized.

Then one night, you apparently made a mistake. Out of curiosity, you went up and purchased another killer. the Oni, which you considered to be a change of pace. The moment you returned to the killer selection screen, it flickered; static sprinkling the menu. Trickster’s model was there on the right, but his grin had vanished. His head tilted, his bright pupils narrowed into thin slits of displeasure.

Your hands trembled over the keyboard. “It’s just a game…” you murmured, shaking your head and blinking a few times. Then his voice, unlike any recorded line or in-game effect, but unmistakably real, echoed through your headset. Smooth and cold.

"Not to me, 공주님2."

Deep down, you knew this game was no longer the same. But you played it off as a lack of sleep this time around, shut down the PC, and took a well-earned break.

You naively came back a few hours later. You loaded into the Temple of Purgation, picking the Oni. You’d bought him for a reason, after all. But as the match began, the camera panned over the environment and, for a split second just before it faded to your POV, you saw him.

Not the Oni. The Trickster.

He stood at the very edge of the mists, just beyond the temple’s crumbling stone archways. The fog curled unnaturally around him, clinging to his figure like something alive, shifting and parting just enough to reveal the glow of his golden eyes. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t part of the match. He was just… watching.

The moment you took control, he was gone. Your fingers twitched over the keyboard. That wasn’t normal. Maybe a graphical glitch? Some weird overlap from previous matches? You shook it off and pressed forward.

At first, the game ran fine. You chased down survivors, activated your power, played the match as you normally would. But something felt off. A heaviness in the air, a strange, crawling sensation at the back of your neck. Then the game began to stutter. Not lag and neither was it a bug. The frames dragged deliberately, as if the game itself resisted your input. The Oni’s movements felt sluggish, like wading through thick and invisible muck.

And then came the laughter. Soft and breathy, slithering between the sounds of gameplay.

"Tch. This isn’t like you, 자기야1. You’d rather be that clunky old fossil than me? Where’s your sense of taste?" His accent runs heavy alongside the bite in his tone.

Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t an in-game line. Your eyes flicked to one of the killer’s perk icons. Oni’s nemesis perk, just as you’d chosen. For a brief moment, Ji-Woon’s smirking face in a similar art style replaced it before snapping back. Your stomach twisted as another hitch in the frame rate distorted the screen. Pixels twisting as if a presence bled into the code.

"You're ignoring me," he observed, his voice still smooth but tinged with bitter distaste.

The game audio warped beyond recognition, the chase music slowed to a sickening drag then sped up erratically, like a scratched CD skipping. The survivors’ animations twitched unnaturally. Every time you activated the killer’s skill, the deep, guttural roar sounded way off. Higher, smoother, mocking. Obviously replaced with the voice of a certain Killer. "Not so fun, huh?" You hear him huff in amusement, teasing you as he does.

Frustrated, you slammed the Escape key. Nothing happened. The match wasn’t over, but you couldn’t do this anymore. With shaky hands, you forced your PC off manually, the screen cutting to black. Your reflection stared back at you in the dark monitor with wide eyes reflecting unease. You ripped off your headset and exhaled hard. It was just a game, you told yourself. You even debated uninstalling it. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? It’s just a game.

So you didn’t play it for the rest of the night.

The next day, curiosity won out. You had planned to delete the game. To scrub it from your system and be done with whatever hellish events had occurred. But after you booted up your PC, a Steam pop-up appeared.

Your pulse quickened as you skimmed the message.

Dead by Daylight – Security Update

A large leak had been addressed. Some players had reported strange in-game activity. An exploit that allowed hackers to take control of matches, resulting in unusual interactions. The developers apologized for the inconvenience. As compensation, a DLC of your choice would be free upon logging in.

Your fingers hovered over the mouse. This had to be the reason. Just some script kiddies messing with the servers, triggering audio or animation glitches. You exhaled a sigh of relief and launched the game.

The menu loaded smoothly, the music creating a subtle backdrop as you navigated the interface. Your gaze shifted to the killer selection screen. Trickster stood in his usual spot after you’d selected him. His stance casual yet confident, the infamous bat balanced nonchalantly on his shoulder. He executed that distinct head tilt. The one accompanied by an unnecessarily seductive "ah,". At that moment, his animation seemed to hesitate, his eyes lingering on the screen a fraction longer than usual. The light caught his left earring, making it glint momentarily before falling back against his neck due to retaining the previous angle of his head. Then, just as smoothly, the bat returned to his side.

Despite the brief, unsettling pause, his expression remained unchanged. A confident smirk played across his lips when he moved to inspect his bat, his golden eyes glinting with sharp amusement, as if privy to a joke you hadn’t yet figured out. No flickering. No static. Everything appeared perfectly normal.

Your tense shoulders loosened slightly. Maybe you had imagined it all. The breach is fixed, after all. You claimed your free DLC, already planning to test out the desired killer and survivor later. But first… just one more match with the Trickster.

Your cursor hovered over the Play button for a second before you clicked. The match queued instantly. No lobby, no loading delay, no lag. Your gut twisted. As the screen transitioned, unease slithered down your spine. The game had loaded, but something was obviously wrong.

The usual environmental sounds; distant caws of crows, the occasional metallic groan of the Entity’s influence, were gone. You panned the first-person camera over the map. No survivors moved between cover. No crows startled into the air. No gens sparking in the distance. Just you. Alone.

Your eyes darted to the UI. The HUD was intact- your abilities, perks, and power displayed as they should be. And yet, there were no objectives. No unseen timer counting down. No signs of life. Just silence. A cold prickle crawled over your skin.

Then, a soft chuckle. Rich, amused, present. "Finally. Just us." Your breath hitched. The sound came through your headset. Close. Way too close.

The screen flickered. Your blood ran cold.

No…

You tried moving Trickster forward, pressing the left mouse button to swing through the empty air. He responded as normal. Smooth, precise, as if performing a well-rehearsed act. But there was nothing to do. No generators humming to life, no players fleeing, no exit gates. The map lay barren, stripped of its usual chaos. Each time you struck the environment in boredom, a mocking chuckle, sly and knowing, echoed in your ears.

Desperate, you opened the pause menu, but there was no option to leave the game. Your fingers trembled over the keyboard as you muttered, “What the hell is it this time?”

Then a soft laugh, closer and intimate, as though whispered from right beside you. "Aw, don’t look so spooked,공주님2. Isn’t this what you wanted? More time with me?"

Without warning, the camera shifted. Its movement not commanded by you, but as if pulled by an unseen hand. The perspective tilted down ever so slightly, as if the Trickster was studying himself.

No. As if he was studying you.

"You play me so often," his voice purred, smooth as silk and dripping with amusement. "Devoted, aren’t you? You never thought I’d actually notice, did you? Never thought I’d appreciate your little habits?" A chill crawled up your spine.

“This can’t be it. This isn’t real,” you whispered, almost pleading. “You are not sentient,” you insisted, but your voice wavered- thinning into uncertainty.

"Mmm, that's what you keep telling yourself," he replied, that familiar, teasing lilt threading through his tone. "A cute little parrot, endlessly repeating the same little song. 정말 웃기잖아, 자기야3. If only you repeated my name like that instead. I’m as real as I can get. " Your breathing grew shallow.

Then something shifted in the distance. A subtle, unnatural shadow moving where it shouldn’t be. You spun the camera up and to the side, heart hammering, but the map remained empty. Still, the sensation of being watched crawled over your skin. Your hands grew clammy as you gripped the mouse like a lifeline. You needed to leave. Now.

Alt + F4. Task Manager. Nothing worked. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your body braced for a potential scenario- the chase, the hunt, the moment his blades would sink into your flesh. You weren’t special. You were just another victim…

Right?

Then the screen flickered. A brief stutter, a pause. For a fraction of a second, the game froze, and when it stabilized, Trickster’s weapon was gone. He wasn’t on it anymore.

Your hands froze over the keyboard for a second, before you abruptly stood up and took a step back, already leaning down to forcibly shut down the computer. A hand suddenly shot towards you after it suddenly angled its way back onto the screen. Distinctively bloody as it reached for you. You gasped audibly as you almost fell backward… But the hand never breached the screen. It halted abruptly at the boundary, suspended between the digital world and your reality. Crimson droplets clung to its outstretched fingers as it quivered against an invisible barrier. For a fleeting moment, you caught a glimpse. A flash of yellow fabric and a hint of a naked, muscular chest splattered with blood. But the view was distorted, obscured by the in-game camera’s interference, as if the interface itself rejected his intrusion.

Then came a low murmur. A string of curses in Korean, rough and frustrated. Though you couldn’t make out every word, the anger in his tone was unmistakable, raw even, as he cursed the limits that kept him at bay. Almost immediately, the bitterness dissolved into his familiar, self-assured mockery before he slipped off the screen.

"이건 정말 불공평해요, 공주님4," he drawled, voice dripping with playful disdain. A mind game. It had to be it. "If only this screen wasn’t in the way. 당신은 아직 모르는 재밌는 것들을 놓치고 있습니다5."

The taunting words slithered through your headset. His crazed laughter, edged high with mischief and frustration, filled the silence afterwards.

In that moment, your heart pounded with a mixture of terror and panic. At the end of the day, the screen itself remains unchanged. A game paused on an empty map, the digital world eerily still. Yet Trickster’s presence still lingered at the edge of reality. You could sense it.

With eyes wide, you forcibly shut down the PC, yanking out every cable from the back of your computer screen and desktop afterwards. You vowed to never, ever play Dead by Daylight again. Not after everything you’d just experienced. After all, who knows what might have happened if he had truly breached his way into your room. You believe that he’d most definitely would have tortured you to death, unaware of his true intentions. You could only shiver in fear and disgust at the very thought of it.

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1 = 자기야 = jagiya = babe.

2 = 공주님 = gongjunim = princess

3 = 정말 웃기잖아, 자기야. = jeongmal usgijanh-a, jagiya.= It's so funny, babe.

4 = 이건 정말 불공평해요, 공주님 = igeon jeongmal bulgongpyeonghaeyo, gongjunim = This is so unfair, princess.

5 = 당신은 아직 모르는 재밌는 것들을 놓치고 있습니다. = Dangsin-eun ajig moleuneun jaemissneun geosdeul-eul nohchigo issseubnida. = You're missing out on fun things you don't know about yet.

#yandere #dbd #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #reader insert #the trickster #ji woon hak

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

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Can I get clown with his obsession trapped in a locker, Entity punishing him?

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Of course! I'm low-key surprised that it's not one, but two of these requests I have received about this over the months. Of course, I'll condense it in one post.

I hope you'll enjoy what I have written here!

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The Clown

The locker smelled mostly like blood. Not yours, thankfully. But the scent of someone who had been here before lingered. Iron-tinged and sharp in your nose. You didn't have time to dwell on it. Not with your heart hammering so loud you swore it would give you away.

He was out there. Somewhere upon the grounds of Father Campbell’s Chapel. His home turf.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, muffling your breath as heavy footsteps dragged across the dirt outside. The Clown. The stench of chloroform and chemical-laced musk thickened the air, seeping through the locker’s slits. You fought the urge to gag. That smell was the only warning you often got when he was too close for your comfort.

He had been after you the entire match. No matter where you ran, no matter how well you looped, he followed with heavy strides. A force of morbid perseverance, chuckling under his breath, muttering to himself as he lobbed bottles of his noxious afterpiece tonic in your direction. The others had tried to take the heat off you, but he never chased them for long. He always circled his way back to you once you accidentally found yourself in his line of sight again.

You are the only one left in the trial. And now, he was right outside.

The steps stopped. Silence. Then-

“C’mon, sweetheart,” his voice drawled, rumbling with sickly amusement. “I know you’re in there.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your back against the wooden frame. If you didn’t move, if you didn’t breathe too loud, maybe he would just give up and leave you alone.

You didn't notice the pull of the door as he tried to open it normally.

A sudden, violent bang rattled the locker as he slammed his meaty fist against the door in question. You bit down a yelp as body went rigid. Your pulse hammered so hard you thought you’d pass out.

You braced yourself for the inevitable. Any second now, he would fling the door open and drag you out. You had seen him do it to others. Yank them by the scruff of their neck like ragdolls, throw them over his shoulder while they kicked and screamed. He was relentless. A force of nature when he truly wanted to be.

But then… nothing happened.

Click.

Nothing.

The door barely budged. You heard the faintest shuffle, a confused grunt followed by a raspy cough, then the squeal of metal as he tried yet again. Click.

Still locked.

“…Huh.” He huffed.

A pause. You dared to crack your eyes open. What the hell was going on?

The Clown’s breathing had changed; still raspy, still deep, but more frustrated now. Another yank. Click. A guttural and irritated growl rumbled from his throat.

“Ohh, you’re a tricky one,” he mused, voice darkening. “What kinda game you playin’, huh?”

You weren’t playing anything. You were just as confused as he was.

A sharp, metallic screech sent a shiver down your spine as he jammed something into the lock. His butterfly knife perhaps? You weren’t absolutely sure of it, but whatever it was, it wasn't working. The door refused to give in. You heard his breath quicken, irritation boiling over into something more manic.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his tone turning almost desperate. “Don’t you dare keep me from what’s mine. Please.” There was something unsettling about the way he said it, a tinge of disbelief hiding beneath the desperation. He wasn’t just angry. He was rattled and confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Entity had never denied him before. Not once. The bond he had with it was strong. It gave him power, sharpened his instincts, give him the ability to keep up and play around with his prey. But now? Now it was standing in his way, blocking him from what he was sure should be his.

A forceful kick shook the entire locker. Then another. The wood groaned under the abuse, but it held. It wasn’t supposed to be locked. Lockers in the trials never were. But it was as if something was holding it in place. Then it clicked for you, too. The Entity. It had to be.

"You gotta be kiddin’ me. That’s what’s popped the balloon?" You heard him mutter. What...?

He tried again, harder this time. The locker’s door shook, but stayed shut.

You let out the smallest, shakiest breath.

The Clown growled, his patience fraying at the edges of his mind. "C'mon, you piece of-"

He slammed his fist against the door so violently that the entire locker shuddered. You winced, curling into yourself as if that would make you disappear entirely.

A sudden pulse of energy surged through the air, and you felt it before you saw it.

The trial grounds flickered. The edges of your vision darkened, shadows curling inward like grasping fingers. The air thickened, pressing down on you. Then, a sensation similar to falling.

Something about that made the killer snap. A gritty, rage-filled roar tore from his throat, his fist slamming against the locker door so hard you thought it might splinter. But it still didn’t open.

The world warped.

And then you were somewhere else entirely.

The crackling of the campfire greeted your ears, the warm glow bathing your skin in flickering light. You stumbled forward, your legs weak and your breath coming in ragged gasps. Some of your fellow survivors sat nearby, their faces shifting from exhaustion to surprise as they took in your sudden arrival.

"Holy shit," Meg muttered, standing up from her spot near her tent. "You just… Where the hell did you come from?"

You couldn’t answer. Your mind was still catching up with what had just happened. One moment, you had been trapped in that locker, waiting for your untimely kidnapping death. The next, the Entity had intervened.

It had saved you, for a reason that yet escaped you.

Across the campfire, Claudette gave you a once-over, concern etched into her features. "Are you okay? You look shaken."

You let out a shaky laugh, which confirms her deduction. "Yeah, I think I am okay."

You turned your head slightly, glancing beyond the campfire’s light, half-expecting to see him lurking in the shadows, like he sometimes seems to do. But he wasn’t here. He was somewhere out there. Maybe far away from the main camp. And you…

You were free. Even if it’s just for a moment longer before the next trial would come to be.

And somewhere, back on the grounds of Father Campbell’s Chapel, you imagined the Clown standing there, trembling in rage. Realizing his prize had been taken from him.

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight #dbd #yandere #reader #the clown #kenneth chase #jeffrey hawk

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

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Oh wow, hey boo! 🌸☺️❤️ what a lovely surprise, It’s been a while. how you doing? How’s life? Hope it’s been delightful and treating you nice. Wasn’t expecting your post to pop up on my birthday, it’s like a gift and I am grateful and happy to see you again. Anyways, just wanted to say hello, I missed you and your writings.

Take care darling ✨

Hello! :D

I'm doing good! Thank you for asking. Life's been a bit hectic at this end, but I'm doing well.

And how funny that I've been posting on your birthday of all days! I'm happy to hear that I've made your day a little bit better because of that! :D

Do take care as well! You've made my own day by writing me this lovely message!

#Reaction

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

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May I request some hcs for Jake and Philip fighting over their crush who's a loner but like is very altruistic? 👉👈

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But of course! I hope you’ll like what I have written here.

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Jake Park Vs the Wraith

# Despite being a loner, your kind nature drives you to risk everything for others during trials. Whether it’s unhooking a teammate under the Killer’s eye, healing someone in the middle of a chase, or taking a hit to ensure someone else escapes, you put yourself in danger without hesitation. This selflessness, combined with your preference for solitude, makes you irresistible to both Jake and the Wraith. Though their affections manifest differently from each other.

# Jake respects your independence and preference for solitude because it mirrors his own lifestyle. When he can, he’ll still try to bond with you by helping you with practical tasks, such as cooking for the other survivors without ever pushing you for deeper interactions.

# Philip’s fixation is far darker and more consuming. He sees you as a beacon of purity in the Entity’s realm, something precious and worth preserving. He views your habits as something that should be protected, and he’ll stop at nothing to keep you safe. Even if that means eliminating everyone else. During trials, he’s a constant presence in the Fog, albeit cloaked and unseen. If another Survivor gets too close, Philip ensures they don’t make it out alive during a trial. When he catches you, he’s oddly gentle, as if reluctant to hurt you. But his obsession ensures he won’t let you go easily at all. It's that you managed to escape him during these moments each and every time so far before he could drag you somewhere.

# The Entity’s trials become a battleground whenever they cross paths, and with you present in the trial as well. Jake is relentless in his efforts to keep you out of the Wraith’s grasp, often taking unnecessary risks to save you. He throws himself in front of hits, pulls you off hooks at the last second, and deliberately taunts Philip to draw his attention away from you. His protectiveness grows more erratic as he notices Philip’s unusual behavior. Jake can’t stand the way the Wraith lingers near you during chases. It gnaws at him, feeding his jealousy and desperation.

# Philip, meanwhile, grows increasingly territorial. While he doesn’t attack you outright, he becomes ruthless toward anyone else in the trial. Other Survivors are swiftly hunted down and eliminated, leaving only you and Jake. He views Jake as a threat, not just as a Survivor but as someone vying for your attention. His methods become more calculated and cruel, toying with Jake by leading him into dead zones or corners where escape is impossible. Then, death. An example.

# Caught in the middle, you’re left to navigate their obsessive behaviors while trying to keep yourself mostly out of the Wraith’s grasp. Jake’s protectiveness is suffocating at times. He insists on staying by your side, even when it often puts you both in danger. Philip’s fixation is equally unnerving, as his mercy toward you feels more like some sort of a trap than a kindness. The tension between them reaches a breaking point when Jake finally confronts Philip during a trial, screaming at him to “stay away” from you. He receives a harsh, feral growl in response. This doesn’t bode well for Jake, but you’re forced to leave the scene in order to escape either through the hatch, or through one of the gates. Whether Jake dies or not, he’ll always come back to the camp.

# After such a trial, the rivalry doesn’t end. At all. Jake becomes even more vigilant, watching over you in the camp, ensuring no one else gets too close. He begins to isolate you, convinced that he’s the only one who can truly keep you safe. To prove to you that he can. Philip, on the other hand, remains a shadow in the Fog, his presence lingering like a dark promise at the edges of the campfire. Unseen, but ever present. Like a lingering ghost. Ensuring that you’ll never escape his attention, trapping you in a cycle of trials where his tendencies continue to escalate until the killer finally has you where he wants you to be.

#dbd x reader #yandere #dead by daylight #dbd #reader insert #the wraith #philip ojomo #jake park

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

Note

Can I get a yandere dwight fic please? One where the reader is returning to the campfire after being in a rlly bad trial because the killer was tunneling them. Love your blog and stay safe

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Of course! And ooooooff that feeling of a bad trial when a killer has it out for you. D:

Thank you for liking my blog, and I hope you’re doing well, too! Even if this request is quite old now.

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Dwight Fairfield

The way you slouched, coupled with the sluggish weight behind each step… He didn’t even need to see your face to know you had just come out of a rough and gruesome trial.

Your shoulders sagged with exhaustion, your steps slow as you barely register the soft rustle of grass beneath your feet; trudging towards the campfire to seek warmth and companionship.

The trial had completely drained you. Hollowed you out, every moment still clawing at the edges of your mind. Desperate, ear-piercing screams. The pounding of your own panicked heart, deafening in your skull. The chase, stretching on for an eternity until your legs could no longer carry you. And then, the worst of it after you got caught, the sickening force as the hook pierced through flesh, pushing past bone, anchoring you in place like a broken, discarded toy.

The Entity’s presence had lingered afterward, a coiling vice around your soul and feeding upon it. You could still feel its cold fingers in the deepest crevices of your mind. You were lucky, perhaps, that death in this place was fleeting. The absolute agony of it dissolving into something distant when the trial ended, only for the cycle to begin anew in the near future.

Yet it always left some sort of a mark, even when your body was fully restored. It wasn’t scars that lingered, but the way the Fog gnawed at something deeper. Your resolve. Your will. Perhaps even your very sense of self.

As you approached, the familiar, slightly hunched figure of Dwight Fairfield caught your eye. He sat alone this time, fidgeting with his hands, rubbing his fingers together like he was trying to shake off a lingering nervous energy. The firelight flickered over his glasses, momentarily obscuring his gaze until his eyes locked onto you.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle but laced with a thick layer of worry.

You nodded weakly, not trusting yourself to speak. The last thing you wanted was to burden him with your troubles. He had enough of his own.

Dwight’s expression darkened for a split second, his jaw tensing as his fingers reached and picked at his watch instead. Then, just as quickly, the softness returned- the concern and the understanding. But there was something else beneath it too. An edge you couldn’t quite place.

"I can tell you’re not," he mumbled, pushing himself up from the log with an awkward shuffle, making space for you to sit down next to him.

“Were they tunneling you?” His voice was quieter now, almost too calm, but there was an unmistakable tingle lurking beneath it. He didn’t even need to ask. He already knew which killer had done this to you. To have brought you into the state you are in now.

You hesitated, then gave him a small nod.

Dwight inhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching before he raked a hand through his messy black hair. His mouth pressed into a thin line. You had known him long enough to recognize that flicker of frustration. Not at you. Never at you, but at the situation. His mind was already working, spiraling, latching onto something unseen. The unfairness of it all.

"That's… not right," he muttered under his breath. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned pale.

You shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen Dwight react like this. He always cared. Too much. More than he should. He had a tendency to take on burdens that weren’t his own, to step into the role of leader. Even when he was afraid. But with you, it was different.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, shifting awkwardly. "I. Uh, I mean, I know there's not much I can do, but if you need to talk or, I don’t know, just sit here for a while… that’s okay too."

Classic Dwight. Uncertain, a little nervous, but always trying. Always wanting to help. Even if his version of help sometimes felt like it bordered on something uncanny.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and sat down beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of the fire but not too close to invade his space.

Dwight didn’t push for more and didn’t force you to talk. He just sat there, fidgeting with the frayed hem of his tie this time, his knee bouncing slightly with the pent-up energy he couldn’t quite shake. Yet his presence was still a quiet comfort to you. His gaze flickered to you every so often, unreadable behind his glasses, but he didn’t say anything else.

Survival was never assured in the Fog, but sometimes, having someone who cared was enough to make it all a little bit more bearable.

#dbd #yandere #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #reader insert #dwight fairfield

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

Note

I came to your blog and I already love it !!! ^^. So I wanted to ask if you could maybe do another Yandere Legion with each one of them. As a breakup scenario (where the reader wants to break up but they don't allow it to say so). I just didn't find any ^^

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Thank you kindly for liking my blog! :D That makes me very happy to hear. I have the feeling each member of the Legion can react very differently in a situation as this one, and each using a different tactic to try and force you to change your mind. On the long term perspective too as I did with Frank.

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Warning!: NSFW elements are present!

Frank Morrison

Frank squares his jaw, his eyes reflecting anything but an emotion that could be considered understanding.

“Why?”

His voice is sharp and clipped. Like a blade poised at your throat. There’s no confusion in his tone, no real effort to understand. Just challenge.

You swallow hard, already bracing for the tantrum that’s most likely about to come.

“Because you’re a killer.”

For a moment, there’s silence. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his gaze, but then, an exhale. A slow, measured breath before his lips curl into a smirk. He shakes his head, amusement flashing in his expression, like you just said something ridiculous.

Like you just said the dumbest thing in the universe.

Then, Frank scoffs. A dry, humorless laugh follows as he tilts his head, sizing you up with that same cocky smirk that always comes right before things spiral.

“Well, no shit.” His tone is casual, but there’s tension coiling beneath it, tight and unreadable. His fingers flex, and then... “Didn’t hear you complaining about that when I fucked you just over a little while ago.”

Your stomach tightens. And he sees it.

Oh, he sees it.

His gaze sharpens, watching for the flicker of hesitation, the telltale signs of doubt. He expected you to get angry, to lash out. To give him something he can work with. Because anger? He can handle. Anger is something that he can twist.

Because if you fight, he might as well have won.

If you fight, you both fall into the same rhythm, the same cycle. Where the arguments blur into something heated- sexual. Something he can use to remind you exactly why you need him. How much he needs you. Where he can strip away all your reasons with the weight of his body, the press of his hands, the way he whispers between gritted teeth that you’re fucking his and always will be.

And after that?

He always finds a way to make you see things his way again.

So, he pushes.

“You knew what I was from the start,” he murmurs, stepping forward. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in. To remind you how easily he can make you forget.

“You’re really gonna pull the morality card now? After everything?” His voice dips lower, rougher. “No one else is gonna love you the way I do, babe. No one’s gonna understand you the way I do. And you damn well know it.”

That’s the hook.

He’s said it before, but this time, it doesn't sink in like it used to.

Because this time, you see it.

How many times have you been here before? How many times has he dangled his love like a chain around your throat, tugging it tight whenever you start pulling away?

You exhale shakily, shaking your head. His fingers twitch again, his control fraying at the edges, but he holds back. Barely.

“That’s not love, Frank.”

A crack. Just for a second. A flicker of something beneath the smirk, something vulnerable, something raw. Then it’s gone.

His lips curl tighter, his jaw flexing before he exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before readjusting his hoodie.

“Fuck. You’re fucking serious.”

You don’t answer.

His jaw clenches. His whole body seems to go rigid, and you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it pins you in place.

This is the moment. The moment where he could snap. Where the mask could slip and he’d decide, right here and now, that if you won’t stay willingly, he’ll make you.

You brace yourself for it. For the anger. For his possessive touch.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, he takes a step back. He's letting you go.

Not because he’s given up.

It’s because he knows... He knows that you’ll come crawling back to him. That you’ll realize, sooner or later, that there’s no one else in this realm who can hold you like he does. That the realms outside of him are cold, cruel and unbearable.

That you need him.

“Fine.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but his eyes stay locked on you, dark and keenly aware. “Go ahead. Walk away.”

He tilts his head slightly away from you, watching you closely.

“But you’ll be back by my side soon enough.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

And if he has to chase you to the ends of the Entity’s realms to make it so…

So be it. Because in his mind, it’s far from over.

Joey

Joey's fingers clamp down on your arm, stopping you mid-step as you try to turn away. His grip is firm. There’s no room for escape. Not with the strength he's possessed ever since he was taken by the Fog.

“You can’t do this,” he growls, his voice sharp with a raw intensity you haven’t heard before. “Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through to make this work.”

His chest rises and falls with sharp breaths, his eyes wide, wild and frantic. There’s an edge to his voice now, which slashes through the air like a jagged knife, something that makes your stomach twist in warning. His pulse quickens, his heartbeat thundering in his chest.

You try to pull away, but his hand doesn’t loosen, doesn’t budge. “You think you can just walk away from me? From us? After everything?” His voice cracks, a mixture of frustration and something else that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Joey steps forward, closing the space between you. The Entity’s realms are vast and endless, yet right now, it feels suffocating.

“You think this is just some game?” His words are laced with venom now, his tone harsh. He chuckles bitterly when you don’t respond to his question, but there’s no humor in it. “We made this work. You know we did. You felt it, too.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning. Too intense. His gaze flickers between your face and your lips before snapping back up, like he’s daring you to deny it.

Another step forward, and you can feel his breath on your skin. There’s a visible madness in his gaze now. Familiar, but more intense and dangerous than you can remember. You know that look. It’s the same look he gets before he’s about to push everything too far. That dark, feral hunger that seeps in when his obsession drowns out reason.

“We’re perfect together. You know we are. No one else gets you the way I do. No one else can love you like I can,” he insists, his voice low, almost pleading.

The words are like a punch to your gut, and you flinch, pulling your arm as best you can. But Joey’s hand tightens with bruising pressure, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second.

“No one else understands you. No one else will fight for you like I will.” He hisses, his teeth gritted, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “You’re mine. You belong to me. You’re mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” He's crumbling apart. You see the desperation, the panic. He’s not just angry. He’s terrified. Terrified that if you leave, you won’t come back. Terrified that the worlds outside the Entity will pull you away from him forever.

“You can’t leave me, not like this.” His tone is low, almost a growl. “I won’t let you.”

The grip on your arm is crushing now. His hand feels like a vice, his nails pressing into your skin, almost drawing blood. But he doesn’t care. He just wants to keep you close. He doesn’t care about your freedom, doesn’t care about your space. He only cares about you.

His voice softens for a moment, almost tender, but it’s still laced with that possessive, obsessive need. “You’re the only thing that matters. You know I can’t be without you. Please. Don’t do this to me.” His gaze flickers, the rage fighting with the desperation. He’s losing control, and he knows it.

You take a step back. A weak attempt at distancing yourself from him.

He easily follows, closing the gap in a single, bigger stride, his body pressing close enough that you feel the heat of him seeping through his clothes. His breath is hot against your ear, uneven now, like he’s barely keeping himself together.

“I’m not letting you go. You’re not leaving me.” His voice is sharp and final, the edge of a command woven into it. “You think you can get away from me? In this place? With nowhere to go?”

Your heart races, and for a second, you feel suffocated. There’s no way out. Not from him, not from the pull he has over you.

He smiles, but it’s not kind. It’s a dark, knowing smile, full of self-satisfaction. “I won’t let you go. You’ll come back if you manage to leave me. You always come back. You need me.” It’s the truth, as far as he’s concerned.

His eyes gleam with a delusional light, as if he’s certain of your return. And in the pit of your stomach, you feel the unease settle in.

“You can’t escape this,” His lips move, just barely, brushing against your jaw as he whispers, “I’ll make sure of it.”

You try to jerk your arm back again, but it’s like being cuffed to concrete at this point. “You’re mine.” he repeats. “No survivor is ever going to love you the way I do. None of them will ever understand you.” And then, before you can react, his lips are on yours.

Brief. Unrelenting. Not a kiss. Not really. It’s more like a claim. A reassurance.

When he pulls back, his breath is still warm against your skin, his grip still locked around you like a promise he’ll never let break.

“I’m the only one who does, and always will.”

And with that final, chilling declaration, you know; he’s not letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Julie

Julie presses the back of her hand against her nose, as if that alone could smother the frustration flickering across her features. Her breath comes in slow, deep and controlled. When she finally meets your gaze again, her expression is calm and her voice steady.

"We made this work for so long. Why are you trying to throw it away now?"

There’s no anger in her tone. Only quiet disappointment, something that tugs at the edges of your chest despite everything.

You hesitate.

She notices.

She tilts her head slightly, waiting, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you second-guess yourself.

"Because the other survivors are starting to suspect me," you finally say, voice lower than you intended. "Think about it. If you were one of us, wouldn’t it seem at least a little strange? A certain survivor slipping away at odd times, more often than the rest, despite killers lurking beyond the campfire’s light?"

You shake your head. "How long before they start asking real questions? Before they may turn on me?"

Julie exhales through her nose, her fingers flexing for just a second before she releases them, smoothing her palms over her jeans.

"Me and the rest can protect you from them," she says. There’s certainty in her voice, a confidence that makes it sound almost silly to be worried. "You know that, right?"

Your frown deepens.

"That’s not the point. I don’t-"

"Maybe there’s an even better solution," she interrupts smoothly.

You narrow your eyes. "And what’s that?"

Julie’s lips part in a small, knowing smile. It’s soft, reassuring. But there’s something behind it. Calculated, which makes the air feel just a bit heavier.

"Stop being a survivor."

Your stomach drops.

"But-“

"You don’t have to become a killer," she continues, as if she hadn’t just shattered your reality in a single breath. "Not if you don’t want to. But there are other ways you can help. You could stay at the resort with me. Live with me there, away from all the trials and all the danger."

She inches closer, voice quieter now, persuasive, patient. "It’ll be like you never even left the survivor camp. I’ll make sure the others accept you. I’ll talk to Frank. I’ll talk to Susie and Joey. You know they trust me. That we are one."

You feel like you should argue, should push back, but her words are flowing around you like sweet milk, smoothing over the sharp edges of your doubt.

Because she sounds so reasonable.

Because she always knows exactly what to say to make you reconsider.

"Julie." You take a slow breath. "That’s not normal. You know that, right?"

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head slightly. "Not normal?" Her lips part into something almost amused. "You’re saying that like anything about these realms has ever been normal."

She reaches out, her fingers grazing your wrist. Not gripping. Just a gentle touch.

"Think about it, babe," she murmurs, voice dipping into something softer, dangerously close to affection. "What do you really have left with them?"

Her fingers trace lightly up your forearm, her touch feather light, almost absentminded, like she isn’t trying to persuade you, like she isn’t watching every reaction on your face with laser focus.

"They’re already suspicious of you. You know that. It’s only a matter of time before they push you out, before they stop trusting you completely."

She shifts slightly, her thumb smoothing over your pulse.

"But me?" Her smile widens. "I’ll never turn on you. Not like they will."

There’s a promise in her words, one that sounds so sweet, so tempting. A future with her, safe, far from the trials, far from the fear of being hunted every single moment.

But your gut twists.

"You want me to leave everything behind? For you?"

Julie blinks at you, then lets out a soft, almost pitying scrape of her voice. "I’m not making you do anything. I’m giving you a choice. The smartest choice you’ll ever make."

Her eyes darken slightly, her fingers pressing just a little bit firmer against your skin. But not too firm, as it’s her attempt to an act of comfort.

"One that’s going to save you from any more harm."

Susie

She’s trembling.

You can’t tell if it’s from anger, shock, or some toxic mixture of both. Her wide eyes bore into you. Unblinking and unreadable. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, like she’s struggling just to keep herself grounded.

Her hands twitch at her sides. Like she can’t decide whether to grab you or brace herself before she completely falls apart.

Then, a giggle. Soft. Breathless. Almost… wrong.

"You're joking."

The words slip out in a whisper, followed by another quiet laugh- fragile, forced, like she’s trying to convince herself this is all just some stupid joke.

The dim light catches the metallic glint of her braces when she grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

You don’t answer.

Her smile twitches. The trembling gets worse.

"You are joking, right?"

There’s something off in her voice now, cracking at the seams. You hear it in the way her breath hitches, in the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie, gripping it so tight you can practically hear the material strain under the pressure.

You swallow hard.

"Susie… I-"

She lunges.

Her hands grasp your shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists as she presses herself closer. Her breath is coming out in quick, frantic puffs. Her wide, dilated eyes bore into yours, wavering somewhere between devastation and blind, desperate hope.

"You don’t mean that."

Her voice is higher now, almost childlike in its insistence.

"You love me. You said you love me. You wouldn’t leave me."

Your pulse jumps. You take a step back, but she clings to you, her fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes. Her knuckles go pale from how tightly she’s holding on.

"You’re just confused," she whispers, voice thinning. "That’s all. You’re saying things you don’t mean. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe those stupid Survivors put weird ideas in your head." She laughs again. Short and hiccupy. It’s not right.

"It’s okay! It’s okay! I can fix it. You just have to tell me what I need to change."

Her fingers trail up, shaking hands cupping your face. Her touch is almost gentle, except for the tremor in her fingertips, the erratic way her breathing stutters in her throat. Her expression shifts. Unstable laughter fading into a sickly sweet lilt of the voice.

"I won’t let you forget how much I actually love you."

Her thumbs brush over your cheeks in slow, feather light strokes- affectionate, even. But her body is still trembling, her breath still uneven.

Then, her grip tightens. Her nails almost bite into your skin, enough to send a prickle of discomfort through you. Her pupils narrow.

A sharp edge slices through whatever fragile calm she had been trying to hold onto.

"You can’t leave me until I have." The words are flat.

The shift is instant. One moment, she’s pleading. The next, she’s something else entirely. She’s swinging in a way you’ve never seen her do before.

"No, no, no, no, no," she mutters under her breath like a broken record, her entire frame vibrating with unchecked emotion. "You cannot leave me."

Then, she shoves you. Hard. An easy feat due to the Entity’s gift. One given to every killer.

Your back collides with the nearest surface, knocking the air from your lungs. You barely have a second to recover before she’s on you again, staring at you.

Her eyes are too wide, pupils swallowing what little color remains. Her pink-dyed strands of hair are messy, sticking to her damp forehead, clinging to the edges of her hoodie like static. The sleeves hang loose around her wrists, but her fingers twitch at the cuffs; grasping, flexing, restless.

"Why are you doing this to me?!"

Her voice cracks, raw and piercing.

Her nails scrape against your shoulders. Digging in just enough to make you flinch.

"You don’t get it, do you?!" she chokes out, breath hitching, face twisting. "You don’t get how much I love you! How much I need you!"

She’s unraveling, falling deeper into something dangerous, something you can’t pull her out of anymore.

"I gave you everything! And there’s still so much left to give!" Her voice wavers, a tremor shaking through her frame. She’s not making any sense…

Then, suddenly, her hands rip away from you. Instead, she tangles them into her pink hair, clutching at the strands, her body trembling as she sucks in sharp, stuttering breaths.

Like she’s physically trying to hold herself together.

Her chest rises and falls too quickly, her hoodie slipping slightly from her shoulder, revealing a faint hickey, old and fading, one of many. Her fingers tighten in her hair.

Then, slowly. Too slowly. She lifts her head.

And she smiles.

Not her usual shy, uncertain smile.

This one is different.

"You’re funny."

Her voice is sweet again. Sing-song and all. It makes your skin crawl.

She takes a slow step forward. Calculated. Amused.

"You really think you can break up with me?"

A giggle bubbles up, soft and giddy.

"That’s cute, babe. Really cute."

Her fingers ghost up your arm. Barely a touch, featherlight.

But the finality in her voice makes your stomach twist.

"We are a couple. I won’t let you break us apart."

She’s still trembling from the emotional whiplash, but her grip is steady when she reaches for your wrist, fingers curling around it with deceptive gentleness.

"We belong together."

A hum, followed by the tilt of her head.

"And I’ll make sure you never forget that again."

She presses closer.

Her breath ghosts over your skin.

"Because if you do?"

Her lips barely brush against yours as she breathes out the next words, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I’ll make sure to remind you why you fell for me in the first place."

#yandere #dbd #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #reader insert #the legion #frank morrison #julie kostenko #susie lavoie #joey

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yanderedbdimagines · 4 months ago

Note

I know this is a bit dark but can we have two scenarios for Hillbilly and Bubba where they fal in love instantly with their female darling who just came to visit shortly somewhere in their neighborhood only to watch from afar for reasons I leave to you before they were both taken by the fog after they snap in their storys in some way?

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Hello. I am back again, even for a short bit.

I ended up making it a bit angsty though, since I left the ending so open if the obsession was taken by the fog somehow as well or not. I leave that thought open to you and the other readers.

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Warning!: Mentions of gore and the like! NSFW.

The Cannibal

The Texan sky blazed with a fierce burnt-orange as the sun set, casting a warm glow over the vast landscape surrounding the Sawyer's home. Although the searing heat had subsided slightly, it was still overwhelming for those unaccustomed to such sweltering temperatures.

Amid the familiar heat, one large, imposing figure waddled anxiously throughout the house. This man could only be known as Bubba Sawyer, his inner fretting visible through the holes of his mask. His older brother Drayton should have already returned home. 'Why isn't he here?!'

As Bubba anxiously awaited Drayton's arrival, a pristine car with a sleek, modern design suddenly pulled up in front of their house. The vehicle stood out from the rustic surroundings and came to a stop a few feet away, just within view but partially obstructed by a small tree as he already peered out from the second floor window.

The sight filled Bubba with fear, but also an instinctual urge to protect his home.

Nubbins wasn’t home right now, and played somewhere out and about instead. The local pet cemetery would be the most likely option.

His heartbeat quickened even further, and he barely kept himself together from slapping his large hands against the side of his covered cheeks. What if it’s a police officer? Should he hide in the house and hope the locks are enough to deter them from entering?

His fear quickly turned into panic, and just as he was about to turn around to grab his tools and confront whoever was outside, he saw something that he couldn’t believe. His inner questions were answered before he could act.

The passenger side door swung open, revealing a pair of crutches which froze Bubba in place. His heart raced with a mix of relief and added concern of a different kind as his brother's head popped into view, struggling to hoist himself out of the vehicle.

His breath suddenly escaped him in the form of an over-awed pitch of the voice as a beautiful woman rushed in to help by jumping out of the driver’s seat and by circling around her car. They exchanged words, these sounds partly muffled by the distance between and the glass of the window he discretely peered out from, but still decipherable to his sharpened ears. In summary, you were obviously worried about him falling over purely by the way you react to each and every movement that he makes. Knowing his brother, he was toughening it up and feigned the fact that he doesn’t require any more of your help.

Drayton’s figure came further into view as he hobbled himself towards the white swing seat that was but a stone’s throw away from the old house. His left leg is now in a… strange white thing, indicating that something had happened to him in the time he was away.

But what exactly had happened to him? And when did you start to play a role in it?

Despite his rather grumpy protests, you carefully helped the man down on the swing seat after you’d rushed after him. A simple task made just a tad bit harder by the fact that the seating wouldn’t exactly sit completely still the moment he put his weight on it.

“Thank you sweetie. You’ve been a real help today,” the man grinned the moment after he nestled himself properly upon the swaying furniture. At first glance, the grin seemed warm and genuine. To a certain degree, it was, but there was something dissuasive lurking about in his overall expression as well.

You closed your eyes for a second before you nodded your head with a kind, but weakened smile. “It's my pleasure. I just couldn’t keep you laying there after you were hit like that in a hit-and-run accident.”

He chuckled. “Nothing that police report can’t fix.”

An awkward silence followed for a short bout.

“I tell you what; you are free to have a large helping of my famous, reward-winning chili the next time you come by at my gas station. The one to the left and further down the road once you leave my property. It will be on the house.”

“Thank you. I’ll have to think about it, but I truly appreciate your gesture either way.” Your smile never faded as you turned to leave. “A pleasure meeting you, mister Sawyer.”

“Likewise sweetheart.”

Of course, the large behemoth genuinely felt his heart drop the second you turned and walked away towards your car. Soon disappearing inside of it.

Bubba rushed down the stairs and launched himself onto the porch, squeaks and rumbling yells escaped his thick lips. He watched in shock and dismay as the woman who helped his older brother left just as quickly as you had come, practically leaving him in the dust. It didn’t take long for his attention to turn to Drayton, though. He kept you in the back of his mind ever since.

Not long after, the break-ins started.

Bubba had always known his world wasn’t like others. His family, his home, everything he loved. It was different. It was sacred. And when outsiders started trespassing, digging around, looking for secrets, his fear only grew. He did what he had always been taught to do—protect his family, protect his home. But it wasn’t enough. Not this time.

Everything had been taken from him.

The house was no longer safe. His family was no longer whole. The trespassers, the police, the outsiders. Everything that threatened his family’s security was a danger to Bubba. His world began to feel smaller and more suffocating. Every corner of the house he had once felt safe in now felt like a trap.

But even though he did his best, one of the kids got away.

Bubba chased her as fast as his heavy, lumbering body could carry him, but you had help. A truck. Another outsider. An evil trucker, who had come out of nowhere. He watched in horror as the trucker swerved and ran his younger brother down, flattening him with the force of a speeding machine. Bubba’s heart lurched in his chest as he saw his brother’s body crumple beneath the wheels like that of a possum's, his life snuffed out in an instant.

Fury burned in Bubba’s veins. His saw roared to life as he ran toward the truck, desperate to avenge his brother, to protect what little family he had left. But the trucker was too quick, too clever. He swerved, knocking Bubba aside with ease, and in a flash, the trucker turned his own saw against him.

As the trucker sped away, leaving Bubba to writhe in the dirt, the weight of the situation crashed down on him like a wave. His brother. Gone. His family. Shattered. His worst fears had come true. The police would come, and they would take his family away. His remaining brothers and his Grandpa. They would all be torn from him. Without them, Bubba was nothing. He had always been their protector, their servant. Without their commands, without their guidance, what was he?

A sob choked in his throat as he realized the truth. Without his family, without their love, he would wither away, lost and forgotten in this cruel world.

The thought consumed him. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t be alone. He couldn’t let this happen.

In a blind rage, Bubba spun in circles, his saw slicing through the air, desperate to fend off the imagined threats that closed in on him. He wasn’t sure what he was fighting anymore. The world had become a blur of pain and anger, and the only thing he knew was that he had to protect what was left of his family, even if it meant tearing the world apart.

But the more he swung the saw, the more the reality settled in. He was alone. The trucker was gone. His brother was gone. And the fear, the deep, aching fear that had always haunted him, now felt like a suffocating weight on his chest.

Bubba dropped to his knees in the dirt, the saw still clutched in his large hands, his chest heaving with each labored breath. The rage had turned into grief, and the grief was slowly drowning him. The thought of losing his family, of being left alone, was too much to bear. His heart felt like it was breaking all over again, and he couldn’t see a way out of it.

Then, like a phantom from the past, the memory of you surfaced— your kindness, the way you helped his brother despite his gruff exterior. You were a fleeting moment of tenderness in a world that had always been harsh, a gentle hand amidst the outside cruelty. You weren’t like the others, and for that, Bubba couldn’t let go. He hadn’t even realized how much you could have meant to him until you were gone.

And it struck him. He never got to see you again.

The memory of you, so brief, so precious, haunted him. He had never gotten the chance to thank you for your kindness, to show you the world he had known, the family that had raised him.

And now, you were gone too, just like everything else.

The world around him seemed to vanish, swallowed by a fog, until all that remained was the thick, suffocating mist closing in around him.

The Hillbilly

The air inside the small, dimly lit room was thick with the scent of old wood and dampness. It was the kind of smell that lingered long after the source had been forgotten, just like the Hillbilly’s existence.

He sat hunched in the corner, his thin frame barely visible in the shadows, the only light coming from a crack in the wall that let in the faintest sliver of sunlight, and from the old TV in front of him. The walls were cold to the touch, and the stone floor beneath him was hard, unyielding. It was his world. This small, confined space that was his prison and his only refuge. The hole in the wall, just big enough for his eyes to peer through, was his one of two escapes. His view into the outside world.

For as long as he could remember, this room had been his home. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he last saw daylight, but it felt like a lifetime. He knew only what he could hear; his parents' muffled voices drifting through the walls, their harsh words often tinged with disdain. They spoke little of him, except when they did so in disgust or anger, as though he were some sort of burden too shameful to acknowledge.

Max’s disfigurement, the reason for his isolation, had never been discussed openly, but he could feel it in their every glance, every whispered word. He had learned early on to avoid their gaze, to keep his head low, and to stay hidden in the shadows until he had to kill for them.

Today, like every other, the silence was broken only by the sound of his father’s footsteps outside the door, the scrape of the keys in the lock as he came to check on him. Max flinched, pulling his knees closer to his chest, instinctively trying to shrink even smaller. He knew what was coming. His father would feed him, perhaps yell at him for being a nuisance, and then leave. But today, something felt different.

There was a sound outside the door that he had never heard before. A soft knock. A polite, delicate knock that made his heart race.

His ears strained, listening carefully, his fingers trembling as they gripped the edges of the hole in the wall. His heart beat faster, a flutter of hope rising in his chest. Was it… someone else?

The knock came again, followed by a voice. It was a woman’s voice. Soft, sweet and so unlike anything he had ever heard.

"Hello? Mr. Thompson? Are you home?"

Max's breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in years, he dared to look through the hole from different angles, desperate to catch a glimpse of the voice that had interrupted his monotonous world.

He saw her then.

Pretty hair contour a face that almost seems perfect to him, as if chiseled carefully by the angels themselves. You are a stranger, but to him, you were already something extraordinary. Something alive.

Your eyes flicker in his direction for a second, your smile faltering slightly. He stops breathing on instinct.

He watched, motionless, as you spoke to his parents. His gaze never left her, his eyes wide with fascination.

It was the first time in his life that he felt something other than fear or rage. It was wonder. Something deep inside him stirred, something that had been buried for so long.

His father noticed…

“Must be the mice. We have a bit of an… infestation at the moment, but we’re doing everything in our power to resolve it.”

You seem a bit doubtful about his reasoning, seen that the sound doesn’t exactly compare to the squeaking or pitter patter you’re normally slightly familiar with, but you nod anyhow. “I see... Well, I won’t take up your time any longer, mister Thompson. Feel free to visit my father and mother’s bureau when you find the time. I won’t be present, as I’ll be studying back in my home country, but I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms in my stead.”

“Such a well-spoken little doll, you are,” his mother pipes in. “If you ever return, be sure to visit us together with your parents. I’ll cook up somethin’ real special for you before dining out in the back yard. Away from the house, preferably.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“The mice may still be around. They often do. This old home has nooks and crannies that can’t be easily boarded up or closed. We’d have different kinds of problems otherwise.”

You look even more doubtful than before, but nod a second time anyway. “Alright… I’ll let them know. I think they’d be happy to visit during a good day.”

The beautiful smile returns, warmer now, and for a brief moment, the Max almost forgets where he is, what he is. “I have to go. Have a nice day, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.”

What? No… Wait...

And so, you were gone.

Months later...

There was blood everywhere. There were guts thrown about like loose ropes at a shipyard. The once-sweet scent of the hay had been replaced by the metallic tang of death, mingling with the sharpness of bile in the air. His hands, caked in blood, trembled as he wiped his face, leaving streaks of crimson across his disfigured skin. The animals that had once been the only creatures to share his existence lay mutilated, their bodies strewn across the barn like discarded playthings. But even amidst this chaos, he had felt worse for wear. The violence- his violence, had still pulsed in his veins, had still driven him to savage acts, but now, a memory gnawed at him.

He wiped his bloody hands on his pants and stared at the carnage around him, feeling the same sick thrill that had once surged through him when he first took the life of his parents. But now, it was different. The hunger was there, but it felt somehow less satisfying, less complete.

He knew why. Max perfectly knew why.

You.

You, you, you.

It had been months. Two, three, four. He hadn’t kept track of the days anymore. The sun had never seemed to rise or set in his mind. All he had known was the void that had taken root in his chest since the last time he saw you. You had never come back. You had never returned to the farm, never came back to the house.

Not. Once.

Only your elders had come, carrying the same polite, rehearsed words, but he didn’t care about them. They meant nothing to him. They did not hold his attention, hadn’t stirred anything within him.

But you… You were different.

You had been the first thing to make him feel alive in a long time, the first to show him that there was something else beyond the walls of his prison. Your kindness, your voice, your smile. Everything about you had been a promise, a glimpse of something he could never have, but desperately craved. And then, you had vanished.

His mind flashed back to the last time he saw you. Your smile, warm and beautiful, as you bid farewell. Your eyes. Had they been sad? He couldn’t remember, only the way your presence had lingered, the way your scent had still clung to the air long after you left.

He wanted you.

He needed you.

But now, he was alone.

The violence. The chaos. It was never enough. The blood of his parents. Of the Chief and his men. The pigs. It never filled the hole you left in him.

He stepped forward, his gaze still fixated on the place near the entrance of his house where your image had once been, the place where his hope once lied.

Max didn’t need to speak to know that it would never come back. The violence that had coursed through his veins, the rage that consumed him. It all felt so futile now. It felt like it had all been for nothing.

Because you were gone.

And the emptiness inside him would never be filled by any kind of carnage. Neither by the mists that now surrounded him.

Only you. Only you.

#dbd #yandere #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #reader #max thompson jr #bubba sawyer #the cannibal #the Hillbilly

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