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#obsessive behavior
yxami · 11 months
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pretty yandere that is obsessed with you
description: pretty yandere x gn reader, obsessiveness, stalking, general yandere stuff, kind of tsundere reader? I’ve been writing a lot of short stuff that pop up in my head, I hope you guys like it. I need to get to requests tho or else imma procrastinate lol
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pretty yandere that is praised with every step he takes, an angel— no! god that blessed the eyes of those who managed to glance at him. He was gorgeous, with attributes that every mother would boast about if he was their son.
He was wealthy, kind, and most of all ethereal. He was a treasure amongst the busy city and many fell for him as soon as they saw him. He was aware of his beauty yet acted humble and kind. Well, that’s what people believed when they managed to speak to him.
The same person you saw plastered on magazines and top rated shows was sitting on your bed for the fifth time this week and it was only Wednesday. You grit your teeth, seething that he managed to break in once again.
If you could even count him getting a copy of your key from your landlord as breaking in. He always managed to sneak his way into your life somehow. All because you decided to help him.
It wasn’t even anything out of the ordinary, you just helped him pick up papers that fell when he tripped.
“Thank you! I appreciate the help” He beamed, shooting his best smile that was guaranteed to make a face go red with adoration.
“No problem” You stuck your headphones back in and waved him goodbye.
That was it. That was all you did!
He was standing there dazed, turning his head to look at you walking away. You didn’t blush? You didn’t pass out at the closeness between your face and his? You didn’t even nervously stutter at the sight of his looks?
He couldn’t believe that you could look at him, and not fall in love? It wasn’t like he was being cocky, that was just how he was raised. Every since he grew up, people were infatuated with him, so to see someone brush off their interaction with him of all people was an eye opener.
Maybe that’s why he stalked you afterwards, well not stalk! He was just coincidentally walking the same way as you. He had trouble along the way with people bothering him but he stayed determined on the task of figuring you out.
When he made it to your apartment building he was a little bummed out. Such a normal, bland building. Everything about you seemed pretty regular to him. Your clothing, your words, anything he was able to see through the balcony of your apartment when he was standing on the roof of another building.
He still decided to make it his mission to get to know more about you. He found you interesting after learning more and it resulted in him craving to know more.
“Seriously” You stared at him, not believing the audacity he had to come back even when you told him that you were going to report him to the police, which didn’t work in your favor..
The police told you they were going to investigate it but you could tell in their condescending looks that they didn’t believe one word that came out of your mouth. A famous model, actor, singer, and city’s prized possession, stalking you? That had to be one of the most ridiculous reports they’ve ever heard.
You saved yourself the embarrassment after realizing that nobody would believe you about any of these moments. It honestly shocked you though, that you own best friend fell into the crowd. She shunned you for believing her favorite model would be such a creep. It caused the falling out with her which saddened you to great lengths.
But he was a creep! He was a stupid stupid creep!
“Seriously what?” He titled his head in confusion. He was more focused on looking at your cute uniform rather than looking at your serious expression.
“Can I live one week without you bothering me? I see enough of you with your ads and shows” You walked off, finally sensing that your stomach was begging for food.
“Should I start visiting more so you get used to me? I could cancel my photo shoot tomorrow so I can visit again!” He happily spoke, as if you weren’t glaring at him from across the kitchen.
“It’s like you want me to jump off the nearest bridge” You mumbled to yourself, grabbing cereal from the cabinet.
“Don’t say that! You know I don’t like it when you say things like that” He frowned, hastily making it so you were in his arms instead of preparing your regular bowl of cereal. You could sense his warm touch wrap around your body.
“Okay, I won’t say it again. Just let me go so I can finish making my cereal” You pointed towards your empty bowl and cereal box. You were tempted to fight him and kick him out but you’ve learned to be more docile when it comes to him.
He’d probably just break in either way.
“Mkay! Y’know you can use my card any time you want, I already told you that” He kissed the top of your head. He was wondering why you always bought low quality food when you went grocery shopping. He offered to pay for everything you needed but he didn’t see anything new in your kitchen.
“I’m fine, I’ll buy my own stuff” You grabbed milk from the fridge and poured in your cereal first. You didn’t understand why he was so adamant about spoiling you.
“But.. uhm.. look at your pantry, it’s so empty! Surely you should buy more!” He was trying to be careful with his words in case you’d find it offensive for him to be pointing out the fact that you weren’t buying a lot of food.
“It’s called a minimum wage job, have you heard of that before?” Your words dripped with sarcasm as you put away the cereal and milk. He stood there awkwardly wondering if your question was rhetorical.
“…yes?” He tried smiling but it ended up as a half smile that seemed unsure just like him.
“I also have dignity and I’d like to keep it for as long as I can” You grabbed your bowl of cereal and sat down on the small dinner table to eat. It was afternoon but who says you can’t eat cereal at other times?
“I’m just trying to spoil you! I know you don’t like it but I want you to be safe and happy. If you’re not eating as much because of money then I can’t rest until I know you have a pantry full of food!” He whined, clinging onto you as if he was your worried boyfriend.
“I’m not your partner or friend. Stop worrying about me and stop coming over” You were tired of being stern with your requests that he continually ignored if it was limiting him from seeing you.
“Well, we’re something right? I talk to you and you talk to me!” He sat next to you, looking at you with puppy dog eyes. His cute and clingy demeanor made you even more annoyed. It paid to be pretty like him, you often caught yourself being persuaded.
“So people who talk to each other?” You stared blankly at him, trying not to fall for his puppy look.
“Who also hang out, kiss, and cuddle!” He brought you into his lap, nuzzling against your face.
“I told you not to bring that up! That was just because I was feeling lonely that day” You groaned in embarrassment that he mentioned that.. situation.
“You were so adorable when you asked me to cuddle, I thought it was a dream! And your shy little nuzzles against my chest” He grinned, reminiscing about the sweet moment.
“I’m not listening anymore!” You stormed off into your room, being followed by your regular shadow. He couldn’t help but laugh and tease you more along the way. You ended up getting your revenge by beating him up with one of your giant pillows afterwards.
You laid in bed wondering what you were going to do about him as he pulled you closer into his soft hug. You hated him so much! But maybe not as much as you did before.
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imallyoursssss · 10 months
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be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me be obsessed with me
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palindrome-alt · 3 months
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Digital Stars on The Wall
|| Kieran x Reader ||
Your new dorm room in Blueberry Academy is outfitted with all sorts of futuristic technology. You still haven't wrapped fully your head around the fact that you're physically stranded in the middle of the ocean in a giant submerged dome, but hey, whatever they did to make these screens, the night sky looks almost how it'd be if you were camping out in the wild on a cool night.
||Mild Spoilers for the Indigo Disk DLC!||
Everything about Blueberry Academy feels like it came out of a separate, futuristic world. The chromatic metal that never corrodes, the blue... substance, that flows through the artificial veins in the walls and keeps the place running... Out in the middle of the ocean, it's sort of like the whole megalithic building itself is somehow... alive.
Despite that, there's no electrical interference, no static hiss at the back of your ears as you rest your head against the artificial glass sky displayed on the 'window'. How the director managed to even design the illusion of depth in these screens is beyond you, but instead of square pixels, gentle pinpricks hang above you in the false distance. The fact that they aren't plastered flat to a screen is a mini engineering marvel in itself despite the slightly visible panels if you look closely.  Hand shifting out from underneath deep blue sheets, you run your palm over smooth, slightly grooved glass. It feels like touching a bunch of small bathroom tiles, and though you logically know that there's really only a deep dark ocean stretched out for miles, you almost forget just how far you are from the home you've carved out in Paldea.  You're still somewhat scared of the scientists of this world. Somehow, you don't remember civilization being this... technologically advanced.  Cool air blows through the vents above you, tasting nothing of the slightly salty expanse of water above. With their filtration systems, this might be some of the cleanest air you've ever breathed. It's sterile, much less handmade and aged than your dorm room back in Mesagoza. But somehow, this place has started to feel so comfortable, as if it weren't ever foreign in the first place.  The sound of rustling next to you shakes you out of your thoughts, and you shift back onto your back to get a closer look at Kieran, who you almost forgot was there.
He's stiff as a board, his arms folded on top of his chest, his eyes wide and staring straight at the ceiling.  Aside from his shoes, he's still wearing his full school uniform, and his hair has only just started to slip from the tie he's put it up in. He popped in rather unexpectedly, and must not've thought you'd let him stay, so he didn't think to change into more comfortable clothes. Small frazzled black bunches drape onto the extra pillow you pulled from the closet, and the off-color purple no longer remains the dominant color. 
You shift again, this time gaining his attention by curling against his side and nuzzling into the mattress a little more. He stiffens under the touch, but you can feel his sharp eyes flicker from the ceiling to you, a little more of an edge to him than before that he might not ever let go of. 
You don't move, and he must think you're asleep with how you catch his eyelashes gently lulling, spine slowly losing its tension. He must be so sore from all the clenching he's been doing, if not from how he's been pushing himself up until recently. The events that transpired between you are probably still haunting him, even now. With a fresh set of new skin-deep scars, you know it has to be hard on him. Up until last week, it wasn't even certain if you were both still friends.  He sighs beside you, head sinking into his pillow. Unclasping his hands, he slowly reaches over, testing the waters. He hesitates, looking conflicted over whatever thoughts are running through his head. Whatever he was going to do, he must've decided otherwise as his hand drops just short of you.
His eyebrows furrow, pupils dilating a little when they land on yours.  "S-Sorry." He flinches away, shifting his gaze.  You don't say anything, but the following silence between you isn't entirely comfortable like before. Inhaling deeply, he stiffens back up a little, pretending to look around the room though his focus is still on you. He can't seem to pay attention to anything else right now.
He's been so consumed with thoughts of you for so long that he's a little scared that he can't be normal about it.  You can't know that.  He tries forcing his eyes shut.  He won't be getting any sleep tonight. 
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darlingvhs · 4 months
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it is actually okay to adore someone so much that you want to abduct them from their home and never allow them to see the light of day or interact with anyone else aside from you ever again. It is morally just and perfectly acceptable. you are not evil for keeping your loved ones safe. it is ok. it’s perfectly legal and actually encouraged ♡
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ur-blxxdy-valentine · 1 month
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i’d rip out my heart if it meant you’d hold it close
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h3ll0kittygf · 10 months
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me rn :<
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melit0n · 3 months
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Half-Starved
- Oneshot
- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader
- Word Count: 3.2K
- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, stalking
- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849
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Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry. 
Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it. 
Anything to be acknowledged. 
Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. However, he didn’t like to be touched, because of him, but he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.
He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in, wants to sit down with him and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. But even so, he can’t blame the kid. He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a kid. He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.
He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close. 
Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. Being a 6’4 SAS agent with a heavy Manchester accent and an apparently unapproachable demeanour, most people tending to avoid him in the streets, makes it a bit hard to gain attention, let alone affection.
But then there’s you. 
The first word that would come to his mind is kind.
Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you begin to appear everywhere. He doesn’t know if you’ve moved here recently, or if his brain has randomly decided to notice your presence, but you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really. 
He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the baggy sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along for your midnight excursion, brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friends on the crowded train you both take every day into the city. You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic, he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s incredibly obvious, but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well. 
In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand looking quizically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what the something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, tired bodies. 
He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. Just like him. 
Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. You have a habit of doing a little jump when you get off the train which Simon finds quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.
Of the fall. 
Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving him incomplete in an odd way, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, in between curiosity at where you live and to make sure you’re safe, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back. 
At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you. 
Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back? 
Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks. 
Eventually, he falls off the fine line of annoyance and anger into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. To him. He wants to taste it. Badly. 
Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the void for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach. 
He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the men you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving. 
Simon wants it. Ghost needs it. 
Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, but he feels them. He feels the sharp ache like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him. 
And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.  
As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life. 
To allow him to know what it feels like to be full, instead of half-starved. 
Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like your his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. He wouldn’t dare show you the bloodthirsty rage his opponents see on the field.
Oh, and he can just imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. He hates hearing people cry. After all, he’s haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land. But you? He doesn’t mind one bit. It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him, gift to him, to bring you two together. 
He knows how much it takes to be vulnerable, so he wouldn’t even be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.
The more time that passes, the further he falls. 
On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the quiet of his room for longer than a human should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.
He can see it as clear as a freshly painted watercolour; a candle-lit dinner. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould, with roses. The smell of whatever he’s cooked for you permeating the air.
Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, love? 
It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old. 
He’s utterly enamoured with the thought. The idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s atoms through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.
He remembers being taught in his History class, the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs, that in ancient times people used to eat each other as well. They did this so that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond, as well as each other's attributes. 
He only really remembers that because his mates laughed at the idea of aristocratic Victorians eating mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson. 
Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field knowing that a part of you rested within him. That even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.
And you, him. Mutual consumption. He doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly. 
In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from you. 
His body is yours, as yours is his. Let him be yours. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you. 
The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face that Soap nudges him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own. 
So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one instead of turning the other off for the greater good. 
The decision? To feed. To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved. 
The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger. 
He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission. 
Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his calloused hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. Anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier. 
He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.
At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift your fingers intertwining with his as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again. 
‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind. 
It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole again, for just a moment. 
At least until the morning comes, anyways. 
He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue. 
It's almost poetic.
In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall for hours, whether it be to awkward silence or a piece of music. He doesn’t question it, verbally, at least. From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it's something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually. 
Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen. 
“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look. 
Please give me more. 
He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off. 
“Pomegranates?”
He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval. 
Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit. 
I’ll take anything you give. Just please give me more. 
They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin. 
“Chopping board,” He pauses, “please?”
Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands. 
You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinizes you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more. 
I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. Just look at me. Touch me. Let me be full.
You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes you’re not sure you can give. He cuts it into quarters, continuously surprising you how utterly gentle he is with it, but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a fileted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl. 
Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he sets the empty corpse aside and just…stares at the bowl of red. 
The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.
Simon takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his right hand, letting the pinkish juice dribble down his hand, his forearm, and drip onto the immaculately clean counter. 
The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch. 
He offers his hand out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast. 
“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw. 
Be full. Let me fill you, and in turn, you fill me. Feed on me until there is nothing left. Let us decompose, intertwined. Please. Just say you love me, too. 
You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taught you well not to speak with your mouth full. 
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Note- If anybody believes this needs the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag, please let me know. I've seen much more horrific works without the tag, but I'm mildly worried this is inching into the category. 
I've spend the past week hearing Abbey by Mitski at every turn, so I wrote this out in an hour or two. I think if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I think I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. Canabalism as a metaphor for love is a incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this canabalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.
I apologise for this being description and inner monologue heavy. I wanted to focus on the horror aspects in this rather than the romance aspects, so I'm sorry if you didn't get what you came here for. 
Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. It was originally written for König, but I changed it last minute. Thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3
I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end. 
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on1tea · 6 months
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+。:.゚ஐ⋆*♡・:*ೄ‧͙·*♪*೨⋆*✩+。:.゚ஐ⋆*♡・:*ೄ‧͙·
I made a commitment to love you no matter what. To adore you and whatever flaws that may occur, and that, my dear, is just what I will do.
+。:.゚ஐ⋆*♡・:*ೄ‧͙·*♪*೨⋆*✩+。:.゚ஐ⋆*♡・:*ೄ‧͙·
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obsessiveraccoon · 7 months
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♡ i know what you need ♡
♡ you need me ♡
♡ you want me ♡
♡ you love me ♡
♡ you can’t live without me ♡
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koiyamaidarling · 7 months
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ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
I love you so much ,
I feel 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊.
<3
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
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lovesixk-demon · 3 months
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Need a cute darling to take care of me while I'm sick so then I can return the favor when they're sick by kidnapping them and keeping them warm in my bed and feeding them soup ^-^
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texaschainsawmascara · 3 months
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real
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imallyoursssss · 5 months
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zxphy · 1 year
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(THE AMOUNT OF FUCKING DELAYS I'VE HAD WITH THIS FIC IS INSANE.)
☆ Quit undressing me with your eyes!!
Yandere! '12 Michealangelo x Reader
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Tws/cws: Yandere behaviour, AFAB reader, sexual innuendos, obsessive/posessive tendencies, sexual content, masturbation, nonconny thoughts, rape fantasies, Mikey got mad intrusive thoughts :3
Smut written by a minor, dni if uncomfortable.
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Even though he's a teenager, Michealangelo never really got any sexual thoughts, that until he met you.
He's never ever thought or Shinigami or Renet in such lewd ways, but you...you were different.
He can't even look at you without being plagued by the thought of bending you over the nearest ledge and fucking you absolutely stupid.
Your beautiful face, your lovely curves, your bubbly personality - literally EVERYTHING about you got his dick hard.
But like, how could he not? You just looked absolutely gorgeous just sitting there comepletely oblivious to every fucked up and lewd thought going through his head.
You have no idea how much he wants to shove his cock down your throat, or force himself into you, with you holding onto him grabbing and clawing at whatever you can, begging him to stop, screaming for help only for no one to come to your aid.
Your teary eyed expression full of dread turning into one of ecstasy. Your sobs turning into pleasure filled moans, motivating him to fuck you even harder.
.
.
.
"Mikey?"
He snapped out of his thoughts and looked at you. You were smiling at him with a bit of concern plastered on your face. "You're staring again, heh.." you laughed nervously, darting your eyes to the couch, "Hey, I bought you guys pizza!"
Quickly forgetting the vile imagery of you in his head, he grinned and bounced in the couch excitedly at the thought of his favourite food.
"Aww thanks dudette!" The turtle pulled you into an embrace, freezing as he feels your tits agaisnt his plastron.
Oh what he'd give to breed the fuck out of you right now. ♡
You pull away from the hug after a moment and pat Mikey on his head. "I'm gonna go hang out with Donnie in the lab, cya man!" Yeah that's probably be best for your safety anyway. Michealangelo doesn't think he could hold himself back much longer.
"Cya later dudette!" He waved at you as you left the living room, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.
Oh.
And a box of pizza!
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Whew. That took a lot out of me to finish 👁👁
Alright I hope y'all enjoy lmfao
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liebemich · 9 months
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xcarveoutmyheart · 8 months
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I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I you
I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I
miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I
miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I
miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I
miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I
miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss
you I miss you I miss you I miss you I I need you
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