Euni 𓇼

ᵳₐₙ𝓭ₒₘ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

- Alice in borderland

- attack on titan

- Tokyo revengers

- Love and deepspace

- 14 dwy

- squid game

- demon slayer

- Naruto

- jjk

Masterlist ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

Original yandere char

1960s male yandere x reader

I see you through the window

RUN, BABY, RUN

Al3x Male yandere x gn reader

WLW yandere doctor x reader

Yandere circus clown

Yandere serial killer

You're mine and we belong together

Yandere cult leader x female reader

Lovesick yandere x reader

Love and deep space

Caleb [LADS] x fem reader professor edition

Cheater Caleb (with other woman) x fem reader LADS

TOXIC relationship with Caleb [LADS]

Anime: Naruto

Vampire Orochimaru!Naruto

Step bro Kakashi hatake

JJK

geto had you straddling his thighs now your soaked pussy grinding slow and needy against the thick bulge straining in his pants while his hands gripped your ass spreading you open for them. "thats it ride it like you mean it" he groaned voice all husky as he sucked another bruise right below your ear. nanami was behind you his mouth trailing wet kisses down your spine tongue dipping into every dip until he reached the curve of your ass and bit down hard enough to make you jolt forward onto getos cock. gojo was still on his knees between all of us his tongue fucking into you from the front sloppy and starving licking up every drop that leaked out while his fingers pumped deep curling just right to hit that spot that made your toes curl.

you were shaking moaning their names like a broken record gojos white hair tickling your thighs as he ate you out like he was addicted. "fuck she tastes so good" he mumbled against your clit sucking it hard then pulling back with a wet pop just to watch you whine. nanami reached around and pinched your nipples rolling them between his fingers while he pressed his hard dick against your ass grinding slow so you could feel how bad he wanted to bury it inside you. "youre clenching so tight around nothing baby" he said low and rough "gonna fill you up soon dont worry."

geto tilted your chin down and kissed you filthy tongue twisting with yours while he rocked you harder on his lap the fabric between you getting soaked from how wet you were. "nobody else will ever make you feel like this" he whispered biting your bottom lip "you belong to us every fucking inch." gojo laughed softly and pushed two more fingers in stretching you wider alongside his tongue nanami adding his own thick digit so you were stuffed full and throbbing around them all at once. it burned so good your hips bucking wildly chasing that edge but they wouldnt let you cum yet. they never did until they decided.

they flipped you again this time nanami pulling you back against his chest so your legs were spread wide over his thighs. gojo stood up finally shoving his pants down and that massive cock sprang out already leaking as he stroked it slow right in front of your face. "open up princess" he cooed tapping the head against your lips until you took him in sucking greedily while geto knelt between your legs and pushed his tongue back inside you licking you open for what was coming next. nanamis hands were everywhere one around your throat squeezing just enough to make your head spin the other rubbing your clit in tight circles.

"good girl taking us so well" nanami praised against your ear his voice sending shivers straight to your core. they were everywhere at once gojos cock hitting the back of your throat getos mouth devouring your pussy nanamis fingers and words owning every part of you. you could feel them getting harder more desperate their yandere sides slipping out in the way they marked you up growled your name and refused to let even an inch of space between your bodies. this was just the beginning of the night and they were already ruining you so perfectly you never wanted it to stop.

gojo kept thrusting shallow into your mouth his hips rocking lazy while his fingers tangled in your hair guiding you deeper every time you sucked harder. "mm fuck yeah just like that baby your throat feels so good squeezing me" he groaned head tipping back that cocky grin still on his face even as his abs flexed. geto was still buried between your spread thighs tongue swirling messy around your clit then dipping inside you lapping up everything like he couldnt get enough his hands holding your legs open wider so nanami could keep grinding his thick dick against your ass from behind.

nanami tightened his grip on your throat just enough to make stars pop behind your eyes his other hand rubbing your clit faster in perfect little circles. "breathe through your nose sweetheart" he murmured hot against your ear voice all deep and steady like he was trying not to lose it. you were dripping everywhere getos chin shiny with it your thighs trembling nonstop while gojo started pushing a little deeper hitting the back of your throat till you gagged around him. "shit she loves it when we use her like this" gojo laughed breathy pulling out just to slap his wet cock on your tongue before sliding back in.

they switched again without even asking geto standing up and yanking his pants down that long hard cock bouncing out heavy and leaking as he pulled you forward onto your hands and knees. nanami moved under you laying back so you could sink down onto him reverse cowgirl style his hands gripping your hips guiding you until every inch stretched you open so full you moaned loud around gojos cock again. "fuck shes clenching so hard" nanami hissed thrusting up slow and deep while geto knelt in front of you grabbing your hair and feeding you his dick right next to gojos. both of them taking turns fucking your mouth their cocks rubbing together on your tongue salty and hot and so fucking much.

gojo reached down and pinched your nipples hard rolling them while nanami fucked you from below his thumb pressing on your clit every time you bounced. geto was breathing heavy his free hand stroking the parts of their cocks you couldnt fit whispering "youre ours forever no one else gets this pretty mouth or this tight pussy understand baby". your whole body was on fire hips grinding down on nanami while you sucked them sloppier wet sounds filling the room spit dripping down your chin. they were growling your name hands everywhere marking your skin with bites and bruises their yandere energy wrapping tighter not letting you pull away even for a second.

The day your parents’ will was read, Kakashi stood behind you, his gloved hand resting possessively on your shoulder. The lawyer cleared his throat.

*"The estate is bequeathed in its entirety... to the family."*

Kakashi’s fingers tightened. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking beneath that mask.

The house was too quiet now. No footsteps downstairs, no muffled conversations just the creak of the floorboards as Kakashi moved like a shadow through the halls. You’d always known he watched you, but now? Now there was nothing left to stop him.

The first night, he cornered you in the kitchen. His belt was already unbuckled.

*"Family rules,"* he murmured, looping the leather around your wrist. *"Starting tonight, little sister, you’ll learn every single one."*

You struggled, but the rope bit into your skin as he tied you to the dining table the same one where you’d eaten breakfast together for years. His fingers trailed down your spine, slow, deliberate.

*"You used to squirm when Dad scolded you,"* he mused, pressing his body against yours. *"I wonder how much more you’ll squirm when it’s my belt marking you instead."*

The first crack of leather against your ass made you cry out. Kakashi just chuckled, dragging his teeth along your neck.

*"Louder,"* he ordered. *"Let the whole house hear who owns you now."*

And you obeyed.

Because the will *had* left everything to the family.

And Kakashi had decided *you* were his inheritance.

The second strike landed higher, just below the small of your back, and your gasp dissolved into a shuddering moan as his free hand slipped between your thighs. *"Always so wet for me,"* Kakashi murmured, his breath hot against your ear. *"Even when you pretend to fight it."* The leather coiled around your wrist again, this time tugging your arm back forcing your chest flush against the polished wood. You bit your lip, but the whimper escaped anyway. *"Good,"* he purred, unbuckling his belt fully now. *"Now let’s see how well you take what’s yours."*

The belt's next strike never came. Instead, you felt the cool press of metal his zipper dragging down the curve of your ass as his cock slid between your thighs, already slick with your own arousal. "Look at you," Kakashi growled, his hips rolling forward to grind against you, the friction drawing another broken sound from your throat. His fingers twisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the fluttering pulse at your neck. "Every part of you belongs to me now." When he finally pushed inside, it wasn't gentle it was a claim, brutal and deliberate, the table rocking beneath you as he set a pace that stole your breath. And worst of all? You arched into it, your body betraying you long before your mind ever could.

The slap of skin against skin echoed through the empty house, punctuated by your choked gasps and Kakashi's ragged breaths. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging bruises into your flesh as he drove deeper, each thrust a reminder of his ownership. "Say it," he demanded, his voice rough with need. "Tell me who you belong to." You clenched around him involuntarily, a sob catching in your throat as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Y you," you whimpered, the admission tearing free as he bit down on your shoulder marking you in a way no will ever could. Kakashi groaned, his rhythm stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt. "Damn right," he snarled, and when you came undone beneath him, shaking apart on his cock, he followed with a growl that vibrated through your very bones.

"Since you were fifteen," Kakashi admitted in a ragged whisper, his teeth dragging over your shoulder as he pinned you flush against the table. His cock twitched inside you, still buried deep, still pulsing with the aftershocks of his release. "Every time you smiled at me " His hand slid down your spine, possessive. " every time you bent over in those fucking skirts " He thrust lazily, drawing a whimper from your throat. "I'd jerk off in the shower afterward, imagining your thighs around my face while Dad was downstairs."

You shuddered, his words sending fresh heat pooling between your legs.

Kakashi chuckled darkly, fingers tightening in your hair. "Remember your graduation party?" His hips rolled, coaxing another moan from you. "You got drunk on champagne and fell asleep on my lap." His free hand traced the curve of your ass, smearing the mess he'd left there. "I came in my pants like some fucking teenager just from the way you curled against me."

His tongue swiped over the mark he'd left on your neck.

"And now?" He thrust hard, wrenching a cry from your lips. "Now I get to ruin you for real."

The table groaned beneath you as Kakashi’s pace turned punishing, his grip on your hips ruthless now, fingers pressing into bruises you’d wear for days. His breath hitched when you clenched around him, desperate and involuntary, and you hated how your body arched into his, how your nails scraped the polished wood for purchase not to escape, but to take *more*. "Pathetic," he muttered, but his voice was thick with something darker than disdain, and when his palm cracked against your ass again, the pain blurred into pleasure so sharp it stole your voice. You came with a silent scream, vision whiting out as Kakashi cursed above you, his thrusts turning erratic before he buried himself to the hilt one final time, spilling inside you with a groan that sounded almost like your name.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting honey gold light across the rumpled sheets sheets that still smelled like *him*. You winced as you sat up, the ache between your thighs a brutal reminder of last night. Kakashi was already gone, but the marks on your skin weren’t.

Your phone buzzed. *"Still on for lunch? 12:30?"*

Shit. *Shit.*

You’d completely forgotten about Hiroshi. The sweet, soft spoken grad student you’d been casually seeing for weeks. The one who *didn’t* leave fingerprints on your ribs.

You typed back quickly *"Yes, see you then!"* before tossing the phone aside. There was no way to cancel now without raising suspicion.

Downstairs, Kakashi was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee like a man who hadn’t wrecked you on the dining table six hours prior. He glanced up, masked face unreadable. "Morning."

You hesitated. "I, uh… have someone coming over today."

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the mug. "Oh?"

"A friend. Just for lunch."

Kakashi hummed, setting the cup down with deliberate calm. "That’s fine." His voice was smooth, pleasant even. "I’ll make myself scarce."

You blinked. That was… easier than expected.

But when you turned to grab a glass of water, you missed the way his eye crinkled the way his thumb traced the rim of his coffee cup, slow and possessive.

Because Kakashi *never* made himself scarce.

And Hiroshi was about to learn exactly whose house he’d walked into.

The doorbell rang at 12:28.

Hiroshi stood on the porch, holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a bashful smile. "Hey "

"Come in!" You stepped aside, nerves fluttering.

He barely made it two steps before Kakashi materialized in the hallway like a specter, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. "Ah," he said, voice dripping with faux politeness. "You must be the *friend*."

Hiroshi froze.

Kakashi straightened, towering over him by half a head. "Hatake Kakashi," he said, extending a hand. "*Older brother.*"

The emphasis made your stomach drop.

Hiroshi shook his hand weakly. "Hiroshi. Nice to "

Kakashi’s grip tightened just enough to make Hiroshi’s knuckles pale. "We were just about to eat," he said, smiling beneath the mask. "Why don’t you join us?"

It wasn’t a question.

And as Kakashi ushered Hiroshi toward the dining table the *same* table his fingers brushed the small of your back in a silent promise:

*This isn’t over.*

*It’s just beginning.*

The dining table had been set properly this time linen napkins, polished silverware, three plates arranged with surgical precision. Kakashi had even lit candles, their flickering light casting long shadows across Hiroshi’s nervous face as he sat stiffly in his chair.

You tried to catch Kakashi’s eye, but he was busy pouring wine, his movements smooth and deliberate. "So," he said, sliding a glass toward Hiroshi, "how did you two meet?"

Hiroshi swallowed. "The the library. She was researching "

"Mm." Kakashi’s fingers trailed along the back of your neck as he took his seat beside you. "She always did like books." His thumb pressed into your pulse point, just hard enough to make you shiver. "Though I prefer *hands on* learning."

Hiroshi’s smile faltered.

The first course was served a chilled soup that tasted like nothing on your tongue. You barely registered it, too aware of Kakashi’s knee pressing against yours beneath the table, the way his fingers dipped beneath the hem of your skirt to trace idle circles on your thigh.

Hirosi cleared his throat. "This is delicious "

"Good," Kakashi interrupted. His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the lace of your panties. "Because the main course isn’t *food*."

You choked on your wine.

Kakashi didn’t wait. In one fluid motion, he dragged you onto his lap, your back pressed flush against his chest. His free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. "Watch closely, Hiroshi," he murmured against your skin. "This is how she *really* tastes."

His mouth crashed down on yours, hungry and possessive, tongue sweeping past your lips like he owned them. Because he *did*.

And when his fingers finally slipped beneath your panties, finding you already dripping, he chuckled low and dark right into your mouth. "Pathetic," he breathed, pulling back just enough to let Hiroshi see the way your hips jerked against his hand. "Look at her. Can’t even pretend she doesn’t *want* it."

Hiroshi’s face was ashen.

Kakashi didn’t stop. His fingers curled inside you, rough and relentless, his other hand wrenching your blouse open to expose your breasts. "Tell him," he growled, teeth scraping your earlobe. "Tell Hiroshi *who* you belong to."

You couldn’t speak couldn’t think not with Kakashi’s fingers working you toward the edge, not with Hiroshi’s horrified gaze locked on the way your body arched into every touch.

But Kakashi didn’t need words.

He *had* them.

Both of you.

And as your orgasm ripped through you, his name spilling from your lips in a broken sob, Kakashi only smiled slow and satisfied and met Hiroshi’s terrified eyes over your trembling body.

"Still hungry?" he asked, sweet as poison.

Hiroshi fled before dessert was served.

Kakashi didn’t even bother to chase him.

He was too busy unbuckling his belt.

The laboratory smelled of formaldehyde and something metallic copper, maybe, iron. You'd stopped asking what exactly he was working on. Orochimaru liked his secrets.

He leaned over your shoulder, his breath unnaturally cool against your skin. "You're trembling," he murmured, voice silk wrapped around a blade. His fingers trailed down your arm, lingering on your pulse point. "Afraid?"

You weren't. Not of *him*, not anymore.

Then his fangs grazed your throat just a teasing drag, no pressure. Your breath hitched.

"Good," he purred, licking the spot. "Fear makes the blood taste bitter."

You turned to face him, gripping his kimono collar. His slit pupiled eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"Do it," you said.

His laugh was a low, dangerous thing.

"Oh, my dear," he whispered, fangs flashing. "I intend to."

(And then he did again, and again, and *again*, until neither of you could tell whose heartbeat was whose.)

The world narrowed to the sharp sting of his teeth, the dizzying rush of blood leaving your body and then, impossibly, the slow, searing heat of his venom flooding back in. Your knees buckled, but his arm snaked around your waist, holding you upright as your vision blurred at the edges. "Shhh," he murmured against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wound with obscene precision.

"Almost there." You gasped as the venom hit your bloodstream properly, a wildfire spreading under your skin, twisting pleasure and pain into something inseparable. His free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back further. "Now," he breathed, "let's see how long you can stay conscious for me." The last thing you registered was his grin, wide and wicked, before the room spun away into delicious darkness.

Consciousness returned in fractured pieces the slick press of his palm against your bare stomach, the weight of his thigh pinning yours against the lab table, the slow drip of something warm down your collarbone. Your eyelids fluttered open to find him watching you with unnerving focus, a smear of red at the corner of his mouth.

"Ah," he mused, thumb swiping the blood from his lip, "you lasted longer than I expected." His fingers traced the fresh puncture marks on your neck, and you shuddered, not from pain, but from the way his touch crackled like live wire against oversensitized skin. "Tell me," he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over your parted lips, "do you want me to stop?" You knew it was a lie knew he’d already caught the way your pulse leapt at the question but when you dug your nails into his shoulders and hissed "No," his laugh was dark enough to curl your toes. "Good," he said, fangs glinting. "Because I’m *far* from finished."

His hand slid down your spine, pressing until your chest arched against his. The fabric of your shirt tore with an easy rip his nails, always just a little too sharp. Cold air hit your skin, followed by the scorching trail of his tongue along your sternum. "You see," he murmured against your ribs, "most people beg me to stop by now." His teeth scraped lower, pausing just above your navel.

Your hips jerked involuntarily, and his chuckle vibrated against your skin. "But you?" A nip sharp enough to make you gasp. "You're *pushing* me." His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in just shy of bruising. "Dangerous game," he whispered, dragging his fangs down, down then stopping abruptly, exhaling hot over the place that made your back bow off the table. "Shall I show you how much *more* you can take?"

Your fingers tangled in his silver streaked hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss but instead of stopping, he laughed, low and delighted, against your skin. "Ah, *there* you are," he murmured, catching your wrist and pinning it above your head with terrifying ease. His other hand slid beneath your waistband, nails tracing teasing circles that had your breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "You want to fight?" His tongue dragged a slow, wet line up your inner thigh.

"Then fight." The moment you tensed to buck against him, his fangs sank deep not into flesh this time, but dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your scream dissolved into a choked whimper as pleasure spiked white hot through your veins, his venom acting faster here, sharper, turning every nerve into a live wire. "Still pushing?" he purred, lapping at the wound as your body shuddered beneath him. His grin was all teeth. "Good. Let's see you *break.*"

Your fingers scrabbled against the metal table, nails scraping grooves into its surface as his tongue curled *just so* against the bite mark each flick deliberate, each stroke calculated to unravel you further. The venom was a living thing now, twisting through your veins in molten ribbons, blurring the line between agony and ecstasy until you couldn’t tell which was which. "Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with dark amusement as your hips jerked against nothing, desperate for friction.

His hand still slick with your blood slid up to grip your throat, not hard enough to choke, but enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm. "So greedy," he chided, dragging his fangs lightly over the inside of your knee, just to watch you squirm. "You take and take, but can you handle what I *give*?" His free hand hooked under your thigh, yanking you forward until your lower back lifted off the table, leaving you exposed, trembling completely at his mercy. "Let’s find out," he whispered, and then his mouth was on you again, *everywhere*, teeth and tongue and venom working in cruel, perfect tandem until the world dissolved into a haze of white hot sensation and the sound of your own shattered moans.

The first flick of his tongue against your clit didn’t feel like a tongue at all too *wrong*, too *other*, the forked ends tracing twin paths of fire up your slit before twisting together in a cruel, perfect spiral. You gasped, spine arching off the table, but his free hand pressed down on your hips, pinning you in place. "Ah ah," he murmured against your thigh, breath ghosting over the bite marks there. "No squirming."

Then his tongue *pushed* inside you not just the tip, but the whole unnatural length of it, thicker than any human tongue had a right to be, the split ends curling in opposite directions to stroke your walls in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. Your nails scraped uselessly against the metal table as he *worked* you with slow, deliberate strokes, the forked tips teasing your g spot while the base of his tongue pressed firm and unrelenting against your clit.

"You taste divine like this," he mused, the words vibrating through you as his tongue withdrew just enough to drag the pointed tips over your swollen flesh. "All heat and desperation." His chuckle was a dark, liquid thing as he added, "I should have done this *ages* ago."

Then he redoubled his efforts, his tongue plunging deep before twisting, *stretching* you, the forked ends spreading wide to trace every sensitive inch before flicking rapidly against that sweet, hidden spot that made your vision blur. You came with a broken cry, back bowing off the table as he drank down every shuddering pulse of your climax, his tongue milking you through it with obscene precision.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened with you. "Now," he purred, licking them clean with a slow, satisfied swipe, "let’s see if we can make you *scream*."

His fingers replaced his tongue before you could catch your breath two, then three, stretching you with a cruel slowness that bordered on reverence. "Look at you," he murmured, watching the way your body clenched around him, resisting and welcoming in equal measure. His thumb circled your clit with deliberate, maddening laziness, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge without relief. "So *responsive*." His free hand traced the arc of your ribs, nails scraping lightly over your skin as he leaned in, close enough that his breath mingled with yours.

"Tell me," he whispered, fangs grazing your bottom lip, "do you want to come again " His fingers crooked sharply inside you, wrenching a choked gasp from your throat. " or do you want me to stop?" The lie in his words was palpable, his grip tightening possessively around your thigh as if daring you to answer wrong. You dug your nails into his shoulders, breathless and trembling, and his grin widened, dark with promise. "Wrong choice," he purred and then his mouth was on yours, swallowing your moan as his fingers finally, *finally* let you fall.

The world came back in slow, syrupy fragments his fingers carding through your sweat damp hair, the warmth of a damp cloth gliding over your collarbone, the faint scent of antiseptic and something herbal beneath it. You blinked up at the ceiling, limbs heavy and pliant, the aftershocks of pleasure still humming under your skin like a fading current.

"Awake?" His voice was softer now, almost *almost* gentle.

You turned your head to find him kneeling beside the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, meticulously cleaning the bite marks on your inner thigh with a cloth soaked in something that smelled faintly of mint and honey. His touch was careful, methodical, as if mapping the contours of your body for future reference.

"Don't move," he murmured when you shifted, pressing a palm to your hipbone to still you. "The venom takes longer to metabolize here." His thumb brushed the edge of a bruise *his* bruise and you shivered. "Hmm. Sensitive still."

You expected mockery. Instead, he reached for a small vial, uncorking it with his teeth before dabbing a cool salve over the worst of the marks. The pain melted away instantly, replaced by a soothing numbness.

"Better?"

You nodded, throat too raw to speak.

Orochimaru studied you for a moment, then exhaled a quiet, unreadable sound before lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Your head lolled against his shoulder, too spent to protest as he carried you to the low couch in the corner of the lab, already piled with blankets. He settled you onto the cushions, tucking a folded robe beneath your head before draping a heavier quilt over your body.

"Sleep," he said, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with something perilously close to tenderness. "I'll be here when you wake."

The club reeks of cheap vodka and broken promises...

Caleb slumps at the darkest end of the bar, jacket thrown over the stool like a do not disturb sign. Fifth whiskey now. Or sixth. The ice melted hours ago and he still orders another. His phone stays face-down because every buzz reminds him who it will never be again. She left for good this time. Said he clung too hard, loved too loud, scared her off. Maybe she was right. Does not stop the ache from swallowing him whole.

He hates clubs, hates the pulsing lights and the strangers grinding like nothing hurts. But home is worse. Her scent still clings to his sheets, his pillow, the air itself. So he sits here, knuckles white around the glass, trying to burn her out of his throat.

Three stools away, you chase the burn of something pink and sugary that tastes like lies. Your ex’s final text glows on your screen: I just don’t feel it anymore. You read it until the letters smear. You came to dance, to prove you are fine, but every beat feels like it is laughing at you.

Your gaze keeps sliding to the man drowning at the end of the bar. Black hair falling into hollow eyes, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, shoulders curled in like he is holding himself together with his own hands. He looks ruined in the prettiest way.

He feels your stare. Turns. Eyes bloodshot but piercing, locking on you like you are the first real thing he has seen all night.

You do not look away.

He downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, slams the glass down, and walks over. No smile. No pretense.

"Rough night?" His voice is gravel and smoke.

You laugh, bitter and soft. "You have no idea."

"I might." He slides onto the stool next to you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. "Buy you something that actually burns?"

You nod.

Hours blur. Shots turn into confessions whispered over thumping bass. He tells you her name like it is poison on his tongue. You tell him yours like it still belongs to someone else. You trade wounds like trading cards, each story uglier than the last, and somehow it feels good to not be the only one bleeding.

He gets mean-drunk the way broken men do. Words turn sharp.

"You think you are special?" he mutters at one point, staring at your mouth. "Everyone leaves. Everyone."

You lean in until your lips almost touch. "Then give me a reason to stay tonight."

Something cracks open in his eyes. Hunger. Desperation. Need so raw it looks like hate.

He kisses you like punishment. Teeth and whiskey and I dare you to leave me too. You kiss back harder, fingers twisted in his hair, pulling until he groans into your mouth. It is messy and wrong and perfect.

You end up in the back of his car, windows fogged, seats reclined all the way. He is on top of you in seconds, hands rough, mouth hotter, saying your name like a prayer and a curse. You bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. He begs, actually begs, voice breaking, please do not stop, please do not leave me like this.

After, he will not let go. Arms locked around you like you might vanish. Face buried in your neck, breathing you in like oxygen after drowning. He is shaking. You feel it and it scares you how much you like it.

This is how it starts.

He texts you at 3 a.m. three nights later: still awake. still thinking about you. come over.

You go. Every time.

It is toxic and you both know it. He gets jealous over nothing, checks your phone when you shower, fucks you against the wall when he thinks you smiled too long at someone else. You let him. You start fights just to feel him lose control, just to watch him crawl back whispering sorry baby I cannot lose you too.

He is always a little miserable, shadows under his eyes, voice raw from shouting or moaning or both. But when he is inside you, when you are clawing at his back and telling him he is yours, just yours, he looks almost peaceful.

You learn every inch of what breaks him and what puts him back together. He learns how to make you sob his name like it is the only word you remember.

One night, months in, he is drunk again, head in your lap on his couch. He looks up at you with wet eyes.

"I am still fucked up," he whispers. "I am still scared you will wake up and see I am nothing."

You thread fingers through his hair. "Good. Stay scared. Keeps you desperate."

He laughs, broken and relieved, and pulls you down to kiss him like he is starving.

The city is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. You’re nineteen, home from your first year of university for the summer, crashing in the same cramped apartment you grew up in. Your parents are overseas again (some endless diplomatic posting), so it’s just you, the humming fridge, and the ghost of childhood memories in every corner.

Then the doorbell rings at 12:47 a.m.

You know who it is before you open it.

Caleb stands in the hallway light, charcoal shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled high, the faint red smudge of someone else’s lipstick still on his collarbone. Twenty-five, engaged to the diplomat’s daughter everyone calls “perfect,” and looking at you like the world just narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he says. No greeting. No apology.

“I was asleep.”

“You weren’t.”

He steps inside and locks the door behind him with a soft, final click. He’s been doing this for weeks (appearing without warning, crowding you in the dark, pretending the ring on his finger doesn’t exist). Tonight the air is different. Thicker. Dangerous.

“You wore the red dress,” he says, voice low and scraped raw. “To that bar.”

“I can wear what I want.”

He laughs once, bitter. “You think I didn’t see every hand that tried to touch you? You think I didn’t want to break them?” Two strides and he’s on you, backing you into the hallway wall. His palms slam flat on either side of your head, caging you. Whiskey and another woman’s perfume cling to his skin.

“You’re not mine,” he says against your mouth, like the words are poison he has to spit out. “You can’t ever be mine.”

“But you want me to be.”

His forehead drops to yours. He’s shaking.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say I want you so I can pretend I still get to choose.”

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull until he groans. “You stopped having a choice the night you kissed me in your car,” you tell him. “The night you said you’d burn everything down if it meant keeping me.”

His mouth crashes into yours (teeth, tongue, six years of starvation finally set loose). He lifts you without effort, hands under your thighs, carrying you to the couch. Your back hits the cushions and he follows, kneeling between your legs, tearing your oversized sleep shirt up and off like it insulted him.

“This is wrong,” he growls, biting down on your throat hard enough to bruise. “I’m getting married in four months.”

“Then marry her,” you taunt, arching into him. “Marry her and pretend you don’t think of me every time you touch her.”

A broken sound rips out of him. He drops to his knees on the floor, dragging you to the edge of the couch.

And then he stops.

His hands settle on your bare knees (slow, reverent). The tremor in his fingers is impossible to hide. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice shredded. “One word and I leave forever.”

You answer by parting your thighs wider.

He exhales like a man who just lost a war.

His palms glide upward, torturously slow, thumbs tracing the soft skin of your inner thighs. Every inch makes him shake harder. When he reaches your underwear he pauses, forehead pressing to your stomach, breathing you in like it hurts. “I hate you for this,” he whispers into your skin.

“No,” you breathe, sliding your fingers through his hair. “You hate yourself.”

He hooks his fingers into the fabric and drags it down your legs (slow, deliberate, eyes locked on every new inch revealed). When it’s gone he just stares, lips parted, like he’s looking at something holy and obscene at once.

“Fuck,” he says, barely a sound. “Look at you.”

His first touch is only breath (warm, trembling, ghosting over your clit until your hips jerk). Then the flat of his tongue, one long, slow drag from your entrance to the top that tears a broken moan from your throat. He groans into you, filthy and grateful, and does it again. Slower. Licking you open like he’s been starving for years and finally gets to feast.

When he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, your thighs clamp around his head. He pulls back just enough to speak, lips slick and swollen.

“Stay still,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Let me have this.”

You try. You really do. But he’s merciless (long, lazy strokes that melt into soft, sucking kisses, then one finger sliding in, then two, curling slow and deep while his mouth never leaves you). Every time you get close he eases off, licking softly around the edges until you’re writhing, begging in fractured whispers.

Only then does he give you what you need.

He seals his mouth over your clit and sucks (steady, perfect pressure) while his fingers thrust slow and deep. The orgasm rolls through you like a tide, building and building until it finally breaks, leaving you shaking, gasping his name like it’s the only word left in the world.

He doesn’t stop.

He gentles you through every aftershock, tongue soft now, lapping lazily like he’s addicted to the taste of you coming undone. When you’re too sensitive and try to push him away, he pins both your wrists to the couch with one hand and keeps going (softer, slower, drawing it out until tears leak from the corners of your eyes).

Only when you’re limp and trembling does he finally crawl up your body.

His mouth is wet, eyes pitch-black. He kisses you deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Still think I have a choice?” he whispers against your lips.

You answer by reaching for his belt.

He lets you undress him this time (shaking hands unbuckling, unzipping, pushing fabric away until he’s bare and aching above you). When he braces himself on his forearms, cock heavy against your thigh, he forces you to meet his eyes.

“Look at me.”

You do.

He slides in (one slow, endless push that has you both groaning), until he’s buried completely and trembling with the effort of holding still. His forehead drops to yours. “I’m going to ruin everything for this,” he breathes.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper. “then ruin it slow,” you whisper.

And he does.

Every thrust is deliberate, dragging almost all the way out before sinking back in, watching your face like he’s memorizing the way you fall apart. He keeps that torturous rhythm until you’re clawing at his back, begging for faster, harder (anything).

Only then does he let go.

He fucks you like a confession (deep, punishing strokes that hit every perfect spot while he growls filthy praise and broken apologies into your neck). When you come again, clenching around him, he follows with a choked groan, spilling inside you and shaking like the world just ended.

Hours later, you’re tangled together, sweat cooling on skin. He’s half on top of you, face buried in your neck, breathing like he ran a marathon.

“I can’t leave her,” he says quietly. “Not without destroying everything.”

You stroke his hair, gentle now.

“Then don’t.”

He lifts his head, eyes wild.

You smile slowly “Keep the perfect life. Keep pretending you’re good.”

Your fingers trace the ring on his left hand, then slide down to wrap around his wrist.

“But every time you touch her, you’ll taste me. Every time you say her name, you’ll hear mine. You’ll come crawling back here, Caleb. Again and again.”

You lean in, lips brushing his ear.

“And I’ll let you.”

He shudders, hard, and kisses you like surrender.

The lecture hall is empty except for the two of you. It’s past midnight, the campus long asleep, and the only light comes from the projector that’s been cycling the same title slide for twenty minutes: “Ethical Boundaries in Deepspace Research.”

Professor Caleb never turned it off. He never even looked at the screen again after he locked the door behind the last departing student and told you, in that soft, dangerous voice, to stay seated.

Now he’s standing in front of your desk on the front row, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie gone, top three buttons undone. The veins in his forearms flex every time he clenches his fists.

“You missed my office hours again,” he says quietly.

“I…I had a group project…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His hand shoots out and grips your chin, forcing your face up. His thumb presses hard against your bottom lip until it splits against your teeth. “I watched you. Library. Third floor. You let that idiot from Astro-Engineering put his hand on your thigh under the table for forty-three seconds.”

His grip tightens.

“I counted.”

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you’re dizzy. You should be terrified. You are. But the heat pooling between your legs is stronger than fear.

He sees it. Of course he sees it.

Those sharp amber eyes miss nothing.

“Stand up.”

You do, legs trembling. He circles you once, slow, the way a shark tastes blood in the water. When he stops behind you, his breath fans across the back of your neck.

“Hands on the desk.”

You obey instantly. The wood is cold against your palms. He doesn’t touch you yet; he just leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me all semester,” he whispers. “Short skirts. Leaning over my desk so I can see straight down your blouse. Asking questions you already know the answer to just to watch me try not to bend you over the podium in front of everyone.”

His hand finally lands (hard) on the back of your thigh, shoving your skirt up to your waist in one motion.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls. “Tell me, or I stop right now and you never come back to my class.”

Your voice cracks. “I want it. Please, Professor…”

He rips your panties down your legs so fast the lace burns your skin. Then his palm cracks across your ass (once, twice, three times) until you’re sobbing and dripping onto the carpet.

“Good girl.”

Two thick fingers plunge into you without warning. The stretch is brutal; you weren’t ready, but you’re so wet it doesn’t matter. He curls them viciously, hitting that spot that makes your knees buckle.

“Listen carefully,” he says, pumping in and out with obscene wet sounds. “From tonight on, this cunt belongs to me. You sit in my lectures, you clench around nothing, remembering exactly how I feel inside you. You wear the plugs I choose. You send me photos every time you’re in the shower. If I text you ‘knees’ during class, you excuse yourself, find the nearest bathroom, and film yourself coming with my name on your tongue. Do you understand?”

You try to nod, but he fists your hair and yanks your head back until your spine arches painfully.

“Words.”

“Yes, Professor…fuck…yes, I understand…”

He pulls his fingers out and shoves them into your mouth, making you taste yourself while he frees his cock with his other hand. You feel it (hot, heavy, impossibly hard) sliding between your folds, coating himself in you.

Then he stops.

“Beg.”

You break instantly. “Please fuck me, please, I need it, I’ll be so good for you, I’ll do anything…”

He slams into you so hard the desk screeches across the floor. One thrust and he’s buried to the hilt, stretching you open, claiming every inch like he’s been starving for it. His hand clamps over your mouth before you can scream.

“Quiet,” he snarls against your ear. “Or do you want campus security to find their star student getting ruined by her professor?”

He sets a punishing rhythm (deep, brutal strokes that punch the air from your lungs). Every thrust slams your hips into the edge of the desk; you’ll have bruises shaped like his fingerprints for weeks. He doesn’t care. He wants them there.

His free hand snakes around to your clit, rubbing harsh circles until you’re shaking, tears streaming, trying to moan into his palm.

“Come,” he orders. “Come on my cock like the desperate little slut you are.”

You shatter (silent except for the broken whimpers muffled against his hand). Your walls clamp down so hard he groans, hips stuttering.

“Not done,” he rasps.

He pulls out, spins you around, and shoves you to your knees on the carpet. His cock (glistening with you) slaps against your cheek once, twice.

“Open.”

You do. He doesn’t ease in. He fucks your throat like he fucked your cunt (no mercy, no breathing room, just the lewd gluck-gluck-gluck of you choking while he holds your head still and uses you). Tears and drool smear your face; your mascara runs black down your cheeks.

“Look at me,” he pants. “Look at your professor while he marks you inside and out.”

His thrusts turn erratic. With a guttural sound, he comes (hot, thick ropes flooding your throat until you have to swallow or drown). He holds you there, nose buried in his pelvis, until you’re dizzy and clawing at his thighs.

Only then does he pull out, smearing the last spurts across your lips and cheeks like war paint.

He crouches, cups your wrecked face almost tenderly, and kisses you (slow, filthy, tasting himself on your tongue).

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs against your swollen lips, “you’ll wear a skirt. No panties. And you’ll sit in the front row with my cum still inside you while I lecture.”

He zips up, straightens his shirt, and walks to the podium like nothing happened.

The projector is still cycling the same slide.

Ethical Boundaries in Deepspace Research.

He clicks to the next one, glances back at you (kneeling, shaking, ruined) and smiles that gentle, terrifying smile.

He was a quiet person ever since you two are kids, he doesn't like going out nor being with people but he's always with you no matter what happens and now that you two are grown up.

His bad or even Illegal actions like cannibalism he quits it, it makes you happy "Y/N, I quit my smoking habit and... Yeah eating people" his smile glinting at your eyes. His awkward chuckle, and his black straight hair falling into his frames.

You two are teenagers when he quits his bad actions, you always rebel at your parents and him on the other hand have a bad relationship with his parents who's a cult member, but he'll eventually leave them. "It was a bad day, but hey, I'm glad you're here with me Y/N." His tired eyes almost crying, you hug him and that's the last time you'll probably will.

Not long after, he'll be in-love with someone else, feelings for him never crossed your mind. Until it's too late, you saw him playing in the rain with someone, she have a black long raven hair. Her eyes much alive than yours, maybe that's what he craves, someone who can make him happy. Than you — who only brings him pain but also comfort.

You only realize your feelings for him when it's too late, your heart aches at the scene, your throat hurting from the cry you're forcing to silence. The rain wetting them isn't unfortunate, you and your umbrella — a comfort that should bring you, yet the sight of them gives you pain.

Conversation with him is awkward after that, his eyes happy whenever he mentions the girl he's courting, the love in his eyes that once carry sadness. Maybe this is better, him being in-love but the difference is he's not with you, but instead with her.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who can't help but yearn for your touch, so desperate that you being away kills every part of him. It makes him wanna throw up when you're away.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who jerks off your clothes while smelling them and crying because he misses you so much.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who keeps your worn scarf beside his bed, hugging it only when the ache in his chest becomes unbearable. He presses the fabric to his face, inhaling the fading traces of your shampoo and sweat, imagining it's your neck he's nuzzling. His trembling fingers trace invisible patterns on the material, replaying memories of your collar brushing his knuckles. Sometimes he bites down hard on the wool, muffling ragged sobs when the scent inevitably weakens.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who fantasizes about trapping you in his ribcage not metaphorically. He imagines surgically removing bones just to stitch your skin against his, so every breath you take would vibrate through him.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who slips into your apartment while you're asleep, not to harm you, but to press his ear against your bedroom door. He times his breaths to yours, tears streaming silently as he imagines crawling beneath your sheets and twining his limbs with yours until dawn. The ache swells until he has to bite his own wrist bloody to keep from whimpering your name aloud.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who fantasizes about your sweat lingering on his tongue after kissing you how he'd lick every bead from your collarbone during humid summer nights, savoring the salt as proof you're real. His daydreams twist darker: teeth grazing your inner thigh not to mark territory, but to feel the tremor of your pulse against his lips, believing if he drinks enough of you, the hollow in his ribs might finally close.

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who cuts his wrist and dips his thumb in the blood to trace your initials on the bathroom mirror after showering steam fogging the glass, his reflection fractured and weeping. He imagines you discovering it, fingers brushing the tacky rust-brown letters, scenting iron and desperation. Would you recoil? Or press your own palm over the stain, sealing his sickness into your skin?

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who knows it's sick to fantasize about you humping into him until your pussy can't take it anymore and eventually you'll fall into his chest while he then moves slowly until fast to the point you'll cry

♡ Lovesick! Yandere who'll cry and beg you if breaking up with him ever crosses your mind, he would be desperate to get you back if you ever did. He'll do anything, even if it takes killing someone because no matter what he'll always get what he wants and the only thing he wants is you.