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fangdokja · 21 days ago

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This Valentine’s, your heart might be the last thing you give away.

❤︎ Synopsis. This Valentine’s, four enemies are about to learn that love isn’t sweet—it’s twisted, obsessive, and definitely not the happily-ever-after they were hoping for. Between roses, revenge, and unexpected affection, survival may just be the most romantic thing you’ll experience.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Various x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella: Valentine's Special. Red Roses, Black Hearts - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,318

Valentine’s Day.

The dreaded season of saccharine, mass-produced romance, where the air reeks of cheap perfume and artificial chocolate, where every single person you know—whether it be classmates, coworkers, or that one annoying neighbor who plays obnoxious love songs at full volume—suddenly acts like they’ve ascended to a higher plane of existence because they have the privilege of holding clammy hands with another human being.

It is disgusting.

And you, well, you would rather gargle bleach than partake in this glorified corporate scam of a holiday.

It’s not like you’re bitter about being single—no, that would imply you even wanted to date in the first place. Your aversion to real-life romance isn’t a quirky personality trait or some cute little eccentricity. It is a deeply ingrained, visceral disgust, an allergic reaction that sends metaphorical hives across your soul whenever someone suggests that you, you, might want to experience “love.”

No. You don’t want it. You don’t need it. And you sure as hell don’t need a day dedicated to parading around in pink and red like some kind of overgrown toddler hopped up on love hormones and mass-market capitalism.

Of course, none of this means you aren’t completely obsessed with romance in fiction. But not just any romance. No, your tastes are far more refined—sophisticated, even.

You don’t waste your time with vanilla, run-of-the-mill love stories about two people meeting in a coffee shop and awkwardly flirting over lattes. No, you prefer your romance with a side of psychological horror, a dash of violent obsession, and an unhealthy dose of possessiveness.

That’s right. You read—and write—male yandere content.

Fictional love? Amazing. Real-life love? Revolting.

There is a fine line between passion and psychopathy, and you would rather be dragged to the depths of hell by an obsessive, controlling, morally bankrupt fictional man than even consider the prospect of holding hands with a real person.

You’ve built an empire of anonymity, a carefully curated online persona where you unleash your deepest, darkest, most unhinged thoughts onto unsuspecting readers. Nobody knows your secret, and nobody ever will. By day, you are the quiet, aloof, slightly unsettling individual that people cautiously respect but never truly understand. By night, you are a prolific creator of stories so deranged that even the most experienced horror fans would hesitate before clicking on your masterlist.

It is a beautiful life. A perfect life.

Except for the fact that, no matter how hard you try, you cannot escape the insufferable assault of Valentine’s Day.

The pink. The flowers. The terrible, terrible poetry plastered across every store window. The couples who think they’re being subtle with their PDA but are actually one step away from engaging in unspeakable acts right in the middle of the sidewalk.

It makes you want to die. Or kill. Either works.

Even your professors, the very people who should be upholding the sanctity of academia, have succumbed to the plague. There is an entire essay prompt dedicated to writing about the meaning of love, and you can already feel the bile rising in your throat at the thought of having to regurgitate some sappy nonsense about “soulmates” and “eternal devotion.”

You stare at the prompt. The prompt stares back at you. A staring contest between two soulless voids.

You could write about how love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than a biological impulse designed to ensure the continuation of the species.

You could write about how love is an illusion, a social construct perpetuated by media to manipulate lonely people into believing they need another person to feel whole.

Or… you could write about him.

The perfect man. The kind of man who would rip out his own heart and place it at your feet as an offering. The kind of man who would kill for you. Die for you. Stalk you from the shadows, leaving behind cryptic, bloodstained notes that would send shivers down the spine of anyone who wasn’t completely deranged (which, unfortunately for your mental stability, you absolutely are).

The kind of man who only exists in the realms of fiction, where love is not soft, nor gentle, nor kind, but something dark, twisted, and entirely consuming.

You smile.

Your professor is going to need therapy after reading your paper.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, you have a yandere fic to update.

────────────

You live in the comfort of your room, tucked away from the world, basking in the glow of your screen. The outside is a horror show, a grotesque landscape of expectations and human interaction that you’d rather not partake in. You could stay locked up forever, hunched over your laptop, writing the most depraved, spine-chilling, erotically twisted stories known to mankind—and you would—if not for her.

Her.

The bane of your existence. The one force of nature capable of tearing you away from your self-imposed isolation.

Your best friend.

You’re not entirely sure how it happened. You’re certain she just decided one day that you were her responsibility, like a stray kitten she picked up off the street and forced into domestication. You didn’t agree to this. You didn’t want this. And yet, here she is, constantly invading your space, forcing you to experience social interaction against your will.

And the worst part? She’s a pervert.

Not just any pervert. An extreme pervert. A monstrous, unholy abomination of a pervert.

You, despite writing the most detailed, graphic, heart-stoppingly intense smut known to man, feel absolutely nothing. Your readers foam at the mouth over your work, leaving you comments that range from awe to pure degeneracy. Meanwhile, you sit there, dead inside, typing out the filthiest, most depraved acts with the same level of emotion one might have while compiling tax documents.

But her? Oh, she eats it up. Devours it. Worships it.

She texts you at ungodly hours with things like:

“BRO. BRO. THIS SCENE?? THIS SCENE??? I’M GOING TO PASS OUT.”

“You’re lying to me. There is NO WAY you’re a virgin. NO WAY. YOU HAVE TO HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE.”

And your personal favorite:

“HOW ARE YOU NOT HORNY RIGHT NOW. EXPLAIN.”

It’s exhausting.

She has no shame. She’ll read your work aloud while you’re trapped in a car with her, watching your soul leave your body as she dramatizes every sinful act with the enthusiasm of a Broadway actor. She’ll corner you and demand explanations for why a character moaned a certain way, as if you have an answer other than, “I don’t know, it just sounded right.”

Your dignity is in shambles.

And what’s worse? She can make anything sound perverted. Anything.

You could be eating a slice of pizza, minding your own business, and she’ll somehow turn it into an innuendo. You could be talking about the weather, and she’ll find a way to make it sexual. The sky is looking a little gray today? “Yeah, just like the color of my soul after that last chapter you wrote. That ruined me. That made me feral. I’m in shambles. You’re a monster.”

You sigh deeply. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve sighed today.

You’re sitting at your desk, typing away, trying to ignore the looming presence behind you. She’s reading over your shoulder again, eyes scanning the screen at an inhuman speed. You can feel her judgment. It’s suffocating.

Then she lets out a dramatic gasp.

“Oh. My. Damn.”

“No,” you say, preemptively shutting her down.

“You did not just write that.”

“I did.”

“That’s illegal.”

“It is not.”

“That should be illegal.”

“You’re overreacting.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you. “HOW ARE YOU NOT SCREAMING WHILE WRITING THIS???”

You blink at her, unamused. “Why would I scream?”

“Because this is HOT. I’m sweating. I’m disoriented. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

She grips your arm. “You’re a menace to society.”

You turn back to your screen, continuing to type as if she isn’t having a crisis right next to you. You’re used to this. It happens every time. You don’t know why she keeps acting like this is new information.

She groans, falling back onto your bed dramatically, arm draped over her forehead. “I don’t understand you. You have the power of God and degeneracy in your hands, and yet you feel NOTHING.”

“I’m here for the horror,” you remind her, voice monotone. “The thrill. The psychological torment.”

She sits up. “And the sex.”

You scowl. “I don’t care about the sex.”

“You write it really well for someone who doesn’t care.”

You shrug. It’s true. You do write it well. It’s not your fault that you have a gift. If anything, it’s a burden.

She narrows her eyes at you. “So you’ve never felt even a little bit—?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

She exhales, long and suffering. “You’re broken.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“I have to be. You need a keeper.”

You roll your eyes. “I need to be left alone.”

“NEVER.”

She launches at you, wrapping her arms around you in a suffocating bear hug. You try to pry her off, but she’s strong—unreasonably strong. She’s always been like this. The kind of woman who could probably snap a grown man in half but still giggles at cute animals. The type to offer sage, older-sister advice to people in need, only to turn around and read the most degenerate smut imaginable.

You give up, slumping in her grasp. You’re used to this, too.

She rests her chin on your head. “So, when’s the next chapter coming out?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble into her arm. “Whenever.”

She gasps. “That’s not good enough.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You pause. Your eye twitches. “You say that, but it feels more like you’re holding me hostage.”

“Same thing.”

You sigh again. The longest, most suffering sigh known to mankind.

There is no escape.

────────────

The moment you agreed, she clasped her hands together like a demon about to perform a blood ritual.

"I knew you’d come around, my little goblin," she cooed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on steroids.

You stared at her, deadpan. "I want you to know that I have never hated myself more than in this moment."

She ruffled your hair like you were a golden retriever puppy who just learned how to sit. "And yet, you agreed. Love that for you. Love that for me. Love that for us."

You wanted to die. She could probably arrange that, but she was having too much fun watching you suffer.

———

This all started three days ago, when you were sick at home, curled up in bed with a fever, blissfully unaware that your best friend was about to declare war on your social ineptitude.

Somehow, against all logic and reason, you had a friend group. Well, they were more like her friends, and by extension, you were just there. If they were a pack of wolves, you were the black cat perched in the distance, watching, unblinking, knowing full well you were above the food chain nonsense.

That was until some idiot decided to open his mouth.

"Dude, why does she never go out? What, is she scared of people? I bet she’s never even been on a date."

Your best friend paused mid-drink, setting her bottle down with a slow, deliberate motion that sent warning signals to every single person at the table.

"The fuck did you just say?"

The guy shrugged, completely oblivious to the incoming hurricane. "I mean, no offense, but she just gives that, y’know, scary, reclusive serial killer vibe."

Silence.

Then, your best friend let out a laugh, one of those fake, manic laughs that made her seem like she was about to flip the entire table over. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something deeply, deeply unholy.

"Oh, bet? You think my best friend—my personal goblin—is just some socially inept cryptid? You think she can’t get a date?"

The guy snorted. "I mean—"

"No, no, no, shut up. Shut the fuck up. You just declared war, asshole." She slammed her fist onto the table. "I will have her slaying at prom, and when she does, you’re gonna take your L like a little bitch."

"Dude, chill—"

"No, no, no, fuck you. I’m gonna make her so hot that when she walks into prom, everyone’s gonna be like ‘who’s that mysterious goddess’ and you’re gonna sit there in your crusty ass suit looking like an extra in a high school romcom."

The whole table was silent. She downed the rest of her drink like a shot, wiped her mouth, and pointed directly at the poor bastard.

"Watch me."

———

"No."

"Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad."

"No."

"Just a little blind date."

"No."

"Okay, what if it’s not a date? Just an interaction. A social experiment. Like putting a chimp in front of a mirror to see if it recognizes itself."

You stared at her, unimpressed. She beamed.

"No."

"You wound me," she sighed dramatically, flopping onto your bed as if her soul had been shattered by your sheer refusal to entertain her bullshit. "Do you not want to broaden your horizons? Experience life? Have someone fall madly in love with you and offer you their fortune?"

You turned your head ever so slightly to glare at her. She grinned.

"No."

"Babe. Babe." She sat up, crisscross applesauce. "I need you to at least leave your house before I have to start smuggling you vitamin D supplements like a shady drug dealer."

"I get vitamin D from my phone."

She looked personally insulted. "That is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard."

"Then leave me alone."

She gasped, clutching her chest. "Betrayal. Backstabbed. Left for dead. I hope you know this is going to be war."

———

And war it was.

The next day, she was outside your house. 7 AM. Dressed like a fucking FBI agent. Sunglasses. Black suit. Earpiece.

"Ma’am, step outside the vehicle."

You shut the window.

The next day, she showed up at your job. (You didn’t even tell her where you worked. She just knew.)

"Hey, babe," she greeted, all smiles and sunshine. "What time do you get off? There’s someone I want you to meet."

You turned and walked the other way.

The next day, you were grocery shopping. She cornered you in the cereal aisle.

"Surprise bitch, bet you thought you’d seen the last of me."

You gripped your basket tighter.

"You will go on this date."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "What if they’re rich?"

You hesitated.

Her grin turned victorious. "I knew it, you little capitalist gremlin."

"I will set this entire aisle on fire."

"And that’s why I love you, babe. Now, let’s talk outfits."

────────────

You stare at the massive stack of papers in front of you like it's a corpse that just plopped onto the dinner table. A thick pile of documents, neatly arranged (a feat you did not think possible for her), bound together with an actual fucking paperclip.

"Alright, bitch," your best friend announces, slamming her hands down on the table with enough force to rattle your soul, "we're finding you a man."

You want to die.

"I really don't think—"

"Shut up."

"But—"

"Shut. Up." She slides the first page in front of you with the precision of an executioner. "Now, look at these premium selections. Hand-picked by yours truly."

You glance at the first paper. It lists a name, age, occupation, social status, and what appears to be a 'Yandere Rating' out of ten. Your soul attempts to astral project.

"Why does this have a yandere rating."

"Because you love that toxic, possessive, I-would-murder-for-you shit, don't act like you don't. I read your stories, bitch."

You close your eyes. "I never should've told you about that."

"You didn’t. I found out."

"Even worse."

She ignores you, shuffling the papers with the excitement of a game show host. "Okay, let’s see. This one—absolute beast. Ultra-rich, emotionally stunted, crazy in the head but hot. Probably gonna pin you against a wall and tell you he can't live without you within the first three dates. Very murder-y. A solid 9.5/10 yandere rating. Thoughts?"

You blink. "That sounds terrible."

She cackles. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Bitch, I will expose your AO3."

Your face remains neutral, but internally, you’re already calculating how quickly you can erase your existence from the internet.

She slaps another paper onto the table. "Okay, next up—he's got a crime record."

"Absolutely not."

"Listen, listen, it's not murder, okay? It’s just minor felonies. Some fraud, a little blackmail, typical rich people crime—he’s clean otherwise."

"I literally don't even want to date."

"Yes, and yet here we are." She flips through the stack before pausing, then, without hesitation, crumples an entire sheet of paper and tosses it into the trash. "Nope. This one's ugly."

You exhale slowly. "You’re judging a criminal less harshly than an ugly man."

"Priorities." She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious fact in the world. "If they're gonna be toxic, they have to be fine as hell. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

"I don’t think that’s how—"

"Ohhh, this one!" She practically vibrates as she holds up another paper. "Listen. He’s possessive, dominant, completely depraved, but he’s got the money to spoil you rotten, and he’s super hot. A high-quality psycho."

You press your fingers to your temple. "This is literally a human trafficking scenario."

"But he’s rich."

"So is Jeff Bezos."

"Exactly."

You stare at her. "Do you even hear yourself."

She leans forward, her grin sharp. "Yes. And I stand by it."

You take a slow, deep breath, contemplating your life choices, then glance at the remaining stack. "Are all of these just different variations of ‘hot psychopath’?"

"No. Some are just regular psychopaths."

You stare at her. "...How did you even get these?"

"Connections."

"What connections?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No."

"Good. Now, next on the list—" She pauses, frowns, and immediately chucks another paper into the trash. "Nope, too soft. You’d step on him, and he’d say ‘thank you.’"

"Just kill me."

"We need balance!" she insists, gesturing wildly. "You’re emotionally dead inside, so we need someone who can handle that without crumbling into dust. If we throw in another doormat, it’s gonna be pathetic. What you need is someone who can keep up with your depressing ass and also fuck you stupid."

You violently choke on air.

"You’re deranged," you rasp out.

She merely grins. "And yet, you’re still here listening to me."

"Because I literally have no choice."

She slaps a new document in front of you. "Alright, final one for now. Listen to this. Business empire, genius, emotionally bankrupt but functional, probably into some nasty shit but looks good in a suit."

You eye the paper. "This sounds like a corporate mafia drama waiting to happen."

"Exactly. And we both know you’d eat that shit up."

You don’t answer. She doesn’t need you to. The smirk on her face tells you she already knows she’s won.

She leans back in her chair, utterly self-satisfied. "So. Who’s it gonna be?"

You stare at the remaining stack, then at your best friend, then at the way your soul is currently floating ten feet above your body.

"You know what," you mutter, defeated. "Just pick for me."

Her grin is positively diabolical. "Oh, bitch, you’re gonna regret that."

You already do.

────────────

You sit slumped over in your chair, staring blankly at the absurdly thick stack of documents your best friend just dumped on the table like she was presenting the results of a scientific breakthrough. You have suffered long and hard for this moment. And by suffered, you mean you had to endure watching her go through an entire lineup of would-be suitors like some kind of overenthusiastic auctioneer while you stared into the abyss, hoping it would finally stare back and drag you into eternal peace.

But here you are, still breathing, against your will.

“Alright, after an excruciatingly thorough vetting process, four candidates have survived. I know, tragic.” Your best friend sighs dramatically, as if the whole ordeal was emotionally devastating for her. It wasn’t. She’s enjoying this. You know she is.

She pushes the first file toward you, tapping it twice. “Now, before you say anything, I already know what’s on your mind—‘But aren’t they all just cliche tropes ripped straight out of a questionable romance novel?’”

“That is not what I was going to say,” you respond, monotone.

“You were thinking it,” she accuses. “And okay, fine, I admit it—yes, they’re cliché as hell, but trust me, darling, these are the closest to your… preferences. Or at least the closest you’ll get.” She leans forward, a glint in her eyes that spells danger. “Trust me. I can tell.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I don’t have preferences.” She ignores your comment.

"Alright, bitch. Four finalists. Four potential future providers of dick and distress." She claps her hands together with a grin so smug it should be illegal. "I know you don't give a single fuck, but I need you to understand that these are the best options available to your pathetic, unromantic ass."

You stare at her. "I hate you."

"Love you too, dumbass. Anyway." She dramatically flips a folder open. "Before you start bitching, let me clarify something. These guys? Technically, not yanderes."

You blink. "Then why am I here."

"Because they're the closest match to your degenerate tastes. Trust me, I can tell."

You press a hand to your forehead, contemplating if slamming your skull into the table would grant you the sweet release of unconsciousness.

Then you let out a long, slow sigh, resigning yourself to the inevitable. "Just do it."

She smirked. "You always make it sound like I'm about to execute you. But fine. Let’s start with the first one."

———

She yanked the first folder open and dramatically shoved the profile in front of your face. The rich prince, the untouchable student council president, the golden boy.

You glance at the file. His extracurriculars are a cursed list of everything you despise: fencing, business management, charity events, and what you dread most, hosting school galas.

“This motherfucker. Top of the hierarchy, heir to a ridiculous empire, and so disgustingly charming he could probably get away with tax fraud in broad daylight. He’s a genius, annoyingly good-looking, and has an ego the size of the national debt. Basically, a walking privilege check.”

You just stared at her. “I hate him already.”

“I know, right? That’s why you’ll get along so well. He’s the type to flirt with you just to piss you off. Loves playing the fool, but make no mistake—he’s got a god complex that even Jesus would side-eye. He’s also obscenely rich, so if nothing else, you can mooch off him. Plus, imagine the sex."

You immediately regretted breathing. “I don’t want to imagine that.”

She gave you a pitying look. "It’s okay, I’ll imagine it for you. I’d say he’d be the type to pin you down with a cocky little smirk and make you beg just because he can. The kind of guy who teases you for hours just to see how long you last before you break." She tilted her head in deep thought. "Yeah, he’d be insufferable about it. But you like a challenge, so it works."

You were considering launching yourself out the window. “Next.”

“Fine, fine. Now, this one’s fun.” She slapped open the second folder.

———

"The delinquent. Your classic bad boy. Most famous troublemaker in school. Absolute bastard. Arguably a feral animal with human rights."

You glance over the profile. Multiple suspensions, record-breaking number of detentions, rumors of gang affiliations. The worst part? Top physical scores, zero effort in academics, still passing with minimal attendance.

You stared at the profile. “Why does it say ‘once bit a teacher’ under notable achievements?”

“Because he did.” She snickered. “This guy’s a walking crime waiting to happen. Fights just for the hell of it. If a fire breaks out at school, he was probably involved. I don’t think he even knows what rules are. But the man is sharp. He’s the kind of guy who will break someone’s nose and walk off whistling. Imagine the sheer lawlessness of your dynamic.”

"Why."

"Because he's a menace. A hot one. And if you're going to be dead inside, at least let someone else do the thrill-seeking for you. Plus, look at these notes on his dating history—nonexistent. He's a territorial little shit who probably wouldn't even let you look at other men without giving you a possessive death glare. He'd fight a guy for breathing the same air as you."

You rub your temples. "Isn’t that just primal jealousy?"

"Yes. And it’s hot. And just imagine the sex,” she cooed.

“No.”

“Listen, this is important. He’d be rough, no doubt. Fast, reckless, all adrenaline. Probably the type to take you in places that are very much not legal or appropriate. And he’d absolutely mock you about everything. If you blush, he’s got ammo for years. You’d hate him, but in a fun way."

You wanted to detach your soul from your body. “Moving on.”

———

She snorted and opened the third folder. “Alright, this one’s different. The intelligent doctor and artist. A rare combination of someone who can both kill and heal you.”

You stare at the profile. High-level intellect. Medical prodigy. Specializes in surrealist paintings. No known scandals. Speaks in a way that makes people question their mortality.

You peered at the profile. “He seems... disturbingly normal compared to the others.”

“Oh, no, he’s not,” she assured you. "He’s just the quiet kind of unsettling. Genius intellect, ridiculously composed, and there’s something really fucking off about how serene he is. The kind of guy who watches people like they’re puzzles he already solved. He’s patient, calculated, and definitely has secrets you do not want to find out.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you muttered.

She grinned. “But wouldn’t he be hot about it? You’d think you were safe, and then bam—suddenly you’re alone with him, and he’s looking at you like you’re a rare artifact. He’s the type to say the most poetic, devastating shit in bed. Imagine him whispering some existential nonsense in your ear while ruining you. Tell me that wouldn’t be the most intense experience of your life."

“I refuse to answer that.”

“Anyway, he’s refined, patient, and he has the aura of someone who would casually sketch you while you’re sleeping.” She sighs dreamily. “Also, I have a strong suspicion he has some absolutely filthy thoughts beneath all that cold intelligence. You know the type. The ones who look all deep and poetic but actually have the most deranged kinks.”

Your soul leaves your body. “I don’t need to know this.”

She pats your shoulder. “You do.”

“I really don’t.”

———

“Boring ass,” she muttered, flipping open the last folder. “And finally, the academic. Your intellectual equal. Top scholar, scientist in the making, will probably end up running some research institute and using it for shady experiments."

You glance at the file. He’s at the top of every academic competition. Scores are beyond perfect. Cold, logical, reclusive.

“He’s the most similar to you,” she says. “Which is either really good or really bad.”

“Bad.”

“Good.” She smirks. “Because that means you two could theoretically hold an entire conversation just arguing over who’s smarter.”

“A fellow miserable overachiever. Fantastic,” you deadpanned.

“See? That’s why you’d get along. He’s practical, logical, and absolutely ruthless when it comes to proving a point. He’d challenge you constantly, and you’d hate how much you respect it. I guarantee your conversations would either be deep philosophical debates or petty arguments over who’s right about something stupid. And the sex—oh, the sex.”

You dropped your face into your hands. "Please stop."

She ignored you. "With him, it would be clinical, controlled, and ridiculously efficient. He’d make sure every move is perfectly calculated. You’d think he’s cold, but it’s just because he’s too fucking logical. He’d be treating it like an experiment on your responses, and you’d be left questioning if he actually cared or was just collecting data. Kinda hot."

You slowly exhaled, staring into the abyss. “Why are you like this.”

She shrugs. "Because I care about your sex life. You’re welcome."

She then grinned, patting your shoulder. “Now, who’s your pick?"

“I’m picking death.”

“Death isn’t an option.”

“Neither is any of this.”

She gives you a sickeningly sweet smile. “Oh, bitch. You underestimate me.”

────────────

It starts with a sigh. It always does. A deep, long-suffering exhale that feels like it drains a year off your lifespan as you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Your best friend? She’s laughing her ass off.

“Let me get this straight,” she wheezes between snorts, nearly doubling over from how hard she’s laughing. “All four of them—every single one—you managed to piss off all of them?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

She gasps, clutching her chest like you’ve personally stabbed her. “Not important?! The four most powerful, well-known, and untouchable guys in the entire school—wait, let me correct myself—the four most untouchable guys in the entire damn city hate your guts, and you didn’t think that was important?”

You blink. “Not really.”

She howls. Actually, physically howls. She slaps the table, wheezing between fits of laughter, practically sliding off her chair from how much she’s losing it. You just watch, unimpressed.

“Holy shit,” she finally gets out, wiping a tear from her eye. “Dude. You’re the worst.”

“I’m really not.”

“No, you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Alright, hold up. I need to hear this one by one. From the beginning. How the hell did you manage to make enemies with all of them?”

You roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t call them enemies.”

“You wouldn’t call them enemies,” she parrots. “Because you don’t have any social skills. Everyone else would.”

“I think they’re just being dramatic,” you deadpan.

“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, grinning like a wolf about to hear some premium entertainment. “Alright, out with it. How’d you piss off the prince first?”

You sigh. Again. You should start charging for this.

────────────

You weren’t one to talk to people. It wasn’t a matter of shyness, or even preference. You just didn’t see the point.

Words were tools, necessary for survival, but beyond that? Completely overrated. People wanted to chat, to laugh, to bond. They wanted connection. You wanted quiet. You wanted them to stop existing in your general vicinity. So you did what you did best: you stayed out of their way.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

────────────

The day you made an enemy of the most powerful student in school, you were just trying to turn in a form.

It was a simple task. A direct, no-nonsense mission. Enter the student council office, dump the document on the desk, and leave. No engagement necessary. No unnecessary eye contact. You even timed it perfectly—right when the council president was known to be out, probably hosting another insufferable pep rally for an event nobody cared about.

Except he was there.

And he was lounging like a self-satisfied deity, feet kicked up on the desk, twirling a pen in one hand while flipping through paperwork with the other. The sight alone was annoying. The sheer audacity of a person to be so… obnoxiously present. Fluffy neat hair, bright eyes, a grin that looked like it had never known a moment of humility. He radiated untouchable, almost divine levels of confidence.

He looked up. And in that moment, you knew.

He recognized you.

“Ohhh,” he mused, dragging out the sound. “If it isn’t the human black hole.”

You paused. Blinked. “What.”

“You know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely, “you just kinda suck all the joy out of a room. Like a void. A really cold, dead void.”

You tilted your head. “...Are you trying to flirt with me?”

His grin widened. “Are you into that?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You stared. He smirked. The paper in your hands crinkled slightly as your grip tightened.

“I need to submit this,” you said, monotone, lifting the form like an offering to some insufferable god.

“I’m not taking that.”

You blinked again. “You’re the student council president.”

“Exactly! I delegate. That’s the secret to success, y’know?”

Your eye twitched. “Your name is literally on the submission instructions.”

“Well, yeah, because I like the attention.”

You inhaled slowly. Deeply. Somewhere in your head, you heard your best friend’s voice narrating your own life: And this was the moment she seriously considered homicide.

“Fine,” you said, dropping the paper onto his desk, “then I’ll just leave it here.”

He reached out lazily, grabbed it, and without breaking eye contact, slowly—painstakingly—shoved it off the desk.

The silence that followed was almost religious.

You stared at the fallen paper.

He stared at you.

“I’m not picking that up,” you said.

“Neither am I.”

Your fingers twitched. He smirked. The room temperature dropped several degrees. For a long, long moment, neither of you moved. It was a battle of sheer, unbreakable will.

“...You’re so mad right now,” he said, delight dripping from every word.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

You did. You really did.

The silence stretched. A battle of wills.

You were still standing there, staring at the paper on the floor, while he sat back with the self-satisfaction of a man who had never known loss.

“C’mon,” he drawled, chin propped on his palm. “I know you wanna pick it up.”

You said nothing. You just stared at him with the deadest, most soulless gaze known to mankind. He looked back, and you could see the amusement glowing behind his bright, insufferable eyes.

You exhaled through your nose.

Then, without hesitation—without a single wasted movement—you picked up his cup of hot chocolate and, with the precision of a surgeon, dumped it directly on his head.

A rich, dark cascade poured over his fluffy, previously immaculate hair, dripping down his forehead, staining his pristine uniform. It was perfect. It was artistic. It was poetic justice, crafted in under three seconds.

He froze.

The room went completely, utterly silent.

You, however, weren’t done.

Swiftly, efficiently, you pulled out your phone and snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the scene in sharp, unforgiving clarity.

Dripping hair. A stunned, slack-jawed expression. Hot chocolate soaking through the fabric of his blazer like a crime scene.

You took a second, longer look at the picture. Then, with an air of complete disinterest, you saved it directly into your drive backup.

His shock hadn’t even caught up to him yet. His brain was still buffering.

You calmly turned the screen toward him, showing him his own humiliation.

“If you mess with me again,” you said flatly, “this is going on the school forum.”

He blinked once. Twice. His expression twitched. And for the first time, you saw it—an actual, genuine crack in that unshakable confidence.

It lasted a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly—so, so slowly—his mouth curved into something new. Not the usual cocky grin. Not the smirk of someone who thought he had the entire world wrapped around his little finger.

No.

This was something else.

A slow, wicked, positively unholy grin.

Like a beast just realizing it found prey worth hunting.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, eyes gleaming with something both predatory and exhilarated. “You are so much fun.”

You tucked your phone away. “Glad you think so. I hate you.”

“Liar.”

You turned and went to leave, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

But, just as you reached the door—

“You’re gonna regret this,” he called, voice deceptively light. “I’m a very petty person.”

You paused. Glanced back.

Then, in the most monotone, unimpressed voice you could muster—

“So am I.”

As you exited the student council room, you heard the faintest sound behind you—low, breathless laughter.

Like someone who had just discovered their new favorite game.

────────────

The second one, you met him in detention. Because of course you did.

Technically, you weren’t even there for anything interesting. Not for fighting. Not for vandalism. Not for anything remotely impressive. No, you were here because a teacher had asked for your opinion, and you—being a natural-born social disaster—had given it.

“‘An archaic relic of bureaucracy that produces nothing but misery and debt’ is not an appropriate way to describe the school’s education system,” your teacher had snapped.

“Would you rather I say it’s good?” you had asked, genuinely confused.

Apparently, that had been the wrong answer.

So here you were. Sitting in the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes blank, waiting for time to pass like a medieval peasant awaiting the guillotine.

And then he walked in.

You immediately clocked what kind of person he was. He carried himself with the casual arrogance of someone who had never followed a rule in his life. Tattoos peeked out from under his uniform sleeves, his tie was nowhere to be seen, and his uniform was barely recognizable as one. He had the lazy stance of a guy who made teachers question their career choices and a presence that made people instinctively shrink back.

Unfortunately, you weren’t people.

His gaze landed on you like a predator spotting an unsuspecting rabbit.

Except you weren’t a rabbit. You were just... unfortunately here.

He strolled over, dropping into the seat beside you, his body language loose, confident, exuding the kind of energy that made authority figures reach for blood pressure medication.

“New?” he asked, his voice a slow drawl, eyes flicking over you with open curiosity.

“No.”

His smirk widened, sharp and lazy. “You talk like a corpse.”

“And you talk too much.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Like he was recalibrating. Then he grinned, the expression laced with something both amused and dangerous. “Not many people have the guts to talk back to me.”

You blinked. “I don’t have guts. I just don’t care.”

He let out a short laugh, a low, considering sound. “Huh.”

You returned your stare to the front of the room, hoping that was the end of the interaction.

It wasn’t.

“So, what’d you do to get stuck in here?” he asked, propping his chin on his hand like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Answered a question.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

You nodded.

His frown deepened. “You mean you ran your mouth.”

“I answered honestly.”

“Yeah, ran your mouth.”

You sighed. “Are you always this insufferable?”

His smirk stretched, sharp with amusement. “Only when I’m interested.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Wow. I’m honored.”

“You should be,” he shot back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the front of the room. Not that there was anything interesting up there—just a barely functional projector and a wall clock that seemed to have stopped in 1973.

Silence. For a glorious ten seconds.

Then:

“So, what’s your deal?”

You inhaled slowly through your nose. “I don’t have a deal.”

“Everyone has a deal.”

“Well, mine is not talking to annoying people.”

“Guess you’re breaking your own rule then.”

You turned your head, making a show of staring at him with dead, soulless eyes. “Lucky me.”

His smirk widened. His chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching like a particularly smug cat. “You know, I don’t usually take an interest in people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. Tiny. Mouthy. Clearly incapable of winning a physical fight.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t just poison you instead.”

His laughter was sudden, sharp-edged. “You��re funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he said, still grinning. “That’s what makes it funny.”

You sighed, returning to your previous strategy of ignoring his existence.

It didn’t work.

“So, do you just piss people off for fun, or is that an accidental talent?”

You didn’t look at him. “Why? You feeling pissed off?”

“Nah.” A slow pause. “Not yet.”

Something about the way he said that made you glance at him again. His smirk had cooled into something else—something harder, more assessing. You’d known from the second he walked in that he was bad news, but now you could feel it, thick and tangible, like a storm about to break.

Still, you weren’t one to back down.

“I could try harder,” you offered.

His eyes darkened, something flickering behind them—something you probably should have taken as a warning.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, tone deceptively light. “Go ahead.”

You tilted your head, considering. Then, you shrugged. “You’re a walking cliché.”

That got a reaction. His smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp-edged stare.

“Excuse me?”

You gestured vaguely at him. “The whole ‘too cool for rules, bad boy with authority issues’ thing. It’s exhausting. You should at least try to have a personality.”

He stared at you, expression unreadable. Then, in a disturbingly calm voice, he asked, “You ever been hit before?”

You blinked. “Not recently.”

He exhaled, tilting his head back. “God. You’re fucking annoying.”

“You started this conversation.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “biggest mistake of my life.”

“Wow. Must be nice if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

His jaw twitched. For the first time, he actually looked pissed.

Good.

Unfortunately, that also meant he was now visibly debating whether or not to knock your teeth in.

Your eyes flicked to his hands—bigger than yours, calloused, flexing slightly, like he was restraining himself. He was taller, broader, a lot stronger than you. You weren’t stupid. If he actually decided to swing, you were probably going to die.

But hey. What’s life without a little risk?

You met his glare head-on. “Are you about to hit someone half your size?”

He tilted his head, exhaling slowly. “Thinking about it.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He actually growled, low and irritated, and you barely had time to register the movement before he was shifting forward, one hand reaching out like he was about to grab you—

And then the door creaked open.

“Alright, detention gremlins,” the teacher’s voice drawled from the front of the room, “keep your murder attempts to a minimum.”

You didn’t even blink, just turned lazily in your seat as if you hadn’t nearly gotten your face rearranged.

He, on the other hand, pulled back immediately, exhaling sharply, clearly forcing himself to relax.

The teacher shot him a look. “Sit still, delinquent.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say anything. He just slumped back into his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking briefly to you.

You met his stare.

Slowly, you smiled.

His fingers twitched.

This was going to be fun.

────────────

For the third man, the first time you met him, you were sitting in a hospital bed, staring at the white ceiling, contemplating your existence and whether or not you could convince the nurses to let you leave early. The fluorescent lights hummed a dull tune, matching the flatlined rhythm of your enthusiasm for life. You didn’t even want to be here. The injury wasn’t even that bad. But the moment you’d said, “It’s fine, I can still walk,” and then promptly collapsed, the people around you decided that maybe you weren’t the best judge of what counted as ‘fine.’

And that’s when he walked in, the doctor assigned to your case.

Tall. Elegant. His every movement controlled with the same level of care you’d expect from someone painting the Sistine Chapel, even though all he was doing was picking up your chart. His black-gloved fingers trailed over the paperwork before he flipped it open, eyes skimming your medical history like he was reading a novel he had already figured out the ending to. Cold, calculating, and frankly, a little theatrical.

You stared. He looked like the kind of person who’d be the main villain in a psychological thriller.

“You have a concussion,” he said, his voice measured, precise.

You blinked. “Oh.”

There was a pause. The kind that stretched a little too long, like a piece of gum being pulled between fingers. He looked at you. You looked at him. Then, with the kind of energy that could only be described as ‘well, I guess I have nothing better to do,’ you muttered, “Neat.”

He blinked, once. A slow, unreadable gesture. “I wouldn’t describe a traumatic brain injury as ‘neat.’”

“Well,” you deadpanned, “I would.”

Silence. He adjusted his gloves, movements smooth, unhurried. You were pretty sure this man had never rushed anything in his life. The air of quiet, detached arrogance practically radiated off of him in waves.

“You seem disinterested in your own well-being,” he observed, as if he were commenting on the weather.

You tilted your head, expression blank. “And?”

His brows barely twitched, but you swore you saw a flicker of something behind those eerily calm eyes. Like a candle in a dark room. Something minute, almost imperceptible. A single frame of a horror movie before the jump scare.

Then, without a word, he set your chart back down and began his examination, his touch careful, professional. You sat there, letting him check for signs of worsening symptoms, feeling absolutely no inclination to make this easier for him. He had the air of someone who rarely got rattled, and for some reason, that made you want to rattle him.

So when he was checking your pupils with a penlight, you stared unblinkingly into his eyes and said, “You look like the kind of guy who has a hidden art studio where you paint unsettlingly lifelike portraits of people you find interesting.”

He paused.

The light flickered over your eyes as he considered you. Then, calmly, as if answering a normal, everyday question, he replied, “And if I did?”

You shrugged. “I’d say you’re pretty bad at hiding it.”

Another pause. Then—so brief it could have been a trick of the light—the corner of his lips twitched upward. Amusement, buried beneath layers of restraint.

He pulled back, setting the penlight aside. “I don’t have a hidden art studio.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what someone with a hidden art studio would say.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

His gaze flickered over you, assessing, weighing. “Difficult.”

You smirked, feeling a spark of something sharp and insubordinate curl in your chest. “Only with people who think they have me figured out.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you with an unreadable expression, as if deciding whether to be irritated or intrigued. You had a feeling he wasn’t used to being challenged. People probably either feared or revered him, treating his words like gospel. You, on the other hand, had the distinct urge to annoy him purely because you could.

The tension stretched between you, coiling like a taut wire. Then, with an air of finality, he turned away, retrieving a prescription pad and beginning to write. “I’ll be keeping you for observation.”

Your eye twitched. “Why?”

He didn’t look up. “Because I suspect if I let you leave, you’d immediately do something to worsen your condition.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then promptly closed it when you realized he was absolutely right. Damn it.

“You can’t just hold me hostage in a hospital,” you grumbled.

He tore the prescription from the pad, setting it aside. “I’m your doctor. I can.”

You glared at him, but he remained entirely unbothered, like a marble statue in a white coat.

For the first time in a long time, you had the distinct feeling that you’d just met someone who was actually going to be a problem.

And judging by the glint in his eyes when he finally met your gaze again, you had a sneaking suspicion he felt the same way about you.

────────────

The fourth guy?

It started with a test. Not just any test. A national-level competition meant to determine the brightest academic minds of the generation.

You sat at your desk, filling in the answers with mechanical efficiency, while the only other student in the room doing the same was him. The top scholar. The prodigy. The golden boy of academia. He who must not be named because if you ever say his name out loud, you might actually vomit.

The two of you had been at this for years. Competing. Spiting. Resenting.

The rivalry was so intense that your parents had to be physically separated at parent-teacher meetings, lest they start arguing over whose kid deserved to be hailed as the superior intellectual. The problem was that neither of you ever pulled ahead definitively. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. Sometimes it was a tie, which was the absolute worst because it meant the war had to continue.

The one thing you both silently agreed on? No one else needed to know.

So in public, you two were strangers. A nod at most, a passing glance, like two ships in the night. But the moment you were alone? The gloves came off.

And today, the moment came in the form of a single test result.

You finished your exam a fraction of a second before him, slamming your pen down triumphantly. He, sitting at the desk beside you, slowly turned his head to look at you, expression unreadable.

You smirked. He narrowed his eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

You both already knew what this meant.

It had always been like this. Subtle gestures. Microexpressions. Entire conversations conveyed through a single glance. And this time, your glance said:

That’s right. I beat you by 0.2 seconds. Cry about it.

His glance, in return, said:

You think this means anything? You’re delusional. Enjoy your fleeting moment of victory while it lasts.

You both turned in your papers and walked out without a word, maintaining the illusion that you had no connection to each other. That was, until you reached the hallway.

“You look extra dead inside today,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah, because I had to sit next to you.”

He scoffed. “I make you look alive by comparison.”

“You make me wish I was actually dead.”

“Touché.”

And that was it. That was your normal conversation. Because no one else knew, it was always like this—just pure, undiluted antagonism with an undertone of reluctant respect.

But the moment you stepped outside where other students could see, you both went back to pretending the other didn’t exist.

———

The problem with childhood rivals is that you know too much about each other. He knew about the time you threw up in second grade because you drank three chocolate milks in one sitting. You knew about the time he cried in fourth grade because he lost a chess match to a five-year-old. These were secrets that, if revealed, would destroy either of you instantly. And so, an unspoken truce existed: Mutual Assured Destruction. If one of you fell, the other would go down as well.

But that didn’t mean you had to be nice to each other.

The school’s annual debate competition was proof of that.

You weren’t even supposed to be on stage today. The original competitor from your class had gotten sick at the last moment, so your teacher shoved you in as a replacement. And, of course, standing across from you at the podium was none other than him.

“I see fate continues to curse me,” you muttered, gripping the microphone.

“Likewise,” he replied, adjusting his tie.

The topic? “Should academic rivalries be encouraged?”

He was on the pro side. You were on the con side.

The sheer irony nearly made you laugh. But the moment the debate started, it was war.

He argued that competition drove people to improve, citing numerous studies. You argued that it created unnecessary stress, pointing out various psychological reports. He said rivalry forged discipline. You countered that it led to burnout. Back and forth, your arguments clashed like swords, neither side yielding. The audience watched, captivated, unaware that this was nothing new to either of you.

It wasn’t until the Q&A round that things got personal.

One of the judges asked, “Do either of you have experience with an academic rival?”

You and him made brief eye contact. A single second of hesitation.

Then he, ever the smug bastard, smirked and said, “No, I don’t have a rival. No one has ever truly been on my level.”

Your eye twitched. Oh. Oh, he wanted to play it that way? Fine.

You smiled, saccharine sweet. “Oh, same here. I’ve never met anyone who could actually challenge me.”

The audience laughed, completely oblivious to the nuclear warfare happening in your minds.

You won the debate by a narrow margin. He took it in stride, shaking your hand like a good sport, but you both knew this wasn’t over.

It was never over.

———

Years of this. Years of pretending. Years of knowing that he was the only person who could truly get under your skin, and vice versa.

And yet, despite everything, despite the constant battle for dominance, there was a grudging acknowledgment: neither of you would have been as good without the other.

But you’d never say that out loud.

Not unless you wanted to lose the war.

────────────

Back in the present, your best friend is still wiping away tears of laughter. “I swear, you’re cursed. Only you could turn four of the most powerful guys in this school into your sworn enemies without even trying.”

You sigh. “It’s not my fault they’re all easily irritated.”

She grins. “Enemies-to-lovers speedrun?”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

But she just smirks.

Because honestly? The way things are going, it’s inevitable.

———

You take a deep breath, leaning back in your seat as you finish recounting the absolute disaster that was your past. "So, yeah. That’s how I managed to piss off the entire unofficial ruling class of this school without even trying. It’s not my fault they’re all allergic to basic human interaction."

Your best friend? Oh, she’s wheezing. Bent over. Completely losing it.

You just stare, dead inside.

"I cannot believe you," she chokes out, clutching her stomach. "Four. Not one, not two—four of the most powerful guys in this school are now your sworn enemies. I swear, you’re a walking curse. A divine anomaly."

You sigh, propping your chin on your hand. "See, this is exactly why they can’t be the choices."

That only makes her laugh harder.

"No, no, no, you don’t get it," she wheezes, slamming a hand on the table. "This is why they have to be the choices. Like, this is fate. This is math. The sheer statistical improbability of you randomly antagonizing the four most dangerous guys in school without even trying—"

"—Means they’re going to murder me in my sleep, not fall in love with me," you interrupt flatly.

She shakes her head, eyes gleaming. "No, no, no. This is the setup for the best enemies-to-lovers arc I’ve ever seen. This is gold. This is poetry. This is—"

"A death sentence."

"—A story unfolding before my very eyes!" She gestures wildly. "Four. If it was just one, okay, sure, maybe it’s just bad luck. Two? Fine, you have a talent for pissing people off. But four?" She leans in, deadly serious now. "That’s fate."

You stare at her, unimpressed. "You’re literally using the fact that I’m universally despised as an argument for romance."

"And I’m right."

"Objectively false. I can present multiple counterarguments—"

"Oh, I bet you can," she interrupts, grinning. "And you know what? They’d all be wrong."

You cross your arms. "Fine. Let’s debate this logically."

She cracks her knuckles. "Bring it."

"One: They hate me. Like, actively hate me."

"Great foundation for romantic tension."

You scowl. "Two: I have no romantic interest in any of them."

"You say that now."

"Three: They have power, money, and influence, and could absolutely ruin my life at any moment."

She smirks. "Oh, so they could ruin your life. But haven’t."

You narrow your eyes. "Yet."

She shrugs. "Or maybe, deep down, they’re already obsessed with you."

You groan. "That’s not how real life works."

She leans in, voice smug. "Then explain why none of them have done anything too serious to you yet. With the power they have, you should’ve been completely crushed by now. But instead? They’re keeping you around. Engaging with you. They want your reactions."

You hesitate for a fraction of a second.

She grins, sensing her victory.

"Don’t even start," you mutter.

She tilts her head. "Too late. You are the main character in an enemies-to-lovers story, and I will see this through."

"Over my dead body."

"Listen, if it happens, it happens. I’ll be there at your wedding, sipping my champagne, telling everyone, ‘I told her so.’"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I am never telling you anything ever again."

But she just laughs. Because she knows.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

———

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "This is bullshit."

She grins, clearly enjoying your suffering.

Your eyes drift to the side, landing on a thick stack of papers—her so-called research. A Frankenstein’s monster of printed profiles, handwritten notes, and stapled-together disasters. This is what she’s been using to "help" you find a so-called suitable match before she apparently decided to scrap the entire thing and make your life a living hell instead.

You reach over and pull a few sheets from the pile, scanning them briefly. Your eyes land on someone near the bottom of the stack. Someone you haven’t met. No noted incidents. No mortal enemies. Just a generic, normal guy with no apparent psychotic tendencies.

"Alright," you say, holding up the page. "This guy."

Your best friend leans forward, glancing at the name, then immediately scoffs. "Him?"

You nod. "Yeah. He looks the most normal, statistically conquerable, and unlikely to plot my untimely demise."

She groans, tilting her head back like you’ve personally offended her. "Are you serious? This is the blandest option in the entire lineup. This is, like, choosing plain toast at an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Exactly," you say, unfazed. "I don’t want a disaster. I want stability. Normalcy. Someone who doesn’t have the power to ruin my life."

She gestures dramatically. "And this is what you land on? A literal NPC?"

"He has a face. He has a name. That’s already enough for me."

She smacks the table. "That’s bare minimum! You’re literally picking a filler character when you have the Final Four right in front of you!"

"And I’m perfectly fine with that," you say, deadpan.

"No, no, no. You don’t get it." She leans forward, voice firm. "You cannot settle for Generic Background Character #12. Look at the narrative potential! The power struggle! The development!"

You sigh. "I am not a character in a novel."

She smirks. "You keep saying that, and yet, the evidence continues to pile up against you."

You roll your eyes. "Look, just because I have bad luck doesn’t mean I have to indulge it." You tap the paper. "This guy is a logical, safe choice."

"Safe choices don’t make history."

"They also don’t make headlines for scandals, criminal activity, or blood feuds."

She groans again, slumping in her chair. "You are so frustrating. You have four absolute powerhouses lined up, each with the potential to make your life an experience, and you want—what? A guy whose biggest personality trait is that he’s 'nice'?"

"Yes."

"Disgusting."

"Predictable."

"Boring."

"Stable."

She narrows her eyes at you. "You are dodging fate so hard right now, it’s embarrassing."

"I am making logical decisions so hard right now, and you refuse to acknowledge it."

She smacks the table again, exasperated. "I’m not saying you have to date them! I’m just saying you should at least consider them before you throw yourself into the void of mediocrity!"

You cross your arms, staring her down. "And I’m saying you are severely overestimating my ability to survive a romantic entanglement with any of them."

She grins, tilting her head. "Or underestimating their desire to keep you alive and entertained."

You pause.

She smirks.

You scowl. "No."

She leans back, victorious. "Just saying. It’s gonna happen."

"It is not."

She winks. "We’ll see."

────────────

The next day starts off normal. Or at least, as normal as it can be when you’re still recovering from the previous night’s argument with your best friend. You’re just trying to make it through the school day without incident—low profile, no chaos, just peace.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down, expecting something trivial. Instead, you see a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: You owe me for last time. Meet me after school. Don’t make me come find you.

You blink. Stare. Read it again.

There’s only one person you "owe" anything to in the eyes of certain individuals.

You: No.

No response.

Your phone buzzes again. Another unknown number.

Unknown: Be at the café near campus at 4. I already told them you’d be coming. Don’t embarrass me.

Your eye twitches. What.

Buzz.

Unknown: I assume you have no plans. I’m picking you up at 6. Don’t make me wait.

Your stomach sinks. There is no way. There is no way.

Buzz.

Unknown: I’ll be outside your place at 7. Don’t even try to run.

You slowly, slowly lower your phone.

You already know who's responsible.

Your best friend. Your traitorous best friend.

You whip your head around the classroom, eyes locking onto her immediately. She’s sitting at her desk, chin propped up in her hand, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just orchestrate your demise.

She knows.

She feels your glare.

And she grins.

You stand up so fast your chair nearly topples over. You’re going to kill her.

♡ A/N. I don't really like celebrating Valentines Day. Not really my thing nor do I care, but it's alright. It's not like I hate it. I'm more of… it's just there. That's it. wdym it's too early. Well it ended up becoming a series, so… shiz. Still debating whether I should go unrestrained horror or dark humor psychological style... who knows. Also, since my friend doesn't like Caleb, I can officially create LaDs Caleb content.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay , @yandreams-storageblog

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

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