#yandere blue lock | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceruark · 11 days ago

Text

what the cat dragged in

[yan! michael kaiser x fem! reader, childhood friends au.] synopsis: your grandfather once cautioned you against feeding strays. it’s a lesson you wouldn’t fully learn until many years later. words: 4.6k cw: yandere themes - obsession, possessiveness, implied stalking, slight dubcon (no nsfw). a/n: [head in hands] this was supposed to be a drabble

“You be careful with that, now.”

At the sound of your grandfather’s voice, you glance over your shoulder, fixing your attention on the man standing in the doorway, propped up against his cane. Your knees and face are smeared with mud, as any seven year-old’s would be.

You turn back around, cooing gently at the scraggly kitten that eats the canned tuna out of the palm of your hand. You lift your free hand to scratch at its head, smiling as it nuzzles into your hand before going back to the food.

“Why?” You ask innocently. “It’s so cute.”

“It’s a stray,” your grandfather says, voice dripping with disgust on the last word. “If you feed it, it’ll keep coming back.”

You frown. Would such a thing be so bad? If the poor little guy was hungry, you would happily indulge it; after all, withholding such a vital thing to its survival would be cruel.

“But it’s hungry,” you whine. The kitten polishes off the rest of the tuna before looking up at you and meowing loudly, bumping its head against your palm. Your heart soars at the endearing action.

“I’m serious,” your grandfather snaps at you in the tone that tells you you’ll be in trouble if you don’t listen. You give the kitten one last pet before reluctantly retracting your hand. You bite down on your warbling lip and blink away tears when it meows at your sudden absence in confusion and protest.

You walk over to your grandfather, and he takes your small wrist into his hand. He takes in your crestfallen expression and sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s for the best,” he says softly. “You don’t want strays getting attached to you.”

You look up at him with big, watery eyes. “Why not?”

“Because no matter how much you feed them, they’ll always be hungry, and then they’ll never leave you alone.”

Despite your grandfather’s warning, you continue to feed the kitten.

You’re careful to do it somewhere he won’t catch you, though. It’s summer, so you’ve been spending a lot of your time in the park that’s only around the block from your house. Turns out the kitten has been spending lots of time sunbathing there, too, so you make sure to start sneaking out some canned tuna with your packed lunch.

You walk past the swingset and toward the large, twisting slide that you’ve gotten used to finding the kitten under this time of day. Your small purple lunch bag bounces against your leg as you skip happily, swinging your arms animatedly. The tune you’re humming gets stuck in your throat and dies as you duck under the play structure and find a small figure already huddled beneath the slide.

A boy in a black hoodie two sizes too big for his frail body sits criss-cross on the floor. Bruised hands gently pet the kitten, which is curled up in his lap and purring softly. He can’t be that much younger than you— probably only by a year— but he seems far smaller than the kids in the grade below you at school, concerningly so.

His head snaps up as your feet come into his line of his vision, wide, impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours. He flinches so hard that the kitten yowls and jumps out of his lap, startled. He curls in on himself defensively and his breathing becomes labored, yet his wide eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement.

You blink in confusion at his reaction. “Um,” you start to say, but you’re cut off by a loud meow cutting through the air.

You turn to the kitten, which has now settled at your side and is pawing at your lunch bag. You giggle— of course, it’s already come to know where its next meal is coming from. You pick up the bag and unzip it, producing the canned tuna from inside it. You grunt as you tug at the tab a few times, but finally it gives way and comes off cleanly. You place it down, and the kitten eagerly prances up to it and starts eating out of it.

After a long moment of watching it eat, your eyes drift back to the boy across from you. His eyes are locked onto the kitten with such focus that it’s concerning.

Then, you realize he’s not looking at the kitten— he’s looking at the tuna sitting on the floor.

You reach back into your bag and take out a sandwich secured tightly in saran wrap. You unwrap it then split it in half, extending your arm out to offer it to the boy.

His eyes dart down to the sandwich and back to you, but he doesn’t make any move to take it.

“Here,” you say, waving your arm up and down in emphasis. “You can have some, if you want. Mom always packs too much for me, so I’m okay sharing with you!”

He glances back down at the sandwich and hesitates for just a moment more before his hand shoots out, snatching it out of your own and quickly bringing it to his mouth. You avert your eyes back to the kitten as he eats it, slowly working through your own half of your lunch.

When you’re done, you peek into the bag to see what else your mom packed for you. There’s a small bag of chips, an orange, and a banana. Maybe it’s a little selfish to keep the chips for yourself, but the boy seems to be just as eager when you set the fruits in front of him, so it’s probably fine.

He finishes eating before you do, and slowly, he inches closer toward you and the cat. He begins petting it again, stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Finished with your snack, you crumple the bag up and throw it into your lunch bag before zipping it back up. You brush your hand off on your pants, leaving a smatter of chip dust behind that your mom will probably chide you for later.

You look up at the boy, who is already staring at you. He flushes red and is about to look away when you hold your hand to him and introduce yourself.

You tilt your head toward him with a warm smile. “What’s your name?”

Michael waits for you under the slide the next day, and the next, and the one after that.

Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. You become permanent fixtures in each other’s lives. You bring snacks and books, bandages and a gentle touch and an unspoken oath to never ask, never pry. He brings nothing but himself, but for you, that is enough.

Your mother never asks why you pack extra food, or where it’s ending up. She likely just chalks it up to you being a growing girl, and for that, you are grateful.

There are some days, though, where you’re being looked after by your father, who chides you for taking more than you need and makes you put the extras back in the pantry. On those days, you apologize to Michael for the smaller portions you both have, but he simply brushes it off. He says he couldn’t care less if you show up with no food at all, so long as you show up.

At some point, it stops being about the food, you just fail to realize it. Michael never breaks his habit of trailing behind you like your own shadow, and he’s not exactly a sociable person (in fact, his glare alone scares off any other kids your age who try to approach you two), so you figure there’s still something he wants from you. And because of your upbringing, hand-holding and leaning against each other and hugging is something so normal to you that you cannot even begin to suspect that there is something much different he’s actually after.

You’re fourteen and he’s thirteen the first time he kisses you.

It’s a sunny day, but not too hot; there’s a nice breeze in the air that keeps you cool as you sit in the grass, idly popping grapes into your mouth as you watch Michael kick a ball into a wall over and over again, as is customary for you two these days. As always, he eventually wears himself out and finds his way over to you, collapsing beside you and leaning his full body weight against your side as you complain and futilely try to push him off.

“Micha, get off,” you whine, shoving at his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, and instead sighs in irritation and wraps his arms around yours to stop your attempts. “You’re heavy!”

“Your fault for feeding me so much,” he mumbles into your shoulder, prompting you to roll your eyes. “Seems like oversight on your part.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d grow up to be this annoying.” Your words lack heat, of course— you don’t really mean it, and even if it wasn’t evident by your tone, it’s evident in the way you relax into his embrace. “Seriously, though. You’re all sweaty. It’s gross.”

Michael gives one last aggrieved sigh before releasing you. He reaches for the water bottle set beside you and drinks from it, and you go back to your grapes.

A comfortable silence settles between you two as you observe the other people in the park. It’s summer, so it’s busier than usual, which means Michael will probably leave sooner rather than later.

You turn to look at him, but as always, he’s already looking down at you.

You tilt your head to the side. “Do you need something?” You ask playfully.

Michael stares at you a moment longer, the wind rustling his hair into his face. Then, he leans down so quickly that you can’t react before he presses his lips to yours.

It’s soft, gentle. It’s barely there, his desire contained by a hesitation you haven’t seen within him in so long.

When you don’t respond, he pulls back, his face carefully smoothed over into a blank canvas, but you know him better than that. Fear dances in his eyes, fear that he’s overstepped and swung a sledgehammer straight into your friendship.

You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself together. “Oh,” you say, smartly, and then feel yourself flush red as you fully process what just happened.

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. It sounds wrong coming from him, and you reach out to grab his arm just as he starts to withdraw into himself.

“Hey, look, it’s fine. I just— you just caught me by surprise. That’s all.”

He looks back at you, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. His blue eyes are shining, but there’s something dark in them that you haven’t seen before, something you can’t quite place.

“It’s fine?” He echoes in question.

You feel your face grow hotter.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, “it’s fine.”

When he leans down this time, you respond in kind.

You’re always the one to break off the kisses shared between you two.

At this point, you’re convinced he’s not human, given the way that lack of air never seems to be a problem for him. If anything, he seems more annoyed by the fact that you’ve stopped kissing him than the fact that he’s nearly panting from how long he’s gone without taking a proper breath.

He’s insatiable, you quickly find out. Shockingly, for a few weeks following your first kiss, he spends more of his time kissing you under the slide than playing football. When you get tired or want to take a break, he just opts to hold you in a tight embrace until you’re ready to kiss again or have to leave.

Eventually, his initial enthusiasm dies down, but his way of kissing you never changes. Shallow, rapid kisses swapped between inexperienced middle schoolers, but he never lets up, always eager to meet your lips again and take in your breath in place of oxygen.

You never put a name to whatever’s happening between you two. You’re not friends anymore, that much is clear, but you two don’t have the means of going out on dates, either.

Regardless of what you are, he becomes clingier than ever following the shift in your relationship, and a small part of you can’t help but feel like you’re suffocating.

“Micha.”

He looks up from the ball at his feet, skillfully dribbling it despite the fact that his focus is elsewhere. It’s impressive; hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to see him play professionally.

Your heart sinks to your stomach and sits there heavily. Would that be the next time you see him? On some screen, miles away from him, years from this moment in this time?

You’re moving out of Berlin. Your father’s being suddenly transferred to an office in Cologne, and you have just five days to get all your stuff packed up and ready to go for the train ride on Sunday. You have a shitty starter phone— your parents aren’t keen on you having a smartphone, yet— but Micha has nothing. You suppose you could write to him, but that would put him at risk if his father got to the mail before he did.

When he catches the look on your face, he settles the ball at his feet and locks his full attention on you. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow, averting your gaze to the ground. “I’m moving,” you mumble.

A thick silence settles between you two. The soft breeze is sharp in your ears, like deafening static reverberating through your head.

His voice comes out sharp, digging in a way you’ve never heard it before. “What?”

“I’m moving,” you repeat. “I’m leaving. Dad’s job— we’ve got to go to Cologne.”

He doesn’t respond for so long that you finally force yourself to look up at him. His face has gone completely blank, and there’s only something dark in his eyes, something completely unreadable to you.

His voice is tight when he asks, “When are you coming back?”

“I—” You sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t think I am. I think the transfer’s permanent.”

He looks down, seemingly mulling over your words. When he looks up again, his gaze goes is cold, and he hums, straightening out. “No.”

You blink, confused. “No?”

“You’re not leaving.”

You furrow your brows. “What?”

He looks down at you derisively, seemingly irritated that he has to repeat himself. “I said you’re not leaving.”

“I can’t just not leave,” you spit out. He’s starting to be ridiculous, and his condescension has never been something that bodes well with you, having only been on the receiving end of it so few times. “I’m not gonna have any family here.”

He jostles the ball between his feet as if this is another one your shared mundane conversations. “So we’ll just run away together.”

You narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He slants a side look at you. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, voice getting higher with each word, “just two teenagers running away and figuring out how to make ends meet. Can you please take this seriously?”

His foot comes down on top of the ball, hard. He flicks a finger between you two. “I am the only one taking this seriously.”

“This,” you echo, incredulous. “A stupid relationship.”

He kicks the ball to the side and turns to face you fully, and that’s how you know you fucked up. Each word bites as he asks, “Is that all this is to you?”

“You know I care about you, Micha,” you say carefully, “but asking me to throw away my family to stay with you is insane.”

Something shutters in his expression, but it’s gone before you can even register it. “I knew it,” he spits, “you’ve never cared about me as much as you’ve led me to believe.”

You grit your teeth. “Are you serious?”

He shrugs. “You obviously don’t value me as much as I value you.”

“Oh my god,” you snap, “you are fourteen. Get the fuck over yourself.”

“You think this is meaningless because we’re young?”

“I think,” you hiss, “that we have our whole lives ahead of us. I wouldn’t ask you to stay by my side if you had bigger and better things ahead of you.”

He continues to stare at you in icy silence. You sigh, frustrated.

“If it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out,” you say.

Michael tilts his head, as if considering this. His eyes wander your face, committing every bit to memory. Then, he walks over to you, seizing your wrist in his hand. You step back, a bit thrown off, but he lightly tugs on your arm, pulling you back toward him.

“It will work out,” he says, eyes boring into yours. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leans down and presses a familiar, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Then you won’t have to leave me ever again.”

This time, when you pull away, he lets you go. Seemingly without a care in the world, he turns around and picks up the ball, heading toward the trail that he takes home.

You return to the park the day before you leave, but you don’t see him. You wait for hours, but he never shows.

The unease twisting in your gut doesn’t unravel until the train speeds away from the station, leaving Berlin behind you.

You’re about to turn eighteen when you see him again.

Not in person, but on a screen like you expected. The name Michael Kaiser sits in a scrolling bar across the bottom of the screen which plays footage of him playing on Bastard München’s youth team, his long golden hair flowing behind him beautifully. The news anchor says something about him being one of the most promising players of the new generation— not that that’s something you need to be told.

Your friend says something from across the table, ripping your attention from the screen. You don’t notice how tense you’ve gotten until you relax again.

Despite the lingering feeling of unease his memory leaves you with, you’re still glad he made it, after all.

“Who’s this?”

You’re back home for the holidays during your second year in university. Your studies have taken you back to Berlin, albeit a part you hadn’t grown up near and is still new and fresh to you. “Home” might not be the right word, though— you’re spending Christmas Eve at your grandmother’s house. She’s been hosting your entire family the past couple years since your grandfather’s passing forced her to relocate to a smaller house, an attempt to fill the empty home with warm presences.

Currently, she’s playing with a small, bedraggled dog that has wandered onto her porch. It’s wheezy and staggers when it walks, indicative of its old age.

“Oh, just a sweet little thing,” your grandmother replies as she pets its back. “You know, your grandfather always hated it when I would feed the strays. I did it a lot back at the old house on the other side of town, but there’s not too many animals on this side, so I don’t really do it anymore.”

You consider the dog. Its fur is matted, but nonetheless, its tail wags so hard from your grandmother’s attention that its whole body shakes with it. It sneezes pathetically.

You shove your hands into your coat pockets. “So this is a new one, then?”

“Well, not quite.” Your grandmother chuckles. “I first met this little guy back at the old house. I’ve been feeding him since he was a puppy! Seems he found his way back home on his own.”

“Huh.” Your eyes snap back to her. “I didn’t think they could actually do that.”

She laughs some more. “The most determined and loved ones can.”

You retreat back into the house. Your younger cousins jump on you immediately, demanding you play whatever nonsensical game they’ve thought up this time. You shed your coat, and with it, your lingering distress at your grandmother’s words.

“Oh my god, do you have a secret admirer?”

Your roommate’s voice pulls you out of your shocked state. The dread freezing your veins gradually thaws out, and you kneel down to pick the bouquet of flowers off the floor in front of the entrance to your shared apartment.

Blue forget-me-nots, with some blue roses interspersed throughout.

It’s October now. Just under a year has passed since Christmas, but your grandmother’s words are fresh in your mind, as if you’d heard them just yesterday.

You fumble around with the bouquet, movements becoming more frantic when you can’t find what you’re looking for. “There’s no card attached to this.”

“Well, duh,” your roommate says. “That would defeat the purpose of a secret admirer.”

Except, it’s not a secret who sent you these. You might have been able to brush it off if it was just the forget-me-nots, but the roses speak for themselves.

You flick your wrist out to the side, shoving the bouquet into your roommate’s chest. She grabs onto them, so you let them go in favor of getting the door unlocked.

“Figure out what to do with them,” you say as you enter the apartment.

She trails in after you, hot on your heels in incredulity. “Wait, you’re seriously not going to keep them?”

“You know I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” you say breezily, feigning a calmness that contradicts your racing heart. “It’s a sweet gesture, but I don’t want them.”

“I mean—” Your roommate stammers a bit before her words peter out. She sighs, then starts rummaging in the cabinet beneath the sink. “Alright, whatever you say.”

She ends up arranging them in a nice glass vase you weren’t aware you two even own and sets them in the center of the dining table. They mock you until they wither and die, and you can finally dispose of them.

By the time February rolls around without any further incidents, your guard has lowered significantly, which is, of course, your first mistake.

You’re lounging on the couch in the common space when there’s light knocking at your apartment door. There’s mostly college students renting in this unit, so it’s not uncommon for someone to stop by and invite you to some party or other, and with Valentine’s around the corner, there’s sure to be plenty.

You set your laptop down on the coffee table and get to your feet, sliding your feet into your slippers and crossing the room to get to the apartment entrance. You reach up and begin to undo the locks without checking the peephole, which is your second mistake.

You pull the door open, and immediately, everything freezes in place.

His eyes are as blue as the day you met him, only his gaze is far sharper than they were even on the day you left.

The television and billboards really don’t do him justice. He’s fully grown into his figure now, the diet and training regimen of a professional athlete filling him out in ways that the portioned-out food fed to him from your hands could not. His hair is choppy, but a face that gorgeous can make anything work. It’s pulled up into a messy bun made to look regal by the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. The blue rose on his neck is stark against his skin, and you eye the thorny vines that trail down and disappear beneath his shirt.

You meet his eyes again, apprehensive. His face is impassive, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him and keeps you pinned in place.

You clutch the doorknob so tightly your knuckles go white.

“Michael,” you say softly, and he frowns slightly at that. “What are you doing here?”

How did you find me? The unasked question hangs in the air between you two, but neither of you reach for it.

“Who’s Michael?” He asks airily. He steps forward, and hooks a finger under your chin before you get the chance to move away from him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your Micha already.”

You swallow thickly. “I haven’t,” you mumble.

He hums. His thumb brushes against your chin lightly as his gaze trails over your body. When it lands on you again, his eyes swallow you whole. “You look good.”

Heat floods your cheeks in spite of the dread settling in your stomach, and you look to the floor again. “Thanks.”

You attempt to step back, but there’s a hand that finds its way to the small of your back before you can. The hand on your chin tilts your head up, up, until you’re forced to look at him again.

“I spent so long waiting for you, liebling,” he says. “Is this how you greet your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” You sputter. “I don’t—”

His thumb presses firmly against your lips, quieting your protests. “Friends don’t make out, do they?” When you don’t respond, he adds, “We never did break up, you know. I’m glad to see you haven’t cheated on me in my absence.”

You finally reach your breaking point, all the agitation and unease within you spilling over. You shove at him as hard as you can, but if he didn’t budge all those years ago, he certainly wasn’t budging now. You shove at him again, this time trying to use the movement to push yourself away rather than push him, but he swiftly grabs hold of both your wrists and tugs you back toward him. Caught off guard, you careen forward and crash into his chest. His arms snake around your waist, an iron cage holding you firmly against him.

“Micha,” you hiss, “let me go.”

“Now, liebe,” he coos, releasing his hold on you just enough for you to shift and properly look up at him. “You know what that will cost you.”

You glare up at him, but to your chagrin, he seems perfectly content to simply hold you and gaze down at you. As seconds bleed into minutes trapped in his hold, you crack under the pressure.

You tilt your head up fully, and Michael lowers his head just enough to be within your reach. You close the distance between you two, intending for the kiss to be short, shallow, and sweet, just like your first.

You honestly should know better at this point. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he pulls you back in just as you’re about to get away.

The next kiss is deep, far more passion behind it than anything you two shared before you left. He bites at your bottom lip, and forces his tongue in when you startle. A whimper leaves your throat as he continues to lick into your mouth. You reach up to try to shove at his chest, but he places his other hand over it, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles in a mockery of a soothing gesture.

You gasp out when he finally breaks for air. Your lips sting from the sudden release of pressure, and a thin trail of saliva lines your bottom lip. You stumble back, but firm arms are there to catch you again.

You look up, and his pupil-blown eyes cause that unease to settle over you once more.

Gently, he brings your hand up to his lips and ghosts your knuckles over them.

There’s a glint in his eye as he asks, “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

Never satisfied. Insatiable, and now, somehow finding his way back to you.

You should have listened to your grandfather when you had the chance.

447 notes · View notes

thebestsetter · 5 months ago

Text

Thinking about (lovesick) Hiori Yo keeping a diary.

His parents have always been emotionally unavaible. For them, Hiori was nothing more nothing less than an experiment, the one destined to be what they've always wanted to be and yet never managed to acomplish: someone who wears the title of being "the best in the world".

He also didn't have much (if any) friends. All his time was dedicated to football practice, so the only people he talked to (aside from his parents) were his teammates. And they were nice, sure, but they were not his friends. They were more like acquaintances. The only one he could really call a friend was one of his teammates, Karasu Tabito, and even so he still didn't feel comfortable enough talking to him about the complex thoughts he had.

Because of that, he's never had anyone to talk with. No one to confide about his feelings and emotions. No one to talk about how he wanted to leave his home house (that place didn't feel like a home). How his parents fucked up his sanity. How he didn't really like football that much.

He couldn't keep all these things inside his head anymore. He needed to pour these feelings out. That's why he decided to start a diary.

Grabbing an old notebook and one of those common blue pens, he started writing. The diary was his most treasured possession. It stayed locked inside his bedside table, being away from all of the prying eyes.

Writing felt good. He wrote about his strained relationship with his parents. About soccer practices. About gaming tips. About pretty much everything.

His thoughts about many different themes were written there. That's why his journal didn't really have a specific theme.

Well, at least in the beggining it didn't have.

Because ever since a month or so, all the pages on his diary began to revolve around a girl. You.

He met you during a rather boring math class. The teacher was rambling on and on about algebrics or whatever, and time seemed to freeze because of how utterly shitty the endless class seemed.

"His explanation sucks, doesn't it?"

He heard a female voice coming from beside him. When he turned to the direction of the sound, he saw the prettiest girl he had ever met.

Her hair framed her face perfectly, it's color matching her eyes in the most beautiful way Yo had ever seen. The smile she had on her face seemed to shine, and Hiori found himself smiling back, too.

"Yeah" he sighed, then looked back at the teacher

"I just wish the old hag would shut up"

"I wish he would just shut up"

They spoke at the same time.

Looking at eachother, they both began to laugh. Hard. Clutching your stomach and tearing up kind of laugh. Snorting like a pig laugh. Wheezing. Hitting the table with your fist to try and stop with the loud laughing, but being phisically incapable of stopping.

"Hiori Yo and (Name) (Lastname). Do you want to share with the class what made you laugh so hard? I'm sure they want to laugh to."

"N-No, mister. We're sorry. We-We'll stop" you answered, still trying to stiffle your laugh

"Do not interrupt my class again, or else I'll send you both to the principal's office"

"Okay sir." Hiori answered, not believing a word the teacher said but still a little scared to have his parents find out he went to the principal's office

"Hiori Yo, huh?" You said "It suits you"

"Thank you, miss (Name) (Lastname)." Hiori smirked "Your name is very pretty. It also suits you"

"Oh, so you think I'm pretty?" You smirked, a mischevious and playful glint on your eyes.

"N-no!" Hiori blushed hard, averting your gaze. His accent got stronger like it always did when he became nervous, and he was quick to correct himself "I-I mean, yes! You're very pretty! B-but I didn't mean to say t-that. Not that you're not pretty! Is just that..."

He was interrupted by the sound of your laugh mixed with the bell signalizing the end of the school day. It's obnoxious sound was such a contrast from your sweet, honey-like melodic laugh.

"Don't worry, I was just teasing you!" You smiled at him, grabbing your backpack and getting up "Well, see you on the next advanced math period, mister Hiori Yo"

You then quickly left, leaving behind a red and speechless Hiori.

He has been obsessed in love with you ever since. He wanted to be with you all of the time, no exceptions. You were just so nice! It seemed like his problems disappeared when you were near. Life seemed brighter, and even his parents noticed the change in his behavior. He was more carefree, happier, lighter.

And never once did he forget to write in his diary. In fact, he wrote about you so much he decided to rip the pages about his parents and other things and make the journal solely based on you.

He wrote about the dates he wanted to go to with you. Wrote about how he wanted to hold hands with you, kiss you till you're both breathless, stargaze with you, game with you. Do basically everything with you.

He detailed how he wanted to confess to you: you would both be in a park, having a picnic, when he would suddenly pull a bouquet from his backpack and put his feelings on the table, making it clear he viewed you as more than a friend. And then you'd laugh and say you like him too, making fun of his strong accent and how much effect you had over him.

Not that he'd mind. As long as your attention was on him, you could humilliate him all you want. He was pathetic.

He even wrote about your wedding, the petunias he wanted to give you and how Hiori (Name) had such a nice ring to it.

He wrote everything in his diary. And that was his fatal flaw.

Because he also wrote about how he wanted to spend his practice time with you. How he wanted to give up on soccer and move in with you to a house on the countryside, just you and him. How he sometimes skipped practices just to go out with you.

"Mom? Dad?"

He would never have thought that, one day, he would forget to lock the diary up. And who would've guessed it would fall in the hands of his parents, who have no idea of privacy.

"Yo, we need to talk about this"

When Hiori saw the notebook in his dad's hand, he swallowed dry. He felt like crying just by imagining what they wanted to discuss about.

Maybe they didn't read it. Yeah, maybe they still respected their son, at least a little bit.

"W-what? How did you..."

"It was on your bed." His mom answered, a stern expression on her face "me and your father came to an agreement after reading it, and..."

"You read it?!" Hiori was furious and sad at the same time. Not surprised, no. He knew they would've done this. "You can't do this! My personal thoughts are in there! It's my diary! You're invading my privacy!"

"Bullshit. Teenagers do not have nor need privacy" his father cut him off "Whatever. What matters is that we read about that (Name) girl. And we've decided..."

No. He can say anything but what he thinks they're bout to say. He can't handle that.

"We don't want you around that girl anymore. She's getting in the way of your football practices. That's why...

We're moving you to a different school."

No...

No.

NO!

"No she's not!" Hiori screamed, pleaded. He wished that for once his parents would listen to him, think about his feelings at least one time. "I love her! I swear I'll do double the practice! Just, please. Please don't do this" his voice was wavering. He was weak. "Please don't keep her away from me. Please."

"We do this cause we know what's best for you. We're your parents. We know you better than yourself." His mom tried to reason.

"No you don't!" Hiori screamed "She's the best thing that has ever happened to me! You can't do this to me! You can't decide these things in my behalf!"

"We're your parents. We can and we did. End of discussion." His dad gritted out, not an ounce of empathy in his face. "And we also decided you're not keeping a diary anymore. We don't want you hiding things from us."

With a swift move, he threw the notebook inside the fireplace.

"NO!" Hiori screamed, running to collect the ashes and try to save the diary, but it was already too late.

In his knees in front of the fire, Hiori cried. The flames were dancing around as if mocking his sadness, laughing at his disgrace.

He stayed there for so long he lost track of time. His parents were no longer in the room, deciding to finally give their son space. But he didn't want space.

He wanted you.

He stayed motionless until the last flame was unstinguished. And when it finally was, so was his hope for a better future. A future without his parents playing with the strings of his life all the time, treating him like a puppet. A future with no pain.

A future with you.

And so, a single page that survived flew and fell in front of him.

He picked it up.

Dear diary,

I think I can make up with my parents. I didn't told her about the whole situation since I don't want to burden her, but from what she heard, (Name) said we just need to talk. And maybe she's right. Maybe they'll like her just as much as I do, and we can be a big happy family. She makes me feel like everything is possible. I'm sure I love her, and I want to spend all my time by her side...

He couldn't read it anymore.

With a scream, Hiori tore the page apart.

~A/N: Sorry anon, idk how to write angst ☹️

Masterlist

#blue lock x reader #blue lock #yandere blue lock #hiori yo.#hiori x reader #bllk hiori #hiori yo #blue lock hiori #hiori yo x reader #bllk angst #blue lock angst #reader angst #bllk manga #bllk x reader #bllk x you

782 notes · View notes

ghostsy · 4 months ago

Text

Stay

YANDERE x READER

WARNINGS: yandere, implied imprisonment, a lil angsty

read at your own discretion.

❈ ◦•≫────≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫────≪•◦ ❈

“Don’t leave me.”

The arm wrapped around her middle tightened, squeezing the remaining air from her lungs. But she stifled her discomfort; he would only ever reprimand the feeling.

“I won’t.”

It had been like this for a while now; where he crawled into bed at night, oftentimes after he made sure to thoroughly bed her, and wrapped himself around her like a child–an overgrown child with strength that could snap her in half if he so chose. But a child nonetheless.

The whining was new, though.

“I’m serious,” He rasped, breath tickling against her hair, “Don’t you ever leave me.”

As if it were her choice. She was silent for a moment; what response could she give that would assuage his paranoia, or more pertinently, spare her the consequence of his rage?

“I’d die,” He continued, lips brushing her ear, “I’d kill everyone, and then I’d die.”

“You won’t die,” She sighed out the words, trying and failing to stamp down her building annoyance, but self-preservation won out in the battle against her own emotions, “I’m here, so you won’t die.”

She felt his heartbeat speed where his chest pressed against her, “No,” He curled deeper into her if it were even possible, face pressed to the crook of her neck, “But you’d like me to, wouldn’t you?”

Before she could respond, she felt wetness on her skin. Was he crying? “Bet you dream about it,” She’d never seen him cry before, never seen a chink in the armor, “Leaving me here to rot.” She didn’t like the uncomfortable burn in her chest as she listened to the shuddering breaths behind her. It had to be pity. Of course, it was pity.

“That’s okay, you can dream,” The rasp of his voice made even deeper with the cracks in his words, “You can dream all you want, so long as you’re here with me when you wake,” Before she could even consider her actions, she was turning in his arms. Or struggling to, only succeeding as he lessened his iron grip when he was sure she wasn’t trying to leave.

His eyes were wide when she was face to face with him, no doubt surprised she’d chosen to be closer to him of her own free will. He was handsome, with a devastating kind of beauty to the lines of his face. She always thought it cruel, a handsome monster she was chained to forever.

“I don’t,” She breathed, lips uncomfortably close to his own, “Want you to die, I mean. I don’t want it.” She wasn’t sure if she was lying, but the words had the opposite effect she’d intended.

His brows furrowed in the way they usually did before red hot anger took control, but the night was full of surprises, it seemed, because this heat was only directed at himself.

“You should,” He spat, the arm at her waist squeezing so harshly she couldn’t help but wince. He weakened his grip immediately upon notice, "You should hate me," And she saw what she could only call self-disgust swimming in his eyes.

“Yes, I should,” The words spilled out before she could stop them, but this moment between them felt it was owed honesty, promised safety.

“I’d still love you if you did,” It was a breathless confession, and he pressed his forehead against her own, eyes closed, “No matter what, I would still love you,” He made it sound like an apology, like he knew his love was a torture he’d inflicted on her without reprieve.

“That’s stupid.” She sighed out the words, but her hand came to rest at his cheek, nearly admiring. Admiring the unbelievability of his vulnerability.

“Yeah,” He huffed out a low laugh between the unsteady breaths, and turned to press a kiss to her palm, “It is kind of stupid.”

There was a sort of finality to the words. Because in the end, his cruelty masked as love, stupid as it was, was not something either of them could escape. It was a painful realization that he hadn’t just trapped her in a cage, but locked her into his own.

Her fingers traced patterns along his jaw, and their eyes met in the low light of the early morning hours. Maybe when the sun rose he’d return to the monster she knew, and she would only have this moment as a memory with a man she thinks she could have loved. She’d take a moment.

Slowly she inched forward, and his breath hitched, fingers flexing where they rested against her skin. Before she could connect them she froze, considering, hesitating, rethinking. But he took the opportunity, and pressed forward, lips uncharacteristically soft against her own, before retreating nearly as quickly. A stolen kiss. Unbearably cruel in its deceptive innocence.

“Just tell me,” He whispered it like a secret, “Tell me you’ll stay with me.”

“I will.”

❈ ◦•≫────≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫────≪•◦ ❈

Couldn't pick just one character, but had a few in mind:

BNHA: Bakugou, Shinso, Todoroki Shoto

JJK: Yuta, Megumi

Blue Lock: Nagi, Rin

Haikyuu: Oikawa, Bokuto, Kuroo

BSD: Dazai, Chuuya

#yandere x reader #yandere bnha #yandere jjk #yandere blue lock #yandere haikyuu #yandere bsd #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere bungou stray dogs #soft yandere #male yandere x reader

796 notes · View notes

animeyanderelover · 4 months ago

Text

The way of an aggressive yet very loving househusband

Tw: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, overprotective behavior, aggression but not in the way you may think, darling has periods, abduction, this is no poly relationship by the way

Can I just say that Bakugou and Barou are basically the same type of a Yandere almost down to the tee? A type which I have decided to call the aggressive househusband.

Think about it. Both are really intimidating and scary and I wouldn't hold it against you if you would be very scared of them the first time. You see how Bakugou constantly yells at people and glares at them with his red eyes. You see how Barou completely annihilates people on the field as if this was more than just a sport and notice how he towers over anyone who annoys him off whilst glaring at them with his red eyes.

So you when you are abducted you genuinely believe the worst is going to happen. That you'll be stuck with a violent and aggressive man obsessed with you who will physically harm you and beat you up.

Only for none of that to happen.

Obviously he isn't happy to see you being so scared of him. Yes, he isn't going to deny that he is maybe a tad bit scary but you're acting like he's going to undo his belt at any moment and give you a goddamn whipping.

However, despite him being quite offended that you would put him in the same category as a fucking abuser he knows that he has to give you his patience right now. Acting right into any stereotypes you have already out him into would only harm his reputation more.

He speaks quieter and tries to sound less harsh when he's talking to you. He bends down so that both of you are on the same height or he sits down somewhere so that he is actually looking up at you whilst you are looking down on him. He gives you your space. Yes, he still checks in on you because he is considerate and not fucking stupid but he doesn't invade your privacy.

His aggressive side resurfaces as soon as chores are involved but in a way you would have never expected. He is a bloody perfectionist and no matter how you clean your room, wipe the tables or vacuum-clean the floor, you somehow never do it right. There is always something that he has to criticise. There is a spot on the mirror left from when you brushed your teeth. You forgot to clean under that little gap of your wardrobe. You didn't fold your shirts right.

The list goes on.

He doesn't hit you though and yells at you that you never do stuff right and that you're useless. No, instead he guides you promptly to the bedroom, pushes you into the mattress and just bluntly tells you that you can just watch one of the 10+ Streaming Sides he pays for whilst he is going to properly clean the goddamn house. And whilst you are sitting in bed, slightly perplexed by what just happened, he is mopping the floor and mutters occasionally about how he can't believe that you can't even clean properly. That's fine though. He can do that for you.

He cooks for you. Every day. Without fail. He hates when you go out and eat some junk food. Sure, he is guilty of eating it once in a while too but it is different when it comes to you. You shouldn't enjoy greasy and unhealthy food unless it is his greasy and unhealthy food that he has prepared for you. Don't expect him to cook you that stuff every day though. He will cook nutritious and healthy food for you and you better eat what he serves or he will be very mad and grumble about it for the entire rest of the day.

You want to go an a diet? Don't even dare to attempt any bullshit diet a beauty influencer on Instagram, YouTube or other social platforms has recommended. He happens to know the one or other thing about a diet that is actually healthy and still tastes good.

You want to try a new dish? Write him down the groceries he needs and he's the next evening in the kitchen, all ingredients tidily placed in front of him as he reads the recipe through before he starts to prepare the dish.

If you want juice he is not buying the bottles but the fruits themselves and prepares fresh juice for you. If it's orange juice you want he just squeezes every last drop out with his bare fists before he serves it in a glass to you. He generally keeps a lot of fruits and vegetables in his fridge because he likes to prepare randomly a small bowl for you so that you consume your vitamins and minerals.

You, who has lived a humble life the first twenty-something years of your life, always look at price tags when something catches your eye and as soon as you notice a number far too high with what you're comfortable to spend you just turn around.

Case closed.

Or maybe not.

Because in the next moment your lover is dragging you into the store with him, grabs whatever it is that caught your eye and then asks you with a scowl on his face if there is anything else that you would like since the two of you are already in here. Do not let yourself be mislead by that scowl on his face. What he really means to say to you is "if there is anything else you want just fucking grab it because I have the money". Honestly, who do you think is he earning all his money for nowadays?

Taxes and all other paperwork is something he mainly does. You are free to help if you insist but be aware that he is most likely going to complain about something again because there is always something he can nag about.

You never have to worry about running out of pads or tampons because he always keeps those shelves filled. As soon as you're down one package a new one magically appears the next day. He's not one of those guys who feels embarrassed about buying this stuff for you. I mean, who is going to make fun of him? Most people are in general far too scared to comment about it when they see him standing in line with packages of pads in his basket.

He ensures that you have all your needed doctor appointments. A general health check. A visit at your gynaecologist. A visit at the dentist. All of that at least twice a year so that he can see it through that something is treated the moment it is spotted.

When you're sick he is the best person to take care of you. He doesn't judge you for your terrible mood, the coughs, the sneezes or other symptoms you may experience. However, he is going to bully the spoon of medicine in your mouth, is going to monitor you to see it through that you consume your tablet and will carry you right back to bed and wrap you up as soon as you attempt to do something when you should rest instead.

Scary dog privilege is real with him just as much as the saying "my girl can wear whatever the fuck she wants because I can fight". It doesn't matter at which time in which location you are at, absolutely no one is getting to you with him by your side.

As soon as he notices someone giving you a weird look or oogling at you suggestively? Then it's up to you to cling to his torso as he drags you with him, red eyes promising a burial. Luckily you manage to be a voice of reason and stop him from potentially committing a crime in public.

You realise that you have severely misjudged him. Apparently you really shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

#yandere my hero academia #yandere mha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bnha #yandere bakugou #yandere bakugou katsuki #yandere blue lock #yandere bllk #yandere barou #yandere barou shoei #yandere x reader #my hero academia x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #barou x reader

766 notes · View notes

dolliestfairy · 2 years ago

Text

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑤𝑛 ‌ིᨴּ ˒˒۪ 🦌ೀ

𔓘 Tw: Kidnapping, Noncon, Forced breeding, Pregnancy, Bondage, and a little of housewife kink ig? This fics is kinda suffocating tho. read at your own risk. Chubby reader fics with no skintone of reader mentioned.

𔓘 Authors note: this fanfic is kinda fcked up. this more like a Psychopath Hunter x Fawn fairy than a yandere. some may found this kind of disturbing so.. if this isnt your taste then please gtfo..

Minors do Not interact!

i'm thinking abt yandere hunter who is obsessed with chubby!fem!reader who is a fawn fairy.

yandere hunter who swears on his thumbs that he will kill anyone who tries to take away his wife from him who tries to hurt you.

yandere hunter who doesnt realize his obsessed nature over you. and called you "delusional" for calling him a crazy person.

yandere hunter who kidnapped you as soon as you placed one of your foot in his traps. shusing your cries while saying he would take care of you after.

yandere hunter who wants you to be his wife and bear his child. it doesnt matter if it was a mating season or not, he would try and no one could stop him.

yandere hunter who puts a rope above your chest and under your chubby belly just so you cant fly away.

yandere hunter who is almost dying from happiness because he just cant handle the cuteness of you with tears rolling down onto your tears.

yandere hunter who showed no mercy on you while his cock sliding into your pussy with an unexpected pace of speed. making you yelp.

yandere hunter whos one hand is on your mouth, covering you and muffling down your tears and cry, while his other hand plays with your nipple.

yandere hunter who suffocate you with affectionate after what all his done to you. shusing you and putting his plam hand on your cheeks and rubbing it while your body felt the cold air hitting every parts of your skin and wings, making you trembling.

yandere hunter who is 8 months later now is rubbing your swelled bellies, a bellies that now is filled with his unborn triplets. while he's thanking you for giving him this amount of happiness. which little did he know that he was far from a thing that was called "sane".

how can you even escape this madman when you're literally carrying his babies at the moment?

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏~♡ The MadMans are : DABI, MAHITO, Shigaraki, SUKUNA, GOJO, Itachi, OVERHAUL, DILUC, PANTALONE, Nanami, Geto, Kuroo, Suna, Tsukishima Kei, BACHIRA, OBITO, Sasuke, TOJI, Douma, Michael Kaiser, KAKUZU, KISAME, QIN SHI HUANG HOLY FUCKING SHIT, Alec, Hatake Kakashi, Horangi, Simon Ghost Riley, ALEJANDRO.

7K notes · View notes

kanroji-san · 5 months ago

Text

Sae: I would do anything for you, my dear.

Y/n: Uh- okay?

Sae: *with a lovesick gaze* I would literally kill a man for you. Many men. And women. Even children deemed necessary.

Y/n: Dude chill out!!!

@d3stinyist1red

#blue lock x reader #blue lock #blue lock x y/n #yandere blue lock #yandere blue lock x reader #bllk x y/n #bllk x reader #bllk #bllk sae #itoshi sae

566 notes · View notes

rinnstars · 6 months ago

Text

being yours!

let him be useful to you

itoshi rin x reader: yandere ish?, angst on rin’s part, not proofread + likes n reblogs are really appreciated!

he’s used to be being left behind - its a common occurrence for someone that’s used to being silenced to fit in, from being left out of class discussions, to being left behind by friends and eventually even his own brother that swore to be with him until the end of time. and sometimes, despite your reassurance and love that he doesn’t once doubt, he thinks you’ll be better off without him - you’re much more talkative and extroverted, youre friends with everyone else that he has probably never talked to, youre much brighter than he is. and sometimes, he thinks youre truly better off without him - you’ll get to have lunches with all your friends rather than sit around beside him in the empty classroom eating, you’ll get to go home early without waiting for his football practice to end, you’ll no longer have to deal with a bother like him that rather dulls the mood.

so he’ll make up for his subpar personality he feels, make up for the way he self-destructs and leaves you on read on hard days, make up for the way he can’t be the picture-perfect boyfriend that he knows you adore from your collection of love mangas in your room or from korean and chinese dramas you talk to him about. he’ll settle for being useful to you, after all people wont throw away things that are useful to them right? he knows you wont - you keep our digicam despite its battery issues simply because its still usable to take photos of you and him, you keep your old and flat heat pads because you can still use them when your stomach hurts a little too much, you keep your old water bottle despite the few times it leaks. and sometimes he wonders if you keep him around because you like the sentimentality of your relationship, after all you’ve been with him since you two were kids the same way you keep your old photo albums and toys and textbooks because you can’t bear to throw away because of the memories. he hopes you keep him around because he’s useful - he’ll carry your heavy bag to and from school, even in between classes, he’ll help you queue up for lunch letting you rest about and talk to your friends in the meantime, he’ll pick off the ingredients you don’t like off your food with his hands carefully without any flaws. he hopes he’ll be useful to you - he’ll be the tissue to wipe away your tears either with his lips or with his hands, he’ll be the heat warmer that recently stopped working whenever your hand or legs grow cold by embracing you with his warm self, he’ll be the sweet treat for you, transferring candies hidden in his mouth in yours as he merges yours and his lips into one. he wants all of him to be useful to you - his hands will carry and hold any burden that’s too much for you, whether emotional or physical, he wants his legs to carry you without a single stumble to not make you doubt yourself as he carries you as though youre a royalty in a horse carriage to wherever you want to, he wants his eyes to help you find items you keep dropping and missing whether that be pieces of papers, hair ties, or even house keys.

and he’ll work hard to be your pride and joy - be the best striker in the world, be better than anyone else, be the best infatuation you’ve ever had. he wants your attention on him no matter what - please don’t look away from him, not even for a second. he thinks you just might be the sun to his chloroplast-like body, his sole reason that he’s still breathing if only for you. and maybe its stupid, its childish to want you to look at him, even if its simply because he’s helping you out - he craves it. so use him, milk him for all he’s worth and keep your eyes on him - he wont ask for anything more. because that means even if you fall out of love one day, even if the look in your eyes is becoming less and less infatuated, even if you no longer feel this same burning fire that will consume him, you’ll stay with him - the same way you still keep pens that no longer have inks, notebooks that have run out of empty pages, earphones that no longer connect properly to your phone for the memories.

but for now, when that school bell rings, he’ll without fail walk up to your desk, pack your things with you and carry your bag for you just to see you beam at him like an angel with that look full of love he knows he’s already addicted to.

#itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #rin.<3 #yandere bllk #yandere blue lock #itoshi rin angst #bllk angst

730 notes · View notes

yanderebluelockfan · 2 months ago

Text

DONT WORRY ISAGI, I AM ON MY WAY TO GET YOU THAT EYELINER

😂☺️🤩💀💖🔥❣️❤️😊😚💋😘💰🥰🙏✨🤌💯😭😭😍😸🙌🤧🌹❤️‍🔥🫀💗💕

1K notes · View notes

fangdokja · 2 months ago

Text

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.

480 notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

Text

♡ TW: noncon/dubcon, bullying, reader wears glasses

♡ gn reader

Thinking about jock bully hunting you down after the bell rings...

You hurry – haphazardously shoving your books and pens into your bag before slinging it over your shoulder – ready to get out before the chimes are even done singing.

Thankfully, it seemed fine for now as you couldn't hear the roaring of buzzing students in the hallway just yet, only your own class packing up their belongings with movements rather lazy compared to yours.

But you couldn't afford to take your time – even with the free period following the end of your class. You needed to leave before he could find you.

"Where’ you off to in such a hurry, Specs?"

You ought to have knocked on wood before finishing your thought – you admonished yourself with eyes squeezed tightly shut and a punishing bite to your lower lip.

It's funny – you winced – how his voice is so casual, so breezy and laidback, all cool and friendly – funny how it sends such spiky goosebumps down your spine.

You ignore him, trying to squeeze past him – quick and dexterous as you attempt to slip away and disappear out the door – maybe be so lucky to lose him in the crowd.

"Whoa, whoa- you tryna run off on me?" He joked. His large hands held up to block your way.

You watch the rest of your classmates leave – leaving you to fend for yourself. But you couldn't really blame them… none of you wanted to explain new bruises to worried parents at home.

He was like a shark circling, and if he smelt blood in the water, you were as good as done for. And you were like an open cut.

"Now, what did I do to deserve a disappearing act, huh?" He pouted. His head tilted, blocking out the lights in the ceiling, shadowing his already scary face.

You nearly squeaked instead of speaking. "Please- I- I-"

"Calm down, will yah?" He dismissed. Flashing you a wide smile – the one that nearly fooled you into believing he was a good and decent guy. "I ain't come to pick on yah…"

You didn't listen. Once again, you bravely tried to push past him with your bag squeezed tightly to your chest – trying to rush to the door.

But his size was like the door itself. Big and squared. Muscly and tough as he blocked your way effortlessly. Though, no less bothered with your insistent attempt at running away from him.

"Now, when I tell you to do something-" He laughed passive-aggressively as his hand reached out to clutch the handle on your bag, yanking you back. "You should perk up and listen, yeah? Use that head of yours for something useful for once."

His knee rode up between your thighs – making you whimper where you stood, caged between his thick arms and the desk behind you.

"Wouldn't wanna make me angry now, do yah?"

His breath tickled your face, and you bowed your head under his gaze – unable to take your eyes off of the veins flexing along his beefy arms as his large hands gripped the table’s edge, sleeves rolled up like usual – the sight of his knuckles whitening, making you queasy with unease.

You tried ducking away once again. "Please, I need to-"

But he just clicked his tongue at the measle effort. Cutting you off yet again.

"You don't need to do anything but stand here and entertain me." He decided with a voice a bit more biting than before.

You jolted, your eyes round and wide as you looked back up into his glare.

He laughed out a lighthearted chuckle before his hand broke off from marring the desk – scratching the back of his neck with an apologetic smile – serving a small effort at easing your worries where you stood tense and rigid in your place in front of him.

"Thing is…” He started once again, his tone back to normal – or whatever he wanted you to think was his normal. “Coach is gonna kick me off the team if I don’t get my grades in order.” He explained. “So’s thinkin’ since you’re such a good little nerd, you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me out.”

His hand reached out to tickle your chin.

“M’sure havin’ a cute little nerd-tutor like you is exactly what I need.”

Your throat was so tight you thought you might just choke. “I don’t-”

“Good!” He boasted over your pitiful protest. “Since y’got nothin’ better to do, how ‘bout we just head straight for my dorm right now?” He asked – though you knew better than to think it was a question. “Le’me carry that for yah-”

He yanked your backpack from your chest, ripping it out of the tight hug before throwing it over his own shoulder.

“I can carry you too if yah want?” He posed – smirk loud on his face as he placed his large paws at your waist – followed quickly by you shooting your arms forward to shove him off in protest.

But though you thought you’d put in some strength behind it, the boy in front didn’t budge at all.

He just arched a brow as though asking if that was really all you had. And you hoped dearly he couldn’t see how the stiff muscles of his shredded chest had actually strained your wrists instead.

“What do you say, short stuff?” He leaned in, his breath foggy on your glasses and hot on your cheeks, as his hands clawed themselves into the fat of your waist, pulling you off your feet just a bit.

“N- no, thank you.” You stuttered out, stumbling a bit as you braced yourself against him. Your eyes squished close as you bowed your head away from him in a mix of fear and embarrassment while you suppressed the mortifying feeling of nearly pissing yourself.

But the tall boy realized little of your inner turmoil – rather enjoying it as he scoffed out an amused laugh at you. “A'ight then, come on.”

He yanked you along – his large paw gripping your arm as you struggled to keep up with his long strides. Nearly needing to resort to jogging where you otherwise tripped when the gap between the two of you became so large you had to skip a step or two to catch up – and before you even realized it, you were already standing outside the boy’s dorm waiting for him to find his keys.

He unlocked the door and welcomed you inside with the same grace of a warden showing a prisoner to their cell – with the weight and breadth of his warm hand on the small of your back as he nudged you inside.

The room had an overwhelming dank scent of both bodyspray and sweat and other things you’d only expect to smell in a boy’s locker room.

“Yo.” Came another voice from inside.

“Sup, roomie.” Your bully replied lazily. Grinning at how you gripped his shirt, all but jumping into hiding behind him.

You’re cute…

“Who’s that you got there?” His friend arched a brow at you, where you peaked at him from behind your bully’s sleeve.

“I’mma need the room.” He announced, not really answering the question.

The roommate then scoffed with a grin, beholding you with slim eyes for a moment, then scoffed once more before he got up to leave.

“Don’t hit the books too hard – Coach’ll have your ass if you don’t bring your A-game later.” He warned, pulling his gym bag up on his shoulder as he excused himself.

You looked around once he was gone, spotting dumbbells and other equipment – and quickly realized how there must be many more muscles beneath his shirt than what you’d already borne witness.

“So- uhm-” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you awkwardly turned to the boy. “Where're your books?”

Your bully smiled, taking a casual step toward you. “My books?” He asked, nowhere near even trying to sound the least bit genuinely confused.

“Your- uhm...” You paused, feeling uneasy. “Textbooks?”

His smile sharpened. “That’s cute.” He mocked sweetly while buttoning up the small black buttons of his white uniform shirt, giving a flash of those muscles you’d been anxiously anticipating. “You actually thought we were gonna study?”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Miya twins, Tendou, Ukai ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

Full fic with smut available here:

7K notes · View notes

eempyreall · 11 days ago

Text

♪ 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ♪

༺ Beneath The Waters ༻

Oneshot ~ Blue Lock x Female Reader

Summary ~ As a marine biologist, you rescue an injured siren. Now, five of them are obsessed with you—and they’ll never let you go.

Featuring ~ Bachira Meguru, Chigiri Hyoma, Nagi Seishiro, Itoshi Rin, and Itoshi Sae

Extra Notes ~ Tokyo Revengers’ Version - Jujutsu Kaisen‘s Version - Oc’s Version

*I am not a marine biologist, I searched up everything that pertains to the career.

This story should only be posted under eempyreall on my tumblr, ao3, wattpad, subscribestar, and patreon. Report if you see it posted under anyone else but me.

l apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

|| Warning ||

You and the characters are 21+. Although I picture the reader as a black cis-gendered female, physical appearance will not be described at all.

Content within this story may not be realistic or factual.

I do not condone any of the behavior displayed within the story.

There may be dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit content, sexual content, etc.

That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

The ocean always harbored a serene atmosphere at night.

Although you spent most of your days amidst the sea, working alongside your team as the waves rocked against the trawler, you couldn’t deny the tranquil ambience of sitting on shore while the stars glowed amongst the nightly blue firmament.

To clarify, you enjoy your career. Although there are different categories of work, such as laboratory and data analysis, you spend your day diving into the deep seas, collecting sea specimens, studying all the beauty the earth provides underwater, and giving your fellow biologists something to write about.

It contrasted with your lingering fear of the deeper abyss that the ocean conceals. There was always an underlying edge of caution when dealing with the intrusive thoughts that plagued your mind. You spent most of your time in reefs—the brighter, most pleasing section of the sea.

“You ready to get going?”

You shift your head towards the voice that came from your right.

Your eyes meet the dark irises of one of your teammates, a close friend of yours who studied alongside you during your growth in the marine industry. You lift yourself from the sand, pants slightly stained from the debris, as you brush your palm along your bottom.

“Nah. I’m gonna stay a little longer,” you reply, sighing as you eye the gentle waves of the sea. “You can go without me. I know that we got an early shift tomorrow.”

Riku raises a brow at you while crossing his arms. “You know that even if they’re real, you’re not gonna find anything, right?”

Ah, I’m about to get the same lecture, aren’t I?

You roll your eyes as you place your hands against your hips. “Mind your business, Riku,” you sing playfully, but with an edge of solemnity in your tone.

He hums. “I’m just saying, Y/n. You’ve looked quite exhausted the last few shifts. Your hyperfixation on mermaids is becoming a problem,” he says, his voice laced with concern and slight annoyance.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you face ahead. “First of all, the term is siren. Second of all, you don’t need to worry about me. I still get my work done.”

You miss the solemn expression that appears on his face—the familiar guise of pity that always makes you shift with discomfort.

“Look, I know more than anyone that it’s hard to heal from a family member’s death, but Y/n, you’ve got to let it go.”

The statement sent a shift through your entire body, tension stiffening you in place as the memory swirling in your brain flickered before you.

“Shit! Everyone, grab the earplugs!” the leader of your team shouts.

You immediately turn to your bag, rummaging through the contents before you snatch the cord. You shove the plugs into your ears just as the song begins. Although you can feel the vibration of the melody against your chest, the blockage of your ears keeps you safe from the siren’s frequency.

When you turn around, the relief that had rushed through you drops vehemently as your eyes flick over the five members of your team—including your brother.

Your breath hitches as you watch the color drain from his eyes, his body stiff in a trance as he faces toward the siren who peers from the waves of the sea. You can only see her multicolored eyes and the pale blue hair that’s flat against her head, the rest of her strands floating around her as she stares at the men.

You feel breathless, panting as you watch them take a step forward, in unison. A spike of fear surges through your spine as the pit in your stomach deepens. You dash toward your brother, nails digging into his shoulders as you stand in front of him, using all of your weight to keep him from jumping off of the trawler.

The splashes of the others are loud, despite the plugs blocking your ears. It only makes the lump in your throat burn as you make eye contact with your brother. As a result of the dullness filling his orbs, you know that it’s too late. He’s already gone.

But you don’t stop. You continue to press against him as the sobs escape your lips.

“Please, B/n! Please, wake up,” you weep.

The siren reaches for the first man, her claws splitting the flesh of his skin as she begins her feast, ropes of red already staining the waters as the rest of the humans swim toward her. Your head shifts to the side to see that a few more sirens have appeared, the women beginning their attacks on the men. One peers from the side, awaiting the release of your brother.

Despite his dream-like state, he is strong. He pushes against you like a stone wall. His expression is bare of any emotion as he continues to stare at the ocean, shoving against you like a non-playable character in a game.

Eventually, you can’t hold on any longer.

For a while, you couldn’t forgive yourself. Despite your first shift ending in a massacre, you couldn’t accept how weak you were against the creature’s voice.

It ached.

You sat on the trawler, weeping, until the S-O-S boat arrived. You tried to warn them, but nobody believed you. It was an unexplainable event. They kicked it under the rug, rolled it up, and burned it—as if nothing happened.

It was only you and your brother, so there was no memorial. No familial speeches from family or friends, as neither of you had any, aside from Riku, who stood by your side through it all. Still, his mind couldn’t be changed along with the rest. He only accepted your obsession through pity and nothing else.

“You can go home, Riku,” you say, a tone laced with firmness and an impending rage that you keep within wraps.

His eyes flicked over you for a moment before he exhaled sharply, guilt reaching his core. “Y/n, I’m sorry—.”

“Can you just shut the fuck up and leave?” Your eyes narrowed in his direction, fingers curling around your thumbs as you squeezed before releasing the tension.

His lips pressed into a thin line before he nodded, grabbing the keys from his pocket and turning away. “See ya tomorrow,” he says before walking off.

Another hour passes as you sit on the beach, well into midnight, watching the breeze gently push against the waves. You finally stand once more, brushing yourself off as you turn towards the pathway leading to the parking lot.

An unfamiliar sound catches your attention, along with a splash of waves that echo near you. You pause, listening for a moment as your ears search for the unknown frequency once more. Your head shifts to the right as you hear another high-pitched wail coming from the distance. It was slightly guttural, a broken hum of distress.

Before you could register your own movements, you find yourself walking towards the frantic melody. Your heartbeat thuds against your chest as you follow the noise. Your pulse throbs as you feel the hairs on your skin stand tall.

That sound… it’s not quite the same, but…

Once you reach the spot, your muscles stiffen in place, brows raising in shock.

Lying in front of you is a distressed male who holds the upper body of another. His wet black strands frame the sharp features of his facial structure as he looks down at the unmoving male. His dark eyelashes conceal his irises as a frown laces his expression.

His skin is a silk cream, and the translucent top of his ears forms into elongated tips, almost resembling skin-colored, iridescent fins. The same texture protrudes from the sides of his arms, though with a black-turquoise-hued tinge. His claws are long, gently grazing against the cheeks of the male below as he holds him against the lap of his long black tail that was laced with turquoise undertones.

The male below him matches the fish-like features, though the pigment laces a deep purple against his fins and long tail. His plum-colored hair is disheveled and wet, though flaring under his head as the siren holds him. His eyes are shut, irises concealed by his lids as he seems to be trapped within a deep slumber.

Crimson covers the side of his torso, staining the sand beneath. From the distance you stand, you fail to see the exact wound. Your brows furrow as determination sets into your core, and you turn your back to the sirens as you jog to your car.

Why do I feel the urge to help? I should just let him die.

But you know that it isn’t fair to blame them for a tragedy that occurred years ago. It isn’t fair to blame the entire species for something that’s a part of their nature.

Your search for their existence is only to prove to yourself and the others that the incident wasn’t imagined. That sirens are real and should be studied. This only motivates you for your shift tomorrow.

After you return with the first aid, you steadily make your way towards the two men, earplugs stuck in your ears as you walk closer. You can’t deny the pressure in your chest, anxiety striking you the closer you get.

Once the conscious siren noticed another presence, he shifted his gaze towards you, piercing teal irises peering through the lashes that lined his lids. You pause when you recognize the tension of his muscles, a scowl reaching his expression as a distorted melody rang from his lips.

You held your hands up in surrender, ensuring that your movements remained slow and gentle so as to not alarm the creature. A memory of the section of a passage you read during your studies of this mythological species reminded you of their ability to understand various languages, humans included. It was adapted for survival as their variety grew.

“It’s alright. I’m not here as an enemy, but as an aid,” you say, voice proper as you point towards the first aid kit in your hand. “I see that your friend is hurt. I’ve only come to help, if you’ll let me.”

He didn’t move. His gaze remained locked on you with a menacing guise. Despite the danger that radiated off of the creature, you recognized his urge to protect his loved one. It was expected.

You twist the box to face his view, unclipping the clasp as you open the lid, allowing him to observe the contents clearly. “As you can see, I mean no harm. With that amount of blood loss, your friend doesn’t have much time. Just let me help, please,” you say with a calm tone.

Why do I want to help them so bad?

Maybe his protectiveness of the unconscious being reminded you of the feelings you had during your brother’s trance. You understand what it feels like to have someone ripped away from you under circumstances you can’t control. Both sirens are vulnerable in this state. It’s clear that the teal-eyed male cares deeply for the man below him.

You watch as his eyes narrow, his expression revealing his contemplation as he stares at you with wonder. Eventually, he bowed his head to the side, nodding over to the other siren in defeat. You exhale in relief, heading over to the injured man before you kneeled beside him.

You rummaged through the box as you grabbed the necessities to dab, clean, and wrap the wound. The black-haired male watched you with caution, eyes roaming over your movements as you tended to the wound.

I never thought I’d ever be in this predicament.

But you didn’t hate it. To be able to help another aid a loved one, despite the resentment you held for the species, caused warmth to spread throughout your stomach.

The patch-up didn’t take long.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t known you were holding in as you clipped the box shut. The torso of the siren was successfully wrapped.

“I’d advise you to stay out of the water for a little longer, just to give the bleeding time to stop,” you suggest. You already knew that sirens could stay above water for long periods of time. They could live on land if they had legs, though some studies show that very few can transform their tails.

The siren only stared at you with the same cautious look as before, though it had slightly softened. Suddenly, movement catches both of your attention as both of your eyes shift toward the man below you. The man’s eyelids flutter open as he reveals bright, teal irises that flick over to you.

You couldn’t shake the strike of anxiety that surged through your spine, heart beating against your chest as he studied you with an intense gaze. His eyes shifted downward to his wound as you began to grab the box.

I think it’s time for me to leave.

Before you can lift yourself from the ground, a clawed hand shoots to your jaw as you’re held in place. You feel shock contort amongst your expression as your body stiffened to the tight grip.

What the fuck?

The creature leaned forward, slightly flicking his wrist to observe your features with his eyes slightly squinted, as if he was analyzing data and saving it to a file in his brain.

Your hand reached for his wrist, gently lowering it as you picked yourself up from the sand.

“Um… get better,” you quickly say, turning away as you walk toward the parking lot. You cursed yourself for the lack of knowledge on what else you could’ve said, slightly embarrassed.

You could feel their gazes locked on your back as you made your way off the beach.

The next morning was uneventful, your daily routine of deep-diving into the sea stretched throughout the day. It was finally the afternoon, your team filing the samples you and Riku had just collected from the reef you are currently studying.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the sirens you had met the night before. On one hand, you wanted to inform Riku of what you had experienced, wishing you had taken a picture from your phone as proof, but on the other hand, you knew that it wouldn’t have been an appropriate time for that. You also understood that Riku would remain stubborn with his disbelief until you provide physical evidence.

It was a lost cause.

“Break’s over. Let’s get going!” your team leader yelled across the small ship.

You eye the surface of the waves, heavily pushing along the foundation of the ship while the anchor holds you all in place. The sky is a bright blue, clouds streaking across the firmament as the sun shines a bright yellow. It’s a beautiful day, and yet, you couldn’t rid yourself of the pit that formed in your chest.

“Hey, Y/n. I still want to let you know that I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. You were right that it’s none of my business,” Riku said as he prepared the scuba gear on his form.

You followed along, chuckling in response as you placed the mask over your face. “I know. It’s whatever,” you say before patting him on the back. “We’re good.”

He nodded as he placed the snorkel in his mouth, slightly smiling in return before he hopped into the water. Shortly after, you followed his form as you dived into the ocean.

Your arms swayed against the pressure of the water as you peered through the goggles. You swam towards the opposite direction of Riku, aiming for the area that you were assigned to.

Moments later, you reached the colorful section of the reef, passing by various types of fish and sea creatures, some of which you found fascinating to observe. Once you reached the species of fish you were focused on for the shift, you connected a biologging sensor to the animal so that the laboratory could collect data on the behavior and whereabouts of the creature without hurting it.

During your session of tracking the correct species, a familiar sound echoed throughout the vicinity as your body floats. When your head turns in the direction of the noise, a swift force circled around your figure, startling you in the process as the bubbles of the water lined your vision.

Once it all settles, your eyes widen behind the goggles as you stare at the male siren in front of you.

His features aren’t far from the fins you had seen attached to the sirens during the previous evening. The translucent hue is tinged with a bright yellow, along with the elongated tail that curled around your form as he observed you. His dark locks flared above his neck, yellow undertones prominent as his bangs framed his sharp features.

As he studied you with golden orbs shifting over your form, his head tilted in recognition before a smile curled on his expression, revealing his sharp teeth. If you hadn’t studied the body language of sirens for so long, you would’ve thought you were going to be his next meal. He merely looked curious until he gave you a knowing glance.

Suddenly, you jolted as he released a loud frequency through his lips.

You listened as the rush of water appeared from your sides, head shifting left and right as you searched for the source.

Suddenly, you feel a hand grip your arm as you’re tugged to the side, your eyes shifting over to the new male who appeared.

Another male with similar fish-like features as the former siren came into view. His color scheme is a silky white, iridescent fins tinged with the hue as his claws wrapped around your arm. His platinum strands flowed around his head, his bangs framing his face. His white tail curled against the pressure of the water.

His lids are a natural slant, gray irises shifting over you with a lazy look plastered on his expression. Your brows raise in confusion at the ambush. Before you can yank your arm out of his grip, you felt a constriction against your opposite arm as another male appeared on the other side of your form.

You face the third siren, a man with long, red strands that flare amongst the water. The edge of his fins are laced with a bright green hue, the scales of his elongated tail matching the color scheme.

His eyes flicked over you with a studious expression, lips falling apart as an unsettling, melodic frequency echoed from his mouth, revealing his razor sharp teeth.

Your breath hitches as you’re pulled forward, the force abrupt as the water rushes past you. The two men gripping your arms follow behind the yellow-tailed siren as they make their way through the depths of the ocean, leading you deeper.

What the fuck? Where are they taking me?

You hoped that they wouldn’t travel deep enough for your lungs to compress. Despite your attempts to escape, their claws grazed your skin as their fingers curled tightly around you.

Suddenly, you noticed the lowered percentage of your oxygen tank, eyes widening as you realized you had strayed underwater for far too long. You begin to thrash in their hold, your movements more desperate than before.

Finally, the sirens stop in place, turning their attention to you with a mixture of confusion and annoyance on their expressions. You quickly gesture toward your tank and make a breathing motion before pointing upward.

They pause for a moment, giving each other a quick glance before releasing your arms. You hold your hands up in surrender before swimming upwards, rushing to the surface in a desperate attempt to make it before your oxygen runs out.

Once you made it back to the surface, water splashed around you as you broke through the waves, reaching for the strap that connected you to the ship and pulling yourself onto the platform. Your chest heaves as you fumble with the straps of the mask, yanking it off as you pant.

“Y/n? What the hell happened? You were under for so long I almost came to find you!” Riku exclaimed, rushing toward you as he grabbed the equipment from your hands to help you out of your gear.

You only continue to ease your breathing as the memories of what just occurred swirled through your mind. You couldn’t concentrate on Riku’s muffled words. Your vision is slightly distorted, a sudden dizziness causing your body to feel heavy as your head shifts toward the ocean.

Your thoughts morphed into jumbled words as darkness reached your vision, engulfing you into the void that tugs at your consciousness.

You felt the breeze kiss against your skin as your eyelashes fluttered open. The rays of the sun shine bright over you, the warmth engulfing your skin. As you slowly pull your upper body up from the ground, you could feel the sand sticking to your arms and legs. As you lean forward, your eyes perk, startled as you notice the men sitting around your figure.

What are they doing here? What am I even doing here? Wasn’t I on the ship?

You blinked as you noticed Sae sitting beside you, legs replacing the tail that once was there. His arm rested over a propped knee as his bare feet pressed against the sand, shorts concealing his lower region.

Wait… did I just identify his name? How do I even know it?

You look around, seeing the men sitting around you. Meguru sat on your right in the same position as Sae, though with shorts that matched the yellow tail he once had. You eyed the back of Rin’s head, black hair waving against the wind as he stared ahead, sitting in front of you, black shorts covering his bottom.

Your brows furrowed as you twisted yourself around, eyeing both Seishiro and Hyoma who sat behind you, though with their legs stretched out and ankles crossed, leaning on the back of their palms as they didn’t even spare a glance.

What the fuck is going on? Why do I know all of their names?

Your heart begins to race as you try to make sense of the situation. Something feels wrong.

This… this doesn’t feel real.

“Did you know that soulmates can feel a pull towards each other, even when they’re miles apart?” Sae’s calm voice cuts through the silence before you turn your attention to him.

You feel puzzled by his statement. “Soulmates?” you question, confusion lacing your tone.

You couldn’t see it, but as you walked away from the injured siren and his brother, a long, red thread protruded from your back as it connected you to the men’s chests, splitting at the end as the sirens eyed the fabric.

“It’s her. She’s the fated sixth.”

The male turned his head slightly, facing you with a stoic expression. “You can swim all you want, but the tide will always pull you along, no matter how hard you try to fight it.”

Suddenly, a rush of water fills your lungs as your eyes widen, your reality shifting underwater as the depths of the ocean carry you along. Your mask is vacant, along with the oxygen tank that was yanked off of you.

You couldn’t breathe. Your mouth was forced open by the pressure of the water as if it was filling your body. You gasped, suffocating as you thrashed against the surface.

Riku was in front of you, reaching for you with terror drawn over his expression. But then you notice the crimson tendrils that float around him, lowering your gaze amidst the chaos of your erratic motion as you yelp, his lower body completely detached from his torso. He was split from the middle, nothing but a gaping, fleshy hole, his insides floating.

As your vision begins to blur, you realize that you never escaped the ocean. You never even had a chance.

Glowing eyes settle around you as the sirens circle your form, the threads constricting any movement as you float in the middle of the formation. A light glows from the bottom of the sea, spreading throughout the vicinity as it engulfs your dying form.

Pressure forces your legs to press together, contorting your limbs into an unnatural formation as you twist and turn against the threads. Pain erupted throughout your body as you released a guttural scream from the agony shooting through your lower half.

Eventually, you couldn’t feel your legs as you normally would. They stretched until scales covered the skin, a multicolored hue forming as a long tail emerged from your body. You could feel your arms and ears shifting, fins protruding from your skin, matching the color of your tail.

You didn’t have time to feel the disbelief, shock, or devastation as the familiar void tugs at your essence.

—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

—𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 (𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜)

wc: 1375

You sit up in bed, breathing ragged as you hold a hand to your chest. Your lips are apart as the sweat beads along the lining of your forehead. You quickly pat the palms of your hands against your neck and torso as you ensure that you’re alive and physically apparent.

The lowering sun gleams through the crack of the curtains as it shines over the bedroom. You snatch the covers from your lower half, examining your legs as you curl your toes for reassurance. You exhale a slow breath as you fall back onto your pillow in relief.

217 notes · View notes

bloodywankers · 1 month ago

Text

tw; yandere, implied dub-con, unwanted pregnancy, forced relationship, ooc, unedited

yandere reo | very ooc | 1.5k words | bluelock masterlist

“You’ll never have to work a day.” He said, eyes pouring straight into your own and a self assured tone just about anyone would falter to. If he was a stranger you might have hesitated to believe his words, assumed him to be a scammer of some sort but you knew him well enough to know his offer could very well be possible. Especially when his family amassed enough wealth to make even the concept of money virtually worthless.

As you looked around trying to calm your nerves you noticed how much more shabby your clothes looked, compared to his suit that fit well enough to have been sewn straight onto his body. Your skin was much more rough looking compared to his and your eyes adorned in dark circles as a result of sleepless nights.

“All you have to do is say yes.” He continued, a small smile on his face as he slid an envelope towards you. You had done everything in your power to avoid him, you weren’t friends or even acquaintances of any sort anymore. If anything you were waiting for him to break out laughing at the slightest sign of your acceptance, revealing this all to be a sick joke or the result of a lost bet. But for him, this was the day he had counted every second to reach.

While Reo Mikage focused on enjoying himself throughout his university years, with employment practically secured at his family's company the moment he graduates, you were famous for the opposite. [name] the straight A student who wouldn’t miss a lecture even if disaster struck, the one that barely spoke and rarely if ever attended any social events.

At first, it was curiosity, you were brought up in a conversation and Reo couldn’t help but want to know more. Then it became a habit, to locate you in the lecture hall unconsciously, to anticipate your voice when the professor took attendance or to ask in advance if you were going to attend any extracurricular. He couldn’t help but notice your little habits and become further enamored each passing day.

It was still an innocent love but it was all tainted in filth that one night, a club activity that got extended into a group dinner with alcohol flowing as in any gathering of students, Reo felt tipsy but it was nothing compared to you who was flushed red even though you refused most drinks. Maybe it was the drunk courage that led him to corner you outside where nobody could see. His lips landed on yours and before he could process what he was doing, he felt a rush surge through him as he was sure now, sure that the emotions rushing through him were much more than a passing fascination.

Mikage Reo was the type of man that just passed life by, he was just an empty shell with nothing inside. Things like money or sex didn’t mean much to him but right now a mere kiss had him salivating for more like an animal in heat. That night he did something he knew he shouldn’t have and dragged you to a hotel room. He knew you would barely remember any of it and like a coward he took advantage of it. It would be a rough start but he could handle it, he would get you to accept him once morning came. But as the premature rays of sun peeked through the curtains, he felt the empty space beside him where he was sure you laid.

“Why don’t you look at what’s inside that envelope first, I’m sure that’ll answer all your questions.” He said, gesturing towards the inconspicuous brown envelope, the sly smile on his face growing ever-wider.

Reo found himself crawling back to you like a crippling addict even after that night. Still searching for you in every room he entered and uninterested in anything unless it pertained to you. If only you hadn’t disappeared soon after that night, leading to his obsession growing exponentially beyond anything that could be controlled.

“This…” the tone in your voice had changed, it was no longer hesitation stemming in confusion but rather a mix of fear and disgust. And yet, he wanted more. Reo could see the revulsion in your gaze as you looked up towards him with your brows knitted and lips formed in a thin frown. All the effort he went through to track you down felt worth it. “I hope you’ll seriously consider my offer, if not for your own sake then for our child’s.” The paternity test in your hands wrinkled as you shook uncontrollably.

Your mind had gone blank when you woke up with a splitting headache and a discomfort between your legs, almost jumping in surprise to find the dreaded man lying next to you still fast asleep. You knew well that nothing good would come from someone like you associating with him so you left before he could wake up, ran back home and locked yourself in there until your friends came knocking a few days later. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell them so you pretended it never happened and buried yourself in work instead.

When he approached you afterwards with a confession full of confidence, as if you accepting would be the most natural thing on Earth you could do nothing but stare at him with disgust. Screaming profanities one after another. You hated his kind, the careless rich kids that thought they could get anything they desired. “I’m not an object you can obtain by throwing money at me!” Those were your last parting words to him, the ones that rang in his head even today. His wide eyed expression brought at least some satisfaction to you that day. You couldn’t report him for your own sake so even this small victory was welcomed.

However, as if the universe were laughing at your misfortune, you were presented with the positive pregnancy test in your hands weeks later. Maybe the test was faulty—that’s what you comforted yourself with as you sat in the doctor's office. But not only were you pregnant, you would have no choice but to carry the pregnancy to term as it was far too late to get an abortion. That’s when the reality of your situation truly sunk in and you broke down for the first time. With nobody to rely on and unable to continue your studies due to your deteriorating health, you ran away from it all. You told yourself it would be temporary, just until the baby was born and then you would return to your studies but you couldn’t give your baby daughter away to someone else. Even when she was the spitting image of her father your heart broke thinking of what she would have to go through in an orphanage so you kept her, slowly finding new happiness in your daughter's smile.

Reo could barely compose himself once you rejected him. Following a monotonous routine as his sanity and reason hung by a thread. All he could think about was how he would make you pay until you begged to be his. But his parents put a stop to it, sending him abroad where they hoped he would change but his every thought was still consumed by only you. Finding out you had a child upon his return was enough to make him rebound into his obsession even worse than before, especially when she resembled him so much.

“The paternity test was just a formality, you can tell with just one look that she’s my daughter. Anyways just pack any essentials and get ready, we’re leaving this dump.” It was almost as if he was talking to himself with how he didn’t even bother to get a reply from you.

“I’m not leaving and neither is my daughter.” You had grown protective over your baby, a bastard like him didn’t deserve her.

“Let’s not make this any worse than it has to be, [name]. We both know you can’t afford to take care of a child on your own. What will you do when she grows up and asks why she doesn’t have a father, hmm? What about when she asks why she can’t have the things other kids have? Or when she wants to do extracurricular like kids her age, or when she wants to travel or go out with friends. Or what about when she—.”

“I get it, you can stop now!” You interrupted as tears streamed down your face, you had once again regressed into an inconsolable mess and in front of the man you despised the most to boot. You knew well you couldn’t give her the life she deserved.

Your daughter liked her father, almost as if she had known him from birth. It stung a little when her first words were ‘papa’ and when she would run to him before even looking at you but you could make peace with that, she’s just a child after all. What you couldn’t stand was your now husband, Reo. He had only gotten worse as now he seemed to think he had free reign to do as he pleased with you. He had made such a big show of only doing this for ‘his’ daughter but, to your detriment, he seemed much more interested in making up for lost time with you.

250 notes · View notes

depravitycentral · 3 months ago

Text

Tw: mild misogyny, physical assault, sexual harassment, he's icky nasty

“Y’know, you get this look when you’re mad.” He starts, and you straighten, back going taut as you wait for him to continue. Your back is to him, and you’re painfully aware of the heavy sound of his footsteps, slowly approaching you with a pace that makes shivers prickle along your arms.

“It’s like…” He starts, a noise following that you can only assume must be contemplative. “It’s like you’ve just missed the last train, or maybe someone cut you in line and got the last soda. It’s angry, sure, but it’s more like you’ve given up, if that makes sense.”

You peek at him, now, out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure what brought this on – he’d just been out to get a coffee from the campus café, promising to be back in a few minutes. That’d been thirty minutes ago.

Working on the project together hadn’t been your choice, but when he turned to you in class and nudged you, quirking his brows and promising to work real hard, you’d merely shrugged, genuinely ambivalent. You didn’t know anyone else in the class, only taking it as an elective, and it was supposed to be pretty easy.

“See, you’re doing it right now.” He snorts a bit, and now you fully turn to look at him.

“Thirty minutes? The café’s next door.” You’re a little irritated, sure, but not terribly so. Working on the project wasn’t exactly your idea of fun, either.

He winces, eyebrows drawing together, but offers you an apologetic smile. “Yeah, yeah, sorry about that.”

He sits down next to you, the otherwise empty classroom making the squeaking chair echo. The smell of coffee fills the room as he sets down his own cup, steam billowing from the sipping slit. You’re about to open your mouth to ask him if he’s finally ready to get started, but when he places a to-go cup down in front of you, too, your mouth snaps closed.

“Just guessed what you’d want, sorry. For whatever it’s worth, your drink’s the one that took so long to make.”

You glance at him, finding his gaze already stuck on you, but you just smile a bit. “Okay, forgiven.”

He laughs, clapping his hands together in a praying motion. “Thank god.”

Your laptop’s open in front of you, and for a few minutes the only sound filling the room is the clicking of keys and occasional sipping. Much to your surprise, he’d managed to select a drink you didn’t mind. Taking a small sip, you sighed at the flavor. It was cold in the classroom and the warmth was welcomed.

“So, what are you thinking for colors? I like my PowerPoints to be pretty, but if you want it to be more simple then that’s okay.” You look over at him as you finish, watching the way he bites his lip.

“Mm, maybe black and white? Y’know, just real simple. Simple’s always good.” He winks at you, and you slowly nod.

“Okay, uh, sure.”

Truth be told, you didn’t know much about your seatmate – he’d ran into class five minutes late the first day, quickly rushing into the closest open seat which happened to be next to you. You’d been a little irritated at first at how his stuff sprawled out and invaded your space, but he seemed nice and was decently participatory in class, making you grow a bit fond of him. Besides, the professor always looked so thankful when he was the only one to raise his hand – and for that, you could let his more questionable behavior slide.

“You’re doing it again, you know.” He starts, a finger coming out to poke at the side of your arm.

Jumping, you whirl on him. “What?”

“Doing your angry-but-not-really face.”

“I’m not mad, I promise.”

“Sure, sure. Then hopefully you won’t be mad if I do… this.” He starts, before reaching out to flick your pencil over the side of the table.

You’re frozen for a second, before staring at him blankly. “What the fuck?”

He grins. “I just wanna see if that look gets worse when you’re for real irritated, y’know?”

You sigh, reaching down to pick it up off the floor. Fixing him a look, you cross your arms. “Better? Because I am definitely irritated now.”

He appraises you, leaning a few inches closer. “Mhm, just as I thought! Your lips get thinner, and your eyebrows get all tight.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to face your laptop again. You only get a few words typed before he’s snickering under his breath, voice low as he mutters, “Most guys think that’s pretty unattractive, just so you know.”

Immediately you stop typing. Maybe partnering with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“What’s your problem?” You ask, and he looks at you again, hands poised over his own keyboard.

“What? Sorry if I hit a sensitive spot – girls are so weird about stuff like that. You’re pretty, don’t worry.”

You stay staring at him, and he only snickers. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the look I’m talking about. Kind of kicked-puppy, like you’re real sorry for yourself.”

Standing up from your chair, you set your hands on your hips and face him. “Okay, listen you ass, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not dealing with this shit.”

You start to gather your stuff, but your partner only laughs a bit, before reaching out and flicking your pencil once more, this time a little bit further. With a huff, you smack at his arm and set your things down with a loud thud onto the wood, moving to the side of the desk and bending down to pick it up.

He’s quicker than you’d expected, given the frumpy sweatshirt and sweatpants he wears that hide the muscular physique underneath.

Hands encircle your wrists before you can think, body rotated harshly, back hitting the linoleum floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. He’s above you, strong thighs caging your legs together underneath him. Your wrists are held up above your head, his single hand large enough to keep them pinned there. It isn’t until now that you realize just how tall he is, or how strong.

“What the fuck – “ You start, struggling and wiggling in his grasp. With growing panic, you realize you’re not able to make much progress, his muscles feeling like stone against you. A hand quickly comes down to slap over your mouth, muffling any yells or screams.

He’s staring at you, expression blank, something heavy simmering behind his eyes. Slowly though, the corner of his mouth tilts up, and it spreads, something resembling a grin stretching across his mouth – though his eyes don’t change.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a filthy mouth?” He asks, voice a bit quieter now, more of a whisper and deeper somehow – deep enough to make you freeze, momentarily stopping your struggle. His eyes are sharp, scary, too much – he’s too close to you, leaning closer and closer and making you press yourself harder and harder against the dirty classroom floor.

He laughs again. “But that’s okay, I like that about you. It’s like you’re wild, like you’re untamed. Real.” His eyes flash. “Raw. Ha, I just know girls love to hear that word.”

Your eyes go wide, the insinuation making your struggling pick back up again. You’re thrashing, but he only squeezes at your jaw, tutting at you.

“Nuh-uh, none of that, okay? And don’t worry,” he throws you a smile that makes your eyes feel wet, your nose tingling, “I’m not gonna do that. At least, not here. Y’know, I’ve got a little bit of decency, I know girls like mattresses, pillows, and shit like that.”

He licks his lips. “Anyways, back to that mouth of yours…”

Quickly, and without any warning, the hand over your mouth shifts up and down, two long, curling fingers plunging past your lips and laying heavily against your tongue.

Your face twists up, eyebrows knotting together in disgust because his fingers taste like salt. He grins again, and to your horror, his fingers start moving. Rubbing against your tongue, pressing down and down, the pads of his fingers feeling like sandpaper against you.

“You always get a look when you’re angry, sure, but did you know you get this look when you’re really happy, too? It’s like you’ve seen something Earth-shattering, like it’s something almost holy.” The fingers move and angle under, rubbing against the soft underside of your tongue, down and pressing against the space underneath your tongue. He shudders. “They say this part feels like pussy. That true?”

You can’t move, can’t even breath as he shoves his fingers down deeper, moving to run over all of your teeth, a whistle slipping past his lips. “But you’re real pretty when you’re smiling, you know. Makes me wanna stare at you. When you answer a question right and professor tells you ‘exactly!’, you get this big grin and it’s damn cute. Always staring at those lips of yours – they get thinner when you’re smiling, y’know? Stretched taut, always makes me think what all they can do. Just how much they can stretch, if you get what I’m saying.”

You do, but you wish you didn’t, and he must know that because his fingers move to dip into the lower corners of your mouth, slipping between your back molars and your inner cheeks, prodding and poking at the juncture between gum and cheek. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Even like this – you’re puckered, which I guess isn’t the same thing, but I like it.”

He hums, taking his time as his fingers dip and poke at every inch of your mouth, running over every bump and curve of your teeth, pinching your tongue between his finger pads, thumb rubbing circles against the underside of your chin.

“Do you like this?” He murmurs, those eyes locked on the motion of his fingers inside your mouth, the imprint visible against your cheeks. He licks his lips again. “I’ve heard some girls like shit in their mouth. Obviously I think my cock’d be better, but this works too. Works for me, that’s for sure.”

He laughs at that, shifting his hips forward, and you whimper when you feel what you can only assume is his erection against your thigh. His nostrils flare at the sound. “Fuck babe, that’s good. Do that again.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend you’re somewhere else, but his grip on your wrist gets tighter, tight enough to hurt and oh ow ow ow –

You gasp around his fingers, the sound choking, and he whines lowly in his throat. “God, you’re fucking pretty. Your smile’s good, but you look good like this too, just so you know. All scared, shivering and squirming around… Ha, see? This is kind of like that angry face I was talking about. All terrified and self-patronizing, feeling back for yourself.”

He cocks his head to the side, fingers pushing in even further in a fluid motion, reaching to touch the back of your throat, making you gag. He bites his lip. “Kind of pisses me off that you’re so afraid of me, but I get it. I can forgive you. Besides…”

He leans down, nose nudging at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Something warm and wet lolls out to run in languid strokes along your skin, the tee-shirt you’re wearing doing little to deter him. In fact, he takes the hem between his teeth, sucking at the fabric and letting his hair brush against your jawline. You shut your eyes again.

“I know what will make that face even better, how you’ll get even more angry.”

You stop, dread filling every muscle in your body.

He laughs against your skin, nibbling lightly and smiling at the way you jolt away. “Remember how I said I like your smile? How I think it’s just so damn pretty?”

You’re too frozen to move – not like you could, anyway. The linoleum feels especially cold against you.

He grins, pulling back to look at you. He presses a kiss against his hand, right over your lips. “Well, when we met up today and you looked at me like that, smiling at me – at me, I mean, what was I supposed to do?”

His cock’s pressing against your thigh again, humping lightly as it grows harder, bigger, more insistent. “I know you’re not stupid. Coffees don’t take thirty minutes to get. So you know what I did with the other twenty minutes, then, right? C’mon, you’re smart, think about it.”

He’s staring at you again, mirth swimming in his eyes. “Let’s just say my refractory period is damn short.”

Immediately there’s bile climbing up your throat because the salty taste of his fingers – his right hand, no less – is all too strong now, the smell of his pinky pressed up against your nose musky and heady and god, you’re going to be sick.

He’s quick to press harder against your mouth, though, tutting against at you. “Oh, don’t worry, I washed my hands after the first round. But then your drink was done, and I couldn’t keep you waiting, right? After all I know how you get when you’re mad.”

He sighs, leaning down to press his forehead against yours again. “Now, about that mouth.”

He grins, eyes sparkling as he ruts against your thigh and asks, “On your knees or on your back? I’ll let you choose, babe.”

Atsumu Miya, Kenji Futakuchi, Takahiro Hanamaki, Shoyo Hinata, Tetsurou Kuroo, young Enji Todoroki, Tomura Shigaraki, Kaigaku, some flavor of Tengen Uzui, Ryusei Shidou

#_lee rambles #yandere haikyuu #yandere bnha #yandere kny #yandere bllk #yandere mha #yandere blue lock #_whole cast #_bnha #_kny #_haikyuu

384 notes · View notes