Lottie

GENERAL

◌᰷ You can call me Lottie. I write everything to do with yanderes. You're open to request and ask things. I see them I just procrastinate

◌᰷ 18+ no exceptions. This is a yandere blog. There can be some messed up themes here I don't need no kids here.

◌᰷ No weirdos in general. If you don't want others to have basic human rights it's not the place for you. No homophobes, Transphobes, Pedos, Racists. GTFO I don't want you here.

RECENTS

◌᰷ Yan! Knight Part 2

◌᰷ Yan! Bully

◌᰷ Yan! Casino Owner

◌᰷ Yan! Mobster

Masterlist

WILL/WILL NOT WRITE

There may be things I forgot just ask

◌᰷ Will Write

Non/Dubcon Somno Age Gaps (depends on the gap though) Violence Manipulation Stalking Pretty much everything to do with normal yandere behavior

◌᰷ No thank you

Age up Pedophilia Self harm Vore Watersports Scat Vomit Incest

Even though it’s May imma still answer it.

Sorry for the wait Ik it took months but I did it

Yandere! Boxer x Boxer! Reader

cw: explicit sexual content, violence, blood, non/dubcon, breeding, possessive, yandere behavior, pussy eating, slight overstimulation.

The underground arena pulsed with raw energy. A bigger than usual crowd crammed into the ramshackle warehouse covered in graffiti, screaming for blood behind the flimsy iron fence as Mat and you circled each other in the center of the ring.

His dark eyes never left you.

You were lighter and faster, with powerful legs and a right hook known for knocking out men twice your size. Your black sports bra and matching shorts clung to your sweat-slicked body, your hair growing more undone and messier as the fight progressed.

For Matt, this wasn’t just a match. It was foreplay.

He had watched every one of your fights. He owned videos, stolen gloves, and even clothes he’d snatched while you showered in the locker room. Anyone who flirted with you or got too close had quietly disappeared. Tonight, he would finally be the one to touch you.

The bell reverberated through the space.

You came out aggressive, dancing on your toes. You landed the first solid combination—jab, cross, hook—snapping Matt’s head back. Blood trickled from his split lip. He smiled.

“That all you got, princess?” he growled, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Shut up and fight,” you snarled, throwing a heavy overhand right, determined to wipe the smirk off his face.

He slipped it and pressed his hard body against yours, pinning you against the fence. His mouth brushed your ear. “I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”

You shoved him off and drove a knee toward his ribs. The two of you traded brutal blows for what felt like hours. Leather cracked against flesh. Sweat and blood flew, painting the aged concrete. Every time you hit him, his eyes burned hotter. Every time he hit you, it was controlled—never enough to truly end it.

In the final round, you were exhausted. Matt feinted and landed a devastating body shot. You gasped, doubling over while clutching your stomach. He followed with a hook to your side that dropped you to one knee. The ref started counting.

You beat the count, wiped your brow in irritation, and landed a perfect uppercut that staggered the bigger man. The crowd lost their minds.

The bell sounded. The judges’ decision came in: a controversial split decision in favor of Mat.

You protested loudly, “That’s bullshit! I had him!”

Matt’s smile never wavered. He raised his gloves, eyes locked on you the entire time.

The locker room was dimly lit and empty. Most fighters had already cleared out after the main event. You slammed the door behind you, still fuming, blood dripping from a cut above your eyebrow and a split lip. Your body ached, but adrenaline still pumped through your veins. You opened your locker and rummaged through it, pulling out some Vaseline.

You didn’t hear him enter.

Strong arms suddenly wrapped around you from behind, pinning your arms to your sides. A hard, sweaty, blood-smeared body pressed against your back.

“Get the fuck off me!” you shouted, struggling.

Matt’s voice was a dark, velvet rumble against your ear. “You were perfect out there. So strong. So beautiful for me.”

You elbowed him hard. He barely flinched. One of his large hands slid up, gripping your jaw and forcing your head back against his shoulder.

“I’ve killed for you,” he confessed softly, almost tenderly. “Anyone who touched you, anyone who wanted you… they’re gone. You belong to me now.”

“You’re fucking insane,” you hissed, heart hammering, eyes darting for an escape route.

“Yes.” He kissed the side of your neck, tasting salt and blood. “And you’re mine.”

You stomped his foot, threw your head back, and twisted in his grip. It only made him want you more. His erection pressed thick and insistent against your ass through his shorts, grinding against you like an animal in heat.

With terrifying ease, Matt spun you around and slammed your back against the cold lockers. The impact rattled the metal. Before you could recover, his mouth crashed down on yours—bruising, hungry, and devouring. You bit his lip. He moaned in pleasure and forced his tongue deeper.

His hands were everywhere. He ripped your sports bra down, letting your breasts spill into his palms. He kneaded them roughly, thumbs dragging over your nipples. You gasped into his mouth. His other hand slid down your sweat-slicked abs and under the waistband of your shorts, finding you already wet despite your protests.

“Matt—stop—”

“You don’t want me to,” he growled, fingers stroking your slick folds. “So stop fighting and enjoy it.”

He dropped to his knees, yanking your shorts and panties down in one violent tug. Before you could protest, his mouth was on you. Hot. Possessive. His tongue licked broad stripes up your pussy, making you jolt. He grinned at your reaction before sucking hard on your clit. Your legs shook. You grabbed his hair, trying to pull him back, but it was useless. His head stayed firmly in place as one hand gripped your plush thigh, pulling you closer so you were grinding against his face, spreading your mess all over him.

You whined at the overwhelming sensations, feeling yourself starting to enjoy it much to your displeasure. He sensed the shift and sucked harder on your clit, feeling it throb against his lips. He removed his hand from your thigh and pushed two fingers inside your slick, gummy walls. You thrashed at the intrusion, but your walls squeezed tightly around his fingers like a vise as he pumped them in and out.

The dual sensations drove you crazy. Moans filled the locker room with little concern for the outside world. You began grinding against his face desperately, chasing more of his touch.

“Fuck—please, no more!”

He didn’t stop. Knowing your true intentions, he pushed you closer and closer to release. Before long, that tight coil built in your abdomen. His fingers curled inside you, hitting your g-spot perfectly. Your words dissolved into a jumbled mess. Finally, you came hard against his tongue, thighs clamping around his head.

You panted, trying to catch your breath, fingers still tangled in his hair.

He looked up at you with a mischievous smile before diving back into your cunt, sucking even harder. Your body arched and jerked violently. You gasped, trying to pull back against the locker, but he held you in place. His tongue drove you over the edge again and again until you were barely conscious, thighs soaked with saliva and cum. Only then did he rise, lips glistening with your juices. He licked them clean with a satisfied hum.

He bent you over the bench. Your hands braced against the hard surface as he freed his thick, heavy cock from his pants. It slapped against you—hot, veined, and dripping with pearly precum.

“You’re going to take every inch like a good girl.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He pushed inside you inch by inch, stretching you open. You cried out at the sudden fullness. Matt groaned deeply as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck… so tight. So perfect.”

He started fucking you hard. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the locker room. Each powerful thrust slammed you forward. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force as he pounded into you.

“Mine,” he snarled with every thrust. “Say it.”

When you refused, shaking your head, he reached around and rubbed your swollen clit while driving even deeper. You moaned loudly, another orgasm building against your will.

“Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you gasped, broken by pleasure and exhaustion.

He pulled you upright, one hand mauling your breasts and abusing your hardened nipples while the other continued working your clit. He fucked you standing, his teeth sinking into your shoulder and marking you as his. Your moans of his name became a broken mantra as he came hard, flooding your pussy with thick ropes of cum.

Even after he finished, he stayed buried deep inside you, holding you possessively while you trembled through the aftershocks. He continued with slow, lazy thrusts.

“You fought well tonight,” he whispered, kissing the fresh bite mark on your shoulder.

Hey! This is obviously whatever you want it to be but here.

Assuming he's off work that day, he greets you with breakfast in bed. Your favorite spread is in front of you, and you both enjoy the meal while talking or watching a show you begged him to watch with you. After that, he takes you out to do a little shopping—a date. Everything he notices you're looking at strongly, he's buying for you, no hesitation. He loves to keep the dates intimate. Maybe he rents out a restaurant or a beach for a few hours. And the night ends with him running your bath, maybe grabbing a massage if you're sore.

Happy B-day! Sorry If it's a bit late. Hope you enjoy! I tried to keep it GN.

TW: Implied Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, and overall just a creepy dude

“Where might you be going?”

You lowered the music in your earphones and turned to the voice. You raised your eyebrow to the man. Mind hitting a wall on how to respond to the stranger

“Home?” is the word you finally landed on. Looking him over. He was lean and tall with deep seated eyes that pierced into yours as if trying to verify if it was true or not.  You shifted in your bus seat. Trying to move away from him. 

The further you went away the closer he closed the distance. You grimaced “Is there something wrong sir?” 

You tried your best to be polite. Burying your want to curse him out and call the cops on him.

He smiled almost to himself, “I just want to know more about you” Your back straightened up at the comment just to notice he rested an arm on the back of your seat. You looked up to him and then around to the rest of the bus just to find nobody else on. It was the dead of night and this was the last bus even running tonight. You swallowed hard. 

Fuck. 

You can’t help but think back to all the times your family advised you to carry a teaser and you disregarded it as them being paranoid.

“Why would you want to get to know me better? I’m just a nobody” You try to shift away again just for him to grab your shoulder and pull you back to him.

“No trust you are not a nobody, I’ve been curious about you for quite some time.” You turned to him horrified but tried to hide it with a laugh and wandering eyes. 

“Oh I didn’t know you knew me”

He gave a deep chuckle. Moving the hand from your shoulder to your waist. 

“Yeah you always get on awfully late you know?”

You gave another nervous laugh and nodded “Yeah longer hours. Can’t help it” As if your prayers were answered by God the bus finally came to a stop. 

It wasn’t your stop but anything was better than staying here and getting harassed. You jumped up from your seat much to his dismay and gathered your belongings. You gave a relieved smile to him and got off in a hurry. 

The second the doors to the bus closed and rove off you breathed a deep sigh of relief. You walked home. Although it was much longer than you hoped or anticipated you started your journey. By the time you made it to your street you were worn out. Feet aching and sweated through your pressed shirt. 

“You really thought I wouldn’t know your stop? How dumb do you think I am?”

The voice startled you and you whipped around to be knocked upside your head. Your ears rang and your head was swimming. The surroundings blurred together before you blacked out and hit the ground with a loud thud. By the time you came to you were tied to a metal pole in a dimly lit basement. The same stranger from the bus was carefully wiping the blood from your wound and bandaging you up. 

You pressed yourself against the pole and started breathing heavily. Unable to accept this was your fate. He rubbed a gentle hand down the unharmed side of your head. Playing with your locks as he savored the scared look on your face.

“If I had known you’d have such a cute reaction I would’ve done this sooner” The obscene words flooded out of you as tears traveled down your face. None of them upset him. Instead he held your head still and kissed your tears which only made you cry harder. 

The whole night you got no sleep. Twisting your wrists in the rope trying to give yourself enough leeway to get an arm free. Trying to push yourself up the pole. Extend your foot to knock over something. Pull something. Anything. You even faked Stockholm just to get better treatment. After weeks of laughter, compliments, and touches that burned you but aroused him you were finally allowed to roam the basement freely. You wasted no time through the night to search for anything of use. Pulling apart file cabinets and drawers. 

When your eyes landed on metal wire. After several hours you heard a click. You hand moved to the handle and pushed the door open. Dashed upstairs not worrying about the loud footsteps you heard. Already knowing he was coming. The beating of your heart and his loud stomps soon came together. You ran room to room until you found it. Undoing the latch and unfastening the chains. When you were going to open it a firm hand yanked you back with enough force to dislocate an arm. 

You cried and screamed and struggled but it was useless. He threw you down the basement stairs. He followed and stood above your form. Folded into the fetal position crying your eyes. His eyes showed no ounce of pity as he forced you to look at him. If anything he was delighted.

He wordlessly took your hands and tied them to that same frigid pole you’ve known day in and out for weeks but this time with zip ties. He came down to eye level with you. Moving your hair from your face just to laugh. To taunt you. You could no longer struggle as he moved your legs wider with a devilish laugh.

(rn it is cold where i live)

Yes! All of them do. I only rly add them if I feel like it’s right or I’m tired of saying “he.” But yeah here’s the names:

Boxer - Matt

Casino Owner - Claude

Mobster - Elijah

Emperor - Amir

Loner - Rowan

Butcher - Victor (Vic)

Football Player - Myles

Roommate - Ethan

Knight - Cassius

Bully - Kai

Boyfriend - Darien

Creep - Curtis

Stoner - Lucas

Tattoo Artist - Mateo

Stalker - Rylan

Cop - Derrick

Rich Husband - Julian

Kidnapper - Nathaniel (Nate)

Prince - Sebastian

Captor - Alex

I was wondering if I could request a fic for a yandere king x female!general reader? Except the reader disguised herself as a man in order to join the king's army.

Heyyy! thank you for the love

Yandere! Emperor x General! Reader

TW: Drugging, Power Imbalance, Implied Stalking, and mentions of Body Horror

For seven months, you had been the empire’s beating heart—unbroken, untouchable, a myth wrapped in steel. Soldiers carved your sigil into their shields, traded tales of the bridge you held alone against ten thousand arrows, raised cups to the “Iron Saint” who never laughed at their jests, never removed his helm, never showed weakness. Ballads followed you like shadows: filthy tavern verses about the beautiful, tragic young lord too wedded to war to take a lover; crude confessions scrawled on parchment and slipped beneath your tent flap at midnight.

Of course, you ignored them all.

The Emperor did not.

He had always watched from afar—until your name drowned out his in every dispatch, every drunken toast, every noble’s petition begging to host “the general” after victory. Then the black imperial carriage began appearing without warning. Private audiences multiplied. Letters arrived sealed in obsidian wax, written in his own slashing hand.

At first they were tactical.

Then intimate.

Then possessive.

Tonight the command pavilion was a furnace. Braziers roared, throwing jagged shadows across maps crusted with old blood. You stood at rigid parade rest, helm still locked in place, the small glass vial clenched in your gauntleted fist until the black wax seal splintered.

Lucien circled you slowly on the wolfskin rug, sleeves rolled to the elbows, imperial circlet discarded like refuse on the side table. Only a black silk shirt clung to him, sleeves whispering with every predatory step.

“You hesitate,” he said, voice velvet over razors. “Even now.”

“The men need to stay sharp,” you answered in the low, practiced register. “A sleeping army is a dead one.”

He laughed—soft, intimate, the sound of a noose tightening. “They are already asleep. They dream of you. Every night. Every march. Every breath they draw while you stand apart, perfect, untouchable.” He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that the cedar-clove scent of him filled your lungs. “I hear it all. The songs drifting to my tent while I lie awake. The letters they think they hide. The way they tattoo your mark on their skin like a brand they’ll never earn.”

His hand rose. One finger hooked the throat-guard strap and tugged—just enough to remind you how fragile the lie was.

“I could end this charade right now,” he murmured. “Rip the helm away. Let your hair spill across the snow like spilled ink. Let the first fool who stumbles in for night watch see what I’ve known for months. Do you think they would still sing? Or would they stare in stunned silence, realizing their saint was never theirs to worship?”

Your pulse slammed against the cruel bindings so hard you were certain he could feel it through the steel breastplate.

He leaned in until the edge of your visor nearly brushed his lips.

“Drink,” he commanded.

You lifted the vial. The liquid shimmered colorless in the firelight, innocent as water. Your other hand rose instinctively to the helm’s release catch—not to remove it, but to anchor yourself against the vertigo.

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “Don’t.”

You froze.

“You do not get to hide from me anymore.” His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with something feral. “Not even for a heartbeat. Not even to breathe.”

Heyy but sorry it took forever

Yandere Football Player who, during the long, grueling season, weaves you into his regimented life like a non-negotiable drill. He brings you to every practice, not as a spectator of the sport, but as the spectator of him. He sets you up in your designated spot with a military precision that speaks of obsession—cushioned chair, sunscreen, a novel he picked because the cover looked like something you’d read. His eyes find you in the gaps between reps. When the coach screams at him for his distracted glare, forcing him to run punitive laps, he does so on the track that encircles the field, ensuring you never leave his sight for a full second, a panting, sweating satellite orbiting your still, unimpressed form.

Yandere Football Player who accepted your utter disinterest in sports not as a flaw, but as truth. He never subjects you to the "boring" rants about game outcomes or unfair flaggings. The moment he finds you after a game or practice, his questions are a soft, focused liturgy: "Did you watch me? Just me? Were you too cold? Here, take my varsity jacket." He offers the jacket like a knight’s favor, the fabric still humming with his body heat and the weight of his public identity, which he desperately wants to make your private blanket. When you decline, a profound, silent pout transforms his features. He doesn't argue. He just pulls you closer using his physical bulk to override your gentle refusal, deciding that if you won’t accept his symbol, you will accept his substance.

Yandere Football Player who treats any threat to your shared bubble with exterminating fury. When campus rumors and a degrading post about you surfaced—mocking your baggy clothes and your indifference—his response was not impulsive rage, but cold, calculated vengeance. Myles found the boy, isolated him, and beat him with the focused efficiency of a training exercise. Each strike had a purpose: a lesson against speaking, against typing, against looking. He took the phone, deleted the post, erased the account, and with it, the boy’s courage to even breathe your name again. He came to you afterwards, knuckles split, and simply pressed his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. “It’s handled,” he whispered, the violence a gift he laid at your feet, expecting you to understand it as the purest form of his protection.

Yandere Football Player who, on rare nights, gives you a private showing. He smuggles you into the empty, echoing stadium, the floodlights casting long shadows. Without pads or an audience, he runs plays just for you at half-speed, a ghost moving through his own triumphs. “This was the touchdown that won the rivalry game,” he murmurs, not to brag, but to translate the only language he’s ever been fluent in into something he hopes you might finally understand. It’s a desperate, vulnerable pantomime, his art stripped bare for its only worthwhile critic.

Heyy 🫶🏽 sry it took so long.

TW: Starvation, Emotional Abuse, Possessive Behaviors

“Wonderful to have you here, Adonis.” He flashed another charming smile, a gleaming performance, as he pulled you tighter against his side. His hand was a brand on the small of your back.

“The pleasure is ours,” he answered for you both, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.

You let your own smile freeze into something rigid, a mannequin’s grin, while the two men sank back into their encrypted talk—percentages, mergers, veiled threats. The champagne flute in your hand was pure prop. The glittering ballroom was a cage. Every event was the same: fake laughs, sharp words behind charmed smiles, cold appraisals of human net worth.

Claustrophobia hit suddenly, violently, tightening your throat. You shifted, pulling away from the furnace heat of his body. His hand fell. He didn’t miss a beat in conversation, but you felt the change in him—a coiled spring, compressed. Moments later he dismissed the other man with a polite nod. Then his fingers closed around your upper arm. To anyone watching, the grip looked casual. It was hard enough to bruise.

He guided you to a secluded alcove behind a towering floral arrangement. The lilies smelled suffocating.

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” His voice was a low, pleasant hum. Only you could hear the razor beneath it.

“You manage that perfectly well by yourself.” The words slipped out, raw and weary and deliberately sharp.

He chuckled, soft and intimate, the sound trailing cold fingers down your spine. “Jokes now? How cute.” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t get too happy, love.” He released your arm, his gaze sliding over you like you were a misbehaving pet he could dismiss.

You didn’t wait for permission. You turned and walked—straight through the glittering crowd, out onto the vast, empty terrace. The humid night air hit like mercy. You gripped the balustrade, staring at Singapore’s artificial skyline, knuckles white. In the reflective glass you saw him inside, smiling, accepting another drink. You were always in his sight.

The next morning the hotel suite was quite luxury. He’d left at dawn for a closed-door meeting, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Be good, my darling. Order anything you like. I’ve taken care of everything.”

Taken care of everything. The phrase lingered in the sterile, air-conditioned silence. Silence was worse than the party’s noise. Your eyes—gritty from a sleepless night lying rigid beside him—landed on the desk. There, beside a perfect white orchid, placed with artful carelessness, was his wallet.

A test. A trap. Obviously.

Boredom had curdled overnight into something colder, clearer: recklessness. If it was a test, you’d answer it.

You crossed the marble floor. The black alligator leather was smooth under your fingers. Inside, among high-denomination notes, was the card. Matte titanium, edges sharp. His name etched into it like a claim. You took it. The weight in your palm was equal parts terror and key.

You didn’t change clothes. You pocketed the card, slid on sandals, and walked out.

No alarms. No guards. Just the concierge’s bow. “A pleasant day, madam.”

You stepped into Singapore noon. The heat slapped you, thick with exhaust, spices, blooming flowers—real life. You vanished into it.

In a cramped arcade you used your own crumpled notes to buy a garish sundress covered in lurid orchids and changed in a public bathroom, abandoning the hotel robe. The cheap cotton felt honest.

Then you used his card like a blade, carving out space. At a Peranakan café you charged Kueh Lapis Sagu, savoring the sticky coconut sweetness. In a boutique you bought perfume that smelled of flowers potent enough to suffocate—a scent he would despise. From a tourist stall you took a stuffed Merlion.

For hours you were no one’s property. Just a woman in a loud dress, tracing shophouse tiles with your fingertips, letting the sun ache in your bones, drifting to temple drumbeats. The knot in your chest loosened, thread by thread.

He found you at dusk in the smoky chaos of Lau Pa Sat satay stalls. You were licking peanut sauce from your fingers, a cold beer sweating on the table, a small unguarded smile on your face.

The world hushed. He leaned against a pillar, watching. Immaculate suit, tie loose, relaxed. He looked… amused.

He slid onto the bench opposite you, picked up your beer, took a sip. His dark eyes catalogued the dress, the bags, your expression.

“Having an adventure, are we?” The voice was a soft, intimate purr. He lifted the grinning Merlion. “Charming.” He set it down. His gaze pinned you. “Did you enjoy playing tourist with my money, my love?”

You met his eyes, chin up. “I enjoyed spending it more than you enjoy controlling it.”

A flicker crossed his face—surprise, then something darker, pleased. He leaned close, breath against your ear. “I’ve followed every ping. A delightful little trail.” His thumb caught a stray drop of sauce from your chin, gentle. “The dress is… a fascinating scream.” He leaned back, smile patronizing. “Our flight leaves in three hours. Go change. We mustn’t look disreputable.”

He left the Merlion on the table. He didn’t ask for the card. The message was clear: every inch of your rebellion still belonged to him.

In the first-class cabin he was the picture of devoted care. He tucked a blanket around you, touch lingering. He ordered champagne you ignored.

As the plane climbed into black velvet night, the stewardess brought menus. He gave her a warm, apologetic smile.

“Nothing for my wife, thank you. She’s feeling rather unwell after her… excursions today. Best to let her system rest.”

He turned to you as the lights dimmed. His hand settled on the back of your neck, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles over your nape. His voice dropped to a tender, private murmur.

“You fed your spirit lavishly this afternoon, didn’t you? All that color, all that noise.” His fingers tightened—just a fraction. “The body can afford to fast. It’s clarifying. It reminds us what we truly need.”

He accepted his meal—seared scallops, burgundy—and ate with deliberate elegance beside you as the hours stretched. The aroma of fine food curled between you. Your stomach, once full of satay and freedom, clenched with hollow ache.

He never mentioned the card, the dress, the escape. He simply starved you, mile after mile, in soundless star-strewn darkness. The lesson was brutal and absolute: every taste of freedom carried a price.

And yet, when the cabin was finally quiet and his hand still rested warm on your neck, you didn’t pull away.

You turned your face into his shoulder, just enough that he could feel the surrender in the small movement.

“I hate you,” you whispered, the words clear, steady, almost conversational.

His thumb traced one last slow circle.

“I know,” he murmured back, soft as a vow. “And you still need me.”

You closed your eyes against the dark window, against the stars, against the truth of it.

He was right.