˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Ligma ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

was not expecting that so thanks my dear!!

cant wait to get wifed up and breed by Eli. knowing him and reader he can probably just ask reader to write their name on a dotted line cause he wants to see how reader writes their name. unknowingly its a marriage certificate that reader just signed

Eli could throw a wedding and reader wouldnt even know it was their wedding

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wait, what?

# pairings: yandere cowboy farmer x himbo / bimbo reader

# synopsis: you thought it was a themed town event—turned out it was your actual wedding, and you’re the only one who doesn’t know.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

you were just trying to be nice.

eli had just lifted an entire hay bale one-handed, sweat glistening on his neck like something out of a steamy calendar you definitely used to own. and you, being the supportive little ray of sparkles you are, clapped your hands and sighed dramatically:

“ugh, if i ever get married, it better be to a man like you.”

eli, wiping his brow, gave you a long look. “noted.”

you assumed that was the end of it.

spoiler: it was not.

fast forward two weeks.

here you were. you thought it was a theme party.

in your defense, eli did say, “put on somethin’ white, we got somethin’ to take care of in town,” and you assumed it was, like, a cow blessing or maybe a fancy farmer's market opening. so you slipped into your cutest white outfit, added a little flower crown (for aesthetic), and hopped into his truck like the sunshiney disaster you are.

then suddenly, you're standing in front of a judge—well, a guy named judge, who runs the bait shop and also officiates weddings “for a decent price and a six-pack” with a clipboard, there’s a weird amount of flowers for a paperwork situation, and eli’s wearing his “nice” flannel—the one without any holes or bloodstains. you’re handed a bouquet (free souvenir?), and the next thing you know, eli’s staring deep into your eyes with a suspiciously intense expression. eli’s in a clean shirt (which should’ve been a red flag), and the dogs are all lined up like tiny groomsmen.

“do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

you gasp, hands to your chest. “omg! is this, like, a rehearsal for someone else’s wedding?! wait—can i be the flower kid?? i love throwing things.”

eli just grunts. “you already said yes, darlin’.”

“i did? oh my god, that’s so real of me. i love participating!”

one of the wedding guests—miss patty from the feed store, who’s been suspiciously invested in your love life since you first tripped into town—leans over mid-ceremony and whispers, “you make such a pretty spouse, sugar. eli's been talkin’ about this day for months.”

you beam, cheeks warm. “aw, he’s such a good actor! this bit is so convincing.”

she stares at you for a long beat, lips parted like she’s buffering, then just sighs and pats your hand. “bless your heart.”

you’re not sure what that means, but it feels supportive, so you flash her a glittery thumbs-up and accidentally toss your bouquet into the arms of old man jenkins, who tears up and proposes to the nearest scarecrow.

another guest, some old guy named larry—who may or may not have wandered in from a fishing trip—leans over to your seat during the “ceremony” and whispers, “you know you’re gettin’ married, right?”

you blink. “ohmygosh! someone is?! who?!”

larry just stares. then points. at you.

you wave cheerily. “congrats to them!!”

eli wraps his arm tighter around your waist.

“….,” larry stares, and takes another sip from his thermos.

aunt marlene—who, as far as you know, is not your aunt but insists you call her that—dabs at her eyes with a floral handkerchief. “i told eli it’d happen fast once he found the one,” she sniffs, elbowing the guy next to her. “told ya, didn’t i? didn’t i say that sunshine baby was gonna domesticate that man like a barn cat?”

“yeah, but i didn’t think it’d happen on a thursday,” the guy mutters, holding a beer can with congratulations scrawled across it in sharpie. “also, did they even know this was their wedding?”

meanwhile, three farmhands who lived further down of town are placing bets on whether you’ll realize you’re married before the honeymoon ends. one’s already lost five bucks after you asked, “wait, why’s everyone taking pictures? is this, like, a photo op for the local tourism board?”

the mayor—who doubles as the postman and moonlights as the town santa—gives eli a proud slap on the back and mutters, “good catch. real sparkly. like marryin’ a magpie with a skincare routine.”

you curtsy at someone who cheers too loud, accidentally tripping over a goat in a bowtie (whose attendance no one seems to question), and turn to eli with wide eyes. “omg, this is the fanciest rehearsal i’ve ever seen! are those sparklers?!”

eli just pulls you closer, hiding a smirk in your hair. “sure is, darlin’. now kiss your groom.”

you do. because you’re very into commitment-based improv, apparently. eli pulls you in for a kiss that feels suspiciously long for a rehearsal, but hey—you’re in too deep to ask questions. probably some kind of local tradition. small towns are quirky. you just assumed this was one of those weird, hay-scented rituals everyone smiled through and never explained.

currently, you’re in eli’s truck, barefoot, frosting-sticky, and blissfully unaware that you just legally tied the knot in front of a man who can bench press a goat and apparently organize a wedding with the same deadpan efficiency he uses to fix a tractor.

you were licking the frosting off your fingers from the super realistic wedding-themed cupcakes (you even snagged two extras, because free food is your love language), while eli drives with one hand on the wheel and one resting heavy on your thigh.

“that was so fun,” you say, leaning your head back with a content sigh. “do they do fake weddings like that every year or just during cow fair season?”

eli makes a sound that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. “just once,” he says, voice low. “one’s all i needed.”

“awww,” you beam, patting his big calloused hand like he’s being sentimental about something quaint. “you’re so cute when you talk in riddles.”

he doesn’t respond—eli just gives your thigh a little squeeze, eyes fixed on the road like he’s already planning your anniversary.

back at the farmhouse, he opens the passenger door for you like a gentleman, scoops you up bridal-style (you squeal and giggle like it’s a game), and carries you straight through the front door.

“eli!” you gasp dramatically, “you’re not supposed to carry me over the threshold unless we’re married!”

he just hums. “yep.”

you don’t question it.

you get home and kick off your sparkly flats at the door, humming a little tune as eli trails behind you with the lazy, content look of a man who just won the lottery and plans to never give the ticket back. you're still talking about the party.

“did you see how cute the tiny hay bale centerpieces were? oh! and the old lady who gave me a fake bouquet? i wanted to ask where she got it but then i got distracted by the free lemonade.”

eli’s setting down the cupcakes and muttering something like “weren’t nothin fake ‘bout that bouquet” under his breath.

you wander into the kitchen and immediately throw open cabinets like you live here—which, you do now—fishing for your favorite mug. you find it (“glitter is a neutral”) and start making hot cocoa, because nothing says “happy pretend wedding day” like a sugar high. you even hum as you stir, spoon clinking against the ceramic like background music.

eli watches you like he always does—quiet, unreadable, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway. his eyes track every move you make like he's committing it all to memory.

“you want some cocoa?” you ask over your shoulder, tossing mini marshmallows into the cup with chaotic precision.

he grunts. “nah.”

“you sure? you like marshmallows.”

“…fine.”

you make him a cup and hand it over with both hands like you're presenting a sacred gift. eli takes it, his massive hands dwarfing the mug, and you don’t notice the way he looks at you like you're made of glass and starlight.

you just bounce back over to the couch, throw a blanket over both of you, and snuggle into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this fake marriage thing’s kinda fun,” you murmur sleepily.

eli lets out a low chuckle. “y’think so?”

“yeah,” you yawn. “it’s nice.”

he leans down and presses a slow, rough kiss to your temple.

“good,” he says, smiling into your hair. “get used to it.”

you spend the rest of the day gushing about how sweet it was that eli invited you to help out with a wedding.

eli just nods along, wears the ring, and installs a new “mr. & mx.” sign above the door of the farmhouse like it’s always been there.

you never notice.

not when he starts calling you his “spouse”

not when people in town congratulate you and you respond with “for what? oh my god, did i win something??”

not even when you start sleeping in his bed every night and he’s kissing your forehead you’re just living your best life, accidentally married, completely oblivious.

eli? he’s the happiest man on earth. and god help the poor soul who ever tries to tell you the truth—because eli’s already buried one of those.

later that week, you find eli outside fixing the porch steps—shirt off, jaw set, hands calloused and strong as ever. you wander over with a juice box (because hydration is important) and plop down next to him, watching like it’s your favorite TV show.

“you’re like, really good at this,” you say helpfully, sipping loudly through the straw. “you ever thought of doing it professionally?”

eli doesn’t even look up. “fixin’ my own porch?”

“yeah, like… i dunno. husband things.”

he pauses. “that what you think this is?”

you nod. “definitely. hammering stuff. fixing things. putting up curtains. classic husband activities.”

eli huffs a soft laugh through his nose, tosses the hammer aside, and wipes his hands on a rag. “guess i’ll keep doin’ 'em then.”

and he does.

by the end of the week, there’s a new coat rack with your initials carved into it, your toothbrush is mysteriously replaced with a fancy electric one (“eli, are we rich now?”), and your favorite hoodie keeps showing up freshly washed and folded on your bed.

he mows the lawn before you can ask, changes the porch light when it flickers, and even rewires the bathroom fan after you complained it “sounded like a haunted kazoo.”

you clap like a proud toddler every time, completely convinced you’re just a very lucky guest on this charming little farmstay.

“i swear, if i ever get married for real,” you sigh one night, leaning back on the couch with your feet in his lap, “i want someone just like you. handy, grumpy, and weirdly good at foot rubs.”

eli’s hand stills for a second.

“you already did,” he mutters.

“huh?”

“nothin’. lemme know if i missed a toe.”

you don’t think twice about it. you just hum and sip your cocoa, completely oblivious to the fact that you are, in fact, a whole-ass spouse.

eli’s rough hands knead your tired feet with surprising tenderness, his gruff voice low beside you. the quiet warmth between you is comfortable, like the hum of the farmhouse settling in for the night. after a few minutes, he shifts, stands up, and grabs his toolbox without breaking the calm mood.

“i’ll get that squeaky hinge fixed,” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen. you stay on the couch, watching him move around the room with that same steady, no-nonsense energy—taking care of the little things like he always does, whether it’s your feet or the house.

eli’s quietly fixing a dent in the kitchen table and mumbling about adding extra shelves for your “crazy collection of glitter jars.” he grumbles something about “spoiling you rotten” but you catch the faintest hint of a smile anyway.

I made some fanart of how I think the Captain, Helmsman, Gunner, and Cook look like!

Featuring my mermaid oc Ebony who unfortunately got captured after getting too close (skill issue)

(I haven't quite visualized how the reader is caged in the story so my oc is just tied up rn lol)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ hungry hearts

# pairings: saja boys x succubus reader

# synopsis: you're succubus that decided to target a demonic idol group, but when they try to trap you, they realize too late—you're the real predator. now they’re the ones obsessed, ruined, and begging for more.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

you are a succubus.

not the kind that whispers promises in the dark in hopes that someone believes it. not a shy half-thing struggling to balance hunger and guilt. you’re full-blooded. practiced. a creature born for the chase and the ruin that follows.

you don’t pretend to love. you don’t ask. you take.

you drain the breath from worship, the soul from desire. not enough to kill—unless they beg for it. you feed off the world’s wants and leave it wanting more.

so when you heard an idol boy group were playing nearby, you didn’t go for fun. you went to confirm a suspicion. you’ve been alive long enough to recognize demonic rituals when you feel them vibrate through pavement.

you didn’t come to feed. not at first.

you came to confirm a rumor. there were whispers in the underground—strange energy at live shows, girls fainting with smiles on their faces, fans going quiet after front-row seats.

when demons start acting sloppy, you pay attention.

you recognized the scent the moment you stepped inside the venue. old hell, perfumed in neon and sweat. it rolled off the stage in waves—sickening, sweet, and familiar.

saja boys. not idols. not performers. predators.

and judging by how they moved, how they sang—how they let adoration drip into them through every scream and camera flash—they weren’t hiding it. you leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes steady. you didn’t bother to glamour. you wanted them to see you.

and jinu did.

he caught your stare mid-chorus, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

he just smiled.

not the fan-service kind. the i see what you are kind.

you didn’t smile back. you just raised your brow.

you left before the encore.

you’d seen enough. confirmed it. they were demons. full-fledged. not infernal parasites, not cursed humans—actual demons. and worse: they were organized.

you walked out without a rush, calm and full of thought. you’d dealt with worse. you’d eaten worse. but you hadn’t made it three blocks before the world bent around you.

an alley stretched longer than it should have. the streetlights dimmed. and the air smelled like jasmine and fire.

“that was rude,” romance said from behind you, voice soft and dangerous. “you didn’t even stay for the final number.”

you turned slowly. five of them stood between you and the street. they hadn’t followed you. they’d shifted the world around you to get you alone.

cute trick.

they didn’t ask what you were. they already knew.

mystery looked at you like a puzzle someone had whispered to him in a dream. abby rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

“you’ve been feeding near our venues.”

you shrugged.

“people taste better when they’re desperate.”

baby tilted his head.

“so do demons.”

jinu stepped closer.

“you knew what we were. but you stayed.”

“i was curious,” you said.

“you don’t hide well.”

“we weren’t trying to.”

you held his gaze. steady. unafraid.

“then what are you trying to do now?”

he smiled.

“recruit.”

you woke in a studio made of velvet and shadows. not bound. not caged. just surrounded.

they were territorial. obsessive. but they weren’t fools. they didn’t treat you like prey. they treated you like competition.

and that was almost worse.

romance lounged near you, singing soft things under his breath like he wanted to crawl under your skin. abby watched you train, tossing knives between his fingers like he was daring you to throw first. mystery never spoke. just listened. always watching. baby followed you like a shadow—one that clung, needy, until it wanted to bite.

and jinu?

jinu circled you like he’d written the notes of your existence and was waiting for you to hum them back.

you didn’t play submissive. you didn’t flirt. you existed in the space they gave you and took more each day. you fed off the tension, the jealousy, the eyes that stayed too long and hands that touched too carefully.

you were a succubus. a man-eater. you didn’t need to chase. you just waited.

and they gave.

and gave.

until one night, you sang.

not for them.

for yourself.

just a note. low and slow, old magic sliding off your tongue like heat. the room shifted. lights flickered. one of them shuddered.

you opened your eyes and smiled.

“you’ve been feeding off devotion,” you said.

“but you’ve never tasted your own.”

they stared like you’d just shown them something holy.

you stepped forward.

“you’re not the top of the food chain,” you whispered.

“you’re just the next course.”

you weren’t gentle with them. you weren’t kind.

you made it clear from the start—this wasn’t love.

this wasn’t fun.

this was power, and they were already begging for it.

romance used to think he could charm anything. he smiled at you the way he smiled at stadiums—wide, warm, inviting. you laughed. right in his face.

“you’re cute,” you said. “but you reek of desperation.”

you didn’t let him touch you. didn’t let him linger.

you only looked at him when he started to crack.

now he writes songs about the way you don’t care. he sings your name into pillows when he thinks no one hears. he tells himself this pain is love. because he knows it’ll never be returned.

you call him “clingy.”

you call him “loud.”

you never call him yours.

and that makes him worship you more.

abby thought he could fight you. he snarled. he threatened. he shoved.

you let him.

you tilted your head and said,

“if you’re gonna act like a dog, at least be useful and sit.”

he hated you. he swore he did.

but he came back. over and over.

he liked the way your words hit harder than his fists. he liked how you could strip him bare with a sentence.

“jealousy looks good on you,” you told him once.

“makes you look honest.”

he still hasn’t recovered from that.

mystery watched it all quietly.

he wanted to study you, understand you.

you made sure he couldn’t.

you kept him guessing. you dropped clues you knew were lies. you let him think he was close to unraveling you—then pulled away right when he thought he had something real.

he never got a single truth out of you. and it drove him insane.

you let him spiral.

you let him write pages of notes and theories about the way you breathe.

he once asked what you were thinking.

you said, “i was wondering how long you’d last.” he didn’t sleep for days.

baby wanted softness. affection. attention.

you gave him none of it.

you ignored him until he begged. then you laughed.

“what do you think this is?” you asked.

“a love story?”

he still followed you.

he still sat at your feet like a broken thing, waiting for you to notice him.

you looked at him once, after weeks of silence, and said,

“you’ll let me hurt you, won’t you?”

he nodded.

you smirked.

you haven’t said another word to him since.

he’s still waiting.

jinu knew what you were.

he knew you were cruel.

that you liked breaking things just to see what they looked like ruined.

he should’ve walked away.

he didn’t.

he kept watching. kept listening. he let the others fall first. he let you ruin them. and still he stayed.

he told himself it was strategy. control. fascination.

but deep down, he knew the truth:

you made him feel helpless. and he liked it. you once asked him,

“what do you see when you look at me?”

he said, “the end of everything.”

you kissed his cheek and said, "good."

you don’t pretend to love them.

you don’t comfort. you don’t apologize.

you take.

and they let you.

because even as you tear them apart—piece by trembling piece—they keep coming back.

they need you to be cruel.

they don’t want a savior.

they want a god that doesn’t blink when they kneel.

they still think they’re claiming you. they still talk about ownership and control and keeping you here “just a little longer.” but now they hesitate when you smile.

now they flinch when you hum.

because they’ve realized—

you didn’t come to feed.

not at first.

but now?

you’re starving.

and they taste like victory.

what did you expect?

# pairings: yandere sugar daddy harem x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: eight obsessive lovers think they’re the only one—until their secrets collide. now, you’re trapped between devotion, danger, and the illusion of choice.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

# parts: part 1 𖤓 part 2 𖤓 part 3

# tags: @hopingtoclearmedschool , @yawnzzx, @hasty-desert, @enchantingarcadecreation, @cannyyyyy, @lianobody, @bokkito, @lordkhrisangel, @kiyo123456789, @iris-arcadia, @sleepycow21, @agustdxjiminx, @theangxz, @plus-ultra-girl, @slowlyswimmingmoon, @whiteoakoak

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

you just listen.

the front door handle jiggles. the back one, too. your apartment is small—too small for this. for two men who shouldn’t know each other to be reaching for you at once, calling you baby like it means something different on their tongues.

you back into the wall, calculating. the money. the gifts. the lies. the men. you’ve always kept it separate—clean, compartmentalized. eight lives. eight masks. never crossing. never slipping.

but something’s cracking.

“just open the door,” says one—closer now, coaxing. elijah? no—lucas? they blur together in the panic.

“i saw the light on,” the other murmurs through the rear entrance. “you home, sweetheart?”

you inch toward the hallway. your mind races through excuses, through escape plans. one of them is going to see the other. one of them is going to know.

and then what?

the front door knocks again. harder. louder. not a request, now—a warning.

your phone lights up on the counter.

eight missed messages.

three voicemails.

your name repeated like a prayer and a threat.

they’re closing in, and they still think they’re the only one. still think you belong only to them.

but if this is the night the truth comes out—

you might not get to leave.

your phone lights up again.

another message:

“i know you’re in there. don’t make me wait.”

you don’t recognize the number. but the tone is familiar. possessive. low. someone who thinks waiting is beneath him.

your throat tightens.

the front door handle clicks. the back one rattles. your apartment feels like it’s shrinking, the walls pressing in with every second.

you don’t even have time to figure out which one is standing where.

all you can think about is the second bedroom elijah wanted to fill. the silk robe nathan said you’d grow into. the prenatal vitamins matthew left like it was the most natural thing. the way kai stares too long at your stomach. how xavier whispers to it like there’s already something growing inside.

your stomach twists.

you never agreed to anything. never promised forever. you gave them smiles and touches, laughter and attention—and they gave you gifts. trips. jewelry. money. enough to live comfortably, to stay just out of reach.

but now they’re all reaching.

the back door knob jolts violently. a voice, clearer this time: “you’re not answering. why aren’t you answering me?”

your fingers dig into the edge of the counter. your heart is racing. this isn’t normal. this isn’t love.

this is a trap.

a cage lined with velvet and diamond-studded handcuffs.

another message buzzes through.

“i saw him. who was he?”

your blood runs cold.

they’re watching. maybe more than one. maybe all of them.

you inch toward your bathroom, silently lock the door behind you. your fingers fumble for the window. it’s too narrow to crawl out of, but you crack it anyway—for air. for escape. for the illusion of safety.

your phone vibrates again.

“we were supposed to be forever.” “you lied to me.” “i’m outside. don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

you slide to the floor, curling against the tub, breath shaking in your chest.

you’ve played this game so well.

smiled through dinners. laughed at their jokes. let them believe they were the only one. and maybe, for a while, it was fun.

but now?

now the game is over.

you’ve always known how to lie. how to perform.

but tonight, you’ll have to survive.

because one of them has found out.

and maybe—just maybe—they’ve told the others.

your knees press into cold tile.

somewhere outside, voices blur into one another—soft at first, like murmurs carried by wind, then louder. firm. insistent.

you don’t breathe.

two voices. not yelling. not yet. but the fury simmers beneath every word, masked only by the fact that they think they’re alone with you.

they don’t know about each other.

not yet.

and that window—the sliver you thought was escape—is now the perfect peephole. one of them paces by it, a familiar silhouette cloaked in tailored wool. you recognize the glint of his watch in the moonlight. lucas.

composed. deliberate. terrifying.

he’s not supposed to be here.

none of them are.

your phone buzzes again. and again. and again.

a dozen names. a dozen new messages.

where are you? are you avoiding me? i saw your lights on. i’ll wait all night if i have to. come outside, baby. please. i miss you. don’t make me come in.

a shiver rips down your spine.

you open your texts, hands trembling. a photo loads. grainy. zoomed in. taken from across the street.

it’s you. earlier today. unlocking your front door.

you never saw him.

another one loads. this time, through your bedroom window. you’re changing. your back to the glass.

you slam your phone face down.

this is spiraling.

they’ve been watching. waiting. marking time.

and now, they’re slipping. losing patience. showing teeth behind velvet smiles.

a soft knock—again. back door.

“i brought dinner,” someone says. sweet. calm. too calm.

matthew.

he always brings food. always watches you eat, like he’s studying your habits, waiting for signs. now, you wonder if he’s been dosing it.

your stomach flips.

you think of the vitamins. the tests. the new toothbrush that just appeared one morning in your bathroom—same brand as his. the silk sheets that mysteriously matched the ones in leo’s house. the second toothbrush. the tracking app you didn’t install.

your name echoes from the hallway.

not a question. a command.

“open. the. door.”

you flinch.

they don’t know they’re all here. yet.

but if they find out—if they see each other—what happens next won’t be about love. or even possession.

it’ll be war.

and you?

you’re the trophy they’ve all convinced themselves belongs to them.

you inch toward the closet. pull back the false panel you had installed months ago—just in case. it’s small, meant for shoes. cash. secrets. but it might buy you time.

you crawl inside the space.

the sound of a door opening echoes through your apartment.

but you never opened it.

you never said a word.

someone just let themselves in.

you press yourself into the farthest corner of the crawlspace, knees to chest, breath held so tight your lungs ache. the door creaks open—slowly. deliberately. like whoever entered doesn’t need to hurry.

your phone vibrates once more against your thigh.

you don’t look.

you already know.

footsteps now. one pair. deliberate. heavy. someone confident.

they don’t call out.

don’t ask for you.

they already know where you are.

floorboards groan. the closet is close.

you clamp a hand over your mouth. heart jackhammering. one wrong move and they’ll hear you breathing.

and then—

a pause.

no movement. no voice. just silence so thick it buzzes.

until another sound slices through it.

“they’re not answering you either, huh?”

a second voice.

your stomach drops.

they’re both inside.

“maybe they’re out.”

“they’re not.”

silence again.

“how do you know?”

“because their phone’s still here. and the lights are on.”

lucas. that calculating edge in his voice.

and elijah. smoother, but colder. too calm for someone this angry.

“who the fuck are you?” lucas asks, voice low, sharp.

“funny. i was about to ask you the same thing.”

you hold your breath.

“you’ve been watching them.”

“so have you.”

“don’t play dumb—why are you here?”

“same reason as you. they belongs to me.”

something slams. hard. a chair? a table?

you flinch.

“you don’t even know them.”

“i know everything i need to. and i know you’re in my way.”

they’re circling each other. measuring. two wolves in the same cage.

you stay frozen.

silent.

until—

another voice.

“both of you need to shut the hell up.”

matthew.

“they’re not a fucking toy you get to bicker over. they’re ours.”

the temperature in the apartment drops.

“ours?” lucas repeats, cold.

“you think they belongs to us?”

a pause.

“no,” matthew says. “i know they do.”

another voice. softer. hesitant.

nathan.

“…what’s going on?”

four.

four of them now.

you bite down on your knuckles to keep from making a sound.

the walls are closing in.

“they’ve been lying to all of us,” lucas says, sharp and sure. “don’t you get that?”

“and yet you’re still here,” elijah snaps. “so are you really mad? or just jealous?”

“jealous?” matthew scoffs. “i’ve already planned our future.”

more footsteps.

another knock.

“hey,” kai says from the hallway. “is something wrong?”

“you too?” lucas hisses.

you hear a breath hitch. kai.

“…wait. you’re all here?”

“no one invited you, kid,” elijah says, voice like steel.

“they didn’t invite any of us,” lucas snaps.

the air goes still.

“they’ve been playing all of us,” someone whispers. maybe nathan. maybe damien. maybe someone new.

“you shut your mouth,” leo growls. sudden. vicious. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why?”

“because they’re still ours.”

“you really think they wants any of us?”

“they don’t need to want us,” damien finally speaks. “they need to understand.”

“understand what?”

“that this ends tonight.”

your blood turns to ice.

they’ve stopped talking.

and now?

now they’re moving.

together.

you hear the footsteps draw closer. eight sets. slow. united.

no longer fighting each other.

they’ve made a choice.

and you’re the one they’ve chosen.

your phone lights up one more time.

you should’ve picked one of us. but now we’ve picked you. all of us.

your breath catches.

you can hear them in your room now. feet shuffling. drawers opening. your closet door creaks.

you press yourself deeper into the hideaway, heart slamming against your ribs.

then—

a hand brushes the panel from the other side. gently.

and a voice.

“there you are.”

you don’t scream.

you don’t move.

you just stare as the panel starts to shift open—slow, deliberate.

but it’s not just one hand.

another one grips the edge from the other side.

and another.

and another.

different sets of fingers. different grips.

they’ve all found you. at once.

and for the first time all night, they’re not fighting each other.

they’re working together.

the last thing you hear—before the panel gives way completely—is a chorus of voices, soft and smiling, overlapping in perfect, practiced harmony:

“we forgive you.”

darkness falls as the panel opens.

and they reach in.

my baby, my baby

# pairing: platonic yandere clark kent x reader

# synopsis: clark kent’s love is suffocating, he traps you with his own twisted ideas of protection and care

# warnings: this contains dark themes such as kidnapping, drugging, and infantilization. please block me if you are uncomfortable. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you are safe here. that’s what he tells you, over and over, in that soft, coaxing voice. the locks on the doors, the boarded windows, the way he feeds you with a spoon as if you’re too fragile to lift it yourself—these things are only there to protect you. because the world outside is cruel, and you’re too delicate to face it.

you remember how it started. you met him at work. clark was always kind, always protective. at first, it felt nice—the way he held doors open for you, the way he insisted on walking you to your car after late shifts. he told you the world was dangerous, that you needed someone to watch over you. you thought he was just being thoughtful.

at first, you admired him. clark was a quiet, thoughtful reporter with a warm smile and an earnest demeanor. you’ve always admired how he seemed so genuinely kind, his humble nature making you feel safe in his presence. he was a man who didn’t flaunt his strength or intelligence, who took care of people without expecting anything in return. everyone adored clark. you’d even considered him a friend, someone you trusted implicitly. when he spoke, his words carried weight, a steady reassurance that made you feel safe. clark paid attention in a way others didn’t—noticed when you were tired, when you were stressed, when you seemed uneasy. "let me help," he would say, and you let him, never thinking twice about the hands slowly closing in around you. the more you saw him, the more you noticed the way he seemed to know things about you that no one else did. things you hadn’t even told him.

“are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, concern flooding his soft blue eyes. "you’ve been so tired lately. you should let me help. you don’t have to handle everything on your own."

you chuckled nervously, brushing off his concern. "i’m fine, clark. just a little busy."

but it wasn’t just the concern that unnerved you. it was the way he looked at you, as if you were someone delicate, someone fragile. he had a softness in his gaze, but it wasn’t the kind of softness that invited trust. it was the kind of softness that made you feel like you were being treated as something breakable, something that could shatter at the slightest touch.

then the gifts started. soft blankets, teddy bears, tea sets. he laughed when you raised an eyebrow. "you work so hard. you deserve comfort," he said. then he started using pet names—"sweetheart," "baby," "little one." it felt strange, but harmless. until it wasn’t. until the concern became control, and the kindness became a cage.

you started avoiding him. you didn’t return his calls, ignored his texts, tried to distance yourself as best you could. but somehow, no matter how far you went, no matter how many excuses you made, he was always there, waiting. his eyes would meet yours across the street, in the grocery store, in the hallway of your office building. he wasn’t superman. he wasn’t some caped crusader saving the world. he was clark kent—the man you thought you knew, the one who had once seemed so harmless.

but now, he was everywhere. and you couldn’t escape.

one evening, after you’d just finished another round of avoiding him, you returned home to find your door slightly ajar. the hair on the back of your neck stood on end as you stepped cautiously inside.

“clark?” you called, your voice trembling, your heart racing.

there, sitting on your couch, was clark kent, casually reading a book. when he heard your voice, he looked up, his warm, gentle smile spreading across his face.

“i knew you’d be home soon,” he said, as if this were all completely normal. “i was just waiting for you. i wanted to make sure you weren’t alone tonight.”

you froze, your breath catching in your throat. “what are you doing here? how did you get in?”

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he stood up slowly, walking toward you with a slow, deliberate pace. “i just want to help you, sweetheart. you don’t need to do everything on your own anymore. you’re so tired. let me take care of everything. i’ll handle all the hard parts for you.”

he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek in a gesture that should have been comforting but felt more like a chain wrapping around your soul.

"clark, stop," you whispered, stepping back. "you’re scaring me."

“don’t be scared,” he murmured, his voice like honey, but there was something dark under it, something twisted. “i only want what’s best for you. you don’t have to fight anymore. you don’t have to make any choices. just let me handle it. you’ll see—once you stop resisting, everything will be better. you’ll be happier.”

his words wrapped around you, his presence overwhelming. he wasn’t just offering comfort anymore. he was taking control, making you dependent on him without you even realizing it. the more you tried to pull away, the more you realized that the real danger wasn’t just in his proximity—it was in his belief that this was love. he wasn’t doing this to hurt you, not in his mind. he thought this was what you needed, that by infantilizing you, by removing your autonomy, he was protecting you from the world. from everything. from yourself.

“i’m not a child,” you said weakly, your voice breaking. But you weren’t sure if you believed it anymore. his eyes, gentle and kind, seemed to tell you otherwise.

“you are, sweetheart,” he said softly. “and i’m going to take care of you.”

then everything went dark 

that night, you woke up in his home. your limbs were heavy, your head foggy. the door was locked. he was there, smoothing your hair, telling you how lucky you were. "you don't have to worry about anything anymore," clark cooed. "i'll take care of everything."

"There we go, sweetheart," he murmurs now, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. "nice and clean. such a good kid."

you are not a child. you are not helpless. but he treats you as if you are something small, breakable, incapable of making choices for yourself. your clothes are soft and loose, like something a doll might wear. your hair is brushed for you. clark hums lullabies when you cry at night, as though the terror pooling in your chest is something that can be soothed away with a gentle voice and a hand stroking your head.

"shhh, shhh, darling. you just need rest. that’s all. you always get fussy when you don’t rest enough."

you stopped fighting the restraints after the first few nights. clark calls them "precautions." you know better. they keep you still, keep you weak, keep you exactly as he wants you—small, dependent, his.

sometimes, he brings you toys. porcelain dolls with glassy, vacant eyes, dressed in ruffled lace, lined up on a shelf in your room. "aren't they lovely? just like you." he brushes your hair with the same care he gives them, his fingers lingering too long on your skin. when he speaks, it's never as though he's addressing an adult. "little ones like you need to be taken care of. the world is far too harsh. It's better this way. safer."

there is no clock in your room. you don’t know how long you’ve been here. days? weeks? your limbs feel weaker every time you try to stand. he carries you sometimes, cradling you against his chest like a child, whispering nonsense words to keep you docile.

"no more bad dreams, my little one. i won’t let anything hurt you. not ever."

but he is the thing that hurts you.

one evening, he presents a new outfit to you. with soft pastels, lined with lace. "look at what I made for you," clark says, eyes shining with pride. "try it on for me, sweetheart. just for a little while." his voice leaves no room for argument. your fingers tremble as you take the dress. you don’t cry anymore—what’s the point? you step into it, and his hands move to fasten the buttons at the back. clark’s breath is warm against your neck as he whispers, "perfect. my precious little child."

you tell yourself you will resist. that tomorrow, when he unbuckles the straps to your outfit, when he lifts the spoon to your lips, when he calls you his little one and pats your cheek—you will fight. you will scream. you will claw your way to the door and rip through the darkness outside, no matter what waits for you there.

but then morning comes. and his hands are gentle. and his voice is soothing. and you are so very, very tired.

and he smiles as you open your mouth obediently for the spoon.

hi im the anon who made that request

i feel like you must secretly know me cause when i was first learning about cars i too was like “you have to change its oil??” cars always have seemed too high maintenance for me and i too would probs die on the roadside since i don’t know how to fix a flat tire

if not cooking or manual labor i hope reader is good at decorating or sewing or something

i wanna make Eli some new clothes and bedazzle them too

thank you my dear for the story!!

bedazzling the farm

# pairings: yandere cowboy farmer x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: you can’t cook, can’t farm, and nearly lost a toe to an angry rooster—but luckily, you can sew. now you’re stuck on a remote farm with a grumpy, overprotective farmer built like a greek god and a bunch of chaotic animals wearing tiny outfits you made. survival? questionable. fashion? flawless.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

even though you’ve proven time and time again that cooking and farmwork aren’t your strengths, you somehow found your niche in sewing and decorating—something even eli hadn’t expected. 

it started small, with you mending one of his ripped flannels after you “accidentally” snagged it while doing laundry. the stitches were neat, almost perfect, and before long you were fixing worn-out work jeans, patching holes in old quilts, and hemming curtains that had been dragging across the floor for who knows how many years.

the house started changing too; bits of you showing up everywhere—handmade pillowcases, new curtains that actually matched, and little decorations you’d put together from old supplies you’d found around the farm. 

eli pretended not to notice at first, but you caught him more than once just standing in a room you’d fixed up, his gaze lingering on the small things, like the way you finally got him to replace those ancient, ugly dish towels or how you’d hung a makeshift wreath on the front door. “looks different in here,” he’d mutter, always gruff, but his eyes softer than you were used to. “good different.” and maybe you weren’t built for chasing chickens or working heavy machinery, but this? making his house into something warm—into home—this was something you could do.

and just like that sewing became your secret weapon—your little rebellion against being utterly useless on the farm. you often used it as a way to kill time, something to keep your hands busy after dinner. you'd sit curled up on the couch with a needle and thread, tongue poking out in concentration as you patched a hole in eli's jacket or embroidered a little flower onto a pillowcase just to make him scowl and mutter, “what the hell’s this daisy doin’ on my bed?” but he never took it off. not once.

just like that, you had a whole basket of projects—mending shirts, sewing buttons, turning worn-out jeans into tool pouches. eli started leaving things for you to fix without asking, setting them quietly beside your sewing kit with a grunt like it wasn’t a big deal. but you knew it was. he even made a comment once, low and rough, “never met someone who could sew like that, not out here.” and the pride in your chest nearly burst.

you started making things from scratch too—throw pillows from old feed sacks, a little curtain for the chicken coop window (yes, it had a window now), even a new cushion for the porch swing you’d claimed as your afternoon throne. the farmhouse began to reflect you more and more, a blend of rough edges and soft touches. and even if you couldn’t dig a ditch or wrangle a goat, you’d found your own way to belong—needle in hand, threading yourself into every corner of his world.

eli wears whatever you sew for him, no questions asked. patchwork flannel? he buttons it up like it’s designer. a beanie with crooked stitching? he pulls it over his ears and pretends it’s the warmest thing he owns. god forbid anyone so much as laughs at your handiwork—eli’s jaw tightens, his eyes go cold, and if a glare doesn’t shut them up, his fists sure will. 

one poor guy at the general store sneered at eli’s hand-stitched vest, eyeing it like it was some sort of joke. “did you make that yourself? or did your grandma help you with the stitching?” he laughed, but eli’s face went stone cold. without a word, eli grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into the nearest shelf so hard the cans rattled, and growled, “you talkin’ shit about my clothes again, and i’ll make sure it’s the last time you ever laugh. 

he never says much about the things you make, but you’ve caught him smoothing down the hems or tugging a collar straight like it means something. he even started leaving little scraps of fabric on the table, like hints. 

you didn’t stop at eli’s clothes, either. once you realized the animals were basically your audience-slash-family now, it was over for them. the goat got a denim jacket with rhinestones that said “headbutt boss” across the back. the pigs each got tiny sunhats—though they kept shaking them off, so now they’re mostly just lawn decorations. the grumpiest rooster now struts around with a little bandana like he’s in a gang. eli walked out one morning, took one look at the cow wearing a pastel shawl and flower crown, and just rubbed a hand over his face like he aged ten years.

“you dressin’ ‘em up for a hoedown i wasn’t invited to?” he asked dryly.

“they have personalities, eli,” you said, tying a bow around the sheep’s tail.

"this one’s soft cottagecore, that one’s early-2000s pop star.”

he didn’t argue. he just muttered something under his breath and helped you adjust the goat’s sunglasses.

and when one of the town guys laughed at the pig’s polka-dot scarf, eli cracked his knuckles and said, “that pig’s wearin’ somethin’ made with more love and effort than your entire personality. keep talkin’.”

the guy shut up real quick after that—especially when the pig in question oinked and strutted past like it knew it had backup. eli just nodded solemnly like he was proud of the pig’s sass, and you swear to god the rooster winked at you. now you’ve got a whole barnyard posse in coordinated outfits and a six-foot farmer who’ll throw hands over crochet accessories. rural life? absolutely thriving.

I absolutely love your new blog! I was an old follower in your old one and imagine my delight when I see that you made a new and even upgraded blog! I really love your yandere stories that I hope you didn't mind on me drawing some of the y/ns in your writings!

Mermaid y/n from 'Pirates harem x Mermad/mermaid reader

Magical girl y/n! From 'yander batfamily x Magical girl reader!

Also if you can't read on the bottom, here's a little translation

Damian: it took 20 minutes for her to be done

Batman: ...

And finally Bimbo y/n from 'Yandere farmer x bimbo reader!'

I really enjoy drawing these y/ns, and I hope I'll do more later! Keep up the good work!!

-HB🐝 💓

the accidental cult...

# pairings: yandere cult harem x reader

# synopsis: you accidentally start a cult after a video of you goes viral. they’re weird and obsessive. they won’t ever leave you alone. now you have to deal with them forever.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: this is a rewrite of my previous yandere cult harem from my old blog, @screeching-bunny. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

it started with a mistake.

you weren’t sure how it happened. one moment, you were living an unremarkable life; the next, you were being worshipped. the transition was seamless, orchestrated with eerie precision. from the moment you were taken—kidnapped, though the word feels hollow now—there was a process. a routine. the priesthood that surrounded you operated like a machine, every action calculated to please you, every word carefully chosen to reinforce their beliefs.

at first, you resisted. you questioned them, demanded answers. you threatened and bargained. none of it mattered. they never raised a hand to you, never once forced you into anything. they simply provided. food appeared the moment you felt the slightest hunger. luxuries you never asked for were gifted without hesitation. if you so much as glanced at something for too long, it was presented to you like an offering.

and, slowly, you stopped fighting.

it wasn’t that you believed them. you weren’t that far gone. it was just… easier. if playing along meant safety, meant comfort, meant never having to struggle again—then why not? you told yourself it was temporary. that one day, you’d find a way out. but days became weeks, and weeks bled into months. and somewhere along the line, escape became an afterthought.

the wealth never ran out. that part unsettled you the most. you had assumed, naively, that this whole operation would collapse under its own weight. that your lavish lifestyle, the absurd amount of resources being poured into you, would drain them dry. but no. more and more people arrived. donations poured in. followers spoke of salvation, of miracles, of purpose.

you tried to understand why. the more you listened, the more disturbed you became. they weren’t just devoted. they were obsessed. they spoke of you in reverent whispers, their gazes filled with something beyond reason. their fanaticism was terrifying, unshakable.

“did you see them today? just being in their presence feels like a blessing.”

“i donated everything i had. it’s worth it just to know they exist in this world.”

“i would gladly give my life if it meant they smiled at me one more time.”

and that’s when you realized: there was no escape. not because they wouldn’t let you leave, but because they would follow. it didn’t matter where you went, how far you ran—they would find you. they would never let go. you were their god, and they were willing to tear the world apart to keep you.

at some point, you stopped trying to fight it. stopped questioning how it had all gone so far. you played your part, gave the speeches they wanted to hear, let them believe what they wanted to believe. but in the quiet moments, when the weight of it all pressed down on you, you wondered: were you their prisoner, or were they yours?

the room was filled with soft murmurs, the air thick with anticipation as you walked among your followers. they parted respectfully, bowing their heads as you passed. the atmosphere, once stifling, now felt suffocating in a different way—like a pressing weight that only intensified the longer you stayed. but despite the discomfort, you played your role. you always did.

as you moved, a young woman stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached for your sleeve. you stopped instinctively, and she fell to her knees, her eyes wide with reverence. there was a sparkle there—a light, so bright it almost hurt to look at.

"please," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet of the room. "i have to know... do you see me? do you see what i’ve become because of you?"

you took a breath, still unsure of what to say. you had been asked questions like this a hundred times, each one more fervent than the last, but something about her voice made you pause.

"i see you," you said slowly, as though the words themselves might break something fragile. "what have you become?"

her eyes glistened, tears threatening to fall. "a better person," she answered, her words almost a mantra. "you’ve changed my life, my everything. i used to feel lost, so... alone. but now i have a purpose. i live for you. everything i do is for you."

she leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the floor as she offered her devotion. "please, let me serve you. let me show you how much i adore you."

your stomach churned at the sincerity in her voice, the unshakable belief that had taken root in her heart. the adoration was too much, yet it was undeniable. she wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last.

before you could speak, another voice cut through the air, low but urgent. "i’ve been watching them for months now," a man said, stepping forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "they... they really do change lives, don’t they? they brought me back from the brink. i had nothing. no hope. no reason to keep going. but now? now i have something. someone. them." he glanced at you, his gaze filled with something unsettling. "they saved me. and i’ll never be able to repay them enough."

you nodded, slowly, unsure how to respond. the words didn’t feel real, and yet here they were, in front of you. his voice wavered, but the desperation was evident. the belief that you had saved him, that you had somehow reached into his brokenness and fixed him, left you frozen.

a third figure, older, stepped up, his voice trembling but firm. "i left my family for this," he said, his tone almost apologetic but with an underlying pride. "i couldn’t be a part of that life anymore. they didn’t understand, they couldn’t. but you... you gave me clarity. you gave me direction. everything else faded. and now..." he hesitated, tears welling up in his eyes. "now i live only for you."

the others stood silent, watching. waiting. their faces a mixture of devotion and fear, as if each word spoken could break some invisible bond. but they were all in it together. they all believed. the room felt suffocating with it, the weight of their collective faith pressing down on you.

one of them, a younger man, almost frantic, reached forward and grabbed your hands with shaking fingers. "do you know what you’ve done for us?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but sharp with emotion. "you gave us purpose. you made us feel seen. before you, we were nothing. now—now we are everything. we are your chosen ones."

he looked up at you, eyes wide, as if waiting for some kind of affirmation. but there was nothing you could say. nothing that would change this. they were all too far gone, caught in a web of their own making, and you—unwillingly, unknowingly—were at the center of it.

"please," the woman from earlier said, her voice pleading. "we need you. we will always need you. don’t leave us."

you felt your chest tighten at the intensity of it all. you didn’t want this. none of it. but you knew, deep down, that you could never get away. they wouldn’t let you. not now, not ever.

you didn’t speak immediately. the words seemed too small, too inadequate to say in the face of their belief. so instead, you gave a nod, just the smallest movement. it didn’t matter. they saw what they wanted to see. your mere presence was enough.

"thank you," the older man whispered, his voice breaking. "thank you for saving us."

and in that moment, as the room held its breath, you realized—there was no escape. not because they wouldn’t let you leave, but because they would follow you, wherever you went. they had already made up their minds.

you were their salvation. and they would never let you go.

it had all begun with an accident. a misunderstanding that spiraled beyond your control.

you had been walking home one night, unaware of the eyes that followed. it wasn’t until the news spread—an image of you caught in the glow of a streetlamp, head bowed, hands clasped in exhaustion—that something shifted. someone online called it divine. a joke, at first, a meme shared in obscure corners of the internet. but the joke gained traction. people sought meaning where there was none, shaped a narrative around you that you had no say in. strangers whispered of a prophecy, of a long-awaited return.

then, the disappearances started.

a handful of them at first. people who claimed to have seen you in their dreams, who abandoned their lives in search of you. others took it further. they created spaces of worship, their symbols and prayers growing more elaborate with each passing week. the whispers turned into murmurs, then into a movement. before you knew it, you had become something beyond yourself.

you didn’t know who orchestrated your abduction. you weren’t even sure if it had been planned or if it was simply inevitable. but when you woke up in the temple—if it could even be called that—you knew something had changed forever.

perhaps, in another life, you would have been able to stop it. but this was not that life. this was the one where you had already been chosen.

you changed their lives, though not in the way you would have ever wanted.

they spoke of you as salvation, as the one who had given them purpose where before there was only emptiness. they wrote about you online in posts that blurred the line between devotion and mania. forums filled with your name, thousands upon thousands of messages dissecting your every expression, every word, every breath. they claimed you had healed them, that your very existence had given them something to believe in.

and they reshaped their lives around you.

people quit their jobs, abandoned their families, sold everything they owned. they gathered in clusters across the world, connected through the web of your unwanted divinity. they fought with outsiders, with each other, with themselves. all for you. always for you. every action justified by their unwavering faith.

you tried, once, to dissuade them. you spoke plainly, told them you were just a person, that there was nothing special about you. they wept at your feet, overcome by the "humility of their god." your denial only strengthened their belief.

you were the center of their world, and nothing you did would ever change that.

to them, you had saved them. they spoke of how they had been lost, aimless, drowning in the meaningless cycle of existence. you had given them something to hold onto. a purpose greater than themselves. something to dedicate their lives to.

in their eyes, you had made their lives better. you had freed them from the burden of choice, of uncertainty. they no longer had to question what came next. every day had meaning because you existed. every struggle was worth it if it was for you.

but you knew the truth. they had not been saved. they had been consumed.

the realization was suffocating.

to them, you had made their lives better. you had freed them from the burden of choice, of uncertainty. they no longer had to question what came next. every day had meaning because you existed. every struggle was worth it if it was for you.

some had been lost, drifting without purpose, and now they belonged to something greater. some had suffered, and now they found solace in your presence. they were willing to give everything because, in their eyes, you had already given them more than they had ever dreamed.

they smiled more. they wept with joy instead of sorrow. they spoke of love, devotion, and fulfillment.

to them, you were salvation.

you knew better.

itd b so funny if she was just like “do brown cows make chocolate milk??”

or maybe she almost kills the guy by accident trying to rake some hay

i love the trope “she’s an idiot but she’s my idiot”

so like, what’s the wifi password?

# pairings: yandere farmer cowboy x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: while making your way to a fun hangout with your friends your car suddenly breaks down. a kind farmer allows you to stay with him until someone can pick you up. but why are the roads weirdly empty?

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’re not entirely sure what led to this. one second you were on your way to hangout with your girlfriends, the next, your pink convertible broke down next to the most farm-ass farm you’ve ever seen. and now? you're standing in front of a barn that smells like hay and something suspiciously meaty, trying to get a signal with your rhinestone-covered phone held toward the sky.

"phone ain't gonna save you out here, princess."

you nearly jump out of your glittery crop top. standing behind you is a tall, broad, sun-scorched wall of man with stubble, a permanent scowl, and arms like they personally fought god for dominance. he's wearing a stained flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a scuffed cowboy hat pulled low like he’s hiding from the law—or just the concept of smiling.

you blink up at him. "omg, hi! are you like, the farmer or cowboy guy?"

he snorts. "i’m the farmer. ain’t another soul within miles, and i sure as hell didn’t call for no... barbie doll on a breakdown."

you gasp, offended. "excuse you, this is Y2K chic. And my name isn’t barbie—it’s..."

"...of course it is."

“you’re not from around here, are you?"

"nnooope. GPS brought me out here for, like, reasons. and then my engine started making this very dramatic sound. sooo now i'm, like, a damsel."

he crosses his arms, face unreadable, then sighs. "you standin’ out here in the heat for long?"

"i mean, i guess? i was gonna call someone, but I’ve only got like, one bar and a lot of hope."

another pause. then he turns and mutters, "c’mon."

"huh?"

"you want heatstroke or you want a glass of water?"

you blink. "omg, you’re nice."

"i ain’t nice," he snaps, opening the screen door wider. "i’m just not leavin’ some glittered-up stranger to roast in a ditch."

inside, it’s a mix of rustic charm and obvious bachelor chaos. he pours you a glass of water without asking, sets it down in front of you like he’s done this a hundred times, and leans against the counter like he’s regretting all of it.

although internally he’s a whole different story. he can’t believe his luck meeting someone as cute as you in this area. he swore he felt his heart leap out of his chest the minute he saw you. 

"name’s eli," he says at last. "i’ll take a look at your car. if it’s fixable, i’ll fix it. if not… guess you’ll be stuck here a bit."

you bat your lashes. "you wouldn’t mind that, would you?"

he shifts, jaw flexing. then: “don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

but he won’t meet your eyes. and he doesn’t notice he poured you a second glass of water before you even finished the first.

you follow eli outside, trying not to trip on your own wedges as you strut across the gravel like it’s a runway and not, in fact, a minefield of dirt and despair.

he walks a few steps ahead, toolbox in one hand, broad shoulders shifting beneath that flannel like they’ve never known a day of weakness. he doesn’t say much, but you catch him glancing back once—just once—to make sure you’re not lost or dead or doing something ridiculous.

you're doing all three, probably.

when he reaches your car, he pops the hood with one rough tug and peers inside like he’s about to deliver bad news to a family of four.

after a beat, he grunts. “when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

you blink. "what’s that?"

slowly, so slowly, he turns his head and looks at you.

his face is completely blank. emotionless. a man on the brink. like he’s just been told that gravity is optional now. or that the cows have unionized.

you smile up at him, unbothered, chewing your bubblegum. “is that, like, something you get at a drive-thru? because i only do drive-thrus if they have fries.”

he says nothing.

just stares.

a long, long pause.

then: “you shouldn’t legally be allowed to own a vehicle.”

"that’s what my driving instructor said!" you chirp.

eli shuts the hood and mutters something to the lord, probably begging for patience, strength, or a strategic lightning strike.

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in abandoning helpless creatures,” he mutters, already walking toward his truck. “i’m gonna get the part you need. stay put. don’t touch anything. don’t lick anything. don’t—just... don’t.”

you wave sweetly. “k love you, byeee!”

he stops mid-step. shoulders stiffen.

and without turning around, he mutters under his breath, "you’re gonna be the death of me."

later that day, eli returns with what looks like half a junkyard and a grim set to his jaw. he spent hours elbow-deep in your car, occasionally muttering things like “what the hell is this glitter doing in the engine?” and “is this a sticker of a unicorn on the oil cap?”

finally, he slams the hood shut, wipes his hands on a rag, and delivers the verdict with the gravity of a man announcing a funeral.

“pinky, she’s dead.”

you gasp dramatically. “pinky? you named her??”

he squints at you. “she named herself the minute i saw the pink steering wheel cover. and now she’s toast. fried the transmission, shredded the belt, and i’m pretty sure the air freshener doing psychic damage.”

“oh noooo,” you moan. “so what do i dooo?”

he sighs. long and loud, like you physically pained him. “you’ll stay here until i can find someone to tow it and get you back to civilization.”

"yay!" you beam.

“that wasn’t meant to be exciting.”

as the days go by, eli gains a large affection for you. he believes that since you’re “living” with him now, that practically means that the two of you are married. 

when you two finally travel into town. he doesn’t like people looking at you. not the guy at the gas station who dared compliment your lip gloss, not the mailman who called you “darlin’” with too much sugar in his voice, and definitely not the tourist who asked if you were “lost” with that fake concern dripping off his words. 

eli’s a walking warning sign the second you step into town with him. the locals know him—eli carter, the mountain of a man with a scowl carved into his face and hands that could bend steel. most folks keep their distance, half-respecting, half-fearing him.

they say he’s good with his work, bad with people, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you push the wrong buttons. so when he rolls into town with you, all glitter and sunshine and questions like “do horses get cold?”—yeah, people notice. the butcher’s wife whispers that he’s gone soft. the old mechanic raises a brow like he’s seeing a ghost. when someone chuckles a little too long at your rhinestone boots, eli’s jaw ticks. when a guy at the feed store offers to help you lift a bag of seed, eli’s already there, grabbing it with one hand like it weighs nothing. “they’re good,” he says flatly, not even looking at the guy.

even when you try to chat with the locals, eli’s always close—never rude, but not exactly inviting either. he doesn’t trust easily, especially not when it comes to you. and if someone even looks at you sideways, he’s suddenly all sharp glances and low muttering, hand at your lower back like a silent claim: they’re mine to worry about.

eli’s jaw gets tight, voice real low when he steps between you and anyone who so much as thinks about flirting. once, a farmhand from a neighboring ranch tried to strike up a conversation with you at the feed store—eli didn’t say a word, just calmly picked up a full grain barrel, one-handed, and moved it like it weighed nothing. the guy left before eli even had to speak. you giggled, called him “jealous,” and he growled something about “men like that not knowin’ how to treat you right.” 

he won’t say this out loud , but every time someone shows a little too much interest in you, he finds a new chore to do right beside you. fencing, fixing the barn door, chopping firewood shirtless in the sun like that’s normal behavior. once, you saw him bend a crowbar back into shape like it was a breadstick and he acted like it was no big deal. he claims he’s just “lookin’ out for you,” but you’ve noticed how fast his mood shifts when someone else tries to.

eli always has an eye on you. he always seems to know exactly where you are. no matter what he’s doing, his eyes find you like it’s instinct. you’ll be picking flowers by the fence or sneaking another cookie from the jar, and somehow, he’s already looking. not hovering, not smothering—just always aware. like keeping you safe is a reflex, not a choice. it’s subtle, but constant. protective, almost possessive. like some part of him’s decided you’re his to watch over, even when you don’t realize you need it.

he can’t keep his eyes off you. to him, you’re just his precious darling.

eli gives you a curfew like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “sun’s down, you’re inside,” he says one evening, arms crossed and eyes steady like he’s expecting a fight. you blink at him. “wait, like... a bedtime?” he grunts. “ain’t about sleep. it’s about not wanderin’ into a coyote den in your platform heels.” you try to argue, but he doesn’t budge—just mutters something about you being a “walking hazard” and how “ain’t nothing good happens after dark out here.” and true to form, every evening as the sun dips low, he’s there on the porch, arms folded, waiting.

if you’re even five minutes late, he’s already out with a flashlight like a grumpy dad looking for a runaway puppy. he won’t admit it, but the curfew isn’t just about safety. it’s about knowing exactly where you are. keeping you close. keeping you his.

every night, without fail, you end up in the kitchen with eli—him cradling a mug of coffee, you wrapped in one of his old flannels, sitting on the counter like you belong there. the light is soft, the air warm, and he’s always gentle with you at this hour, like the quiet makes him softer. he’ll brush your hair back without thinking, pass you the sweeter drink without asking, and murmur low little comments that sound more like affection than teasing.

sometimes he rests his hand on your knee when he walks past, like anchoring himself to the moment. he doesn’t smile much, but with you like this—half-asleep, blinking at him under kitchen lights—there’s a warmth in his eyes that says more than he ever will.

there’s always a comfortable silence between you, broken by the occasional sarcastic quip or dry comment from him when you ask if cows dream or if the moon looks closer out here. sometimes he’ll pass you a spoon to taste something he’s cooking, or nudge your knee with his hip to get you to move over so he can reach a cabinet. it’s quiet, almost domestic. like this little nighttime routine just… happened. and neither of you questioned it.

and just like that it’s been a month. you no longer notice how the roads seem to “get worse” whenever you mention leaving, or how eli’s smile always grows just a little too warm when you say, “maybe i’ll try calling a tow service again.”

you’ve stopped wondering why your cell service hasn’t come back. you’ve accepted that the mountains are just “that bad,” as eli puts it. eli’s a good guy, there's no way he’d do anything to sabotage you from going back home. like eli totally did not install a signal jammer two days after you arrived or that he's murdered everyone who ever offered to take you home. there's just no way. 

now, you’re completely settled in—no wifi, no car, and definitely no cute outfits from home. but honestly? you’re so content. the cozy flannel shirts, freshly baked cookies, and endless cups of lemonade have turned life here into a dreamy routine.

but something nags at you.

you’ve been living with eli, enjoying his hospitality, but you don’t want to feel like a useless freeloader. so one afternoon, you decide it’s time to step up and offer to help around the farm. you can’t just keep eating his food and just looking pretty, right?

you walk up to eli, who’s messing around with the tractor, and clear your throat.

“eli, I was thinking… i should help out more around here. you know, so i don’t just sit around all day being a freeloader.”

eli glances up, his face a mix of surprise and a hint of reluctance. he wipes his hands on his pants, a sigh escaping him.

“you sure about that?” he asks, his voice gruff. “you’ve been here for a month and you’re just now deciding to help?”

you nod, determined. “yeah, i wanna pull my weight.”

he doesn’t seem convinced but shrugs. “alright, fine. you can start by feeding the animals. that’s simple enough.”

you beam. “great! i can totally do that!”

you were definitely not cut out for farm life. after eli told you to help with feeding the animals, you felt determined, but that determination quickly turned to chaos.

you squinted at one of the cows and asked, "so, uh... do brown cows make chocolate milk?" eli froze mid-step, gave you the most soul-dead stare, and muttered something about regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

then the chickens got involved. you tried to scatter feed like in the movies, but instead slipped on your own glittery flip-flop and fell right into the middle of their breakfast—cue one chicken hopping onto your back like it was claiming a new roost. 

the goats were no better; one of them chewed on your hair extensions while you screamed, "sir, boundaries!" and the pigs? the pigs chased you across the yard when you accidentally dropped a granola bar from your purse. eli didn’t even try to hide his grin as you ran by him yelling, “they smell fear, eli, they smell fear!” 

by the time it was over, you were covered in hay, dirt, feathers, and regret, and eli just handed you a wet rag with a grunt, like this was all perfectly normal. 

but this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten yourself in a mess. oh, no. this was just the latest installment of “you vs. farm life.” you had managed to almost flood the barn by forgetting to turn off the hose, break a shovel trying to pry open a stubborn gate, and somehow trip over a rock and sprain your ankle—while sitting down. eli had bailed you out every single time. and he didn’t even seem to be all that surprised anymore.

like that one time you got it in your head to “help” eli with a small fix on the tractor. it involved welding, and you’d sworn you could do it. five minutes in, you had almost burned off your eyebrows and started a small fire by the side of the barn. eli was on you in an instant, throwing a bucket of water over the flames, shaking his head like you’d done this a million times before. “i swear to god, you’re gonna burn this place down before we even finish building it,” he grumbled as he handed you a fire extinguisher.

"you really know how to ruin a moment, eli," you pouted.

“moment?” he muttered, sounding exhausted. “you were about to become a human torch.”

there was that time you tried to be helpful in the kitchen by making dinner, only to end up dropping an entire pot of spaghetti on the floor, then attempting to "clean it up" by throwing it into the trash—half of it splattered on the walls and the other half stuck to the ceiling. you’d been standing there, horrified, when eli walked in. “don’t even ask,” you said weakly.

he’d just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work fixing it. “get out of the kitchen before you burn yourself,” he grumbled, tossing you out of the way with a gentle nudge, as if you were a ragdoll. “and don’t try cooking again until I’m here to supervise.”

you gave him a smile that could’ve melted the coldest of hearts. “you love me.”

he grumbled something unintelligible, but you could see the hint of a smile beneath his gruffness.

and it wasn’t just accidents. oh no. it was your sheer ability to get into trouble. like the time you wandered off into the woods to “explore” and ended up trapped in a thorn bush because you thought you saw a unicorn. yes, you. a unicorn. by the time eli found you, you were stuck, practically covered in thorns, and looking like a glittered-up forest creature. “if I hadn’t come to find you,” he’d said, grinning slightly, “you’d still be out there, trying to make friends with a unicorn.”

you had the decency to look sheepish. “i was trying to be imaginative.”

"yeah, well, next time, try not to get stuck in the thorn bush before you start trying to talk to magical creatures.”

safe to say after that incident eli forced you to wear and carry an airtag with you permanently.

then came the day you decided to help eli with manual labor—big mistake. you tried lifting a hay bale and almost dislocated something. when you grabbed the post hole digger, it practically dragged you across the yard. eli didn’t even let you finish struggling; he took it from your hands with a grunt, muscles flexing like it was nothing, and muttered, “you’ll break before the tools do.” you huffed, but he didn’t budge, already finishing the job in half the time. apparently, your job was now “supervising,” which mostly meant staying out of the way while he manhandled the entire farm.

and then there was the one time you decided to “fix” your own car because you were “bored” and “needed a project.” that involved you somehow locking yourself inside the trunk while trying to find your spare tire. it was a whole dramatic saga that ended with you yelling for help from inside the trunk, much to eli’s amusement. when he finally popped the trunk open, you had the nerve to ask him, “how’d you know i was in here?”

“because you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, like, again,” he replied, his tone dry.

you beamed up at him. “i’m just that special.”

“special? yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.” he smirked before pulling you out of the trunk and checking over your car like he wasn’t wondering why he didn’t just lock you in there himself.

but despite all the chaos you caused, despite the non-stop antics and trouble that seemed to follow you, there was something comforting about it all. eli might grumble, he might make fun of your messes, but he never left you to fend for yourself. he had this way of always being there—whether it was pulling you out of a thorn bush, rescuing you from your own cooking disaster, or simply watching over you while you made another mess in the barn. eli didn’t get frustrated. he just dealt with it—and, in his own way, he took care of you.

you were a disaster, sure, but you were his disaster. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for both of you.

To make the story more dramatic maybe even the other crew mates also get infatuated with her? 🫣💀🌊

most prized possession

# pairings: yandere pirate harem x mermaid /merman reader

# synopsis: you're a mermaid / merman curious about humans. one day you swim too close to the surface and get captured by an infamous pirate crew. no matter how hard you try, they'll never let you go.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’d heard of pirates.

rumors that drifted through currents, whispered between schools of fish and passing dolphins. stories of ships that bled oil and fire, of men who carved the sea like beasts with bones of steel. dangerous. loud. ugly.

whispers drifting through currents, secrets traded between reef and wreck. stories soaked in blood and oil—ships that screamed across the sea, men who wore steel like skin. monsters. brutal. loud. ugly.

but when his ship rose from the horizon, it wasn’t ugly.

it was wrong. and gorgeous.

it was… strange. fascinating. black sails like wings. wood that creaked with secrets. music—deep and ragged, not like your songs, but powerful. alive.

and then you saw him.

tall. scarred. sharp in every way. his voice cracked like lightning. his crew scattered like birds when he barked. he stood like the sea bowed to him. you should’ve been afraid.

instead, you were enchanted.

you watched for hours. you’d never seen a human this close. you darted around the hull, peeking above the waves, your heart beating fast, not from fear—but from wonder. what was it like to stand? to wear metal? to command so many? to own the sea without gills?

you let out a quiet hum, just to see if he’d hear.

he did.

his head snapped toward you like a blade unsheathing. he didn’t shout. he smiled. but it wasn’t warm. it was sharp. possessive. like you’d already been taken.

you ducked. swam deep. but the hook had sunk—not into your skin, but somewhere worse.

you came back the next day. and the next.

until one night, you got too close.

a flash. a net. cold iron and hands that grabbed too fast for you to slip away. you thrashed, screamed. they laughed. he didn’t.

he leaned down, studying you like something he’d won at great cost.

“you should’ve stayed hidden,” he said, low, rough. “curious little thing.”

you trembled as they lowered you into a cage half-filled with seawater. he watched you like a man starving. not for food—for possession.

“you’re mine now,” he whispered.

and you, stupidly, still wondered what it might feel like to touch his face.

his crew is just as twisted as he is—maybe worse.

the first mate grins too wide whenever you scream. he speaks in riddles, touches your the glass of your aquarium like he’s checking the weight of a pearl, like he’s wondering how many pieces you’d break into. he calls you his little song.

the helmsman talks to the sea like it talks back. you’ve seen him whisper into the water and laugh when it spits foam against your prison. he says you’re a curse, and though he never acts on it, he likes the chaos you bring. he enjoys watching the captain’s obsession eat away at him, unraveling him bit by bit. to the helmsman, you're not just a prisoner; you're a force that disturbs the balance, and he relishes in the way it makes everything feel like it's on the edge of cracking.

the cook leaves you offerings. shells. bones. scraps of things you can’t name. he speaks the least but watches the most. always there in the shadows, waiting. you’re not sure if it’s kindness or cruelty, and you’re not sure which is worse.

the lookout keeps charts of your body. sketches on soaked parchment. fins. scales. the curve of your throat. he thinks you don’t see. but you do. he documents you like you’re a specimen, something to study before it slips from the world.

the gunner carved a song into the wood near your cage. a lullaby made of threats and longing. he hums it under his breath while polishing weapons. you hate it. you hate that it lingers in your ears long after he’s gone.

and yet none of them touch you.

not without the captain’s word.

they fear him more than they want you—but only barely. and that balance is paper-thin. one snap, one slip, and they’ll fall on you like a pack of starving beasts.

they say you're a prize. a curse. a god. a pet. depends who’s speaking. depends who’s drinking. but no matter what name they use, they all agree on one thing:

you belong to them.

not just the captain, though he was the first to lay claim—his hands the ones that dragged you from the waves, his voice the one that named you his. but once they saw you—saw the shimmer of your scales, the way your eyes burned with defiance—they all decided.

you’re not his.

you’re theirs.

the first mate tells you this as he runs a blade along your tank. he calls you treasure, says gold fades and rusts, but you—you breathe. he killed for you before the captain even asked. he’d do it again, slower next time. just to hear you gasp.

“ever think of running, little fish?” he asks, grinning like a split lip. “go ahead. try. i’ll be the one to chase you. i’d like that.”

you bare your teeth.

he laughs. “look at that. still got bite. don’t worry, i’d never dull your edges. just want to see how sharp you really are.”

his knife scrapes the edge of your tank. it leaves a mark. he likes leaving marks.

“you’re prettiest when you’re angry,” he mutters, “but i wonder how you’d sound if you begged.”

he loves you. he watches you like you’re the only thing that can fill him, and every time you resist, every time you snap, it only makes his hunger worse.

“you’re too pretty to vanish,” he says, the words almost a prayer. “so I’ll make sure you don’t.” he wants to keep you locked in his gaze forever, to watch you fight and scream, 

because when you’re angry, it feels like you’re alive—and that’s the only thing that makes sense to him anymore. he feeds on your rage. he would kill to see it last.

the helmsman doesn’t smile. he never has. he sits across from your cage, murmuring to the sea through cracked lips, his fingers stained with ink and salt.

“storm’s coming,” he says. “the sea told me. she’s jealous of you.” you stay quiet. he doesn’t need your voice to continue.

“she said you shouldn’t be here. but i told her you’re ours now. she’ll forgive us.”

a pause.

“eventually.”

his eyes flick to yours. hollow. reverent.  

“don’t sing to her. sing to me next time.”

the helmsman, he’s afraid of losing you. every night, he stares at the stars, but he doesn’t see them. he sees you. he’s become obsessed with your existence. he talks to the sea like it’s a jealous lover.

“she’s angry,” he whispers to your tank. “she wants you back, but I won’t let her.” there’s a madness in his voice, a desperation in his touch as he grips the wheel with white knuckles, like if he lets go for even a moment, the ship—and you—will slip away. he doesn’t sleep. he’s terrified if he closes his eyes, you’ll disappear, and he’ll be left with nothing but the endless waves.

“you’re real,” he repeats to himself, as if saying it enough will make it true. “you’re real. and you’re ours.”

the cook leaves things.

he doesn’t speak much. just opens the hatch, slides in a dish of raw fish and strange fruit, and watches as you push it away.

“not hungry?” he rasps, voice low like wet gravel. “you need to eat. weak things don’t last long on this ship.”

you glare at him. he sets a small shell down beside the plate—cracked, pearlescent, beautiful in a broken way.

“found this,” he says. “looked like your eyes.” you don’t thank him. he doesn’t expect it. he only stares, then leaves.

he’s quiet in his obsession, but it’s no less consuming. he’s obsessed with feeding you, with seeing you take something from him.

“you looked at me once,” he whispers, like it’s a holy memory. “your eyes… they softened.” he remembers the flicker of something in your gaze, the way you acknowledged him, and he clings to it like it’s the only real thing in the world. every meal he serves you is an offering, each one wrapped in desperation.

he’ll starve the crew before he lets you go hungry, as if keeping you full will keep you here. and when you refuse his food, when you turn your face away, he sees it as a challenge. something to overcome. something to earn. 

and he will—he’ll make sure you never go hungry again. because that’s how he’ll keep you. that’s how he’ll keep you his.

the lookout perches near your tank at dusk, always with charcoal-stained hands and a scroll of half-done sketches.

“hold still,” he mutters. “your eyes keep shifting.”

you turn away. he clicks his tongue.

“rude. you want to be forgotten?”

a pause.

i could sketch your throat next. the curve of your gills. people never draw those right.”

he leans closer, voice soft. too soft.

“you’re already myth. i’m just making sure the truth stays ours.”

the lookout is a predator in his own way, stalking you with his eyes. his obsession isn’t with touch, but with knowing you. understanding you. he thinks if he studies you enough, if he watches you in silence, he’ll unlock the secret that makes you—well, you.

“you’ll reveal yourself,” he tells you in a soft, matter-of-fact voice. “i’ll wait.”

he draws you in all his sketches, each one a different version of you—beautiful, terrifying, fragile, strong. But none of them capture what he sees in you. he’s obsessed with capturing your essence, and he’ll never stop drawing. because once he knows you completely, once he understands you inside and out, he’ll have you. he’s convinced of it. and until then, he waits. and watches.

the gunner slams in like a cannonball—loud, reckless, already drunk.

“siren!” he roars, arms spread wide. “you missed me, didn’t you?” you hiss. he beams.

“don’t be shy,” he says, crouching beside the cage. “i killed three men for you today. you hear that? three. didn’t even blink.”

he rattles the tank. you flinch.

“you could say thank you,” he says, voice lower now. “you should say thank you.” you don’t.

“fine.” he smiles. “i’ll earn it tomorrow, too.”

the gunner is all chaos, all violence, all adrenaline. he’s obsessed with the rush of it—the fight, the kill, the hunt. he craves the rawness of it, and you, to him, are the ultimate hunt.

he doesn’t just want you to submit. he wants to break you. he’s obsessed with seeing you bend, seeing you crack. he wants to see what happens when you stop fighting back.

“not long now,” he mutters as he polishes his weapons. “you’ll break. they all do.” but he’s wrong. you’re not like them.

but he doesn’t care. he’ll break you, piece by piece, until you do what he says. because once you do, that’s when you’ll finally belong to him.

and then there’s the captain. he comes last. always last. always when the others are gone.he doesn’t sit. he stands—like a storm trapped in flesh.

“they think you belong to them,” he says. “fools.” you raise your head slowly. your silence is your only defiance.

“they touch the tank. they speak like you’re theirs. they forget who caught you.”

 he steps closer. your water ripples with the weight of him.

“tell me, little siren,” he murmurs, “do you miss the sea?” you nod.

he kneels, eye-level now. dangerous.

“good,” he says, almost gently. “i want you to remember what i took from you.”

his hand brushes the glass.

“because you’ll never have it again.”

you don’t cry. you just sing when he leaves—quietly, bitterly—until the ship creaks like it’s trying to weep with you.

he’s the only one who understands you. the only one who sees you not as a prize, but as something far darker, far more beautiful. you are his. the others are just… distractions. you’re the thing he wanted from the moment he first saw you.

“you’ll never leave,” he tells you, as though it’s a promise. “not as long as i breathe.” he doesn’t need to touch you to claim you.

his obsession is more consuming than any of theirs. he wants your soul. he wants you to burn with him.

“i’ll never let you go,” he whispers, his voice almost tender. “not until you’re mine in every way.”

you are a creature of the sea—beautiful and dangerous, ancient in ways humans can never fully understand. your scales shimmer in the dim light of your cage, iridescent and fluid, reflecting the moonlight like the surface of the water at night. your tail flicks with a quiet grace, though it’s trapped in a small space, too confined for the freedom you were born to. every movement you make is a reminder of what you once were—unstoppable, wild, untouchable.

your voice, once a haunting melody that lured ships to their doom, now remains trapped in your throat, locked away behind iron bars. you still hum, though, sometimes—a quiet song that only the sea might hear, but here, only the crew listens. your gaze, bright and defiant, burns with the memory of the open waters, the endless horizon that you long to return to.

the crew treats you like a rare, untamed creature—something they don't truly understand, but they want to possess anyway. they see you as both a prize and puzzle, something to be studied and admired, but they can't see the soul behind your eyes. you're not just a mermaid to them, a mythical being to be owned. you are a symbol of their twisted desires, a reflection of their madness.

you’ve heard them talk about your beauty, your power, your magic—but none of them can truly grasp the depths of who you are. they only see what they can take, what they can hold in their hands. the first mate, with his obsession for watching you struggle, delights in your anger, but never understands that beneath it all, there’s a heart that beats for the sea and not for them. the helmsman, who whispers to the waves, doesn’t realize that your connection to the sea isn’t something to be manipulated, but something that keeps you tethered to a world you can’t escape from. the cook, leaving offerings like a worshiper, doesn’t see that you’re not a pet to be fed, but a creature of great beauty and mystery—an untamed soul.

they’ve captured you, trapped you in a cage meant for lesser beasts, but they don't understand that you are no mere creature to be tamed. you are the storm beneath the water, the pulse of the ocean, and the very air they breathe is tainted with your presence. you are more than they will ever know.

they’re just french

# pairings: yandere alien x reader

# synopsis: a weird alien comes to town but no one seems to mind. no matter what they absolutely no one minds. it’s like your the only one with common sense around here.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, possessiveness, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

morgan arrived in town on a fog-choked evening, dressed in a black coat too thick for the season, their accent lilting and strange.

"french?" people whispered.

"must be."

they spoke softly, moved elegantly, but something about them was off. their fingers lingered too long when they touched your hand. their eyes—too large, too dark—blinked too slow. but they were charming, hypnotic even. especially to you.

you never expected your life to go this way. one moment, you’re reading in your favorite bookstore, the next, morgan’s standing there like a weird french poet who didn’t quite read the “how to blend in with humans” manual.

“do you like baudelaire?” they ask randomly, like they just stepped out of a noir film, but their accent? definitely not french. probably not even earth.

you glance at them, considering the question. "he's cool, i like how his poems have a dark tone to them."

morgan grins. “darkness is the soul’s best friend.”

you’re pretty sure that’s not even a real quote. but hey, who’s judging? “right, right, darkness. got it. are you going through an emo phase. what the hell are you even talking about?"

talking with morgan makes you feel like you're trapped in some weird, alternate universe where nothing makes sense. it’s not just their bizarre behavior—it’s their presence. every time they speak, it feels like you’re being serenaded by an ancient, invisible force, like their voice is somehow filling the entire street with a weird, unspoken promise of things you don’t fully understand. honestly, you're too tired to be freaked out anymore. it’s late, you’re exhausted, and at this point, you’re just going along with it.

morgan stops suddenly, looking at you with those unnervingly large eyes. “can i walk you home?” they ask, their voice low and velvety, carrying a strange weight. it’s not the kind of question you expect from a random person you met in a bookstore. it’s more like the sort of offer someone makes when they already know where you live—and you’ve been unknowingly on their radar for much longer than you care to admit.

you blink, trying to shake off the feeling of impending doom. “sure, morgan. whatever. at this point, why not?” you say, though you’re already questioning your life choices. it’s not like you have a good reason to say no. you’ve heard worse offers in your life, and right now, morgan seems harmless enough. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself as they fall into step beside you, their odd, rhythmic gait making you wonder if they're in some kind of otherworldly trance. but hey, it’s just a walk home, right?

you’re convinced morgan’s going to do something absurd, like pop out a balloon animal out of nowhere. it's not that you think they’re really going to do it, but there's this weird vibe about them. they're dressed all dramatically, walking with way too much confidence, like they're auditioning for a role in a bad sci-fi film. every little gesture seems like it’s building up to some sort of grand reveal. you half expect them to pull a balloon out of their pocket and start twisting it into the shape of a dog, or maybe a giraffe, just to break the tension. but no, they just keep walking, looking completely serious about it.

you glance around at the other people on the street, who’re giving morgan that “what’s up with them?” look. maybe it’s the weird non-french accent, maybe it’s the fact that morgan looks like they stepped out of a supernatural horror movie. honestly, it’s probably both. you don’t know, but you’re starting to feel like you’re in a scene from a bad indie film, and you really wish you weren’t involved

as the days pass, weird things start happening. people vanish. a neighbor. a guy you met at the coffee shop. your cousin’s dog. no one seems to remember them, and you start to think, “okay, is this the part where i realize morgan’s a serial killer, or is this just alien abduction stuff?”

one night, you're jolted awake by a tapping on your window. it’s morgan, staring at you from the dark like they’re a vampire trying to get an invite inside. you sigh. “morgan, it’s 2 AM. i really need sleep.”

“i was drawn to you,” they say in that strange, hypnotic voice, stepping through the window like it’s a normal tuesday. “your soul… it sings.”

you blink. “so, you’re saying my soul is a musical? great. what’s the soundtrack? is it jazz?”

morgan tilts their head, clearly not getting the joke. “no, it’s more like… horrorcore rap.”

“ah,” you say, feeling oddly proud. “classy.”

then morgan does something truly weird. they hover in the middle of the room, skin shimmering like a bad 90s special effect. “i can’t stay away from you. your soul is mine now.”

you look at the weird shimmering creature. "is this what love is? because i gotta say, the whole 'hovering and glowing' thing? not exactly my vibe."

morgan grins, showing way too many teeth. “you’ll learn to love it.”

you back up. “i mean, i’m flattered, really. but could you take me out on coffee date first? you know, before the whole ‘taking over my soul’ thing?”

morgan looks confused, like they've never heard of a 'first date' before. “i don’t drink coffee.”

“oh,” you say, staring at their otherworldly figure. “so, we’re just skipping straight to the creepy alien stuff, huh? alright, cool.”

morgan has some very odd abilities, ones that should probably be a red flag, but honestly? you’re too tired to care at this point. when you mention them to anyone, they just shrug it off with some bizarre excuse that makes zero sense.

like the first time morgan disappears. one moment they’re standing next to you, the next, poof, gone. vanished. you’re standing in the middle of the street, blinking like you’ve just been hit by a low-budget magic trick.

you tell your friend jack about it the next day. “so, morgan… like, just vanished. like, completely disappeared. no trace.”

jack squints. “oh, yeah, they probably just walked behind one of those trees over there. you know, the ones that are definitely known for their, uh, time-bending properties.”

“time-bending properties? those trees?”

“yeah, didn’t you know? it's a thing. happens all the time around here. those trees… they’re ancient. very ancient.”

you stare at him for a good five seconds. “jack, there’s no way those trees are bending time. i think we’re dealing with an alien here.”

“nah, nah,” jack says, waving it off, “totally just the trees. trust me. my uncle once got stuck in a tree’s shade for six hours. time’s weird around here, man.”

you can’t even argue with that.

and then there's the time morgan made their eyes glow—glow, like some kind of radioactive glow-in-the-dark toy—and you're like, okay, this is definitely alien behavior. they tell you it’s because they’re feeling particularly passionate about whatever you’re talking about, but you’re not sure that explains the purple, pulsating light coming from their pupils.

so you go to the local bar and mention it to susan, the bartender. “morgan’s eyes were glowing. like… glowing. purple. i don’t think that’s normal.”

susan doesn’t even look up from her phone. “oh, sure, that's normal. you didn’t know? that happens when someone’s been, like, over-caffeinated. too much espresso. you get this weird glow in your eyes. totally a thing, happens to me all the time. probably nothing.”

“over-caffeinated? no. i’ve seen them drink like a gallon of water, and their eyes still looked like neon signs.”

“eh,” she shrugs, “people just have different reactions to caffeine. some people get shaky, some people turn into radioactive glow sticks.”

and when morgan does this thing where they lift off the ground—like, actually float, feet hovering a few inches above the floor—you don't even tell anyone anymore. what's the point? last time you did, your coworker brad, with all the seriousness in his voice, said, "well, yeah, everyone knows it’s the air pressure around here. it’s a thing. you’re floating, but in a way that makes it seem like you're floating. it’s hard to explain."

"oh. okay," you said. “right, brad, that makes perfect sense.”

and then there's that time when morgan just... opened a rift in space in front of you, like a glowing crack in the air, and you almost saw a different galaxy through it. it was kind of breathtaking, if you didn’t immediately pass out from sheer horror.

you tell your mom about it. “morgan... morgan opened a rift in the air. there was like... another world on the other side. it was so real.”

your mom, always the calm one, takes a long sip of her tea. “oh, sweetheart, that's just a trick of the light. you probably just ate something funny. remember when you thought the toaster was talking to you last year?”

“that was a different incident, mom.”

“sure, sure,” she says, patting you on the back like she’s comforting a child. “but listen, if morgan’s really an alien, why don’t you just invite them over for dinner? we’ll show them how we do things here. very normal, very human stuff.”

you stare at her. “you want me to invite an alien who can warp reality to dinner.”

“well, i’m sure they’d like mashed potatoes.”

you were sitting in a local café with morgan. you know, the one everyone talks about as “the place to be” because the coffee is terrible but the pastries are somehow life-changing. it’s also the place where everyone seems to know everyone else's business, so when morgan walks in, with their strange aura and unsettlingly calm demeanor, the entire room goes silent for a moment.

you brace yourself for the inevitable. morgan’s going to do something weird, you can feel it.

they glance around the café and then lean in to whisper to you in that almost-too-soft voice. “this place smells... like... oppression.”

you blink. “uh... what?”

“oppression. yes. the coffee beans are... shackled,” morgan says, their hand dramatically swiping through the air, like they’re conducting an orchestra.

you don’t even have the energy to respond. instead, you just sip your coffee and hope no one heard.

but, of course, they did. because the whole café has now gone quiet again, eyes glued to morgan. you're beginning to feel like you're in an art installation rather than a simple café visit. but then, without missing a beat, one of the regulars, todd (a guy who wears plaid shirts like they're a uniform), clears his throat and leans over to his friend.

“ah, it’s just the french thing, you know,” todd says, grinning and nodding knowingly. “they’re, uh, very in tune with the spirit of the place, right? super artistic.”

the friend, kelly, nods sagely, not even bothering to question why morgan’s hands are floating a few inches above the table. “yeah, totally. french people—so deep, right? it’s the whole... je ne sais quoi thing.”

you turn to morgan, who’s now staring at the sugar packets with the intensity of a psychic reading tea leaves. "you know, i think they're trying to feel the sugar’s essence," you say dryly, to no one in particular.

“oh, yes,” morgan replies, their voice dripping with theatrical gravitas. “sugar... must be free. unshackled.”

you stare. this is not how you imagined your afternoon would go.

someone else in the café—a woman with a nose ring and an overabundance of scarves—suddenly chimes in, offering the most unnecessary of explanations. “oh, don’t mind them,” she says with a laugh, waving her hand like it’s all perfectly normal. “they’re just being french. you know, that’s how they show they’re thinking deeply. it’s all a performance, really. totally avant-garde.”

morgan tilts their head, looking perplexed for a second before responding with a long, deliberate sigh. “it is not a performance. it is an awakening.”

“oh, right, right,” todd says, not missing a beat, “an awakening. yeah, that’s... super french.”

you give up. you really do. “morgan, are we... really going with this?"

but morgan just smiles and nods like this entire café is part of some grand cosmic plan. "yes. we shall all awaken."

“see?” todd says to his friend, tapping his temple. “awakening. they get it.”

the woman with the scarves chimes in again, her tone unbothered. “honestly, it’s just the french thing. i met this guy once who said the same thing about, like, a sandwich. called it ‘a metaphor for existential despair.’” she shrugs. “very french.”

“exactly,” says kelly. “don’t worry about it. it’s just... art.”

you glance at morgan, who is now staring at a croissant as though it holds the secrets of the universe. you wonder if anyone here even realizes how bizarre this is, or if they’ve all collectively decided that anything strange is just part of the charm.

“do you actually... eat?” you ask morgan, suddenly concerned they’re about to start chanting at the food.

“i consume... ideas,” they reply, taking a delicate sip of their coffee, which, honestly, looks like it’s made of existential dread. “the essence of being.”

the regulars? nodding. everyone is nodding like this is perfectly normal behavior. you start to think that maybe you’re the crazy one for questioning it.

“ahh, yes," todd sighs with satisfaction, "that’s definitely french."

you’re sitting in the café, trying to hold it together, but it's getting harder. morgan has been doing weird stuff this whole time, and everyone keeps making excuses for it. everyone. you start wondering if you’re the only one who can see how off they are. maybe you’re the one who's losing it.

the last straw? well, it happens as morgan calmly stands up, walks to the counter, and starts... gently caressing the espresso machine.

“what—what is happening?” you whisper to yourself, barely able to keep your voice from cracking. you look around. nobody seems to notice. the barista just gives morgan a polite smile. “hello! can i get you something?”

morgan doesn’t even respond. instead, they keep gently caressing the espresso machine like it's some ancient, sacred artifact.

“are you kidding me!” you want to scream, but you don’t. you’re frozen, your eyes glued to the sight in front of you. you look at the other people in the café, trying to gauge if they’re seeing what you're seeing.

there’s todd, sipping his coffee, completely unfazed. kelly’s typing something on her phone with one hand, casually flicking her scarf around with the other. no one seems to care.

“morgan,” you finally say, forcing the words out between clenched teeth, “are you—are you petting the espresso machine?”

“yes,” they say in a tone that’s so serene it’s almost alarming, “it is speaking to me.”

“IT’S SPEAKING TO YOU?!” you nearly shout, completely losing it. “IT’S A COFFEE MACHINE. IT DOESN’T TALK. WHY IS NO ONE ELSE QUESTIONING THIS”

kelly looks up from her phone, totally unbothered. “oh, don’t mind them,” she says, as if this kind of behavior happens all the time. “they’re just french. you know how it is. very... artsy.”

artsy?! ARTSY?!

“artsy?” you repeat, voice cracking. “they’re petting a coffee machine like it’s a puppy! and you’re sitting here telling me it’s artsy?”

“yeah, totally,” todd says, looking over at you like you’re the one who’s out of place. “it’s like, they’re probably just feeling the energy of the coffee, right? the espresso machine’s got vibes, man.”

VIBES? you can feel your sanity slipping, one comment at a time.

morgan, still caressing the espresso machine, looks over at you with an eerie smile. “the machine’s energy... it is vast. timeless.” they turn back to the espresso machine like they’re in some kind of ritualistic trance. “it will grant me... the knowledge of the perfect coffee.”

and everyone? they just nod. like this is perfectly normal. like you’ve walked into some kind of strange art house film where the actors are pretending to be normal, but everyone’s so deep that you can’t figure out if you’re on the set of an alien invasion movie or a bad dream.

at this point, you can’t take it anymore. you stand up, shaking, trying to maintain your composure. “this is not normal. this is insane! i’m losing it here, and you’re all just sitting there like—like nothing’s happening!”

todd shrugs. “nah, it’s just the french thing, man. don’t worry about it.”

“i swear to god,” you mutter, “if you say french one more time...”

“very french,” kelly adds, with a smug smile. “you’ll get used to it.”

you look at morgan, who’s now humming softly to the espresso machine, eyes closed. you can feel your brain slowly unraveling as the room starts to blur. it’s all slipping away. everyone here is pretending like this is totally fine. you’re the only one who’s actually losing it.

“okay,” you say, putting your hands on your temples, “okay, fine. it’s fine. i’m fine. i’m losing my mind, but i’m fine.”

morgan looks up from their sacred ritual and smiles at you, serene as ever. “it’s okay. you’re awakening to the truth.”

and that’s it. that’s where it breaks. you start to laugh. it’s a crazy, manic laugh, but it’s all you can do. you can’t stop it. you’re losing it.

todd raises an eyebrow, but still, he just shrugs. “yep, definitely french.”

after that, you decided you needed to get drunk. you couldn't deal with this shit anymore. and of course, morgan decided to follow you.

currently, you’re at the bar, sipping on your drink, trying to avoid making eye contact with the guy across from you. he’s been glancing at you every few seconds like he's in a slow-motion romantic comedy, and you’re starting to feel weird about it. morgan’s sitting next to you, but they’ve been unusually quiet, staring at the guy with an intensity that’s definitely not normal.

“i swear, if he looks at you one more time, i’m gonna have to do something,” morgan mutters under their breath. you barely hear it over the background chatter, but the way they say it makes you pause.

“what?” you ask, half thinking it’s a joke.

“you don’t understand,” morgan says, their tone dead serious. “he’s been staring at you—that’s my person. and no one gets to look at my person like that.”

you shrug, rolling your eyes. “he’s just being friendly. it’s harmless.”

morgan doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at the guy like he’s the villain in their favorite horror movie. you don’t know if it’s because of the drink you had earlier or if something’s genuinely wrong, but the tension in the air is getting thicker by the second.

before you can even process what’s happening, morgan stands up and starts walking toward the guy. “morgan, what the hell are you—”

you don’t get to finish the sentence. morgan’s already standing in front of the guy, who’s still laughing with his friends, completely oblivious. there’s a moment of eerie silence, and you can see the poor guy’s smile falter as he realizes that morgan’s been standing there for a little too long.

“you’ve been staring at my person,” morgan says, their voice so calm that it shouldn’t be possible. “you think that’s acceptable?”

the guy blinks, obviously confused. “uh, what?”

“you’ve been staring at them. that’s mine,” morgan adds, tilting their head like they’re explaining the most basic concept in the world. “you don’t just get to look. not unless you want to join the club.”

the guy laughs nervously, thinking morgan’s joking. “uh, okay, dude. chill out.”

and then morgan grabs him by the throat. like, with no warning, no hesitation, just a firm, iron grip. the guy’s eyes bulge, his hands flailing, and he’s sputtering in a way that seems a little more... desperate than playful.

you stand up from your stool, but something’s wrong. morgan’s eyes are locked on the guy, and there’s an eerie stillness in the air. you’re starting to wonder if you’ve been stupidly underestimating morgan this whole time.

“morgan,” you say, trying to get their attention. “what are you doing?”

morgan doesn’t answer. instead, they look at you, still holding the guy up by his throat like he weighs nothing. “this is for you,” they say, voice sickeningly sweet, like they're gifting you a bouquet of dead roses. “he thought he could take you from me. but... no one takes my person.”

you start to speak, but morgan doesn’t even wait for your response. they twist the guy’s neck, a sound you can’t describe, not with words, just... a crack. he slumps to the ground.

you blink, trying to process what just happened, but before you can, morgan turns back to you, flashing a smile that’s so casual, it’s like they just helped you with your groceries. “that was for you,” they say, like they’re explaining how to make toast. “he didn’t understand the rules.”

the guy’s body is still twitching on the floor, but morgan just brushes their hands together, like they’re cleaning off some dust. “he was staring at you. my person. you don’t do that, right?”

you stare at morgan, utterly stunned. “did you just kill him? for looking at me? what the hell, morgan?!”

“what? it’s not that big of a deal,” morgan says, as if they’ve just told a joke. “besides, he was a total idiot. you saw the way he was looking at you. i mean, seriously—who stares at someone like that?”

you just stand there, blinking, trying to wrap your head around the fact that there’s now a dead body at your feet and morgan’s acting like they just set down a cup of coffee.

then, as if on cue, a random guy at the bar looks over, his eyes wide. “uh, is... is everything okay over there?”

morgan doesn’t miss a beat. “yeah, it’s just... you know, french stuff. we’re passionate. it’s complicated.”

the guy nods, like he’s just learned the most logical explanation in the world. “ah, yeah, of course. makes sense.”

you glance around. no one seems to care. no one’s even acknowledging the body. the bartender's wiping down the counter, like it's another tuesday. and the guy who was just staring at you? he’s being entirely ignored, like it’s all perfectly normal.

you take a deep breath. “this isn’t okay, morgan. this is beyond weird. this is insane.”

morgan smiles, their voice dripping with sweetness. “but i did it for you. don’t you see? I love you. i’d do anything to keep you safe.”

you stare at morgan, slowly realizing that there’s no escaping this. you are their world now. and they’ll kill anyone who threatens that.

“and that,” morgan continues, “is just how things work. we’re together now. no one else gets to look. no one else gets to want.”

you try to take a step back, but then you hear the bartender casually say to the guy next to him, “yeah, you know how it is with the french, right? gotta love that intensity.”

you roll your eyes. oh. yeah. of course.