.

I am now on X guys! Totally go follow my account bc I will also be posting my art on there:]

Acc: soul_stiice

"Wow Rock you live like this? Junk all over the floor and parts everywhere? Very messy."

Yandere!Paparazzi x Yandere!ModelReader

Yandere!Paparazzi completely believes he is the one in total control of the narrative, hiding in the chaotic sea of journalists behind the velvet ropes of the red carpet. With a heavy zoom lens obscuring his face and his finger hovering over the shutter, Yandere!Paparazzi tracks your every movement with a terrifying, manic precision, entirely convinced that his lens is the only one worthy of capturing your grace. He spends his nights sitting in a dark room editing the raw files, meticulously cataloging your schedule, and tracking your location, completely drunk on the delusion that he is the invisible ghost hovering on the fringes of your glamorous life.

You let Yandere!Paparazzi believe it because his absolute oblivion is the most entertaining part of your day. As a high-profile model, your own yandere fixation on him is the industry's best-kept secret. You have used your massive corporate wealth to quietly hire private investigators to uncover his real identity, his home address, and his daily routine, filling a hidden safe in your dressing room with candid photos of him standing in the press pits. Every single time you step out of a luxury town car into a blinding storm of camera flashes, you don't even glance at the world-renowned fashion photographers screaming your name; your eyes instantly lock onto the specific, faded jacket and heavy lens of your favorite stalker, posing exclusively for him while the rest of the media circuit descends into absolute madness.

The absolute comedy of your mutual obsession completely breaks the dynamic of every red carpet event you attend. To the rest of the public and the event organizers, it looks like a bizarre, unprecedented display of creative eccentricity, a top model who completely ignores the central media platform to face a random, crowded corner of the freelance press pit. You will hold a dramatic, high-fashion pose for a full thirty seconds straight, tilting your chin and looking dead into Yandere!Paparazzi's specific camera with an intense, burning gaze that makes his heart completely stop behind the viewfinder. Yandere!Paparazzi thinks he’s catching a raw, unfiltered glimpse into your soul, completely unaware that you are mentally mapping out his exact distance from your security detail so you can follow him home later.

Yandere!Paparazzi's stalking methods are a masterclass in desperate, hyper-fixated logistics. Yandere!Paparazzi will camp out in the freezing rain for twelve hours just to secure the exact perimeter angle that aligns with your walking path, aggressively shoving other paparazzi out of the way to ensure his frame remains completely unobstructed. He takes immense, unhinged pride in the fact that your official portfolio images, the ones that go viral on social media and break the internet, are always watermarked with his freelance handle. He sits in his apartment, looking at the pristine clarity of your glossy eyes in his photos, whispering breathless compliments to the screen. "They all think they can capture you, my love, but you only ever look at me. You know I’m the only one who truly sees you."

Your counter-stalking methods are infinitely more sophisticated and terrifyingly well-funded. While he’s busy analyzing the metadata of your press photos, you are casually sitting in the back of your tinted-window SUV outside his apartment building, using high-end thermal scopes to watch him paste your pictures onto his living room walls. You have memorized the exact rhythm of his footsteps, the brand of energy drinks Yandere!Paparazzi leaves in his trash, and the specific shutter-click sound of his camera model. Sometimes, just to mess with his fragile sanity, you will intentionally drop a specific, limited-edition promotional item like a signed keychain or a custom clothing tag right on the pavement near the press ropes where you know he’s standing, smiling internally as you watch him covertly stomp his boot over it to steal it for his collection.

The breaking point of your silent, competitive warfare occurs behind the scenes of the major fashion week galas. Yandere!Paparazzi will sneak into the venue’s restricted backstage area by stealing a catering uniform or forging a security pass, completely convinced he is executing a high-stakes espionage mission just to breathe the same air as you in your dressing room. You know the exact second he slips past the curtain, having tracked his phone’s Bluetooth signal on your personal monitor. Instead of calling security, you will deliberately dismiss your makeup artists and stylists, sitting entirely alone in front of the vanity mirror while casually unzipping the collar of your outfit, fully aware that his eye is glued to the crack in the door. You’ll catch his reflection in the glass, letting out a dark, knowing smile that sends a shiver straight down his spine, completely satisfied that you have him locked exactly where you want him.

Yandere!Paparazzi spends hours every night meticulously removing the reflections of other paparazzi from the pupils of your eyes in his high-definition raw files, completely furious that anyone else's silhouette dared to share a frame with you. He treats his digital photo archive like a sacred catalog of your secret relationship, assigning cryptic, romantic titles to files that the rest of the world just sees as standard fashion press. When he uploads his exclusive shots to his freelance blog, he deliberately delays the posting by exactly three minutes to create a false trail for any rival photographers, fully convinced he is a master criminal protecting his prized possession from a hostile world.

You actively manipulate your entire agency’s booking schedule just to ensure Yandere!Paparazzi's stalking routing remains perfectly uninterrupted. If your manager tries to schedule a private, closed-set shoot at an undisclosed indoor studio where the press isn't allowed, you will deliberately leak the exact address, gate codes, and security shift rotations to a public forum using an untraceable burner account, entirely to ensure he can find a way to camp out on the roof across the street. You take immense pleasure in looking out the window during your wardrobe changes, spotting the faint, familiar glint of his camera lens hidden behind a ventilation duct, and intentionally shifting your stance to give him the absolute perfect lighting.

Yandere!Paparazzi's territorial behavior in the media pits has made him a notorious legend among the local press corps, as he will physically weaponize his heavy monopod to guard his spot. If another photographer tries to nudge into his perimeter or blocks his direct line of sight to your arrival walkway, he will covertly dig the heel of his boot into their toes or use his elbow to knock their camera settings out of focus without ever taking his own eye away from the viewfinder. He justifies the absolute chaos he causes behind the velvet ropes as a holy crusade, whispering frantic curses under his breath while ensuring that his lens remains the absolute center of your universe.

Your private collection of Yandere!Paparazzi is infinitely more extensive than his collection of you, stored on an encrypted server disguised as a high-end fashion styling app. While he has to rely on the brief moments you walk the red carpet, you have hidden cameras installed in the coffee shop across from his apartment, a cloned copy of his phone’s location data running on your smartwatch, and a complete catalog of his financial records to track exactly how much he spends on upgrading his camera gear just to keep up with your beauty. You even know the exact layout of his room, down to the specific sequence in which he has pinned your magazine covers to his wall, and you frequently plan your public outfits to match the color scheme of his bedroom wallpaper just to see his face go completely pale with shock when you step out of the car.

Yandere!Cult x Hybrid!Reader

The high priest of the congregation was mid-sermon, preaching to a dark room of hooded, kneeling followers, when the faint, muffled sound of a crying baby echoed from the stone steps outside. Opening the church doors, expecting to find a miserable human orphan to turn into a low-level servant, the cult leaders instead pulled back the basket's wool blanket to reveal a newborn hybrid glowing with distinct, unnatural features that perfectly mirrored the sacred, centuries-old prophecies carved into their subterranean altars. To your birth parents, your hybrid traits were an absolute horror to be abandoned; to the cult, your presence on their doorstep was a divine, undisputed miracle. Your parents thought they were leaving you to a quiet life of standard church charity, completely unaware that they had just handed their child over to a hyper-fixated, blood-bound cabal that instantly declared you their living god.

From that exact moment, your childhood was transformed into a gilded, terrifyingly pampered isolation. You were never allowed to set foot on the dirt outside, nor were you permitted to wear standard clothes. Instead, you were wrapped in silk robes embroidered with real silver thread, carried everywhere on velvet litters, and surrounded 24/7 by dozens of zealots who bowed flat on the stone floor whenever you so much as sneezed. The Yandere!Cult built a massive, temperature-controlled sanctuary deep beneath the main church just for you, filled with soft cushions, imported toys, and gold-plated high chairs. If you dropped a toy off the side of your playpen as a toddler, three different high-ranking priests would practically tackle each other into a heap just to be the one to hand it back to you with tears of religious ecstasy in their eyes.

Yandere!Cult treats your hybrid features not as a strange mutation, but as absolute, unquestionable holy attributes. Where human society would have shunned your unique traits, the cult built an entire theological system around worshipping them. Every evening, the high priest personally sits beside your silk-draped bed with a silver basin of warmed rosewater, painstakingly washing your hair, brushing out your fur, scales, or feathers with an ivory comb, and humming ancient lullabies. If you let out a sleepy, grumpy whine because you don't want your hair brushed, the entire room of watching initiates will instantly gasp in horror, dropping to their knees to pray for your divine forgiveness. At the same time, the priest frantically offers you honeyed fruits and apologizes for his "clumsy, unworthy hands."

Yandere!Cult's territorial, overprotective nature means that the outside world is treated like a toxic wasteland of heresy that must never touch you. They have completely erased all records of your birth parents from the local registry, tracking down the hospital files and burning them to ash so no one can ever claim a biological right to you. You are given no concept of money, labor, or human societal rules only the absolute certainty that your word is law within the temple walls. If you express a casual, childish curiosity about what lies beyond the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, the priests will look at you with deep, heartbroken panic, wrapping you in thick, embroidered shawls and softly gasping. "The outside is cold and cruel, little deity. The mortals out there are blind to your glory. Stay here, where your children can keep you safe forever."

The comedy of your daily life peaks whenever you try to exercise any form of normal, mundane independence. If you decide you want to walk down the stone hallway by yourself instead of being carried in a sedan chair, a squad of hooded paladins will walk directly in front of you, literally sweeping the stone floor with peacock feathers and laying down velvet runners so your holy feet never have to touch a speck of dust. If you casually point at a random, expensive item in a trader's catalog, the cult’s covert asset team will bypass the market entirely, acquiring the item by any means necessary and presenting it to you on a satin pillow before sunset. You have effectively become a prisoner of pure, unadulterated adoration, a young hybrid living in a high-security, golden paradise where your word is divine scripture, your safety is a holy war, and your worshippers will gladly burn the outside world to the ground before they ever let you leave your throne.

The High Priest the formidable, imposing leader who makes seasoned warlords tremble with a single cold glance completely disintegrates into a soft, overly attentive mess the second he enters your presence. From the day he picked you up off the church steps, he claimed sole, exclusive rights to your care. He refuses to let lower-ranking initiates hold you for more than a few seconds at a time, deeply convinced that their "unworthy, clumsy hands" aren't careful enough with his precious little god. He carries you everywhere himself, propping your small frame securely against his hip or cradling you against his heavy, gold-embroidered robes while he conducts morning prayers, handles cult finances, or issues dark decrees to his followers.

The High Priest has turned his own office into a glorified playroom, refusing to part with you even during high-stakes strategic meetings. While hooded elders bow low to report on regional operations, the High Priest is completely unfocused on their reports, instead balancing a heavy parchment ledger in one hand while using his free hand to feed you sweet, seedless grapes or stack golden toy blocks on his massive mahogany desk. If an elder speaks too loudly and startles you, the High Priest's eyes will instantly flash with a terrifying, lethal glare, silencing the entire room with a harsh whisper. "Lower your voice in the presence of the divine, unless you wish to offer your tongue as a sacrifice."

High Priest's spoiling habits are entirely out of control because he treats your every minor gesture like a holy directive. If you so much as reach your hand toward a shiny crystal paperweight on his desk, he will instantly press it into your palm, smiling with a deep, terrifyingly soft fondness. If you tilt your head toward the window, he will halt the entire church service to have the stained glass opened so you can feel the breeze. He spends vast sums of the cult's hidden treasury ordering exotic silk toys, velvet-lined cushions, and rare fruits from across the continent, practically smothering you in gifts every single morning. He will sit on the floor of your sanctuary for hours, holding out sparkling trinkets one by one just to see which one makes your eyes light up.

High Priest's attachment borders on a desperate, anxious obsession whenever you are even a few feet away from him. If he has to step away to perform a mandatory ritual at the main altar, he will check on you every five minutes, looking over his shoulder with frantic worry until he can rush back to scoop you back into his arms. When you fall asleep in his lap, he will sit completely frozen for hours, refusing to move a single muscle or let anyone else make a sound in the cathedral just so your rest remains undisturbed. To the rest of the cult, he is a terrifying, absolute sovereign. Still, to you, he is just a giant, overly protective guardian who refuses to put you down, utterly consumed by the joy of being the one who gets to carry his little deity through life.

The lower-ranking initiates have developed a complex, highly competitive internal hierarchy based entirely on who is allowed to perform the most mundane tasks for you. Because the High Priest hoards all the primary caretaking duties, the initiates view tasks like sweeping the dust off the velvet runner three steps ahead of where you’re being carried, or carrying the silver tray of your discarded fruit peels, as the ultimate holy honors. If an initiate is assigned to polish the golden frame of your high chair, they will spend six hours meticulously buffing the metal until it shines like a mirror, weeping tears of religious fulfillment while their peers stare at them with intense, petty envy.

They treat your minor, everyday noises as profound, world-altering omens. If you let out a little sneeze during morning prayers, the entire congregation will immediately stop chanting, drop their foreheads flat to the floor, and spend the next twenty minutes whispering prayers of protection for your sacred sinuses. If you let out a happy gurgle or a cheerful chirp because you like a specific dessert, the cult scribe will frantically write down the exact time, temperature, and sun alignment in the official church records, declaring that specific hour a permanent holy holiday on the cult’s calendar.

They have zero boundaries when it comes to keeping your environment hyper-sanitized and completely silent. A specialized division of paladins intimidating, armored zealots who usually guard the perimeter are routinely deployed to hunt down and eliminate any minor inconvenience in your vicinity. If a stray songbird outside your sanctuary window chirps a little too loudly while you're taking an afternoon nap, three armored guards will quietly step outside with crossbows, entirely convinced they are defending the peace of the realm. If a fly dares to land on the silk pillow near your head, the guards will look like they’ve suffered a catastrophic security breach, dropping to their knees to beg the High Priest for punishment for allowing a "foul beast" near the divine one.

They treat any item you have touched, used, or casually dropped as a priceless relic that belongs in a reinforced vault. If you chew on a wooden teething ring for five minutes and then toss it out of your playpen, an initiate will catch it with velvet-gloved hands, place it onto a silver satin cushion, and escort it to the lower treasury under heavy armed guard. They refuse to wash or throw away any blanket you’ve used, instead preserving them in airtight glass cases around the sanctuary so they can bow before them when you aren't in the room.

Yandere!Cult x Hybrid!Reader

The high priest of the congregation was mid-sermon, preaching to a dark room of hooded, kneeling followers, when the faint, muffled sound of a crying baby echoed from the stone steps outside. Opening the church doors, expecting to find a miserable human orphan to turn into a low-level servant, the cult leaders instead pulled back the basket's wool blanket to reveal a newborn hybrid glowing with distinct, unnatural features that perfectly mirrored the sacred, centuries-old prophecies carved into their subterranean altars. To your birth parents, your hybrid traits were an absolute horror to be abandoned; to the cult, your presence on their doorstep was a divine, undisputed miracle. Your parents thought they were leaving you to a quiet life of standard church charity, completely unaware that they had just handed their child over to a hyper-fixated, blood-bound cabal that instantly declared you their living god.

From that exact moment, your childhood was transformed into a gilded, terrifyingly pampered isolation. You were never allowed to set foot on the dirt outside, nor were you permitted to wear standard clothes. Instead, you were wrapped in silk robes embroidered with real silver thread, carried everywhere on velvet litters, and surrounded 24/7 by dozens of zealots who bowed flat on the stone floor whenever you so much as sneezed. The Yandere!Cult built a massive, temperature-controlled sanctuary deep beneath the main church just for you, filled with soft cushions, imported toys, and gold-plated high chairs. If you dropped a toy off the side of your playpen as a toddler, three different high-ranking priests would practically tackle each other into a heap just to be the one to hand it back to you with tears of religious ecstasy in their eyes.

Yandere!Cult treats your hybrid features not as a strange mutation, but as absolute, unquestionable holy attributes. Where human society would have shunned your unique traits, the cult built an entire theological system around worshipping them. Every evening, the high priest personally sits beside your silk-draped bed with a silver basin of warmed rosewater, painstakingly washing your hair, brushing out your fur, scales, or feathers with an ivory comb, and humming ancient lullabies. If you let out a sleepy, grumpy whine because you don't want your hair brushed, the entire room of watching initiates will instantly gasp in horror, dropping to their knees to pray for your divine forgiveness. At the same time, the priest frantically offers you honeyed fruits and apologizes for his "clumsy, unworthy hands."

Yandere!Cult's territorial, overprotective nature means that the outside world is treated like a toxic wasteland of heresy that must never touch you. They have completely erased all records of your birth parents from the local registry, tracking down the hospital files and burning them to ash so no one can ever claim a biological right to you. You are given no concept of money, labor, or human societal rules only the absolute certainty that your word is law within the temple walls. If you express a casual, childish curiosity about what lies beyond the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, the priests will look at you with deep, heartbroken panic, wrapping you in thick, embroidered shawls and softly gasping. "The outside is cold and cruel, little deity. The mortals out there are blind to your glory. Stay here, where your children can keep you safe forever."

The comedy of your daily life peaks whenever you try to exercise any form of normal, mundane independence. If you decide you want to walk down the stone hallway by yourself instead of being carried in a sedan chair, a squad of hooded paladins will walk directly in front of you, literally sweeping the stone floor with peacock feathers and laying down velvet runners so your holy feet never have to touch a speck of dust. If you casually point at a random, expensive item in a trader's catalog, the cult’s covert asset team will bypass the market entirely, acquiring the item by any means necessary and presenting it to you on a satin pillow before sunset. You have effectively become a prisoner of pure, unadulterated adoration, a young hybrid living in a high-security, golden paradise where your word is divine scripture, your safety is a holy war, and your worshippers will gladly burn the outside world to the ground before they ever let you leave your throne.

The High Priest the formidable, imposing leader who makes seasoned warlords tremble with a single cold glance completely disintegrates into a soft, overly attentive mess the second he enters your presence. From the day he picked you up off the church steps, he claimed sole, exclusive rights to your care. He refuses to let lower-ranking initiates hold you for more than a few seconds at a time, deeply convinced that their "unworthy, clumsy hands" aren't careful enough with his precious little god. He carries you everywhere himself, propping your small frame securely against his hip or cradling you against his heavy, gold-embroidered robes while he conducts morning prayers, handles cult finances, or issues dark decrees to his followers.

The High Priest has turned his own office into a glorified playroom, refusing to part with you even during high-stakes strategic meetings. While hooded elders bow low to report on regional operations, the High Priest is completely unfocused on their reports, instead balancing a heavy parchment ledger in one hand while using his free hand to feed you sweet, seedless grapes or stack golden toy blocks on his massive mahogany desk. If an elder speaks too loudly and startles you, the High Priest's eyes will instantly flash with a terrifying, lethal glare, silencing the entire room with a harsh whisper. "Lower your voice in the presence of the divine, unless you wish to offer your tongue as a sacrifice."

High Priest's spoiling habits are entirely out of control because he treats your every minor gesture like a holy directive. If you so much as reach your hand toward a shiny crystal paperweight on his desk, he will instantly press it into your palm, smiling with a deep, terrifyingly soft fondness. If you tilt your head toward the window, he will halt the entire church service to have the stained glass opened so you can feel the breeze. He spends vast sums of the cult's hidden treasury ordering exotic silk toys, velvet-lined cushions, and rare fruits from across the continent, practically smothering you in gifts every single morning. He will sit on the floor of your sanctuary for hours, holding out sparkling trinkets one by one just to see which one makes your eyes light up.

High Priest's attachment borders on a desperate, anxious obsession whenever you are even a few feet away from him. If he has to step away to perform a mandatory ritual at the main altar, he will check on you every five minutes, looking over his shoulder with frantic worry until he can rush back to scoop you back into his arms. When you fall asleep in his lap, he will sit completely frozen for hours, refusing to move a single muscle or let anyone else make a sound in the cathedral just so your rest remains undisturbed. To the rest of the cult, he is a terrifying, absolute sovereign. Still, to you, he is just a giant, overly protective guardian who refuses to put you down, utterly consumed by the joy of being the one who gets to carry his little deity through life.

The lower-ranking initiates have developed a complex, highly competitive internal hierarchy based entirely on who is allowed to perform the most mundane tasks for you. Because the High Priest hoards all the primary caretaking duties, the initiates view tasks like sweeping the dust off the velvet runner three steps ahead of where you’re being carried, or carrying the silver tray of your discarded fruit peels, as the ultimate holy honors. If an initiate is assigned to polish the golden frame of your high chair, they will spend six hours meticulously buffing the metal until it shines like a mirror, weeping tears of religious fulfillment while their peers stare at them with intense, petty envy.

They treat your minor, everyday noises as profound, world-altering omens. If you let out a little sneeze during morning prayers, the entire congregation will immediately stop chanting, drop their foreheads flat to the floor, and spend the next twenty minutes whispering prayers of protection for your sacred sinuses. If you let out a happy gurgle or a cheerful chirp because you like a specific dessert, the cult scribe will frantically write down the exact time, temperature, and sun alignment in the official church records, declaring that specific hour a permanent holy holiday on the cult’s calendar.

They have zero boundaries when it comes to keeping your environment hyper-sanitized and completely silent. A specialized division of paladins intimidating, armored zealots who usually guard the perimeter are routinely deployed to hunt down and eliminate any minor inconvenience in your vicinity. If a stray songbird outside your sanctuary window chirps a little too loudly while you're taking an afternoon nap, three armored guards will quietly step outside with crossbows, entirely convinced they are defending the peace of the realm. If a fly dares to land on the silk pillow near your head, the guards will look like they’ve suffered a catastrophic security breach, dropping to their knees to beg the High Priest for punishment for allowing a "foul beast" near the divine one.

They treat any item you have touched, used, or casually dropped as a priceless relic that belongs in a reinforced vault. If you chew on a wooden teething ring for five minutes and then toss it out of your playpen, an initiate will catch it with velvet-gloved hands, place it onto a silver satin cushion, and escort it to the lower treasury under heavy armed guard. They refuse to wash or throw away any blanket you’ve used, instead preserving them in airtight glass cases around the sanctuary so they can bow before them when you aren't in the room.

🎨 fransi_mosshead on x

🎨 _AzureMei_ on x

…Silence

Inej who, by the time she’s in her twenties, has a permanent crease between her eyebrows from already a lifetime of furrowing them

Inej with the beginnings of laugh lines in the corners of her eyes before she’s 30. She hears theyre called crows feet, which only serves to make her laugh again

🎨crowcette on x

🎨kawainekonyan on x