#+queued!

you're his biggest fan. you just didn't realize he was yours!

synopsis: so you accidentally married your favorite rockstar when you meant to break up with him! are you headed to divorce - or will you make this marriage work?

pairing: yandere!rockstar x fangirl!reader

wc: 3.2k (this is part three to fixated and obsession)

content: mdni, smut, light fluff/angst, soft yandere, marriage, obsessive/possessive behavior, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, cumming without being touched (man literally humps the bed and cums from eating reader out lmfao), insecurities, loser/anxious reader, multiple povs happy ending

PREVIEW BELOW

Married life was hard to adjust to. 

Harder when you barely knew your new husband – and you hadn’t been able to be alone for more than five minutes since you woke up next to him with that rock on your finger. 

He laughed when you tried to point it out over an awkward breakfast of packaged muffins he picked up from the lobby that morning, offering that smirk you used to think was cute and cocking his head to the side as if it was silly. 

“C’mon,” he chuckled, poking your cheek softly before continuing, “You know me better than anyone else.” 

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that was kinda sad. Was every other relationship – platonic, professional, or otherwise – seriously that shallow? That the only person who made him feel seen was just a loser who liked his band a little too much? 

“I just think,” you paused, spit pooling in the back of your mouth as you spun the ring around your finger. “You’re going to change your mind. Realize that this, us, it’s a mistake.” 

But his face lit up at the word us. 

“Baby, I got your name tattooed on me,” he murmured. “We’re married, I don’t know-”

“We could just get it annulled,” you suggested, but when you watched his expression flicker from anger to carefully controlled annoyance. 

“Why would we do that?” He asked, lips pressed together in a thin smile. “We already consummated it.” 

“Well, it’s not like anyone else has to know that,” you mumbled. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, even though you knew he did. 

He was just playing dumb because he didn’t want to get it annulled. But he didn’t want to tell you no flat-out either.

“What’s your manager gonna say? Your publicist? The rest of your band?” You reminded him. His first priority was his very much public-facing occupation. Who made money from what his fans thought of him. How many albums and tickets he sold. 

“I don’t care,” he grumbled, taking a bite out of his chocolate chip muffin, crumbs sticking to the corner of his mouth before he grabbed you and tugged you onto his lap. Nuzzling his nose against the inside of your throat with a thick sigh. “I only want you. I don’t give a shit what they think.”

You knew you should protest more. Provide a list of reasons why this would never work. 

But you held your tongue, saved your breath. Let your head rest against his, cheek squished as you tried to tell yourself that you were overreacting. That you were being insecure.

All his actions made it obvious how badly he wanted to make this work. And you still kept running from him. 

Wouldn’t the you from a few months ago be fucking thrilled? Elated that out of everyone, he was the one who wanted to be yours? And not just your boyfriend, but your husband. 

“Why don’t we give it a try for a few months, hm?” He murmured into your skin, starting to press little kisses all over every inch available to him, only pulling back to measure your reaction. 

“A few months?” You repeated, and you couldn't decide if you were trying to talk yourself into or out of it. 

“We could get divorced,” he said, but you caught the minuscule frown that flashed before his face before he put a soft smile back on for you. “If you still want one.”

“I guess,” you mumbled, reluctantly agreeing.

Allowing yourself to sink into him deeper, to get lost in the dreamy way he grinned at your acceptance. 

Shirt stretching around his biceps and rolling up as he stood and pressed another kiss to your forehead. Pleased with you – or maybe himself. 

You stared at your name on his skin, the ink marking him as yours. A thin gold band gleamed on his ring finger, something cheap he must have picked up the night before. 

You barely remembered any of it, a blur of drinks and laughter and clubs you let him drag you to, leaning against his body and reveling in the reverence in his stare when he whispered something in your ear about making your relationship really official. 

And now you had a photograph and signed marriage certificate from some shitty all-night chapel in a strange city with matching wedding bands. 

He glanced down at you as he went to toss his now-empty muffin wrapper in the tiny hotel trashcan. 

“So,” he hummed. “Where do you wanna go for our honeymoon?”

˚    ✦  　.  .   ˚　.      . ✦    　˚     . ★⋆. ࿐࿔  　.     ˚      *    　✦  　.  .  　✦　˚      ˚　.˚    ✦  　.  .   ˚　. ˳·˖✶   ✦　 

"hello, darling." your husband greets you so sweetly on the porch, a cloying smile plastered on his lips, and a mismatched bouquet of multicoloured daisies, valerians and dying hyacinths clutched in his hands, stained with crimson. "i'm home."

"and what sort of time do you call this, my love?" you return his smile with one of your own. there is something dark and deep in his shallow eyes as he watches you delicately reach for the beautiful, bloodied flowers. "it's well past midnight."

"sorry, sweetheart, i promise i tried to be back before dinner." the soft light of the moon above drapes him in an eerie, haunting glow; illuminating his beautiful features. his eyelashes form soft, dark shadows across his cheeks, looking like long, long scratches.

humming in response to his statement, you bring the mismatched bouquet of flowers closer to your chest, only barely grazing the petals painted in shades of vermillion with the tips of your fingers; a pleased little glint in your own gaze as you watch him, standing still in the doorframe, eyes closed.

"but you must know how hard it is," your husband’s gorgeous eyes flutter open, glittering with mirth. "to climb out of your own grave, right?"

a laugh spills past lips that stretch into a smile as you lean in and softly press a lingering kiss to his jaw. "oh, you absolute angel! if you think climbing out was hard—"

your husband reaches his hand out to gently wipe the blood from your own lips with the back of his bruised hand, raw, scraped knuckles brushing over your skin with a gentleness he reserves solely for you, as you let the flowers fall from your hands; the pretty petals he’d picked out for you curl in on themselves, as this time, his lips find yours first.

"—then you weren't there when i dug it."

his amusement comes in the sound of a deep, low laughter that has you pushing all the parts of your body you know he loves most right up and against him. he welcomes the feeling, greedy hands reaching out to grab you in all the right places; the facade of a gentler man all but forgotten with the way he looks down at you, like a man long starved.

“you could dig a thousand graves for me,” he confesses with a whisper, “and i’d still crawl out and find my way back home to you, my love.”

you roll your eyes, throw your arms over his shoulders and bat your lashes; you revel in the way he tenses at the sight, wonder whose blood is all over his handsome face and wandering hands tonight, before deciding you don’t quite care enough to ask.

instead, another question leaves your lips, and it’s definitely one he’s all too willing to answer, “oh, will you just kiss me already, you horrid man?”