wally

Ex vampire boyfriend who lets you lounge around the house, telling you not to pay a cent to him here and focus on using your money for yourself-Honest! He’s desperate for your touch, yearning. But you’re not in the mood to humour his needs and thirsts. With your ovulation stage coming to an end and going into its final stage you’re in no mood to spend lots of time with your selfish ex.

Ex Vampire boyfriend Who stays up all night (he’s a vampire duhh) cleaning every corner of the house to reduce the agonizing pain of hunger that curdles in his belly. And when he’s not cleaning, he’s sitting outside your bedroom. Your old shared bedroom that he now has given up full access to. Waiting and listening to see what you’re up too. He heard you weeping once. It tore him to shreds not knowing what was making you sad and not being able to comfort you the way he should.

Ex Vampire boyfriend freezes in anticipation as he stares down at the bloody tampon hidden under more rubbish in the bathroom trash. Pure crimson red with a few clots stuck to its wrapper.

Ex Vampire Boyfriend who was a fein, sucking every drop of your blood from the feeble Cotten. His droop soaking in the Cotten only to be sucked out harshly. The thick clots being savoured the most, tears emerging from his glistening eyes. Craving finally sedated for a short time.

Ex vampire boyfriend who scratches at your door sobbing to be let in, to let him weep into your warm embrace. To be emerged in your breath of spring and life.

Ex Vampire Boyfriend who forces you to feed him, pinning you down in your bedroom, his tears dripping down onto your face and cleavage. And stubbornly refusing to drink from your neck and dives down and forces his way between your legs.

Your needs met, slurping fills the empty room as he does his hardest to drink every drop of your blood, the taste being divine, so perfect he stops and sobs into your pussy, begging for forgiveness for neglecting your beautiful petals. Drool making your crotch sticky and dirty. Blood smeared on his mouth, with his eyes burning with passion and tears.

Vampire Boyfriend who comes back up for air, gasping and leans in to kiss your quivering lips, and begins to cry once more when you jump away from his affection saying softly and breathlessly “Your mouth is dirty.”

HAPPY END!

BATBOYS + VOICEMAILS THEY'D SEND.

characters written about in this piece : bruce wayne , dick grayson , jason todd , tim drake , duke thomas , damian wayne

note : dick only has two because his was quite longer 😔😔 sorry guyzz

BRUCE WAYNE.

"hi, honey. you weren't picking up, but this is quite important. i need to go away for a few days, effective tomorrow. call me back, darling, i want to hear your voice before i leave. love you."

"sorry to bother you, darling. i saw a couple watches you might like, but i wasn't sure which one to get you. so, naturally, i bought both — give me a call so we can arrange a date to see each other again, i know you're busy. see you soon. i love you."

"evening, honey. long day today. long day. just wanted to hear your voice or see if we could meet for a bit. dinner, perhaps? [sighs] i'd just love to see you tonight. love you, bye."

DICK GRAYSON.

"hey, i tried calling but you didn't answer — so i hope you're okay, obviously — but i was wondering what you would do if i accidentally used up the rest of your nice shampoo? only hypothetically, though. and also where did you buy it? you know, if that were to happen."

"i know you're at work right now, and i should actually be getting back to working on a case, but i went for a coffee break — you know, and to just let my thoughts process for a bit — and did you know they opened up a new cat café on seventh? let me know if you're free at all this weekend, there was the cutest cat in the window, and i wanna know it's name real bad. speak later... oh! and have a good day, love you. [blows kiss into phone]"

JASON TODD.

"hey, you. hope you're having a good time out in freaking budapest, sounds like it's really cool. i actually forgot you're six hours ahead, so you're probably sleeping. but then i guess you have something nice to wake up to. i mean... assuming you find this nice. anyways. i miss you. hope to hear from you soon, and see you sunday. i mean, if you wanna see me on sunday. i know that's when you get back, but you might be pretty jetlagged... anyway, i'm rambling. sleep well, love you, bye."

"[soft, self-depricating chuckle] i feel like i'm always calling you when you're asleep. just got back from patrol. i guess you could say it was pretty quiet, which is good but it makes it kinda boring. [a few beats of silence] i should go. i— i love.. you. yeah. i hope you know that."

"[a male voice, pitching it up to sound feminine] ooooh, i love you. kiss me, kiss me, i love you. my sugarplum, my pumpkin. [faint shout in background] who took my fucking phone!? [closer voice laughs] oh, fuck—"

TIM DRAKE.

"ohh, shit you're probably driving, aren't you? i– i don't usually call back so soon after a first date, but— wait, i didn't mean it like that, i just meant... [exasperated sigh] nevermind. i just quickly called because you left your sweater, and i was wondering if you wanted it back? let me know whenever you're free, no– no rush. i don't want to force you to be with me again, especially if you didn't have a good time. [slight pause] i mean, i had a good time. i had a really good time! uh– but, anyway. yeah. call me back."

"hey, i'm on my way back from patrol and was just gonna swing by. you might be asleep, you might be... i dunno. i'll knock on the window, see if you answer. see ya! maybe. bye."

"no pressure, hope you're having a good time with your friends, but wanted to let you know i'm on standby whenever you want a lift home. just playing red dead online with duke, but i can leave whenever you want. i'll stay up until two, but i doubt you'd stay out that long. see you later, lovely. stay safe."

DUKE THOMAS.

"sorry i missed you today, your coworker said you just left. wanted to give you a kiss, but i can wait, i can wait. get home safe, give me a call when you can. i'm just walking now to the bodega, gonna get a sub, and i'm super excited. small wins. eat well tonight, i'm excited to hear about what you have for dinner. love you so much. buh-bye."

"real quick warning before you come round, we don't have any spare toothbrushes, because someone got them shot up on his motorbike. [distant shout] hey! it's not my fault— [a door closes] anyways, super excited to see you. we're getting pizzaaaaa."

"just got a haircut, and i'm just gonna stop off at a convenience store to grab some snacks, some drinks, and then i'll be right at yours. i keep seeing posts about, like, when your boyfriend gets a haircut, or your crush, or something, and you lose feelings — so i hope you still love me like this. [chuckles] personally, i think it looks great! i think it'll be fine. [laughs again] see you in, like, ten. bye."

DAMIAN WAYNE.

"i am just calling you so you can save my number. this is damian... [a few seconds of silence, although there's faint voices in the background] i seem very unsocial. bye."

"i know you are at work right now, but i was just reading, and came across a passage that reminded me of you. hold on. [some rustling of paper, the phone settles down on a surface] i will love you forever; whatever happens. till i die and after i die, and when i find my way out of the land of the dead, i'll drift about forever, all my atoms, till i find you again. [a few beats of silence, before the voicemall ends]"

Then he’s in a meeting at the Watchtower and an override has been used to interrupt them, and a screen pops up. It’s supposed to be a video call, but it’s black, maybe slight colors showing every so often, but it’s blurry.

Then a young voice lets out a hushed cry, and a desperate little, “B, you need to come home,” echoes throughout the room.

“Robin,” Bruce says quickly, and it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he sounds panicked. “What’s going on? Where’s Agent A?”

“I dunno,” Dick cries. “He hid me, I dunno where he went. You need to come home!”

“You need to tell me what’s going on, Robin. Why did he hide you?”

“Uncle Harvey is here.”

Everyone watches as Batman’s panic turns to sudden, forced calm. He goes totally still. And then he says in a quiet, soft voice, “You stay hidden right where you are. You don’t move unless he finds you, and if he does, then you run like hell. I’m coming home.”

A desperate whisper of “Hurry” is all they hear before the call ends and Batman is running back to the transport room.

Because Two-Face nearly killed Robin just a few months ago. Because Bruce is terrified at the thought of his son being near Two-Face again, especially so soon. Because Dick sounded terrified, and it broke Bruce’s heart.

• NSFW 18+

• Gotta be logged into Twitter for the links to work

• possible video reuse, oops

———

Jason Todd p links!

after a stressful patrol. this is how he unwinds

helping him while he does research

showing off his strength 2 3

halloween after party

love when you make a mess

on the way back from a party

he likes being rough sometimes 2 3 4 5 6

punishment 2 3

he LOVES shy girls

using your throat 2 3 4

SIZE KINK 2

you, him, and Roy 2

stomach bulge

what he sends your ex

you, him, and Rose 2 3

after date night

using you to cheat on Rose

trying to stay quiet at the manor

he LOVES goth girls 2 3

waking you up once he gets home from patrol

roleplay

his favorite video

thick thighs

midnight after a party at titans tower

morning sex

choking kink

what you send him when he’s away 2 3

his favorite angle

waking you up like this

friends with benefits

Yandere!Ghost Farmer x Reader

The old farmhouse you bought with your remaining savings turned out to be possessed by an axe murderer. The charm doesn't end here. content: female reader, jealous ghost farmer based on The Conjuring: Last Rites, horror

Your house is haunted, yet no one will believe you.

You should’ve known from the moment you set foot inside. The agent was uneasy, a tad too eager to be done with the viewing. He frequently reminded you of the fantastic price, the one-of-a-kind offer you’d never find again on the market. It was spacious, it was in good shape. More rooms than a single lady like you would ever need.

“Speaking of rooms,” you said, “we haven’t seen the basement yet.”

Yandere! Bruce Wayne - who doesn’t stop after your first orgasm. Doesn’t even take the time to nurse you through those big feelings that have your chest heaving in small bursts. The moment you start to fall apart on his tongue, creaming so sweetly as his fingers drag every ounce of energy out of you, he’s already moving onto the next step. Large, rough hands slide under your thighs, hoisting your legs over his broad shoulders, ignoring how you stiffen under his touch. You’re still twitching, still soft and wet when he presses the tip of his cock forward, the heavy drag of his cock parting you open again - without a care that you haven’t come down from that high.

The first push has you gasping. The second has you whimpering. By the third, your body’s already shaking, toes curling against his back as your legs press weakly against him in protest that melts into another cry. He catches your ankle, presses it back, body folding you in half until there’s nowhere to run.

“B - Bruce - ” you try, but the name breaks halfway through a moan. He leans down, lips hot against the column of your throat, voice rough enough to scrape, “I’ve got you.”

The words slide through your skin, heavy as the weight of him. His pace doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows steadier, harsher - the kind of rhythm that leaves no space to breathe or run. The bed rocks beneath each thrust, his chest pressed tight to yours, the sound of skin and breath and the wet pulse of you taking him again and again.

“Daddy - please,” slips out between sobs, your voice trembling and small - words you only utter when you’re hot and overstimulated. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore: to stop, to finish, to keep going. It doesn’t matter to him. He answers each plea with another thrust, with kisses along your jaw that taste of salt and tears.

Oh, how those pretty tears that get caught in your lashes leave him a little weak in the chest. His ocean blues soften as they catch that puppy-dog look in your eyes while you beg for him to fill you full. Such a sweet girl for him.

“I know, princess. I know.” His voice is low, steady, almost tender. His mouth finds your neck, teeth dragging lightly against the pulse fluttering there. “You can take it. You’re doing so good for me.”

Your legs tremble, muscles drawn tight, thighs quivering around him as your body clings to every deep push. The overstimulation burns until it’s almost sweet, pleasure twisting into something too much, too good. The only sound left in you is a broken litany of, “please, Daddy, please, please”

He shudders, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and squeeze, milking him for every drop of control he has left. You feel the weight of him change - the tremor in his breath, the way his kisses turn frantic, almost desperate - as he groans into your neck, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” again and again, until the words melt into a guttural sound that spills warmth deep inside you.

You feel him pulse and throb as he holds you down through it, his weight pressing you into the bed, his body trembling with yours until the air finally stills.

He doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away the tears that never stopped falling, and there’s something soft in his voice when he murmurs, almost to himself, “My good girl… you warm me right up, don’t you?”

He stays over you for a long moment, his breathing still uneven, his palms braced on either side of your ribs. The room smells of salt and sweat and him. You’re limp beneath him, trembling faintly with every pulse of your heartbeat. Bruce drags in a breath, lets it out slow, the sound rough in his throat.

When he moves, it’s careful - almost apologetic for his actions. He presses a kiss just under your jaw, then another at the corner of your mouth, whispering against your skin, “Easy now, princess. I know.” His voice is rough but more so the kind he only uses when he’s trying to coax you back from the edge.

He cleans you slowly, methodically, his calloused hands gentle where they weren’t minutes ago. Every time you flinch, he murmurs something low, a quiet string of endearments half-lost in the hush: “I’ve got you… I know I was rough… couldn’t help it.” Each word feels like a promise and an apology all at once.

You shift weakly, a small sound slipping from your lips, and his hand stills on your thigh. For a second, his jaw tightens - remorse, hunger, both - but then he leans down, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Shh,” he whispers. “I’ll make it better.”

When he finally pulls back, he reaches for something folded on the chair beside the bed - one of his shirts, soft and pressed, smelling faintly of his cologne from this morning. He eases it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves. The fabric hangs against your frame. His blue eyes linger; his thumb tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he murmurs. The ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth before fading into something heavier. “Come on, baby. Let’s watch one of those movies you like so much.”

You hum, half-asleep, letting him help you sit up. Your fingers clutch at the hem of the shirt, eyes glazed and unfocused. He watches you for a long moment - the faint quiver in your lower lip, the dazed little sound when he slips an arm around your waist to lift you.

“I’ll have Alfred bring us some wine, a sweet one,” he adds quietly, his mouth brushing your temple. “No one else tonight. Just us.”

He gathers you against his chest, one arm beneath your knees, the other wrapped around your back. You stir, eyelids fluttering open just long enough to meet his eyes - those cold, sharp blues softened into something almost tender. You nuzzle into him without meaning to, and he breathes out a quiet laugh, the kind that sounds more like disbelief than joy.

As he carries you toward the door, his lips find your hair, lingering there. “My sweet girl,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “You’re everything good I’ve got left.”

Down the hall, the manor creaks, but inside this moment there’s only the hush of his steps, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, and the faint kiss of warmth flickering in the theater ahead.

We truly don’t speak often enough about pretty boy yanderes (or pretty girl yanderes) that simply want you to abuse their worth. The kind who are aware of their beauty who angle their jaw just so in the mirror and think, I’d ruin me too.

Now be prepared for your black widow type of yandere because she’s got a bite to match her beauty. Sharp hands that look so delicate when her chin rests on the back of her palm, sharp tongue that's never used towards you, and sharper instincts. She’s a mean woman when it comes to men, dismissing them with nothing more than a curl of her lip, but when it comes to pretty girls like you…oh, she’s a terrible flirt.

She drags you to a winery her family owns, sweeping you along with her slender hand firm on your lower back. She presses a glass into your hand and insists you sample every vintage - rich, heavy, dripping ruby against your tongue. She doesn’t care for your polite nods or the notes you taste; she only cares for the way the warmth rises in your body, the way your lashes grow heavy, your eyes glaze with liquid gloss, and your giggles spill out as you collapse into the safety of her chest that feels so welcoming when her arms wrap around you so tight.

Her face is a trap you can’t look away from - high cheekbones, lips painted a scarlet so bright you’d swear you see red echoing in her eyes when she looks at you too long. Her long dark hair brushes against your shoulder when she leans close, and she smells faintly of something deadly and roses, a combination that makes you dizzy even before the wine does.

She’ll never tell you her true plans, that when the night ends, she’ll have you tangled in her white silk sheets, her mouth marking your throat with a bruise the color of her lipstick, staking her claim so every person dead or alive knows you’re hers.

As for the men who used to flirt with her that you keep asking about, well, she only smiles in response and says it didn’t work out. That they get too greedy. Then she tilts her head toward her garden, where something new is always blooming. Produce a little too fertile these days.

Yandere! Cult Leader - who smiles as though your return was fated, who holds you in arms softer and sweeter than the cruel world outside.

The mother mountain, upon which the cult sanctuary rests, is a beast that devours. Her breath is snow that threatens to swallow you whole, her sharp tongue is ice that cuts through your skin with ease, her teeth are the wolves that prowl the ridges. You thought freedom would bloom like spring - warm air, green hills, plum blossoms bursting white against blue skies. Instead, freedom was nothing but gnawing hunger, blistered feet, and the endless howl of winter clawing at your bones. By the time you stagger back through the vermilion temple torii gates, your hands are bloodied, your lips cracked with cold, and your knees nearly buckle beneath you.

Lanterns sway on their chains, painting the old temple in pools of gold. The building itself breathes age: beams lacquered black but peeling at the edges, murals of demons and gods half-faded into shadow, paper screens patched where the wind has torn them. Incense coils in the air, sweet and choking, its perfume threaded with something metallic - copper, sharp and unmistakable, like coins held too long.

They greet you first. His followers. Rows of kneeling figures in white and crimson, their hands pressed reverently together. They smile as they see you stumble forward, their teeth bared wide, too eager to greet you once again, eyes shining with something that looks like joy but feels like hunger. Their voices rise in a chorus of soft welcomes, whispering your name as though it were another prayer for the evening. You cannot tell if it is affection or amusement that lights their faces.

The cult leader rises from his dais, framed by the glow of shrine lamps, his white silken robes flowing like snow-melt water. His bright eyes glimmer like stained glass catching dawn, and his smile…oh, his smile. Gentle, dazzling, merciful. Too merciful to allow you to crawl back to his arms without punishment. Back to his sanctuary prison. “My poor blossom,” he breathes, and his voice is so tender it cuts deep into wounds that you weren't aware of. “You came back to me after all.”

He gathers you against him before your knees give way, cradling you as though you were something small and weighed nothing at all. His robes smell of incense and something sweeter, like flowers left too long in water. His hands stroke through your frozen hair, his thumb smoothing the cracked line of your lips. “Look at you, so fragile. The mountain tried to steal you from me.” His laugh is bright as temple bells, as though the thought itself were a child’s joke. “But see? You belong here. You belong with me.”

He does not scold. He does not rage. He only fusses - laying you gently onto futons layered thick with floral quilts, tucking the corners as if you were a child. He feeds you morsels with his own fingers, pressing them to your lips when your hands shake too much to lift a bowl. He dabs at your chin with the sleeve of his robe, smiling as though your weakness delights him, as though your crocodile tears soothe that ache in his heart. “There, there, I'm not upset. Life is precious, my blossom. I will keep you safe, I will keep you warm. Nothing will harm you while you rest in my arms. Not even I unless I have reason to.”

When he finally curls around you, more comforting than any quilt or futon, drawing your body into the careful cradle of his arms, the warmth is almost unbearable after the mountain’s bite. His hand strokes through your hair with a gentleness that feels wrong, his breath ghosting against your temple as he murmurs delirious endearments, soft and syrup-sweet, like lullabies spun for a child. His lips, - sweet, smiling, unhurried - brush against the shell of your ear: “If you ever wander away again…well. I might just have to eat you. But you know I’d rather keep you whole, my blossom, not pluck you petal by petal.”

The words sink into you like frost, and yet his tone is so playful, so tender, that it almost feels like a jest. Almost. He reaches for the lantern at his side, snuffing out the last glow until the chamber is swallowed in velvet dark. You understand the unspoken plea: he does not wish to consume you, not as insects gnaw on cloth and wood. No, he wants you intact, kept close, his offering preserved.

Your chest trembles as you press your face into him, into the silken fold of his robes, into the steady rise and fall of his lean chest. Filling your lungs with the smells of incense and copper and something sweeter, cloying as overripe blossoms. It is suffocating, dreadful, yet it is warm. Outside waits the mountain, with its wolves and blizzards and gnawing hunger. Inside, there is only him.

And though your heart races with terror, though every nerve whispers that you are trapped, you let yourself be held. Because here, at least, you will not freeze. Because his arms, however suffocating, are safe in their own cruel way.

If your comfortable- do you think you could write a small itty bitty maybe not so itty bitty fic about what'd he'd do if he saw someone harass/put their hands on Darling? :0

I imagined it and now I NEED it

But take your time answering!! I'm sure your ask are flooded :3

cw: human consumption by dragon hybrid

It’s more of an itty bitty fic because, with great love for our stupid idiot of a dragon prince, he would absolutely devour anyone who laid a hand on you.

Whether it was on purpose or just clumsy subway contact, the act didn’t matter. To him, a touch was an offense, and what’s an offense, if not a perfect meal? Protein bars could only do so much when the sand predator inside him craved something warmer, bloodier.

His tattoos shift faintly across his chest as he leans in, golden-brown eyes narrowing, grin stretching too wide. One snap of his teeth, and the hand that brushed against you is gone. Even the person too in a few seconds, due to all that horrid screaming.

When he returns, he’s humming cheerfully, picking a bit of pale bone from between his teeth with a claw as if it were no different than cleaning dirt from under his nails. The other passengers are white-faced, pressed against the walls, pretending not to look. He doesn’t notice. His lovesick gaze is only for you.

He beams, wings folding neat again as he drops into the seat beside you, curls falling into his brow. “See? I’m very good at protecting you.” His voice dips low, almost tender, brown-gold eyes molten as they drink you in. He tilts his head, studying your trembling hands, your bitten lip, and smiles brighter.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, utterly delighted. “So cute. That’s how humans show that they're happy correct?”

Then, earnest as a schoolboy asking you to the dance: “Now… do you want me to fly you home?”

Oh my! It doesn't work well in your favor! You come home, already worn down by the day, only to find the yandere! dragon prince in your apartment again, tail swiping dangerously close to your lamp, wings knocking against the low ceiling as he tries, of all things, to rearrange your furniture. “Honestly,” he mutters to himself with a frown, as though you’re the intruder here, “are you a peasant? How do you live with ceilings so low?”

Don’t worry, he assures, soon you’ll have all the luxury your fragile little body could dream of. Yet when his golden-brown eyes catch the exhaustion clinging to your features, the tears trembling in your lashes, he’s instantly abandoning his project. He crouches awkwardly, folding his great frame down until he’s eye-level with you. His wings pin back, tail curling in contrition as he peers at you with frantic, searching intensity.

“Did I scare you?” His questions come rapid, tumbling over one another. “I thought you knew I was here. Is it the flowers? Red roses are frightening, aren’t they? I clipped the thorns, I swear.”

But when you try, voice trembling and desperate, to tell him you’re simply sick of him, the words don’t fit into the shape of his mind. Dragon logic twists it into something else. If you’re tired of him, then surely it only means you need more of him. More time, more presence, more comfort. If he stays the night, you’ll feel safe in his arms, won’t you? If he smothers you in closeness, surely that tired little ache in your chest will vanish.

So… unfortunately, all the books dragons own about humans were written based on just one human. At least, that’s the case in the Sand Kingdom. Because the desert is so vast and harsh, most humans never make the trip, and the only one who did was a vegan. And so, all the sand dragons now assume humans are incapable of eating meat or animal products!

Best believe, when your yandere dragon prince witnesses you eating something other than plants, he’s shocked. His immediate conclusion is that you must have dragon blood. (Which, in his mind, is wonderful, because now you’ll surely be able to bear his child more easily!) After all, how could their hundreds of years of textbooks possibly be wrong?

Meanwhile, in the human world, people grow up being told that humans are a sand dragon’s favorite snack. But in reality, sand dragons only eat humans if they stumble upon a corpse in the desert. With such a vast, resource-scarce land, nothing can go to waste. Whether it’s a human, elf, or orc - if the body is found, it’s consumed, not out of cruelty, but as a way of honoring the resource.

Your dragon prince, however, makes a great effort to only eat what he believes to be “normal” human food around you. Like protein bars - solely because he saw you eat one once. He’s like those dads who buy hundreds of the same snack if they think you like it. Naturally, he does the same. Especially after you so kindly offered him a protein bar one day (he’d only had two breakfasts that morning, after all! Very generous of you to share your first breakfast with him!)

Then there are the silly little ways he convinces himself you’re in love with him. Like how sometimes you fall asleep on the train ride home. He doesn’t think it’s exhaustion from your workload - no, it’s because you feel safe enough to rest beside the strongest warrior alive! So he makes sure to stay perfectly still, so you may rest your eyes.

He especially loves it when he walks you home now and sometimes you allow him to carry your groceries! It's like you're a couple!

He also, somehow, got your number. Now he sends you selfies of himself standing guard outside your apartment, with a suspicious countdown in the caption. Totally not the day he plans to whisk you away to the Sand Kingdom…

Here's like a collage? never made one before :3

Yandere! Dragon Prince - who is really oblivious of your fears and is an awful flirt. Desert-born, with bronzed skin and dusty unruly curls that reflect dust-storm winds, symbolic tattoos that twist and wrap around, as if constellations across his chest and arms.

Every morning without fail, since a week or two ago, he boards the subway at the third stop after yours, waving at you brazenly while you do your best to look away. His massive, bat-like wings fold tight as he sits down right beside you, the train sinking under his weight, the hooked talons at their tips dragging faint scratches into the subway floor with every lurch of the car. He always takes the same seat beside you, knees nearly hitting the seat in front of him, filling row with his vast, towering presence, brown eyes shining like molten gold whenever they land on you.

Lately, he’s even tried to dress the part. Gone are the royal desert robes embroidered with threads-of-gold and lined with silks that shimmered like dunes at dawn - garments that marked him as a prince of the sands. Instead, he’s taken to “human fashion.” His broad frame is now squeezed into thin tourist t-shirts stretched taut across his chest, fabric straining against muscle. His sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips, because jeans, as he learned on his first attempt putting them on, simply don’t fit, splitting at the seams when he tries to spread his legs.

He beams at you each morning, proud of his efforts, convinced he’s blending seamlessly into your world. To him, this is courting: proof that he’s willing to shed the trappings of royalty just to sit at your side, to make himself appear more like you.

To you, it’s another reminder that the dragon prince has noticed you - chosen you - and that no matter how human he tries to look, he is anything but.

Now, unfortunately, he's nearly certain that you’re his mate. Though that does not translate well to your mind because you think you’re one heartbeat away from being eaten alive.

Sand dragons are feared even in this age of supposed peace. The fastest predators in the world, they once swept across the desert in violent storms of wing and claw. They are still considered warmongers, merciless in battle, infamous for eating lesser creatures not only for sustenance but as delicacies - savored slowly, an act of dominance. Even now, long after kingdoms have signed treaties and cities have forced coexistence, the old instincts cling. Their reputation stains them like blood in the sand.

And yet he sits beside you, morning after morning, grinning like a schoolboy. His gaze follows every twitch of your lips, every nervous little glance, convinced your skittishness is simply human nature. In the desert, love is persistence. Dragons prove their bond not with words, but with plentiful attention - by staying, watching, and protecting with all their might. That’s all he’s doing! Definitely not stalking!

“Did you eat today?” he asks one morning, trying for a whisper, not to disturb the nearby weary passengers. The sound comes out more like gravel than intended, vibrating through the walls of the train. You stiffen, half-convinced he means you as the meal or fattening you up to become a meal. In his mind, it’s simply courtship. He's always had a liking towards humans, even has a book all about them!

Where he’s from, a mate ensures their beloved never hungers, never walks alone. Already he’s been keeping vigil: trailing you home at night, padding silently just out of sight, the faint click of claws on pavement mistaken by you for nothing more than city noise. He’s proud of himself for learning your routine so fast and for keeping you safe from creatures that dare to come too close.

Finally, nerves snapping, you mutter under your breath, “Why do you even take the subway? Can’t you fly?”

His whole face lights up, tattoos shifting as his grin blooms wide. “Of course I could fly! But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”

You were about to speak to ask: why? But, as if struck by revelation, his eyes widen. “Oh - wait. Are you asking me to fly you? :)”

The image floods into you while you stare at the marking towards your final stop creeping closer and closer: massive talons curling around your waist, the rush of air, the sickening lurch as he lets go just to see you fall. You shake your head violently. A silent no.

But instead of reassuring you that he’d be nothing but gentle, he only chuckles, low and pleased with your charm by what he believes to be a quaint little human quirk. “So that’s how your kind shows affection,” he muses aloud, eyes soft, expression unbearably tender. To him, your actions make perfect sense: the trembling and constant stammering, even the way you shy away. Of course humans are delicate, so they must show love in fragile little ways.

Yandere! Murderer - who still swears he’s your boyfriend, the one who takes care of you and keeps you safe in this dreadful city. The blood on his hands doesn’t count towards his affection for you, it’s only the city’s rot, the ones who deserved a heinous death.

You’re the exception to the world's filth. His angel. His everything.

He finds you after another long night of killing, after he’s peeled screams from throats and washed his hands in crimson rain. His dark hoodie is soaked through, heavy and sticky, the cuffs stiff with dried gore. His hair - dark and matted - clings wet to his temples, plastered against his skin in tangled ribbons. The cheap mask over his mouth is painted with old stains, but behind the flimsy thing, he’s smiling, eyes gleaming bright as wet glass when they find you.

“There you are,” he breathes, and it comes out like praise. He’s panting, shaking a little, not from exhaustion but from the sheer, trembling relief of seeing you. “Knew I’d find you, baby. You always run in the same direction - cute little habit of yours.”

He holds up a bag in his gloved hand. Inside, your favorite boba drinks sways in the dim streetlight. “Brought you these. Your favorites. Kinda melted though - I was busy.” He laughs softly, voice catching. “Long night. But I thought of you the whole time.”

You don’t answer as your skin blanches. You just turn and walk faster. The rhythm of your heels clicks sharp against the concrete, echoing between the buildings. He follows without meaning to - his strides longer, heavier, a shadow that can’t help but chase the light.

“Aw, c’mon, princess,” he calls, tone half-teasing, half-wounded. “Don’t be shy. I know I look scary right now, but you like that about me, don’t you?”

You run. The world narrows into the sound of rain and heartbeat and the slap of your shoes. He laughs behind you - not cruelly, but fondly, like a man chasing his giggling lover through a meadow instead of a blood-soaked alley.

“God, you’re fast,” he pants, delighted. “You been working out? You’re makin’ me look bad, baby!”

Then you stumble. The ground’s slick from the heavy rain; your heel skids and catches, and you hit the pavement hard enough to scrape your knee. You hiss in pain with a curse under your breath. The world sways and unfortunately for you, he’s there, towering, breathless, trembling with concern.

“Shit-shit, hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, crouching down fast, gloves fumbling as he touches your leg, too careful and gentle for the same hands that broke ribs an hour ago. “You fell - oh baby, you fell - look at that, you’re bleeding.”

He tugs his sleeve down, wipes away the dirt and rain with absurd tenderness. Then, with a little triumphant hum, he digs through his pocket and pulls out a Hello Kitty bandage - crinkled from being carried too long. “See? Told you I’d keep you safe. You gotta stop running, baby, we can always play chase another day.”

He peels it open carefully, his bloodstained covered gloves trembling as he presses the pink cartoon kitten over your cut. His voice drops low, full of sheepish pride. “There. All better.”

For a moment, he just stares at the little sticker on your skin considering to give it a kiss, but he knows how shy you get around him. He's not going to push you for something you aren't ready for. His mask crinkles as he smiles behind it, soft and dizzy. “You’re always so clumsy,” he mumbles, brushing rain-slick hair from your face. “That’s why you stay with me, yeah? I take care of you.”

Then his tone brightens again, that boyish cheer seeping through the mania. “Hey, no tears now. We can play chase again tomorrow! No rain, promise or I'll kill the weather man for lying!”

He laughs, giddy and unsteady, his voice echoing down the empty street. “You make everything feel like a game, you know that? You keep me sane.”

And as he gathers you up - lifting you easily, cradling you close against his chest - he hums something soft under his breath, his words muffled behind the mask, “Love you. Love you so much it hurts. My perfect girl. My reason.”

Yandere! Murderer - who shows up at your apartment straight from a job. The one where he kills people in case your pretty little head forgot.

He’s smiling the way he always does when his eyes find you - though the face mask hides most of it, you can tell by the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He fills the doorway, broad shoulders, blocking any hope of escape before kicking it shut with the heel of his boot.

Those eyes have haunted you ever since the night he took you. The night he said he was bringing you “to work,” only for you to end up in that basement - his so-called studio. A single flickering bulb overhead. A camera pointed straight at you. An audience you couldn’t see but could somehow feel.

He called it a date. Said you’d make a cute co-star.

He wasn’t planning on keeping you alive, but hey - love finds a way.

So when you open the door and see him again - after a week of police visits and reports claiming no man fits your description - there he is. Standing before you, soaked in blood and breathing hard. For a moment, your mind refuses to process it. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening again.

But it is. He’s here. In your apartment.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice warm despite the rasp in his throat. “Missed me?” He drops his bag at the door. The sound makes you jump. A sound too loud to be anything normal. Your mind already imagining a body or something worse.

Your back hits the wall before you even realize you’re moving. You can’t stop shaking. He looks you over you affectionately. There's something domestic about this to him.

“What’s with the tears?” His tone softens as he steps closer, boots leaving faint red prints across the hardwood. A pain to clean later. “You’re crying again.” When you don’t answer, his brows knit together in confusion. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. The blood on his gloves smears your jaw as he cups your face, thumbs dragging slowly across your skin. The scent is unbearable, metallic and sour and alive. You can feel it tacky on your cheeks.

He tilts his head, observing yet childlike. “You’re so cute when you get all emotional like this. What, you think I came here to hurt you? I’d never, baby. You know that.”

You choke out a sob in response, cowering closer into the wall.

“Aw, baby. You forgot movie night, didn’t you? That’s why I came here - I figured I’d save you the trip. Even brought snacks too!”

He points at the bag by the door. Your mind continues to think of the worse. Unable to imagine that he stopped by the store for your favorites.

The last “movie night” flashes in your mind - his hand on your thigh while a body dangled from the ceiling, the flicker of the live feed on that monitor tucked in the back corner.

“Cute place! A little messy, but hey you probably forgot I was coming” he says, chuckling when your knees give out and you sink against the wall. “You always get worked up about that sort of thing. I should’ve texted first.” He leans down, eyes meeting yours as he begins to talk slowly.

“I didn’t wanna be late, baby. I even brought popcorn this time. Real date-night stuff.” His voice dips, tender, coaxing, trying his best to be sweet. “C’mon now. Don’t cry. You’ll make me feel bad, and you know how I get when I feel bad.”

His thumb smears another streak of red over your mouth. Watching as your sobs die out. Perhaps going into shock. “There she is,” he murmurs in a laugh. “God, you’re so pretty when you have tears in your eyes. Now let’s pick a movie, yeah? But before that - ”

He crosses the room and crouches by his duffel, unzipping the worn bag with the slow rasp of a zipper that sounds far too loud in the quiet room. You don’t move from your place against the wall. Every muscle feels locked, like your body’s afraid it might start screaming again if you breathe too deep.

“See? Told you I’d bring everything this time.” His tone is light, almost teasing. The camera glints as he pulls it out - compact, familiar with a Sanrio sticker off to the side, the same one that watched you in that basement. He tests the lens, wipes a smear of blood from the screen with the edge of his sleeve. “Don’t want the audience missing that pretty face of yours.”

You shake your head once, a tiny movement that barely makes it past your shoulders. It doesn’t matter. He’s already talking over the silence.

“Let’s make it like before.” He sets the tripod up near the coffee table, angling it toward the couch. “You sit right there. I’ll grab the popcorn, we’ll pick something soft, yeah? Maybe a rom-com this time.”

Your throat aches when you try to answer. No sound comes out.

He looks back at you, and for a heartbeat his smile softens. “Hey. Don’t give me that look. I'm just documenting our love. It's inspiring to them!” A small chuckle when he watches you cower. “You know I hate it when you look scared. I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want our night together. That’s all.”

He adjusts the focus, satisfied with the frame, then reaches a hand toward you - blood dried dark along his knuckles, palm open a chance for you to go willingly.

May I request aftercare? 🥺🩷

Thank you <3 Luckily for you after sex is when dictator can be a little sweet. cw: mentions of cum, mentions of both holes being used not explicit, minors do not interact

Yandere! Soldier - The old CRTV hums low in the corner, a steady electric thrum that feels almost like a lullaby in itself. Its bulky shape dominates the room, perched precariously on a shelf he built from salvaged wood, wires trailing into the floor. It reminds him of the barracks when television was new, a gift from the supreme leader, a glimpse of a world bigger than his own war-torn country.

He insists on borrowing movies from the library when he makes his runs. The stack sits crooked beside the set: battered VHS tapes, DVDs in cracked cases. Tonight, it’s The Fox and the Hound. The tape fuzzes now and then, the picture streaked with static, but his gaze doesn’t leave it. Not because he cares about the story, though he does in a way, it's one of his favorites, but because your breathing is steady against his chest, your arm looped loosely over his waist.

You’re leaking from him still, thighs damp, the heat of it pressing into his skin where you’ve tangled together. He doesn’t move to clean you. Instead, his broad hand drifts slowly through your hair, careful in a way that betrays how often he isn’t. He pauses at knots, the ones he caused when he was rougher earlier, and gently works around them, unwilling to wake you.

Sleep doesn’t come easily to him. His body trained itself against it during the war and childhood; every noise a potential threat, every blink of an eye a danger. But watching you sleep feels like a duty he can carry out. He sits upright, chest square, heart thudding slow and steady under your cheek, and keeps watch. He presses a kiss to your crown, eyes fixed on the flickering cartoon animals, and tells himself he’ll hold the night back for you if he has to.

Yandere! Dictator - His room is sterile in its perfection. Not sterile like a hospital, but close: the pristine white sheets tucked tight without a wrinkle, every book lined flush along the shelf, papers squared to the edge of his desk. The air smells faintly of clean linen and cologne - sharp, cold, masculine. Even in the aftermath of sex, there is no chaos here.

And him, your dictator, your surpreme leader, your hell, he lies half-draped against you, pale lashes lowered over flushed cheeks. His hair, always styled into careful neatness for public appearances, is mussed now, strands falling prettily across his forehead. He looks softer, almost delicate, when his eyes slip closed. His arm is looped around you, but not tight. He simply holds you, body lean and warm, as though he’s content with you beside him.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling generous, he’ll rise to clean you. A damp cloth, precise swipes, not even a joke about how you're leaking from both holes. Tonight, though, he doesn’t bother. The evidence of him seeps from you into the crisp sheets, and he lets it. His gaze lingers on it once or twice, mouth twitching with faint satisfaction, before he tucks you closer with a playful hum. Who knew he could keep his mouth shut?

His kisses are fleeting, absentminded: the crown of your head, your shoulder, the slope of your forehead. Little touches of affection, almost too subtle to be noticed. He doesn’t speak - not his usual tirades, not the speeches about loyalty and love. His lips stay pressed together, his breath slow and even, like silence itself is the rarest gift he can offer.

I have thoughts if you couldn't tell. Love your work

Oh this is so canon! Thank you for adding this lovely! Adding to your thought train, anon!

cw: drinking, invasion of privacy

The Jester is a bit of a nuisance, the sort who won’t leave you in peace until you grant him a smile. He’s your only companion in the castle, if one could even call him that. If you want even the smallest scrap of privacy, you have to give him that begrudging grin, usually paired with a curse under your breath. Only then will he sweep into a low bow with a murmur “thank you, my princess,” and turn the other way while you take your morning tinkle, content enough to let you be.