yanderegarden - Tumblr blog

yanderegarden · 22 hours ago

Text

Love 100mg Warning: May be addictive

KATSUKI BAKUGO

TW: yandere-themes, non-con/dub-con ideations, profanity, kidnapping, emotional, verbal, & physical abuse, implied drug-use & addiction, withdrawal symptoms, violence, blood, forced confinement. Fem reader

Tip-Jar

You and Bakugo grew up in the same town, on the same street, and attended the same schools, yet barely exchanged anything more than a simple glance in the hallways.

Growing up, you can recall briefly watching him from the entry hall window of your home, admiring his confidence even as a child. His belief that he was capable of anything could be felt even from houses away.

Your parents kept you sheltered as a child. You had the urge to go and play with the other kids, but knowing there wasn’t much you could do, you were content staying inside.

Developing a passion for your studies at a young age, you became fascinated with your courses. Excelling in middle school, you were one of the top students.

It wasn’t until one year in middle school that you were formally introduced to Bakugo—when you both tied for first place in the science fair. You had envisioned Bakugo as someone who was confident, strong-willed, and kind...

Little did you know, his jealousy of being at the top was paired with the will to be the only one there. You felt an uneasy feeling standing next to him as you both had your picture taken by the school newspaper, holding a trophy together. You won’t forget how you tried congratulating him, saying, "I don’t know how they expected us to share this medal," attempting to lighten the mood. But he simply replied, "Keep the stupid medal. It'll probably be the last one you get." From that moment on, you steered clear of Bakugo.

No longer did you have long, pondering stares at him from your bedroom window, fantasizing about what he was like or how he treated his friends. Instead, you chose to focus on yourself, your studies, and your life. When graduation day came, you applied to the public high schools in the area. Considering the reaction you had faced when Bakugo declared he'd be the only one attending UA High, you decided to stay away. You had seen the way he treated Midoriya and chose not to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Why take the risk? you asked yourself

It wasn't until your parents told you that a mutual hero friend of theirs had extended a letter of recommendation for UA High’s General Studies course and applied on your behalf.

The school welcomed your application, considering that a pro hero had recommended you for your intelligence.

You told your parents it wasn’t a great idea—that it would be expensive, that you didn’t want to place that financial burden on them, that you’d rather stay closer to home and your friends. What you didn’t disclose was that you’d rather not be anywhere near Bakugo.

They dismissed your concerns, insisting you didn’t know what you were talking about. You should be excited that a hero recommended you—it would be rude to disrespect a hero like that, they said. Do you think you know better? Eventually, they bullied you into agreeing.

And so, there you were, ready to join Class 1-C.

"This won’t be so bad?" you muttered under your breath, using the palms of your hands to flatten your uniform’s skirt and straighten your tie. You adjusted the strap of your school bag over your shoulder, took a deep breath, and forced a smile on your face—whether it was genuine or not.

The first year went by fast, and you were already in the middle of your second year, but you were drowning. Overwhelmed by your parents pressure to do well in your studies, and struggling because you still hadn't made any close friends—if any at all. You began to feel more sensitive to teachers' criticism. Riddled with anxiety whenever you saw Bakugo in the hallways, even though he barely paid you any attention.

That’s when you started sneaking out of the dorms at night.

Was it because of loneliness? Boredom? The crushing weight of responsibilities and missed, late schoolwork? You didn’t know.

But you knew that, out there, you could finally breathe.

A deep inhale of fresh air. The darkness and coolness of the night surrounding you. No thoughts—just the sound of the world asleep, the occasional car passing by.

It became a habit. Slipping out for a few hours. At first, you stayed on campus, walking the grounds, avoiding security. You had a spot near the forest where you would simply lie down and watch the stars. Then, you started venturing into the town surrounding UA.

You were surprised by how different it was at night. During the day, it was just another city. But at night? The streets were alive—vivid lights, bustling crowds, music, laughter, the smell of street food wafting through the air. You felt like an outsider at UA high, but it was different when you went out at night. At first, you were nervous to explore. You stuck to familiar places close to school, opting to visit a ramen shop, and after a warm meal, your belly full, your eyelids grew heavy. You began to get ready to leave, until a young man—who looked about your age—smiled at you. You glanced down, blushing. He approached the table. "Hello," he greeted. You hesitated but nodded. "You can sit next to me if you’d like."

You talked. What felt like minutes turned into an hour. He never ordered anything, but eventually, he asked if you’d like to walk around town. You agreed. He was polite. A gentleman, you thought. Opening doors for you, holding your bag, eventually—your hand.

You felt flattered. Someone was finally paying attention to you.

Your quiet, shy demeanor often came off as rude to others, but in reality, being sheltered for so long had made you excel academically but fail socially. So when a cute boy your age showed interest, you felt a warmth in your chest.

He bought you tea. Took you to a park. The two of you sat on a bench, watching the koi fish in a pond. Then, you looked up and caught him staring at you. His face instantly flushed, sheepishly laughed and quickly looked away. You giggled. Finally, he asked, "So, what’re you doing out here so late? A girl as pretty as you shouldn’t be out here on the mean streets all alone," he joked.

You laughed, explaining how you felt like you couldn’t breathe inside the dorms, how you were stressed from loneliness, overwhelmed by homework. You rambled, spilling your guts to a stranger.

But he let you.

You apologized for talking so much, but he simply shook his head.

"No need to apologize. I understand. I was going to a high school around here, but I eventually dropped out. My parents kicked me out, and now I live in an apartment down here."

You frowned. "Hmm… I’m sorry."

"I'm alright. I'd rather live on my own than have my parents nagging me every day. Better this way," he said. You agreed, somewhat relating to his situation. "Especially since I can do this all I want now." He pulled out what looked like a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag. "Oh shit, sorry. Did you want some?" he asked while letting out a cough. You shook your head. "Oh no, thank you. What even is it?" He smirked. "Weed." You gave him a confused look. "Devil's lettuce?" he teased. "Cannabis?" You laughed, turning red, embarrassed by your own naivety. You had heard of it, of course, but you had never seen or smelled it before.

Suddenly, you were fascinated. "What does it do?" you asked curiously. He smiled. "C'mere."

You leaned in, and so did he—until his lips pressed against yours. You kissed him back, only to feel smoke filling your lungs. You coughed, your eyes widening. Then, out of nowhere, an overwhelming urge to laugh took over you, so you did. And so did he.

That night was the beginning.

Sneaking out to meet him, to smoke, to escape—it became a habit. A few weeks passed, and then he introduced you to alcohol. Then, other substances.

You started spending nights at his apartment.

You felt guilty, knowing your parents and teachers would disapprove of this behavior. But you didn’t care.

The stress, the loneliness, the weight of expectations—it all disappeared when you were with him, when you were using. You began to love being high.

You barely made it through your second year with passing grades. You were forced to take summer classes. Eventually, the school had to intervene. A meeting was called with your parents, the principal, and the vice principal. They listed everything—your grades, your frequent absences, your improper dresscode.

"We’re so very sorry for our daughter. Please excuse her shameful behavior. We have failed as parents, but we will do our best to get her back on the right path," your parents exclaimed, bowing their heads in shame.

You sat there, numb. Unmoved. It wasn’t until after the meeting that your parents let loose, yelling at you for what felt like hours. You tried to find your passion for studying again, but the truth was, your real passion had become the feeling of being inebriated.

Eventually, you learned how to balance doing the bare minimum in school while still getting high your last year. You started sneaking your friend into the dorms, buying drugs from him, getting high in your room.

"Wow, this school is for rich kids, huh? You never told me you went to a rich kid school. Are you rich?" he asked, looking around with amusement. You laughed at his dorky demeanor. "No, I’m not. My stupid parents made me go here on a scholarship. I hate it." He chuckled, and you sighed. That night, you showed him around campus, wandering the grounds.

Eventually, you stopped by a vending machine, digging into your pocket for some change. Then, you heard footsteps. You turned quickly, covering his mouth with your hand. "Be quiet," you mouthed, bringing a finger to your lips.

His eyes widened.

You could tell—he was scared. Scared to be caught, to be punished. Arrested... again. Then, just like that, your oh-so-reliable friend chose to run. You slapped your forehead and groaned loudly. The footsteps were getting closer. Panic set in. You crouched down, pressing yourself against the vending machine side, hoping—praying—that whoever was approaching wouldn’t walk past.

You shut your eyes. Your heart pounded in your ears.

Then—

"What’re you doing crouching by a vending machine?"

Your eyes snapped open.

Bakugo.

Relief left your lungs in a sharp exhale. "Oh, it’s just you," you muttered.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Just me?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Quickly, you got up, dusted off your knees, and tried to walk past him—only to feel a firm hand grip the sleeve of your collar.

"Who was that with you?" he demanded.

"Who? What? He was n— I mean, there was no one with me."

"Hey!" He shoved you back against the vending machine.

Your breath hitched.

"I don’t need off-campus losers sneaking in and causing problems for me. I’m on my way to the top, and I don’t have time for trash like that screwing things up. Keep your outside garbage out there."

You scoffed, shoving his hand off of you.

"Shut up. You don’t know anything. It’s dark out. You thought you saw two people? It was just me. Go get your eyes checked."

He pushed your arms to your sides and growled, "Listen, I know what I saw, and by the looks of it, you shouldn’t be hanging out with someone like that anyway."

You stayed silent. "I can smell the alcohol on your breath. Your hair reeks of smoke. And you look like you belong on the street right now," he seethed. You held your breath.

"What’s it matter to you?" you finally spat. "One less person to get in your way of becoming a hero, right?" He didn’t reply. So, you kept talking. "So what? You gonna tell someone? Go ahead. Do it. I don’t care anymore anyway." Your voice cracked. You looked down in shame, muttering the last part under your breath.

He sighed. "You used to be an honors student. Maybe I should tell someone—get you kicked out. Not like it’ll make much of a difference whether you’re here or not. You don’t talk to anyone here anyway,” he muttered the last part.

That was it. That was the last straw. You mustered up the courage and drove your knee into his crotch. His grip on you instantly loosened as he grunted in pain. Wasting no time, you grabbed your bag from the ground and bolted.

You didn’t stop running until you felt you were far enough away. Only then did you glance back—he was gone. When you finally reached your dorm, you collapsed onto your bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

The next few weeks were spent in a state of paranoia. Every time a teacher so much as glanced your way, your heart pounded, fearing they’d pull you aside, take you to the office, and demand to search your bag. You tried to keep a low profile. No more using in the dorms. No more using at all. But it was too difficult. After a month, it became clear—Bakugo wasn’t going to say anything. Even so, you vowed never to bring your friend onto campus again. Instead, you snuck out at night, bought what you needed, and returned immediately.

That was supposed to be the end of it. But then, you started to feel it—eyes on you. Watching. Walking from class to class. At lunch. During breaks.

It was Bakugo.

You avoided eye contact at all costs. If I don’t acknowledge him, he’ll eventually stop. But he didn’t. Instead, it led to painfully awkward encounters—bumping into each other in the hallways, turning a corner only to find him there.

You even spotted him hanging around outside the 1-C dormitories. You brushed it off. It’s just a coincidence. He must know someone here. He just happened to be there at the same time as me. Still, a voice in the back of your mind nagged at you. Why would he care about a failing, drug-using student like me?

One night, for the first time in a while, you decided to sneak out again. Creeping out of your bottom-story dormitory window, you took a quiet walk across the school grounds, heading downtown.

Just as you were about to put your headphones in, you felt one being yanked from your ear.

You jumped, heart pounding—Bakugo.

"Where d'ya think you're going? Academic students have a curfew."

You scoffed. "I could say the same for you, hero course."

You put your headphone back in and kept walking, ignoring him. But he grabbed your bag. Hard. You barely had time to react before the force yanked you backward. He caught you before you hit the ground.

"Hey, what the hell is your problem?" you snapped, shoving him off.

"You're my problem, junkie."

You scoffed, disgusted. "I'm not a junkie," you muttered under your breath. But then he grabbed your bag again, and this time, everything inside went flying onto the pavement.

Panic set in. You scrambled to pick up your things before he could see—but it was too late. His eyes scanned the scattered items: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a pipe, multiple baggies—powders, pills, and plants.

His face went cold.

The amusement in harassing you disappeared instantly. "Fuck off already," you spat, stuffing everything back into your bag.

"I didn't realize it was this bad."

You didn’t reply. You just turned and speed-walked away.

He didn’t follow.

And you were relieved.

Months passed. Your grades tanked your 3rd year. Your addiction got worse. Skipping classes became routine—opting instead to get high at your friend’s apartment. "Alright, I'm gonna head out and re-up on that shit you like," he said, shutting the door behind him. You lay sprawled across his bed, sheets messy, clothes and empty beer cans scattered on the floor.

A cigarette dangled from your lips as you practiced blowing smoke rings. Minutes passed.

Then, the door creaked open."Hey, back already? Finally. Let's get this party started," you called out, pushing yourself up.

But as you stepped into the living room, you froze.

Standing there, bloodied and bruised, was Bakugo.

You stared.

So did he. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, finally, you found your voice. "Whose blood is that?"

Silence.

His fists, still clenched, dripped with blood. His knuckles were torn open. He stepped closer.

"We graduate soon, y'know," he muttered. "Only a few weeks left."

Something about him felt different—more dangerous.

His presence was overwhelming. He had only grown taller, stronger over the past 2 years. Meanwhile, you felt like you had only gotten smaller.

"I'm gonna be a full-fledged hero soon." He let out a dry laugh. "My parents helped me tour condominiums. I have one now too,” he bragged.

Your heart pounded. He was dodging your question. And he was still getting closer.

Your mind raced. I just need to get past him. Run out the door. It'll be fine. "Yeah. That’s cool, Bakugo. Good for you." You forced a nod. "Listen, what are you doing her—"

"That scum you hang around with," he interrupted. "You realize he's corrupting you? And you're too much of an idiot to know any better."

Another step forward.

You moved back, knocking over a lamp. Glass shattered, startling you. "Yeah, he's just a friend I like to hang out with. I was lon—"

"You had me!" Bakugo snapped. Your breath hitched. "You could’ve talked to me."

Your brow furrowed. "What do you mean? You were in class 1-A, and I was in 1-C. I barely saw you."

"I mean as a kid." The words hit like a brick. "You barely made eye contact with me. Always thinking you were better than me. But look at you now." He sneered. "You're desperate for someone to come rescue you."

Your jaw clenched. "I don't need anyone to rescue me, Bakugo. I think you should go."

You backed up again—only to hit the wall.

Nowhere left to go. Bakugo exhaled through his nose, staring down at you. "I’m gonna help you. You’ll sober up. Gain some weight."

Your stomach twisted. "Let’s just make this easy on both of us. Come with me."

For a moment, you were silent. Then, you burst into laughter. It was loud, almost hysterical—whether it was genuine or not, you weren’t sure.

"You find this funny?"

"Yes! I do, actually!" you snapped. "I’m practically an adult! You can’t just take me. I’m not your responsibility. Now move."

You motioned for him to step aside.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed your wrist. Instinct kicked in. "Hey, get the fuck off me—!" In a blink, he flipped you over his back.

Panic surged through you. You kicked, heels slamming into his legs, struggling to break free—But his grip was like iron. And for the first time in your life… You were genuinely terrified. You pounded your fists against his back, kicked your legs, did anything to try and break free. But you were still coming down from a high—your movements sluggish, weak, useless.

Bakugo didn’t waver. His grip was iron, his hold on you unrelenting.

"Don’t worry," he kept muttering under his breath. "I’m gonna get you out of this shithole." When he pushed open the apartment stairway door, you were met with a sight that made your stomach drop.

Your friend—beaten, bruised, and bloody—lay motionless on the ground.

You screamed.

"Let go of me, you psychopath!"

He ignored you. Without hesitation, he dragged you outside and threw you into the trunk of his car. Before you could fight back, your wrists and ankles were bound tightly with zip ties. The trunk slammed shut, sealing you in darkness.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. The drive felt endless. Every bump in the road made your restraints dig deeper into your skin. Your mind raced. Where was he taking you? What was he going to do?

By the time the car finally stopped and the trunk opened, the cold night air rushed over you. As soon as you saw an opening, you lunged, trying to make a break for it.

You didn’t get far. In seconds, he was on you—pinning you to the ground, his weight pressing you into the dirt.

"Calm the fuck down. I’m helping you." You thrashed, screamed for help, but no one came. His palm pressed against your wrists, keeping you restrained as he dragged you inside.

You barely had time to process before you were inside a large condominium—immaculate, modern, and painfully unfamiliar.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning from exertion and panic. "Why are you doing this?" Your voice cracked. "Why do you even care?"

He didn’t answer.

He just threw you to the floor and sliced the zip ties off your wrists with a pocket knife. The moment your hands were free, you lunged at him, fists swinging wildly.

He barely flinched. Within seconds, he had you pinned again, his hand tightening around your throat as he lifted you against the wall. His crimson eyes burned into yours, his grip just shy of suffocating.

"Lose this fucking attitude before I get pissed." Fury boiled inside you. You spit in his face. The instant it landed, you regretted it.

His jaw tensed. Without a word, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you toward a door.

Pain shot through your scalp, but you barely had time to react before you were being dragged down a flight of stairs—into the basement.

It was cold. Damp. The air was heavy with dust and mildew. Your stomach dropped. "Bakugo—" He shoved you against a metal support beam and began tying your wrists together with an extension cord to the beam. The plastic of the cord and cold metal beam bit into your skin. You thrashed, screamed louder—but your throat burned, raw from all the yelling.

No one came. No one was going to. With a final tug, he secured the knot, turned, and walked up the stairs.

The basement door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed you whole. For the first time since this nightmare began, you let yourself cry. Tears rolled down your cheeks, hot and bitter, as you tried to process what had just happened.

How had it come to this? You screamed again—until your throat ached too much to continue. You were thirsty. You were cold. You were alone. Eventually, exhaustion overtook your body, and you passed out.

When you woke, the basement door creaked open. Heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Bakugo.

In his hands, he carried a bucket and a towel. You scrambled back as far as your restraints would allow, pressing yourself against the cold beam. He crouched down, soaking the towel in water before wringing it out. Without a word, he reached forward, pressing it against your face.

You jerked away instantly, turning your head to avoid his touch.

But he was persistent. Every time you moved, he followed. Until, finally, he grabbed your chin—forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn’t as harsh as before, but it was firm.

And for the first time since this all began, he was silent. No threats. No taunts. Just silence. Slowly, he wiped away the sweat and dirt clinging to your skin.

Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of scissors. Your breath hitched. The cold metal grazed your arm, and for a moment, panic surged inside you. You were trembling now, eyes wide, heart hammering— But then, with a single motion, he began cutting your uniform away. Fabric fell in shreds, leaving you in just a bra and underwear. A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over you, your body shaking violently from both the cold and fear. Still, he said nothing.

He continued wiping down your arms, your stomach, your legs—his touch clinical, methodical. Your heartbeat was so loud you swore he could hear it. Then, just as quickly as it started, it was over. He pulled a clean T-shirt over your body—his, oversized and heavy with the scent of burnt caramel and musk.

Without another word, he tossed the bucket aside. "You can piss and shit in here." The bucket clattered against the floor. Then, he turned to leave.

You hesitated before finally croaking out, "What time is it?" He glanced over his shoulder. And then he walked away. The door slammed shut again. You were left in the dark. Alone.

Again.

Hours passed. The high had faded, leaving you raw. Your body ached, your hands trembled. The first waves of withdrawal crept in—irritability, nausea, a gnawing anxiety that only grew with every second that passed. God, you just wanted a cigarette.

Something. Anything. But there was nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook you once more, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep. When you woke again, sunlight barely crept through a small basement window in the corner. Your mind reeled.

They’ll notice I’m not in class. Someone will report me missing. They’ll find my friend—he’ll tell them what happened. They’ll come for me. They have to.

You held onto that hope, clinging to it like a lifeline. Then, the basement door opened again. Bakugo descended the stairs, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water. He crouched in front of you, set the plate down, then picked up a spoon. He scooped up a bite and motioned it toward your mouth.

You blinked. Then, you laughed. Loud and sharp. "Get that the fuck away from me, you creep. I don’t want th—" Before you could finish your sentence, a spoonful of food was shoved into your mouth.

You gagged, immediately spitting it onto the cold basement floor in defiance. Bakugo’s jaw ticked. Without a word, he scooped up another bite and forced it into your mouth, this time clamping a hand over your lips and pinching your nose shut.

"Swallow, and you get to breathe."

You held out for as long as you could, glaring at him through watery eyes. But the dizziness crept in, black dots dancing in your vision. He wasn’t bluffing. You swallowed. Air rushed into your lungs as he finally let go. "Good."

He kept going, shoving spoonful after spoonful past your lips until the bowl was empty. Your stomach twisted painfully, not used to eating this much after months of skipping meals, but he didn’t care.

Finally, he held the glass of water toward you.

You hesitated. "Drink." This time, you did. Your throat ached from screaming, raw and burning, and the cool water was a welcome relief.

Bakugo watched you the entire time, crimson eyes never wavering. For a while, he just sat there, studying you like you were some puzzle he was trying to solve. You swallowed thickly.

"You know someone's going to realize I'm missing," you finally said, voice hoarse. "They’ll come looking for me. And when they do, say goodbye to your career."

For a moment, he didn’t react. Then, he smiled. A slow, knowing smile. "Yeah? Guess we’ll have to see, huh?" Your stomach dropped. He was too confident. Too calm. You looked away, your earlier bravado suddenly cracking.

"What?" His voice was smug. "Where’d that smart attitude go now?"

You clenched your fists, biting your lip to keep from trembling. The cold of the basement seeped into your bones, the only sound was the distant hum of life continuing without you. You weren’t sure what scared you more—the situation you were in, or the sinking realization that maybe… just maybe… no one was coming to save you.

87 notes · View notes