#me: I think I controlled myself pretty well

[fangdokja]

Hello!

May I ask you about yandere!ex - boyfriend?

Did the yandere tendencies begin with the relationship or did they materialize after the breakup? And will there be a fic about him in the future?

Thankyou for answering in advance! 🫶

She wasn't looking for love, but love wasn't asking for permission.

❤︎ Synopsis. A calculated partnership born out of convenience spirals into something far darker, as control slips and obsession takes root. What started as a deal now feels like a dangerous game—and neither of them is willing to lose.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Ex-Boyfriend x Reader

♡ Novella. Friction & Fire - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 9,000

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, possessiveness, objectification, suggestive themes, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching

♡ A/N. Another planned work in my drafts that I haven’t released yet before, but here it is now. Technically an ask, but I prefer to answer this with a fic :)) Ok….. so I checked it and it's turning into 12k+ words. Went a bit ham, and still going. Might turn it into a Novella. Why do I write so much, ahh. So, I'll be dividing the parts (6 parts). Sorry. Probably, the slowest burn yandere among all my works at the moment.... I think. But, still for me, pretty fast burn romance, because we focus on yandere content. Lol. Also side note, if you like ENTP 7w8 yanderes (e.g. Gojo, Hawks, Dazai, Vanitas, Kuroo)? Well, this one's for you. Made a hardcore ENTP 7w8 yandere this time.

The first time you met him, it was as if the universe had aligned—not in some whimsical, romanticized way, but with the brutal precision of mathematics. A logical equation where X equaled Y. You needed a shield, someone to deflect the probing questions of your overbearing parents and the inevitable parade of suitors they had lined up. He needed a partner who wouldn’t demand too much—someone who understood ambition, who wouldn’t suffocate him with expectations of sweet nothings and fairytales.

It wasn’t love. It was convenience.

You found him sitting in the back of the lecture hall, legs spread wide and a pen dangling between his fingers like a cigarette. There was something insufferable about the way he grinned at you when your eyes met, as if he already knew why you’d approached him. You ignored the flicker of irritation his cocky demeanor ignited within you.

“I have a proposition,” you said, arms crossed and chin high, voice cutting through the low murmur of the room like a blade.

His gaze trailed over you, assessing but not predatory, as if you were a puzzle he was already halfway through solving. He tilted his head, the grin widening. “Do tell, golden girl.”

That nickname—it would become a staple, laced with amusement and, eventually, something sharper, more cutting. But for now, it was just a playful jab.

“I need a boyfriend.”

That caught his attention. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the smirk never wavering. “And what makes you think I’m boyfriend material?”

“I don’t,” you replied coolly. “But you’re convenient. Senior year, right? Close to graduating, no time for real commitment. And you seem…” You hesitated, letting your gaze sweep over him pointedly. “…unserious.”

He laughed, a low, throaty sound that drew a few curious glances your way. “Unserious. I’ll take that as a compliment. What’s in it for me?”

“Your parents are investors,” you said, your voice crisp, businesslike. “I’ve seen the sponsorships they’ve secured for student startups. You want their connections, don’t you? Stick with me for the rest of the semester, play the part, and I’ll make sure you have their ear.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to gauge whether you were serious. Then, to your surprise, he leaned back, his grin softening into something that felt almost genuine.

“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to think of myself as efficient.”

He held out his hand. “Deal.”

From that moment on, the two of you fell into a rhythm. It wasn’t romantic—not in the way people might imagine when they looked at you, the golden child, and him, the sharp-tongued, perpetually smirking senior. You didn’t hold hands unless necessary. You didn’t go on dates unless it served a purpose. He played the charming, doting boyfriend at family dinners, his wit and charisma winning over even your most skeptical relatives.

And you? You became his silent shield at parties, the poised partner who kept the clingy girls at bay and gave his otherwise reckless image a veneer of respectability.

It worked. For a while.

You didn’t notice, at first, the way his gaze lingered too long when you weren’t looking. How he started rearranging his schedule to align with yours, his texts becoming more frequent, more personal. You chalked it up to him playing his role—nothing more, nothing less.

But beneath the surface of your carefully constructed arrangement, something was shifting. Slowly. Inexorably.

And neither of you realized it yet.

────────────

The partnership was a tightrope walk over a chasm, a precarious balance between your structured determination and his reckless improvisation. Where you sought order, he thrived in chaos; where you demanded precision, he operated on instinct. Your interactions were a battlefield of clashing ideologies, the tension sharp enough to draw blood.

You didn’t like him. Not really. And he knew it.

“You’re wound tighter than a noose, golden girl,” he’d say, leaning back in his chair during late-night meetings in the library, a toothpick shifting lazily between his teeth. “Relax. Not everything needs a ten-step plan.”

“And you’re far too comfortable winging it,” you’d retort without looking up from your notes, your pen scratching across the page in rhythmic defiance. “Some of us actually care about results.”

“Results?” He’d laugh, low and mocking, his voice a rasp in the dimly lit room. “You mean the kind your parents can frame and hang on a wall?”

That stung, though you never let it show. You simply straightened your spine, raised your chin, and met his gaze with a glare cold enough to freeze fire.

“Do you even have a plan for your life after graduation?” you shot back, your words slicing through his amusement. “Or are you planning to charm your way through that, too?”

The smirk faltered for just a moment, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable facade. Then it was back, sharper than before. “Why bother with a plan when I’ve got you to micromanage everything?”

It was always like this. Barbs exchanged like gunfire, neither of you willing to yield an inch. But when the conversation shifted to the projects you were working on together—the startup pitch for your entrepreneurship course, the meticulously researched presentations you delivered as a team—something strange happened.

The arguments faded, replaced by an almost eerie synchronization.

“What if we market it as a subscription model?” he’d suggest, his tone uncharacteristically serious, his fingers drumming against the table as his mind raced ahead.

You’d hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek, before nodding slowly. “It could work. If we tie it to a loyalty program—discounts for long-term users.”

“And gamify it,” he’d add, his eyes gleaming with an excitement you rarely saw in him. “Make it addictive. People love chasing badges and achievements. Psychological manipulation at its finest.”

“That’s… a disturbingly good idea,” you admitted, scribbling notes furiously.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he teased, though his grin lacked its usual edge. “Even I can be useful.”

For those brief moments, it was as if the constant friction between you two ignited something productive, something almost electric. You hated to admit it, but working with him was exhilarating in a way that was entirely new to you.

And yet, outside of those moments of collaboration, the tension only grew.

You started noticing the little ways he got under your skin: the way he’d leave his half-empty coffee cups on your desk during meetings, forcing you to clean up after him. The way he’d interrupt your carefully rehearsed presentations with off-the-cuff jokes that somehow always landed better than your meticulously prepared slides.

“You’re infuriating,” you snapped one evening, your voice tight with exhaustion as you shoved a pile of his crumpled notes back into his hands. “Do you even take this seriously?”

“Of course I do,” he replied, his tone unusually soft, his gaze steady. “I just don’t take you seriously. Not everything’s a life-or-death scenario, golden girl.”

You hated him. You hated the way he dismissed you, the way he seemed to find amusement in your frustration. But more than that, you hated the way he could turn around and say something so insightful, so perfectly aligned with your own thoughts, that it left you reeling.

It was a strange kind of intimacy, this constant push and pull, this battle of wills that neither of you could seem to win.

And though you didn’t know it yet, the cracks were already beginning to form in the walls you’d built around yourself.

────────────

The first time he saw you, he knew exactly what you were: a fortress. Polished stone walls, towering spires, and gates sealed shut with bolts of iron. Your every movement, every word, every carefully measured breath screamed control.

And he? He had never met a fortress he didn’t want to sack.

At first, it was curiosity. A passing interest in the girl who spoke with the precision of a scalpel, who held her chin high as if the weight of the world rested comfortably on her shoulders. He’d seen your type before—sharp, ambitious, ruthless—but there was something different about you.

It was the way your voice never trembled, even when your words cut like glass. The way your eyes locked onto his, cold and unyielding, like you were daring him to try something. Anything.

So, he did.

From the very beginning, he made it his mission to chip away at that armor, to find the cracks in your flawless facade.

“Golden girl,” he’d call you, the nickname dripping with mockery. He loved the way your jaw would tighten ever so slightly when he said it, how your fingers would twitch like you wanted to slap the grin off his face but couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it.

He started small—interrupting your meticulously organized schedules with his “spontaneous” detours, leaving his belongings in your space just to watch you bristle. But as the days turned into weeks, his methods grew more deliberate.

“Relax,” he’d say, leaning too close during one of your late-night study sessions, his voice a low murmur that was equal parts teasing and commanding. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep clenching your teeth like that.”

Your response was always the same—a cold, cutting remark delivered in that icy tone of yours, your expression a mask of indifference. But he could see through it. He could see the flicker of irritation in your eyes, the subtle way your shoulders stiffened.

He loved it.

Because while you thought you were unshakable, he knew better. He saw the storm that brewed beneath your surface, the fire you tried so desperately to hide. And nothing thrilled him more than coaxing it out of you, one spark at a time.

One evening, he pushed too far.

“I’m starting to think you like this,” he said, his voice low and mocking as he leaned against the edge of your desk, his presence an unwelcome shadow in the otherwise sterile room.

“Like what?” you asked without looking up, your tone laced with exhaustion and barely concealed annoyance.

“This,” he gestured vaguely, his grin widening. “The arguing, the tension. You get this little spark in your eye when you’re mad, you know. It’s cute.”

That did it. You slammed your pen down with a force that echoed in the silence, your eyes snapping to his with a glare that could have burned through steel.

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed, your voice sharp enough to cut.

And yet, even as you said it, he caught the faintest tremor in your voice. Barely noticeable. But to him, it was everything.

He leaned closer, his grin softening into something almost intimate, almost dangerous. “Maybe. But you’d miss me if I was gone.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with an electricity that neither of you fully understood yet.

It was in those moments, in the way you tried so hard to keep him at arm’s length, that he realized he was beginning to crave you. Not just the fire in your eyes or the sharpness of your tongue, but you.

The fortress was starting to crack, and he intended to be there when it fell.

────────────

The cafeteria was alive with a cacophony of voices, laughter, and the clinking of trays. It was a battlefield of social interaction, chaotic and loud, yet somehow orchestrated, with alliances formed over shared meals and fleeting camaraderie. You didn’t belong here.

You kept your steps measured and precise, your gaze fixed forward, avoiding the swirling mass of humanity around you. People parted instinctively as you walked past, their conversations dimming for just a moment before resuming. Your presence was a ripple in the atmosphere—not disruptive, but enough to remind everyone that you were there.

And then you saw him.

He was in the center of it all, as he always was, the eye of the storm. His laughter carried over the din, rich and unrestrained, a sound that drew people in like moths to a flame. He sat perched on the edge of a table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, spinning some ridiculous story that had everyone around him enraptured.

They hung on his every word, their faces lit with genuine amusement, their eyes sparkling with admiration. He had that rare, inexplicable magnetism, the kind that made people want to be near him, to bask in his energy. He wasn’t just popular—he was adored.

And you?

You were the anomaly. The outlier. People respected you, even feared you, but they didn’t enjoy you. They didn’t invite you to sit at their tables, didn’t seek out your company for anything beyond necessity. You were an island—solitary, unyielding, and self-sufficient.

You didn’t envy him. Not exactly.

But as you stood there, watching him effortlessly weave connections, a quiet thought slipped into your mind like a shadow in the dark: What if you were different?

What if you could be like him, with his easy charm and boundless charisma? What if you could laugh like that, unburdened and free, instead of wearing the cold mask you’d perfected over the years?

The thought lingered for a moment too long, and then you shook it off, burying it deep where it couldn’t touch you. You didn’t have time for such things. You were efficient, logical, focused. Emotions had no place in your life—not since childhood, when you’d learned the hard way that they were a liability.

So you turned away, letting the sound of his laughter fade into the background as you made your way to the meeting room. The sterile, quiet space was more familiar to you than any cafeteria, more comfortable than any crowd.

He was already there when you arrived, sprawled in his chair with a cup of coffee in hand, his grin as sharp as ever.

“You’re late,” he teased, though there was no bite to his words.

“You’re early,” you replied, your tone neutral, as you set your things down on the table.

“Touché,” he said, watching you with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Saw you pass through the cafeteria. Thought you might stop by to say hi.”

“I don’t make detours,” you said curtly, pulling out your laptop and powering it on.

“That much is clear,” he muttered, almost to himself, before taking a sip of his coffee.

The meeting began, the two of you falling into your usual rhythm of sharp exchanges and begrudging collaboration. But somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny sliver of something stirred—a flicker of awareness, of something you couldn’t quite name, whenever he spoke or laughed.

You told yourself it was nothing.

And for now, you believed it.

────────────

The garage was thick with the scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke, the hum of a barely-functional heater filling the space with a low, constant drone. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered occasionally, casting long, jittery shadows across the room. The boys were sprawled around the billiard table, cheap beers in hand, the air crackling with laughter and banter.

He leaned casually against the edge of the table, cue stick in hand, a smirk playing on his lips as he lined up his next shot. His movements were lazy, almost careless, but his sharp eyes betrayed the precision in every calculation.

“So,” one of them started, a wiry guy with a perpetual grin that made him look younger than he was. “This new girl of yours… she’s the one keeping you so busy these days?”

Another guy chimed in, his tone dripping with mock suspicion. “Yeah, man, you’ve been skipping out on poker nights. Thought you were allergic to commitment.”

He laughed, the sound low and throaty, as he took his shot. The crack of the cue ball hitting its target echoed through the room, the striped ball sinking neatly into the corner pocket. “Allergic? Please. I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

The guys laughed, the sound loud and unrestrained, their teasing picking up momentum.

“So what’s her deal, huh?” The wiry one pressed, leaning against his own cue stick. “Rich? Hot? Bet she’s one of those uptight types you love to mess with.”

He straightened, twirling the cue stick between his fingers as he leaned back against the table, his smirk widening. “You could say that. She’s… interesting.”

“Interesting,” another guy scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You? Interested in someone? Hell, what’s she got—blackmail material? A hit out on your family?”

“Not a chance,” he replied, his tone light but edged with something sharper, something darker. “She’s just… different. Keeps me on my toes.”

The wiry one snorted. “Sounds like trouble.”

“Isn’t that the point?” he shot back, his grin sharp as a blade.

They laughed again, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression as he took another swig of his beer.

“Come on,” the wiry one said, jabbing his cue stick in his direction. “You’re not seriously into her, are you? Thought you didn’t do serious.”

“I don’t,” he replied smoothly, setting his bottle down with a loud clink. “It’s transactional. Mutual benefit, you know? She gets what she wants; I get what I want. Simple.”

“Sounds like a business deal,” someone muttered.

He shrugged, his smirk never faltering. “Aren’t all relationships?”

The guys laughed again, the conversation shifting to the next round of the game, but his mind lingered on the question.

He wasn’t serious about her. Couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.

And yet, every time he saw her—the fire in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she tried so hard to keep him at a distance—it felt like a challenge he couldn’t ignore.

She was a fortress, and he was a conqueror.

For now, he could laugh, joke, and deflect. But the truth was darker, heavier, lurking in the corners of his mind like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

He lined up his next shot, the sharp crack of the cue ball echoing through the garage.

This wasn’t serious.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

────────────

The room was suffocating, its air thick with the sterile scent of recycled oxygen and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above. Papers were scattered across the table like fallen leaves in the aftermath of a storm, their sharp edges curling under the weight of your restless hands. The tension in your shoulders was a tangible thing, coiled tight and ready to snap.

He watched you from across the table, leaning back in his chair with the kind of casual ease that set your teeth on edge. You were all sharp lines and rigid control, while he was a picture of unbothered confidence, spinning a pen between his fingers like the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down on him too.

“You look like hell,” he said finally, his voice low and infuriatingly amused.

You didn’t bother looking up, your focus glued to the screen of your laptop, the keys clicking beneath your fingers with a ferocity that spoke of barely restrained frustration. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” he replied, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table as his gaze bore into you. “Fine enough to bite my head off if I ask what’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, your voice colder than the sterile glow of the room.

That gave him pause, his smirk faltering for the briefest of moments. He’d seen you angry before, irritated, exasperated—but this was different. There was something raw in your tone, something brittle and sharp, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Still, he couldn’t help himself.

“Fine,” he echoed, dragging the word out like it was a joke only he understood. “You’re so fine you’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for ten minutes without typing a single word.”

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

“Drop it,” you said finally, your tone icy enough to frost the windows.

“Not a chance,” he shot back, leaning closer, his voice dropping into something quieter, more deliberate. “What’s going on with you, golden girl? Family drama? Business crap? Or is it just me getting under your skin again?”

His teasing grin was met with nothing but silence as you slammed your laptop shut with a force that echoed through the room. You stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and turned to leave without so much as a glance in his direction.

“Hey,” he called after you, his voice following you like a shadow. “You can’t just walk away from me.”

But you did.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, leaving him alone in the oppressive stillness of the room.

For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the spot where you’d been, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air.

He didn’t like this.

Not the way your walls seemed higher than ever, not the way your shoulders trembled just slightly when you thought no one was looking, and certainly not the way his chest tightened at the thought of you breaking under the pressure you refused to share with anyone—not even him.

With a frustrated sigh, he leaned back in his chair, the tension in his jaw a stark contrast to the easy grin he usually wore.

You could try to shut him out, build your walls higher, bury yourself in your icy fortress.

But he’d be damned if he let you freeze him out completely.

────────────

The argument started small—a quiet refusal on your part, your tone clipped and dismissive as always.

“I have work to do,” you’d said, fingers gripping the edge of the desk like it was an anchor in the rising tide of his persistence.

He didn’t care.

“No, you don’t,” he replied, his voice too light, too casual, the grin on his face sharpening as he loomed over you. “Not today. Today, you’re going out. With me.”

You scoffed, turning your chair away from him in a move that was more defensive than you’d ever admit. “I don’t have time for whatever this is. Go bother someone else.”

“Not happening,” he said, and before you could blink, he was behind you, his shadow engulfing yours. His hand was warm and firm on your shoulder, and when you tried to pull away, his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of how much bigger, stronger, and more stubborn he was.

“Let go,” you hissed, twisting in your chair to glare up at him, your voice venomous and cold.

Instead of answering, he bent down, his grin infuriatingly smug as he hooked an arm around your waist in one fluid motion.

“Don’t you dare—”

Your words were cut off with a sharp gasp as he hoisted you up with ease, your stomach flipping as he slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing at all.

“Relax,” he said, his tone still maddeningly cheerful as he adjusted his hold on you. “You’re overdue for some fun, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Put me down!” you snapped, your fists pounding against his back, your voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not until you promise to stop being such a workaholic,” he shot back, his grin audible in his voice. “Besides, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

The sound of your struggles echoed through the hallway as he carried you out, your threats growing more creative with every step. But he didn’t falter, didn’t even seem fazed, his grip on you secure as if your thrashing was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

When he finally set you down, it was with the kind of exaggerated care that only added insult to injury. You found yourself standing in the middle of an amusement park, the air thick with the smell of cotton candy and fried food, the distant hum of roller coasters roaring above the sea of colorful lights.

“What is this?” you demanded, your voice tight with irritation as you glared up at him, your arms crossed defensively.

“A date,” he said simply, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “You’ve never been to an amusement park, right? Figured it was time to fix that.”

“I told you, I don’t have time for—”

He cut you off with a sigh, his hand ruffling his hair in exasperation. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Work, work, work. But you’re here now, so you might as well enjoy it. Who knows? You might actually have fun for once.”

You stared at him, your mind racing for a retort, but the sound of children laughing and the sight of the spinning lights around you left you momentarily disarmed.

“Fine,” you said at last, your voice begrudging and low. “But don’t think this means anything.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich as he held out a hand toward you. “Wouldn’t dream of it, golden girl.”

You didn’t take his hand, of course. But you didn’t walk away, either.

────────────

The amusement park was loud—a riot of color, noise, and movement that grated against your carefully constructed barriers. You were used to silence, to the sterile calm of office rooms and library corners. This place was chaos incarnate, a swirling mass of laughter, screams, and the clatter of machinery that felt like it could grind your composure to dust.

And he loved every second of it.

“Come on,” he said, his hand tightening around yours as he pulled you further into the fray. His grip was warm, insistent, and utterly unyielding, a stark contrast to the chill of your reluctance.

“This is unnecessary,” you muttered, your voice clipped as you tried to keep up with his long strides. “We’re wasting time.”

“You mean you’re wasting time,” he shot back, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that was equal parts teasing and determined. “Me? I’m having a blast.”

You tried to tug your hand free, but his grip only tightened, his strength a quiet reminder of the power imbalance you hated acknowledging.

“Let go,” you demanded, your tone sharp enough to cut glass.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, pulling you closer until your shoulder bumped against his. “Boyfriend privilege. Now stop sulking and try to look like you’re having fun.”

Before you could argue, he steered you toward a brightly lit stand selling oversized stuffed animals and cheap prizes. The attendant handed him a small air rifle with a grin, and he lined up his shot with an exaggerated flourish.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly, watching as he aimed at the array of moving targets.

“Don’t underestimate me, golden girl,” he replied, his tone dripping with mock seriousness as he squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, and a tin can toppled off its perch. He turned to you with a triumphant grin. “Told you.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as he handed the attendant a crumpled bill for another round. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is fun,” he corrected, his eyes narrowing in playful focus as he took another shot. Another can fell, and the attendant handed him a large, garish stuffed cat. He turned and thrust it toward you with a flourish.

“Here. For you.”

You stared at the stuffed cat, its glassy eyes staring back at you with an absurdly cheerful expression. “I don’t want it.”

“Too bad,” he said, pressing it into your arms. “Consider it a reminder to loosen up once in a while.”

You glared at him, but the faintest flicker of warmth crept into your chest, uninvited and unwelcome. He caught the twitch of your lips and grinned wider, his satisfaction practically radiating off him.

────────────

The roller coaster clattered upward, its chain mechanisms grinding with a metallic groan that reverberated through the skeleton of the ride. Each tick of the ascent was a promise, a prelude to chaos as the world below shrank into a mosaic of glittering lights and blurred figures. Beside you, he was practically vibrating with excitement, his grin a wolfish slash of white against the neon glow.

“You nervous yet?” he asked, his voice carrying easily over the mechanical din.

“No,” you replied flatly, your tone as unflinching as your posture. Your hands were clasped loosely in your lap, your expression an unmoving mask of calm.

He huffed, his grin faltering into something more incredulous. “Seriously? You’re not even a little scared?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

The drop came suddenly—a violent plunge that pulled the breath from everyone around you, their screams mingling with the wind's roar. The car tilted, twisted, hurtled through the loops and spirals with bone-rattling speed.

And you didn’t flinch.

When the ride screeched to a halt, his hair was wild, his cheeks flushed with adrenaline, and his grin wide enough to split his face. He turned to you, fully expecting to see some crack in your armor—a flicker of unease, a faint trace of thrill.

But you were already unclasping your seatbelt, your face a portrait of indifferent calm.

“Wow,” he said, dragging the word out as he climbed out of the car behind you. “Not even a scream? Not even a little ‘oh no, I’m gonna die!’?”

“It was fine,” you said, brushing invisible dust from your jacket as if the entire experience had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“Fine,” he repeated, his tone a mixture of disbelief and mockery. “It’s a death machine on rails, and all you’ve got is ‘fine’?”

You shrugged, your gaze drifting to the next ride. “What’s next?”

He stared at you for a moment, a mix of frustration and amusement flashing in his eyes before his grin returned with a vengeance. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

———

The next stop was a haunted house. The entrance was cloaked in fog, its jagged letters dripping with artificial blood as distorted moans and sinister whispers spilled from within.

“This,” he declared, throwing an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the dark maw of the attraction, “is where you’re finally gonna break.”

You stepped inside without hesitation, the darkness swallowing you both. Animatronic ghouls lunged from the shadows, their plastic claws snapping inches from your face. A specter floated above you, its hollow eyes glowing red as it let out a guttural scream.

But you didn’t flinch.

By the time you emerged on the other side, his grin had soured into a frustrated scowl. “You’re kidding me,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing? Not even a ‘holy crap, that’s creepy’?”

“They tried too hard,” you replied evenly. “The suspense was predictable.”

“You’re a robot,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “An actual, emotionless robot.”

———

At the dart-throwing booth, he claimed he’d win you another stuffed animal to add to the growing collection he’d forced on you throughout the night. The attendant handed him a set of darts, and he aimed with exaggerated focus, his tongue poking out slightly in mock determination.

You stood beside him, arms crossed, your expression as neutral as ever.

“Bet I can hit all three bullseyes,” he said, tossing a dart into the air and catching it with a flourish. “And if I do, you have to smile. Deal?”

“I’m not making that deal,” you replied, your voice as dry as the desert air.

“Scared I’ll win?” he teased, launching the first dart. It missed the bullseye by a hair.

“Not particularly,” you said, watching as he threw the second dart, this one landing even farther from the center.

By the third throw, he groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up as the dart barely grazed the edge of the target. “Okay, maybe I’m a little rusty,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Or maybe you’re just bad at this,” you said, your tone cool but tinged with the faintest edge of amusement.

He turned to you, his grin returning full force. “There it is! A hint of a smirk! I knew you had emotions buried under all that ice.”

You rolled your eyes and started walking toward the next attraction. He followed, his steps quick and eager, like a hunter who’d finally glimpsed their prey.

The night stretched on, filled with more teasing, more dragging you to rides you didn’t care for, and more attempts to crack your facade. By the end of it, he was exhausted but victorious, a spring in his step as he carried yet another oversized stuffed animal under his arm.

“You had fun,” he declared as you walked toward the exit.

“You’re delusional,” you replied, but there was no venom in your voice.

“Admit it,” he said, leaning closer, his grin practically glowing in the dark. “You loved it.”

You didn’t respond, but for the briefest moment, the corner of your lips twitched upward—a flicker of something you didn’t even recognize as a smile.

And that was enough for him.

────────────

The Ferris wheel loomed above like a spinning constellation, its skeletal frame outlined in garish neon light that flickered against the starless sky. You were already seated, arms crossed, gaze fixed forward as the car rocked gently in the breeze. He slid in beside you, the faint scent of cologne and adrenaline trailing in his wake, and the metal bar clamped down with an ominous click, locking the two of you in place.

“Relax,” he said, his voice a shade softer than usual, though still laced with that persistent edge of mischief. “This is the best part of the night. Views like this? They don’t come often.”

You didn’t respond. The city below unfolded in a sea of chaotic lights, each one a reminder of the noise you’d been forced into. A quiet hum of tension coiled in your chest, a restless ache that he seemed to notice, though you wished he wouldn’t.

The wheel began to ascend, the creak of its movement loud in the silence between you. His gaze flicked from the cityscape to you, studying the profile of your face as though trying to decipher a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve.

“You know,” he began, leaning back against the seat with an exaggerated sigh, “you’re really bad at this whole ‘fun’ thing.”

“I’m aware,” you said dryly, not bothering to look at him.

“You’re supposed to be amazed by the view,” he teased, gesturing toward the glittering expanse below. “You know, lean in a little, say something like, ‘Oh wow, it’s so beautiful.’”

“Do I seem like the type to do that?” you asked, finally turning to meet his gaze.

“No,” he admitted, his grin lopsided and warm in a way that caught you off guard. “But it’d be nice to see you try.”

The Ferris wheel stopped suddenly, your car swaying slightly as it perched at the very top. He looked out over the city, his grin fading into something quieter, something uncharacteristically reflective.

“Pretty high up, huh?” he said, more to himself than to you.

You followed his gaze, the city spread out like a map, its lights blurred and distant. The air up here felt thinner, cleaner, as though you’d left the chaos below and entered some liminal space where nothing could reach you.

And then he looked back at you.

———

For the first time in a long time, the constant noise in his head—the laughter, the jokes, the relentless chatter that kept the silence at bay—dimmed into something else. Something quieter. Something unsettling. He wasn’t used to this kind of stillness, this kind of weight pressing against the walls of his ribcage.

You didn’t notice, of course. Your gaze was fixed on the view, your profile illuminated by the cold, artificial light of the Ferris wheel’s cabin. To anyone else, you might’ve seemed serene, but he knew better. There was tension in the set of your jaw, in the way your fingers gripped the edge of the seat as though you needed to hold onto something to keep from slipping away entirely.

He hated that he noticed these things. Hated that, for once, his usual shield of irreverence and detachment wasn’t enough to keep this gnawing feeling at bay.

It wasn’t love—not the dizzying, saccharine thing he’d seen in movies or read about in books. It was something darker, sharper, as though you were a shard of glass lodged under his skin. He couldn’t stop himself from turning you over in his mind, dissecting every detail, every flaw, every crack in your otherwise impenetrable armor.

You were fascinating in a way that felt dangerous.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

His hand twitched on the seat between you, the urge to reach out almost unbearable. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. The thought of touching you—of closing that impossible distance—was terrifying in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t fear of rejection; he could handle that. It was something else, something far more primal.

Because if he touched you, if he broke through that careful veneer of professionalism and indifference, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and uncharacteristically quiet.

You didn’t turn to look at him, your gaze still fixed on the view. “What what’s like?”

“To feel alive,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t respond.

He let out a soft, humorless laugh, leaning back against the seat. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

But it wasn’t. Not to him.

Because for the first time in years—maybe ever—he felt something. Something real.

And it unsettled him.

———

“I don’t get you,” he said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “You’re impossible to crack, and for some reason, I can’t stop trying.”

You raised an eyebrow, more out of habit than genuine curiosity. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

The silence between you two was a taut string, stretched so thin it felt as if the smallest sound might snap it. Outside the cabin, the Ferris wheel creaked as it swayed gently, the city sprawled below like a graveyard of flickering lights. Inside, the air felt heavier, dense with something intangible and electric that neither of you dared to name.

He shifted closer, so subtly that you didn’t notice at first. The slight groan of the seat’s weight-bearing joints was drowned out by the pounding of his own heartbeat, a rhythm he suddenly couldn’t ignore. His arm rested casually against the back of the seat, but his entire body was taut, every muscle coiled as if anticipating some unspoken impact.

His gaze drifted to you, no longer playful or teasing but something else—something raw, a little desperate, and utterly unfamiliar to him. He could see the faint outline of your lashes against your cheek, the soft curve of your lips as your expression remained distant, detached.

And yet, to him, you were a storm barely contained, your quietness thrumming with an energy he could feel in his bones.

He didn’t notice the way his own breathing had shifted, deeper now, as if his body were bracing for something he couldn’t quite define. His eyes flicked downward—just a moment, a heartbeat—and caught on the soft shape of your mouth. It wasn’t intentional, but once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it.

He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the tight confines of the cabin.

“I—” he started, his voice faltering like an engine choking on its own fuel. He barely recognized the sound coming out of his mouth, stripped of its usual bravado and swagger.

He should’ve stopped there. Should’ve cracked a joke or leaned back with that cocky grin that had always been his armor. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

His hand lifted almost on its own, shaking slightly as it reached toward your face. The tips of his fingers brushed against a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that felt alien to him. It was clumsy, hesitant—nothing like the smooth confidence he usually exuded.

The heat radiating from you was intoxicating, pulling him closer even as his mind screamed at him to stop. His breath hitched as he leaned in, so slowly it felt as though time itself had slowed to a crawl.

He wasn’t thinking anymore. The usual whirlwind of his mind—sharp, quick, always moving—had stilled completely.

All he could focus on was you.

The curve of your lips. The faint rise and fall of your chest. The way you still hadn’t looked at him, so lost in your own world that you hadn’t yet noticed the dangerous proximity between you.

His breath mingled with yours now, warm and unsteady, as his lips hovered just a hair’s breadth away from yours. His eyes half-closed, the edges of his vision blurring as every instinct in him screamed to close the gap.

And then—

Your eyes snapped to his, sharp and unyielding like a blade cutting through fog.

It hit you like a jolt of electricity, the realization of just how close he was, how dangerously near his lips hovered to yours.

But it hit him harder.

The sharpness in your gaze was like a bucket of ice water, dousing the fire he hadn’t even realized had been consuming him.

His eyes widened slightly, his breath catching as he froze in place. He looked at you—not just at you, but into you—as though seeing something he hadn’t been prepared for.

And for the first time in his life, he felt utterly and completely exposed.

———

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and rough, as though he’d swallowed gravel. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”

You stiffened, your brows knitting together in a glare that could have frozen the sun. “That’s none of your concern.”

He laughed softly, the sound devoid of its usual bravado. “Oh, but it is, sweetheart. I’m your boyfriend, remember?” His voice dipped into that familiar, playful lilt, but there was something else beneath it now—a hunger, a yearning he didn’t fully understand.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you didn’t pull away. Not yet. That tiny sliver of hope spurred him on, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out every rational thought in his head.

“I bet no one’s dared,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin as his thumb traced slow circles against your jaw. “You’re too intimidating. Too untouchable.”

He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. “But not to me.”

And then, he closed the gap.

It wasn’t a calculated move, nor was it born of confidence. It was instinctive, driven by a force he couldn’t name. His lips brushed yours, tentative and hesitant, as though afraid you might shatter beneath his touch.

For a fraction of a second, everything else fell away—the city lights, the Ferris wheel, the constant cacophony of his mind. All that existed was you, the impossible warmth of you, and the way your lips were softer than he’d dared imagine—

And then, the world snapped back into focus.

Your palm connected with his cheek in a sharp, resounding slap that echoed through the tiny cabin. The force of it sent his head snapping to the side, his lips tingling from the abrupt end of the kiss.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, your voice as sharp and cold as a blade.

He blinked, stunned for a moment, before his signature grin broke across his face. His cheek was already reddening, and he rubbed it with a dramatic wince, leaning back in his seat as though to put some distance between you.

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I get it. Ice queen stays frosty. My bad for trying to thaw you out a little.”

His tone was playful, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something raw and uncertain that he buried as quickly as it surfaced.

You glared at him, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “This is a transactional relationship. Don’t forget that.”

“Transaction noted,” he quipped, the grin never leaving his face. “But for the record? That slap was totally worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, muttering something under your breath that he couldn’t quite catch, and turned your attention back to the window.

But he didn’t stop watching you.

As he rubbed his sore cheek, his grin softened into something quieter, something closer to a smile. He didn’t fully understand what had compelled him to kiss you, nor did he understand why your rejection didn’t sting the way it should have.

All he knew was that, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try again.

———

“Did you think that was going to work?” you interrupted, your tone sharp enough to cut steel.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as the initial shock melted into something more familiar: that damn grin. “Wow, okay. I go for one kiss—one—and you act like I tried to steal your soul.”

“You did try to steal something,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “My patience.”

“That’s already gone,” he countered, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “You can’t slap me twice for the same crime.”

“Try me,” you said, your glare unwavering.

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine as he rubbed his cheek. “Man, you’re vicious. It’s kind of hot.”

────────────

He watched as you rubbed your sleeve across your mouth, your motions brisk and unrelenting, as though scrubbing the very memory of him off your skin. His grin faltered for just a second, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely. Of course, you weren’t—you never were. Your focus was singular, your eyes narrowed and lips pressed in a thin, disapproving line as though he’d just committed a cardinal sin.

It stung more than he cared to admit. Not that he’d let you see it. No, no. His ego may have been bruised, but he wasn’t about to lick his wounds in front of you. Instead, he leaned back in his seat with a dramatic sigh, one hand pressed over his chest as though your rejection had physically pierced him.

“Wow,” he drawled, his tone laced with exaggerated disbelief. “I didn’t realize my kiss was that traumatic. Should I be offended or impressed by your dedication to erasure?”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but it only fueled the smirk crawling back onto his face.

“Seriously,” he continued, ignoring the icy tension radiating off you. “I’ve seen people wipe ketchup off their mouths with less vigor. I mean, I’m not that bad, am I?”

You didn’t respond, too busy swiping at your lips like a woman possessed, as though the mere memory of his touch was a poison you needed to purge.

He leaned closer, the teasing glint in his eyes sharpening to a dangerous edge. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re gonna scrub your skin raw. And here I thought I was the one who left a mark.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped, your tone colder than the winter wind.

“Oh, but it’s so easy when you’re this much fun.” He rested his chin in his palm, his grin widening as he studied you like you were his favorite puzzle. “Though I gotta say, you’re hurting my feelings here. Most girls would be swooning right about now. But you?” He whistled low, shaking his head. “Stone cold. A real ice queen through and through.”

“Good,” you bit back, finally lowering your sleeve. “Maybe you’ll think twice before pulling another stunt like that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, but there was a flicker of something more behind it—something softer, unspoken. “You think I’m gonna stop? Not a chance. You’re way too fun to mess with.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your gaze back to the window. “Whatever. Just…keep your distance.”

“Sure thing, princess.” His voice dipped into a mock-serious tone, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. “But don’t blame me when you start dreaming about it later. They say first kisses are unforgettable, after all.”

Your hand twitched like you were debating whether or not to slap him again, but you refrained, choosing instead to glare daggers at the glass.

He leaned back with a satisfied hum, crossing his arms as his grin softened into something quieter, something almost contemplative.

You might have been disgusted, but at least you weren’t indifferent. That thought alone was enough to keep his grin intact.

———

The cabin settled into a tense quiet, broken only by the faint creaks of the Ferris wheel as it descended. You’d stopped scrubbing at your lips, though the memory of his clumsy attempt lingered, palpable and unwelcome. With a slow, deliberate breath, you turned your focus outward, toward the sprawling view of the amusement park bathed in fractured, golden light.

“I’ll have you know,” you said softly, your voice sharp yet devoid of its earlier venom, “that wasn’t my first kiss.”

The words were like a scalpel, slicing clean and deep, leaving behind a sting that lingered in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t show it. He never did.

Instead, he let out a short laugh, tilting his head as though brushing off your statement with his usual flippancy. “Well, color me surprised,” he drawled, his tone laced with mock astonishment. “The ice queen has a romantic history. Who’d have thought?”

You didn’t respond, didn’t rise to the bait. The apathy in your gaze was unyielding, and that, more than your words, struck a chord he couldn’t name.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly restless, the smirk on his face becoming harder to maintain. Something stirred beneath his practiced exterior, an unfamiliar heat that crawled up his spine and settled, uncomfortably, in his chest.

Why did it matter?

He leaned back, forcing a casual posture, though the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Well, good for you,” he said, a little too quickly, a little too brightly. “Guess I can’t claim to be your first, huh?”

There it was again, that strange burning sensation. It twisted and coiled, feeding on itself, until it became something dark and unrelenting. He told himself it was nothing—just his ego stinging from your rejection. But deep down, in a part of himself he rarely acknowledged, he knew it wasn’t that simple.

You tilted your head slightly, your profile illuminated by the faint glow of the park below. “It wasn’t anything special,” you said, your tone devoid of emotion. “Just another transaction.”

Another transaction.

The words settled like lead in his stomach.

He laughed again, louder this time, but the sound rang hollow in his own ears. “Figures,” he said, his voice pitched light and teasing, masking the weight behind the words. “Trust you to make even romance sound like a business deal.”

You glanced at him, one brow arched, and for a moment, he thought you might say something else. Instead, you turned back to the window, your posture relaxed but distant, like the space between you was a chasm neither of you could—or would—cross.

His gaze lingered on you, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way the faint light cast shadows across your face. That burning sensation flared again, sharp and insistent, as though it were trying to tell him something he wasn’t ready to hear.

He didn’t understand it—this sudden, inexplicable need to prove himself to you, to earn something that no transaction could buy. It gnawed at him, a quiet fury that wouldn’t be silenced, no matter how much he tried to brush it off.

For the first time in his life, he felt unsteady, uncertain, as though the foundation he’d built himself on was beginning to crack.

And he hated it.

“Must’ve been a hell of a boring kiss,” he said, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bet I could’ve done better.”

You snorted softly, but didn’t take the bait.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with something unspoken, as the Ferris wheel continued its slow descent.

And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like laughing.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring

[mangled-by-disuse]

One of the things I have struggled with since I first got sick (ME/CFS followed by a shittonne of other joint, neurological, hormonal, and musculoskeletal problems, if you don't know) is that, like... I had Done The Things? I did exercise, I ate kale (perhaps excessively I love fresh kale), I had tried mediation (...I mean, I sucked at it, but whatever) and yoga and so on, I tried to have a positive attitude, I generally had a pretty good diet... I wasn't a health freak or anything but I DID do all The Things.

And I still got sick in a way that absolutely destroyed the life I had at the time, and it wasn't even an infection or something else obviously external. I did the Things and my body still gave up on me.

That was around 15-16 years ago, and, like, health-wise I am so much better, but I'm thinking about it again because a similar thing is happening in my career progression. I did the Things for that, too: I pushed through my health issues to get good grades, I studied a STEM field at a well-regarded university, I've been continuously in work since I was 12 years old, I do all my work conscientiously, I humble myself and don't refuse work because I'm "too good for it", and I have always been one of the hardest workers in any job I'm at.

And I'm still unemployed at 31, having been unhappy in a series of jobs where I don't think management particularly liked me either, and with no real career direction? I've never had a performance raise or a promotion, and I've never managed to stay in a job more than the 3.5 years in my last one. And it feels so unfair, because, like. I Did The Things!

POINT BEING

the Things are a lie. There isn't a checklist of Things You Should Do that will ensure that you are happy, or healthy, or make a good career, or attract the person you want to attract. It's important to try, obviously, and some of the Things will make you feel better regardless - but there's not a roadmap to health or to success.

And I don't think people tell you there is, or convince themselves there is, out of malice or stupidity or anything like that. I think it's just really scary to face how much of life is luck and chance and the way existing systems interact with them, and how much we simply have no control over.

We want to believe life is fair, that success or failure are the result (if only in part) of one's own actions and choices. One of the first concepts that toddlers learn is "it's not FAIR!" - because even then, they know it should be.

But it's not fair, maybe especially when it comes to disability and illness. There's no secret trick to get you out of it, or to stop you falling in. There are no Things.

It doesn't mean stop trying, because there will be things you can do to make yourself feel better. But they might not be the things you expect, or the Things you expect. Those are only ever a suggestion, not a roadmap.

"here's what you have to do to stay healthy!" no it's not. and there is no guarantee that anyone will stay healthy for any length of time. it must be so scary believing that you are in control of this and then being proven wrong. I can't remember ever believing this, I can only remember having it used as a bludgeon to punish me for not being healthy. lol

[megjameswrites]

someday

Daryl x reader, reader POV, witchy!reader, crystals

Summery: reader has a crystal necklace and a belief in the power of the shiny rocks. Daryl has an interest in reader and a mouth that sometimes gets him in trouble.

Atlanta quarry era

“Any rocks can protect if ya throw ‘em hard enough.”

“Whatcha always do that for?”

I blinked, coming back to earth abruptly to find myself twisting the chain of my necklace between my fingers. I stopped, heat flooding up my cheeks, and shrugged. “Habit, I guess. Didn’t realize I was.”

Daryl’s brow was furrowed, a small wrinkle as he stared down at me. I shifted under the intensity of his eyes, like I always did, and hoped he’d stop staring soon. I reached back up, fiddling again automatically, before shoving it impatiently under my shirt and staring down at my hands.

“What’s it about?”

“Huh?”

Articulate. Great. Fantastic job, I informed myself snidely. Oh well.

“The book. Seemed into it.”

Why was he talking to me? I wondered, a little desperately. He’d ignored everyone since he arrived at the quarry. Everyone except his asshole brother, that was, and spent most of his time in the woods killing things- not that I wasn’t grateful to be eating- and now he was…. Chatting?

“Oh. Um. It’s Dale’s,” I admitted, somewhat lamely. “Some thriller. Already figured out the killer.”

He scoffed, hint of a smile on his lips. “Ain’t a zombie, right?”

That got a laugh from me, and he cracked a bigger smile back. Then he jerked his chin toward the necklace I was somehow spinning again, despite not knowing I’d reached for it. “What’s them stones? Pretty. Just weird shapes.”

I grimaced. This was the part where he, like everyone else, would decide I was crazy. “They’re… crystals?”

“Say that like it’s a question,” he said mildly.

He was right; I had. Damn it. Before the dead started rising- a sure fire indication that magic or some equivalent was real, thank you very much- I’d been vocal about my beliefs. Now… it seemed unimportant in the face of survival. People looked at me more strangely now than they ever had before all this.

But I still believed, now more than ever, and I hated the hesitation in my voice.

“They’re crystals,” I repeated, firmly and confidently. “I believe certain stones have innate abilities to protect, to heal, to boost energy, etc, and- what?”

I broke off at his mutter, eyebrows raising when color flooded his cheeks this time.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I said, ‘any rocks can protect if ya throw ‘em hard enough’.”

I burst into laughter, harder and more genuine than any I’d done since the world ended. When I got myself under control, he was studying me again, those eyes more fierce a blue than the sapphire in the evil eye bracelet that had broken when I’d fought my way out of Atlanta.

“Like that. Ya laugh. Should do it more.” He gestured at my neck again when I blinked, shocked silent. “Them crystals. What’r they for?”

“Protection,” I managed, holding up the black obsidian before switching to the rose quartz, “and attracting love.”

I wasn’t thinking about my words, too focused on his casual assertion that I should laugh more. When they’d left my lips, I wished for a minute the ground would swallow me whole. Why hadn’t I just said “self-confidence”? It was equally valid, and far less embarrassing, and-

“Huh,” Daryl grunted. “They work?”

I shrugged. “Ain’t dead yet.”

“Fair enough. How ‘bout the love one?”

I looked away, rather deliberately opening the book in my lap so my cheeks wouldn’t flame again. “Don’t know. I’ll let you know someday, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Someday.”

[cheezybiscuits]

Field log: Elliot Manor

Note: The following is an illustration and transcription of audio and video recordings streamed from investigation of ground zero for SCP-468395. Instances of SCP-468395-A will continue to be referred to as Corrupted Security Drones (CSD) despite recent discoveries on their origins as standard drones.

Michelle: You hear that? behind the door over there, there's two voices talking.

Jordan: Yep. Could be the target. Stay on guard, she has weapons.

Team proceeds to the end of the hallway. Agents get into position in front of the doors and Jordan kicks it open.

Tessa Elliot: What-

CSD: Yeah NOPE!

Six rapid gunshots are heard and visual feed is disabled. Only one microphone records the following segment.

[04 level clearance required to access full file. Verify clearance level to continue] (Click keep reading)

Tessa Elliot: Wow…uh…okay…you just killed some SCP staff?

No one speaks for 3 seconds.

CSD: Well…yes! They’re hostile and intend to capture us, right?

Tessa Elliot: What happened to the boot licker you described a minute ago?

There is no talking for another 3.5 seconds and the CSD vents air as if to sigh.

Tessa Elliot: Anyway, back to those questions, so [SCP-468395-1-C] wore my skin huh? Is that why my corpse over there looks fresh from the slaughterhouse?

CSD: That’s correct.

Tessa Elliot: And now some gothy lookin' drone ate Cyn’s core and…survived? And has control of the solver now?

CSD: I’m skeptical of the twerp’s success myself.

Tessa Elliot: (chuckling) You keep calling her a twerp but the more you describe this kid the cooler you make her sound.

CSD: You think N is cool, because you’re kind like that.

Tessa Elliot: Psh, nah. He’s pretty cool, especially with the vampire-angel thing going on now.

CSD: Now you’re demonstrating what I just said.

Tessa Elliot: Do you think N would be cooler if he drove a company car?

CSD: On the condition that he'd get an upgrade for his cognitive processor.

Tessa Elliot: Are you sure you'd like that? You'd get competition for employee of the month.

CSD: Not if leadership and being cool are in the criteria.

Both chuckle.

Once again there is no talking for 3 seconds.

CSD: I have questions too.

Tessa Elliot: Oh?

CSD: How do I know I can trust you’re the real Tessa? You could be an anomalous doppleganger, an illusion, or any other type of deceptive SCP.

Tessa Elliot: Huh. (Pause) You got me there. I can’t exactly prove I’m not any of that. I betcha can tell my fingerprints are different, right?

CSD: And your facial structure has slight differences, along with your brain. Oh and I don’t need to scan you to see you’re 4 centimeters shorter than you should be at your alleged age.

Tessa Elliot: Hm. Well that tracks with me being a clone right? And there’s bound to be differences with how fast they grew my body. As for the height uh…I’m not as exactly well fed as I was from before the apocalypse?

CSD: Okay.  Next question: How does a technical genius that's avoiding the foundation think it would be a good idea to go to ground zero?

Tessa Elliot: I kind of wanted to see what was left of my stuff here.

CSD: How is that enough reason to risk all the dangerous-

They pause yet again. This time for 2 seconds. The CSD sighs again.

CSD: You wanted to look at your own corpse didn’t you?

Tessa Elliot: That and see if Dad’s SCP collection is still here.

CSD: …You know what, that passes as Tessa behavior.

Tessa Elliot: Right! Knew you'd come around!

CSD: Next question. You said you're avoiding bunkers since most of them are extensions of SCP-2000 right now and you'd get caught. How do you expect to survive outside of bunkers? What happens if you’re starving and can’t wait out a six-week glass-dust storm to take off your helmet for food or water?

Tessa Elliot: I got my own shelter for that. But I don’t know how much I can tell you about it.

(Transcribers note: What they’re saying next was sometimes hard to make out because they started talking at the same time and interrupting each other a lot. Francis if you find anything inaccurate here I just want to remind you, minimum wage, minimum effort.)

CSD: What? Why? I was completely transparent with you. That’s not-

Tessa Elliot: I kind of….have my own team I’m working with as you’d say? And, I dunno, you said you’re not working for the foundation right now

CSD: Yes but I wasn’t finished-

Tessa Elliot: And we're both different from the last times we saw each other-

CSD: That's true but I still haven't mentioned-

Tessa Elliot: To be blunt I don’t know who your next boss will be but they definitely won’t be friendly to me.

CSD: Yes but please Tessa wait second!

Tessa Elliot: I-alright.

CSD: (Pause) I said I was between employers, but I meant under the previous circumstances. I-it's different now. You're...alive now. Before, you were gone, I had nowhere to apply. Then I read about SCP-2000, and-

They pause again for 4 seconds.

CSD: As long as you’re alive, you’ll always be my boss, Tessa. Just, please, if you'll accept my application.

The subjects pause again for 6 seconds.

CSD: Wait shit-

Tessa Elliot What? What is it?

CSD: Wireless signal in the corner of my eye- son of a bi-

Audio picks up a single gunshot before disconnecting.

[Additional notes: Tessa Elliot has accessed files on recent 05 council members.  It is a top priority to capture and either amnesticize, or terminate the target.]

[lured-into-wonderland]

Both. Truth to be told, Nunnally didn’t expect he’d care so much about the mug to be used 'here and now'. But it still felt…nice. So, she chatted. What she liked. What she enjoyed. What she hoped to get. Not that Nunnally had too many preferences. She, indeed, didn't like the edges her mug being too thick (or too thin), but otherwise all was a fair game. Though – and again – she found herself immensely enjoying the (mundane) conversation and (mundane) activities of these moments. Well, she did not find them mundane, although she assumed that many would. Not that it mattered.

Still humming that melody (and still only half aware of doing so), Nunnally looked at the red mug presented to her. Her lips formed a cheerful smile, and she nodded: --

“It’s perfect, Rav. I really like the colour.” – the redness of it was beautiful. The shade she really liked. And would wear. Sometimes. Though her usual style was different. More toned down. Less cheerful? – “I’ve liked wearing red…” – she continued babbling – “…but they say red is not the best colour for the cold blondes like myself…not that I really care, but nowadays I am less…well, less courageous to wear colours... than I used to be…” – she laughed as she was finding her way around the kitchen – “…maybe I am just too old for some things…” – she laughed again – “Oh, don’t oppose me, Rav! I know I am not old at all, but just sometimes I feel like… I guess you’re not really familiar with the social pressures…the kind I am submitted to…it's to tiring...” – even if it might have looked like a difficult (or even sad) topic, it was not one for Nunnally. Social pressure was something she was pretty used to, and nothing too worried about.

Though probably the pressure Ravein was submitted to was more of a kind to be worried about.

Humming, talking, finding her way around, laughing…all that made her almost missed Ravein’s next question.

“Yes…that’s what I hope for…” – she said, somewhat, disturbed with that question of his. Why was he surprised? Oh! This time it took Nunnally only a few moments to realize why he wasn’t willing to go. Or rather why it might be difficult to do so.

“But no worries. We don’t actually have to go out. We could simply shop on-line. Not as fun as regular shopping…” – no! Nunnally did not sound discouraged. She was still in that babbly mood and given Ravein was an observant man, he could easily tell that – “…but good enough. We might even design something together and have it printed on the mug… I did something similar…long time ago, but it might still be an option.”

“…I used to create things more often that I do now…” – she stopped for a moment wondering why she had said that, and then again she started to move around the kitchen looking at the spices she had prepared to use (now neatly seated on the counter together with three cups) . It seemed she had everything. She did create some mess (probably more mess than this kitchen had not seen for some time), but she was still happy. It was not as bad as it might have been.

“Don’t worry.” – Nunnally reassured Ravein – “I have everything under control… The kitchen will be left as clean as it was when…” – she laughed – “…when you let me in.”

And then she touched his hair (how forgetful of her!), but luckily Ravein didn't take it too bad (could that be called a p r o g r e s s?), and then she was back to humming, when Roberto returned. She smiled to the older man: --

“Absolutely not.” – she replied just for the sake of saying something; it was clear Roberto didn't need her permission to do anything, and she was aware serving the customers was a priority. And yes, although it might have been better for her to actually work in silence, she couldn't force herself to do it – “If anyone I should be the one not to look. I am sure you know more secret recipes than I do… I don’t think I've invented many innovative recipes…”

“…though I did experiment in the past…with the taste of tea and coffee...”

“The water is freshly boiled…” – she added busy with her drinks. They would soon be ready. But she wanted to delay it a bit so that Roberto can attend to the customers and then have his drink with the both of them.

Ravein would concur with Nunnally’s thoughts that the kitchen here was very warm and had an inviting atmosphere. Though, there was an element of being intimidating to someone who didn’t know their way around making coffee or tea, but aside from that, it was clear that the kitchen was designed and decorated with comfort and homeliness in mind. It really was nice here, and it spoke volumes to how quickly he acclimated and found this place to be ‘home’.

Ravein pauses to think about her question before he flips through a few pages in his notebook.

[Both]

It was good to know her preferences so he could try finding a mug that would be suitable for now and it would serve as a guideline to help find a personal mug for her use later. He would consult with Roberto on the matter and they could both keep their eye out for a mug that she may like.

Thin edges, shades of blues, oranges, or reds. Birds or intense colors… they didn’t have any with birds on them. Ravein logged the information in his mind for future reference and he cross-referenced with some of the mugs they currently had. He rummaged through one of the cupboards, remembering there was a plain red mug in the back. It didn’t have thin edges, but they weren’t too thick either. It was probably the best fit for now. He presents her the mug and waits for her approval or rejection.

Her comment about getting it together with him stuck out in his mind. Perhaps she wanted the opportunity to go shopping for a mug together? That way they could ensure that the mug she got was something of her tastes- which was the most efficient way of going about it, even if it did require some planning ahead of time around their schedules.

[Go together?]

It couldn’t be too dangerous to go looking for some mugs together. Who would ever expect that a guy on the run (and in disguise) would be shopping around for cute mugs? No one would suspect such bold behavior- so it was like reverse-psychology, almost. Besides, unless they wished to get in trouble with the local law enforcement, it wouldn’t do anyone any good to cause a scene in such an enclosed public space.

Nunnally did remember that he felt unnerved by the approach of others, especially given his history and his circumstances. Though late, she did belatedly recall this fact and apologize. A small thing, but he appreciated it all the same. He nods his head to show that he accepted her apology. He wasn’t totally put off by it, so it was fine. It would just take some time for him to truly accept her touch without first inwardly panicking first.

Something in his gut told him that it would happen eventually, in time. Even with him and Roberto, there was a sense of distance because the older man was being considerate towards Ravein. It didn’t mean that he always kept a strict distance, however. It was important for Ravein to slowly become acclimated to the touch of others if he wanted to become a part of normal society. Exposure therapy with someone he trusted was important- even if it made Ravein uncomfortable for a while.

The bunny man watched as Nunnally was preparing the drinks, curious to see what she had planned for them. His ears were also paying attention to what was going on behind him. He could hear that Roberto was handling customers, taking a few orders. Once he finished taking all the orders, he’d come into the back to start making the beverages.

In a matter of minutes, the older man came back into the kitchen, “I hope you don’t mind me joining you, Miss Nunnally. I have a few drinks to prepare for customers.” He gives Ravein a look and motions for the younger to stay seated. He could handle this small order of drinks himself. “I promise I won’t sneak a peak at what you’re making.” He cracks a small joke towards Nunnally, who was still preparing the drinks.

[2c75ff]

Piccolo 👀

🔵 'SEND A NAME/URL AND I'LL GOSSIP ABOUT THE RELATIONSHIP DYNAMIC' meme . ACCEPTING

Alright. So.

As things currently stand, the fact that there's Something Weird going on between them is a laughably open secret. The question isn't actually whether or not the weirdness exists in the first place -- (it does, they both know it, and everyone who's seen them together over the course of the last few months probably knows it too) -- but rather where it's leading, whether or not they'll let it go there, and what words, if any, might be the best suited for describing it.

And, really--? None of that is actually too surprising, once you get over the kneejerk 'wait, didn't y'all both try really hard to knock each other's blocks off that one time?' feeling about it.

(Besides, they still try really hard to knock each other's blocks off on the regular. That part hasn't actually changed.)

The thing about Seventeen -- (or one of the many things, really) -- is that he's a coyote at heart, and most people are simply not equipped or willing to deal with that in a long-term, intimate way without expecting him to ultimately transition into a ‘normal’ member of society for them. Figuratively speaking, Seventeen might pass well enough for a dog at a glance; but he chafes under social trappings and obligations in ways that most people don't, and mistrusts anything that, to him, looks or feels too much like a leash. He has a tendency to fight against any form of containment even if doing so isn't actually in his best interests, and he's not above burning perfectly good things to the ground just to buck the sensation of being caged or tied down.

For obvious reasons, this makes him generally ill-suited for lasting, consistent relationships of any kind with the overwhelming majority of people.

But then, here comes Piccolo, who, as it turns out, doesn't really belong at humanity's figurative social table any more than Seventeen does.

While their individual manners of perceiving and navigating this sense of otherness may be different, the fundamental, strangely shared truth of it is that they both are outsiders in their own ways, and they each make the conscious choice to not assimilate into the rat race of society at large. What this has meant for them over the last few months is that [a] neither of them treats the other's way of existing or engaging with the world as a thing in need of fixing, and [b] neither of them expects the other to become or act 'more human/more domesticated' in order to advance/solidify/contextualize the relationship slowly taking shape between them.

In sum, they vibe weirdly well.

On Seventeen's end, it's pretty much the first time he hasn't felt as though he's being lured into a live-capture trap for the purpose of unwilling rehabilitation, the way he does with other people. Which, in turn, makes him curious. Makes him exploratory. Makes him bold.

Given the way that the last several months have gone, Seventeen is fairly certain that Piccolo has at least some kind of feeling for him, that's exclusively for him. There are others that Piccolo clearly regards as comrades, of course, and there are those among them that Piccolo is content to allow into his personal space; but as far as Seventeen can tell (and believe me, he's been watching), there's nobody other than him that Piccolo not only accepts casual touch from on the regular, but also makes a conscious and consistent point to touch back, of his own accord. Seventeen might have started this whole thing, but Piccolo has kept it going every step of the way. Whatever it is that's going on between them, it’s only between them; and they’re both active, knowing participants within that framework. If Piccolo was a human, Seventeen would almost certainly interpret all of this as an indication of at least some measure of romantic and/or physical interest.

The obvious follow-up here though is that Piccolo isn't human. Neither of them are. And so here Seventeen is, months into this whole back-and-forth-slowly-escalating-Thing they’ve got going on, hesitating to let himself interpret it in the way that seems reasonable/obvious to him, precisely because he doesn’t know if that’s actually the reasonable/obvious interpretation on Piccolo’s end too. He's never actually seen any evidence or gotten any particular impression that Piccolo has an urge for sex or partnership or anything of that sort in the first place. All Seventeen has which might possibly suggest such a thing is this weird little dynamic they've been going distinctly and uncharacteristically out of their ways to build with each other, while also doing everything in their powers to avoid actually talking about or naming it. Seventeen knows what this whole thing looks like from his own perspective, but he doesn’t know what it looks like from Piccolo’s; and honestly he’s not really sure if Piccolo knows what he makes of it yet either.

As of right now, Seventeen is about this fucking close to breaking the unspoken rule they’ve both been abiding by — (that talking about whatever This is might somehow break it if they dare to mention it prematurely) — and directly addressing the game they’ve clearly been playing with each other. Pushing the envelope to a point where they simply have to acknowledge the elephant in the room, even if imperfectly, and see how things shake out from there. After all, he's never been great at playing safe for too long.

[phagodyke]

ah shit only just realised its september now.... lets hope the rest of this month isn't like this.....

[florainkingdom]

"They're still young, and don't mean any real harm, yet their powers are still developing at an odd pace. I guess it's to be expected from someone born from chaos itself, though so far, they've taken to the lessons well and do have a certain level of awareness to not get out of hand." Blitz had them set on a pretty good path, and reject whatever Fate throws at them to get them to break it. Still, they're young, eager, and like screwing with people.

"In my opinion the future is what we make of it, though I think I've offered my opinions enough," Blitz said as he stood up. "And my offer to have Blaze come to my domain for a few trials still stands as well. They'll be rather rough, though nothing to put her in any serious danger. She'll certainly be knocked around a bit." After all, he couldn't make them too easy, or they wouldn't be trials. "Thriving isn't the word I would use, though they're still kicking where I'm from. I'm just hoping I can keep it that way this time." The fennec then seemed to think. "I wouldn't want them to be like me. I'd rather they be better." He was far from perfect and had no intention to hide that. "Well, if you ask for my help hopefully, I can keep you from kicking the bucket all together, so I suppose I might see ya later." He then began to make his way back to the shore.

"Well, I didn't tick her off, so I'm going to say things went good," Blitz said as he walked over to Morpheus. "Unless I did tick her off and she has a really good poker face and a lot of self-control. Wouldn't be the first time I had actually ticked off a God or Goddess and didn't know with how well they hid it." The fennec doubts that was the case, though he assumed and didn't assume every outcome. It's a tricky line to walk with thinking like that, though he makes it work.

"So, if I ever come by feel free to drag me into the dream world and lock me in with some crazy threats. I've never dealt with something like that, and I think it'd be an interesting challenge to break out of. Provided I don't end up dying and have to revive myself, though I'm guessing if you do decide to do that you won't go THAT far." Blitz doubts the other would put him in that level of danger, assuming he'd actually take him up on his offer.

She was in no condition to deal with another god of Chaos, then again that didn't necessarily make them evil. She'd seen her share of trickster gods who were entrenched in chaos but far from evil. But she did pray they kept to there own domain. Sol had its protectors still, and powers the others had yet to understand. But she saw no reason to speak on such things with Blitz, even if she found him to be rather agreeable and handsome to. If she were younger perhaps she were younger--- no, she couldn't fancy such thoughts. The curse of being a fertility goddess.

" Chaos is a fickle thing, thought not always evil... it does lead to trouble all the same. I trust you can handle it you do see most capable. "

she smiled weakly at the other realizing how this meeting was wearing her down. She would have to fall into darkness again soon, a dreamless sleep she always feared she would never wake from.

" The future is a fickle beast... best to face it head on, with courage and fire. I wish you much luck on your journeys, and i thank you for your kind offers. Should i change my mind i shall send word... you have given me so much to think about "

She covered her muzzle when he spoke of being older then he looked. He seemed rather young to her, full of life and a good sense of humor. She rather enjoyed his company, it was to bad that her time was short in this life. Had they met 1000 years earlier, perhaps she could have enjoyed a walk across the surface with him. But alas, she was far to weak now and had long ago accepted this as her fate. The moment she tore herself apart to create Blaze, she knew that this would happen.

" Farewell... and thank you, for your company. It has done me good to see that gods still thrive in the universe. I hope the new gods born in sol in the coming days are as kind and benevolent as you "

Once blitz departed and found his way back to shore. Morpheus waited calming staring out across the dreaming sea. He was surprised that Blitz returned so soon, he must have made a good impression on Sol.

" Things went well i hope..."

[talkorsomething]

I can't sleep again.

[artekai]

I like how the wiki simply takes her word for it

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[yoohyeon]

Round of applause for Alex, I’m going to bed before 1am 👏👏👏👏

[lunarflare64]

Us talking to our councillor about this newly discovered alter: his job is to help us process this negative emotion and protect us, and sometimes he goes too far and either we get hurt or other people get hurt, but he doesn't mean to, and we cant do this without him

Our councillor: so how do you control him? How do you restrain him? Can you get rid of him? Can you make him stop?

Us:........WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

[clonewarsahsoka]

Being genuinely supported is crazy wow

[voiceshearingyouloud]

I know it’s just because I have a really bad headache but like. Some days I feel like all the effort I’ve put into recovering and dealing with mental illness is futile because the universe keeps chucking more illness and suffering at me. The tiny shelter I labour to make is gonna come down eventually, so why not now? Why did I even let my soul get worn to pieces just to survive if all I get is more pain?

[mollyrolls]

highlights from my notes app. 30/79 and i couldn’t even finish the last chapter

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ AKAASHI KEIJI

undone ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

she would do anything for her best friend. including, but not limited to, pretending to be his girlfriend, so he can get the attention of the girl of his dreams, as much as it hurts

PAIRING: akaashi x fem reader

STATUS: complete

TAGS/WARNING: unrequited love, fake dating, angst, pining, friends to lovers, university au, language, alcohol use, warnings may change

MDNI: will contain adult content (marked in chapter)

TAGLIST: complete this form to be added

PREVIEW: real

CHAPTER ONE: evidence

CHAPTER TWO: complications

CHAPTER THREE: close

CHAPTER FOUR: truths

CHAPTER FIVE: plans

CHAPTER SIX: act

-> SEQUEL