Characters/fandoms/pairings: Yandere! Honda Kiku || Japan [Hetalia] x F! Reader.
Warning: This story will contain explicit yandere
themes, proceed with caution [includes mentions of graphic violence and implied stalking]
Author's note: this idea for a short drabble had been on my mind for days after seeing this yandere japan fanart by @purplemistbutterfly and I just had to write it. Wc- 4, 557.
Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.
The glow of neon lights wrapped around you like a comforting embrace as you lounged on a plush sofa, the strains of your own recordings playing softly in the background. Each note echoed through the modest bar, creating a dreamy atmosphere that felt almost otherworldly. The chandelier flickered, casting delicate colors across the room, and for a moment, you felt suspended in a haze, as if the world around you had faded away.
In the background, the clinking of glasses and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air. A waitress, young and diligent, bustled about, balancing trays of drinks with practiced grace, exchanging light banter with the bartender, who was busy mixing cocktails. Their laughter mingled with the music, a gentle reminder of the life that pulsed through the club as it prepared for the evening rush.
With a soft sigh, you swung your legs off the sofa, the hem of your dress swirling around you for an instant. The sharp click of your heels against the floor grounded you, pulling you back into the moment.
You absentmindedly twirled a strand of your hair around your fingers, a pang of longing washing over you. How you wished you could sing forever—such a melodramatic thought, you mused.
Just then, a waitress removed the ashtray from the coffee table, her movements graceful. She caught your eye and offered a warm smile, one that reflected the admiration so many in this lively city had for you. Young yet industrious, she, like others, found joy in your performances, and their support felt like a quiet reminder of your modest fame.
It was the perfect balance—enough recognition to feel appreciated, yet not so much that it became overwhelming. You cherished this intimate space, where your talent was seen and valued, untainted by the harsh demands of larger stages.
With a roll of your shoulders, you decided to freshen up. You applied a light layer of makeup, your dress—a flowing creation with delicate crow motifs—draped around your legs. The fabric shifted with each subtle movement, catching the light in a way that made the motifs seem alive.
You slipped on your heels and styled your hair with careful hands, confident in your skill, the way you always did before a performance. After sending away the helpful crew who insisted on doing it for you, you prepared to step into the night, ready to captivate once more.
The stage shimmered like a midnight sky, lit with soft, silvery lights that twinkled like distant stars. You felt like a solitary bird, singing a lullaby that might go unheard by the vastness of the world, yet here, every note held significance. The melody flowed from your lips, soft and effortless, as your body swayed gently to the rhythm.
The rest of the world faded away, leaving just you, the music, and the connection with those who listened. It was ironic, really—this was when most eyes were on you, and yet you felt as though you were suspended in a private world of your own making.
The audience was a mix of familiar faces and newcomers, all drawn in by the magic you created on stage. Among them were well-dressed gentlemen, some leaning back with arms crossed, others inching forward, their eyes following your every move with intrigued intensity. Nearby, women whispered excitedly, their giggles escaping as they listened. Business elites, seeking respite from the fast-paced world outside, sat quietly, their faces softening as they allowed themselves to relax, appreciating the intimacy of this setting over the grandeur of larger performances.
At other tables, university students exchanged glances between sips of their drinks, entranced by your voice, some even whispering your name as though they’d stumbled upon a secret treasure. Local workers, still in their uniforms, unwound from their long shifts, leaning back in their chairs with drinks in hand, their faces softened with quiet smiles as your melody soothed their weary souls.
In the background, the diligent staff moved seamlessly through the space, balancing trays of drinks, refilling glasses, and clearing tables. The bartender, a seasoned expert with quick hands, mixed cocktails with the precision of an artist, casting the occasional glance toward the stage, a faint smile always tugging at his lips. The waitstaff worked with a rhythm of their own, exchanging light banter with regulars and newcomers alike.
They were your quiet champions, always turning down the big offers from record companies that sought to pull you into the commercialized world of fame. They knew, as you did, that this setting was where you truly wished to be.
Your performance was more than just a routine; it was an extension of yourself, a moment of vulnerability wrapped in music. The spotlight gently framed your figure, casting a soft glow that danced with the notes as they escaped your lips. Your hands lifted, almost as if guiding the melody itself, and for those moments on stage, nothing else mattered.
The sway of your dress, adorned with delicate crow motifs, moved like shadows across the floor, adding an air of mystery to your presence.
And though you weren’t chasing the grandeur of fame, there was a certain power in these performances. The connection you felt with the audience—each gaze, each whisper of your name—made you feel seen in ways that the glare of the public eye never could.
You weren’t a star striving to shine in the vastness of the sky; you were the moon casting light over an enchanted crowd, and in this bar, in this moment, that was enough.
What you didn’t notice was the quiet presence lingering at the edge of the room, like a shadow among the warm glow of lights. Hidden in the dim corners, a pair of dark, inscrutable eyes watched you—deep and unfathomable, reminiscent of still waters reflecting a moonlit sky.
His gaze followed your every movement, simmering with an adoration that burned slowly, as insidious as poison, blending seamlessly with the night. And just before you left the stage, he muttered softly to himself, barely audible over the music,
“カラスは…これから来るものの前兆だ。”
His lips curled into a subtle, unsettling smile, as though the omen had already taken root.
“ダーリン。”
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It was a spur-of-the-moment decision when Feliciano had eagerly dragged Kiku out of the house, his voice embarrassingly loud in front of everyone. With excitement gleaming in his eyes, he insisted that Kiku join him at a nearby bar, one he claimed had a cozy atmosphere.
He went on about the drinks, the people, and especially the woman there whose voice he described as angelic, able to make anyone forget their troubles. Kiku raised an eyebrow—he knew Feliciano, and any woman could be deemed an angel in his eyes, so he wasn’t sure whether anyone could truly live up to that praise.
Despite his reluctance, Kiku followed, feeling a mixture of resignation and annoyance. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged out like this, especially for something so undignified. He could already imagine the kind of chaos Feliciano would create in such a quiet setting.
As they entered the bar, Kiku sighed. The warm lighting and low hum of conversation created a peaceful atmosphere, but he wasn’t impressed. His eyes scanned the room, seeking something of interest to distract himself. That’s when he spotted Ludwig across the room.
Ludwig was seated at a table, his gaze fixed intently on a brunette in a maid outfit who was laughing with a group of friends. Kiku noted how serious Ludwig appeared, his focus unwavering as he studied her every move with an almost unsettling intensity. When their eyes met, Ludwig gave him a brief nod, which Kiku returned with a slight bow. It was typical of Ludwig to maintain such seriousness, even in a casual setting.
Next to Ludwig sat Francis, effortlessly charming a group of businesswomen with his smooth foreign accent. His laughter filled the air easily, a stark contrast to Ludwig’s quiet intensity. Kiku watched the scene with mild amusement. It was familiar, but somehow still entertaining to see Francis working his charm.
Feliciano, oblivious to the dynamics of the group, continued to rave about the bar’s ambiance. Kiku couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sigh. Maybe there was something to enjoy in this unexpected gathering of familiar faces, but he wasn’t convinced.
Then the music began.
A soft, haunting melody slowly rose, weaving through the air like a gentle current, filling the space around them. Kiku, sinking into his seat in one of the private booths, instinctively turned his focus toward the sound. The bar was cozy, the conversation still flowing around him, but it was the music that truly drew him in.
He glanced toward Ludwig again, who seemed to have relaxed a little, a few drinks in, with the brunette now sitting on his lap. Despite the change in posture, the intensity in Ludwig’s gaze remained. Kiku shifted his focus back to the music, feeling the soft notes caress the air. Despite their slow pace, they held power, quieting the noise in his mind.
The voice that accompanied the melody was captivating—rich, smooth, hypnotic. It settled into Kiku’s chest, making his thoughts slow and his senses sharpen. The world around him dimmed as he focused only on the sound, letting the voice wrap around him like a spell. For a brief moment, he forgot where he was, lost to the music.
As the notes filled him, something shifted inside, like a spark igniting in the stillness of his chest. An unfamiliar hunger stirred—dangerous, intoxicating. The voice, the melody—it awoke something deep within him, something he hadn’t been prepared to feel.
Kiku found himself utterly fixated. His usual caution and restraint were slipping away as the voice continued to draw him in. He couldn’t tear his attention away, lost in the depth of it, as if everything else faded into the background.
From that night on, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He watched you from afar, noting the softness in your manner, the strength in your resolve. You were kind, diligent, and full of quiet grace, drawing him in further with each passing day.
Kiku, always careful, had never allowed himself to indulge in such obsession, but now, something darker began to take hold. He hired someone to hack into your devices, learning your secrets, uncovering the hidden corners of your life. Each discovery only deepened his infatuation.
You lived simply, but there was an undeniable elegance in everything you did. Each morning, you made matcha tea, savoring it slowly as you tended to your modest garden. Cherry blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, chrysanthemums bloomed in vibrant bursts, and bonsai trees stood carefully pruned, each one a testament to your patience.
You had a quiet generosity too—leaving bowls of rice or fish out for the stray cats that wandered into your yard, a small act of kindness that you believed brought good fortune. He watched, fascinated by the peace you found in these little rituals.
In the afternoons, you volunteered at the local community center, helping the elderly with their daily tasks. You prepared sweet treats like mochi and dorayaki, listening to their stories, sharing in their wisdom. You were always engaged, always giving, connecting deeply with the community around you.
And when the seasonal festivals came around, you danced with your neighbors, laughed with friends, and participated in the celebrations that honored yourself. The kindness you spread was subtle but powerful, a thread that tied you to the people around you. To him.
Kiku couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop learning more about you. You were everywhere he looked—your life, your kindness, your quiet grace—it all consumed him, filling the space in his mind, until it became impossible to ignore.
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"生一緒にいたい"
He repeated it over and over, the words slipping past his lips like a prayer, each time more fervently, each time more desperate. The phrase carved itself into his soul, filling the hollow space within him.
"私のもの…"
His eyes never strayed from you, not once. Always from the shadows, always watching. You didn’t notice him—never did. But he noticed everything. Every little movement you made. Every soft laugh that danced in the air. Each smile was like a dagger of desire. You were his. Only his.
"全てが私のものになる…"
He knew everything about you. The way your hair curled just right, the way your fingers brushed your lips in that nervous habit. The smallest details—details only he could see. He whispered your name to himself, savoring it, imagining the life you would share together, locked away from the world. Just the two of you.
"絶対に、君を失わない…"
Kiku's gaze was unwavering. You were everywhere. In the streets you walked, in the quiet little coffee shop you adored, in the park where you sat with that innocent, too-perfect smile. Everything was etched in his memory. Every single place, every single moment. He would wait. He would wait until you understood—until you realized that the only place you could ever belong was with him. Alone. Together.
“永遠に”
He loved you. More than love—it had become an obsession. A consuming, all-encompassing thing. Each little piece of your life, each small revelation only fanned the flames. How could someone so perfect exist? So effortlessly beautiful, so kind? You were everything he had longed for, everything he needed, and the thought of losing you was unbearable. His thoughts of you filled his every moment, his longing growing, desperate, never-ending.
He loved you. He couldn’t lose you. You were perfect. He loved you. He couldn’t lose you. You were perfect. He loved you. He couldn’t lose you. You were perfect.
He loved you. He couldn’t lose you. You were perfect. You were perfect. He loved you. You were perfect.
He loved you. You were perfect. He loved you. You were perfect. He loved you. You were perfect.
He couldn’t lose you. No. He wouldn’t lose you. Yes. He shouldn’t lose you. You were one of a kind.
Each day passed as if he were observing a film he had forgotten to look over from long ago.
Kiku had fallen deep in love with you. Everything he did was for you. In his mind, there was no difference between love and possession. You were the one thing he could never let go, the one thing that would make him whole.
And when that moment came—he would make sure there was no escape.
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He had been attending every one of your performances, without fail. No matter the venue—whether it was an intimate gathering or an art house event tucked away from prying eyes—he always found his way there. He relished the exclusivity, the idea that only a select few could appreciate your art. To him, it was magnificent, and every second spent watching you felt sacred.
Soon, your shows became the highlight of his life. He rescheduled meetings, canceled national duties, all to linger in the shadows of your presence. Even during the most critical discussions, his mind often wandered. Politically important matters, ceremonies, decisions—they all paled compared to thoughts of you. Your voice, the arch of your hands, the grace you exuded—it consumed him.
The first time he approached you, you blushed under his gaze, avoiding his eyes as if overwhelmed. That small flicker of vulnerability stayed with him, replaying in his mind, each time more vivid than the last.
Watching you became a ritual, a sacred act. He sent small, thoughtful gifts—flowers from distant lands, hand-written letters, packages left at your door. He wanted you to feel seen, cherished, even if his gestures sometimes unsettled you. He even started bringing trusted officials and friends to witness your art. He wanted to show you off, to see their awe, as they recognized what he had come to adore.
But the closer he tried to get, the more distant you became. You had gently expressed discomfort with his gifts and appearances. His heart sank. That quiet rejection cut deeper than he’d anticipated. He called to you, begged you to reconsider, but you never wavered. Slowly, imperceptibly, you slipped from his grasp.
With every step you took away, his longing grew. Each polite refusal, each avoidance felt like a door closing. He told himself it was just a phase, that you would understand eventually. But time passed, and that hope began to fade, replaced by an aching frustration. How could you pull away from something so sincere? How could you not see how deeply he adored you? Did you truly believe you could escape?
“いや…いや...いや...いや...
いや! いや! いや!, いや!”
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When he learned you’d be performing for a private group of university graduates, a spark of jealousy ignited deep within him. His jaw clenched as he imagined those men—laughing, cheering, acting as if they truly understood the value of what you offered.
How could they? They weren’t worthy of sharing the same room with you, let alone witnessing you in such an intimate setting. The thought of it, the idea of them being so close, felt like an intrusion into the sanctity he had carefully built around you.
He couldn't let it go. He had to be there. No matter what, nothing could stop him.
He slipped into the crowd unnoticed, taking refuge in a shadowed corner. His eyes never left you. Every movement you made, every gesture, was recorded in his mind. The group of graduates, so self-assured and too eager, didn’t know their place. They had no right to be near you.
He observed them as they settled, talking amongst themselves, casting glances in your direction. Their words grew louder, and Kiku’s grip on his calm began to slip. One man leaned over to his friend with a grin, eyes scanning you up and down. “I bet she’s just as beautiful up close, don’t you think?”
The other chuckled, clearly amused. “I wouldn’t mind finding out.”
The laughter that followed made Kiku’s chest tighten. They were nothing but animals, trying to mark their territory, and you were the prize they sought. But it didn’t stop there. As the evening went on, the men grew bolder. One of them, emboldened by a drink, approached you during a brief break in the performance. He placed his hand on your shoulder with too much familiarity, leaning in too close.
“Such a shame," he said, eyes glinting. "A woman with so much talent, and yet so few people to truly appreciate it." He let his hand linger just a moment too long, his thumb brushing against the back of your neck.
You recoiled slightly, discomfort flashing across your face, but you smiled politely. "Please, I'm fine," you said, your tone steady though Kiku could see the slight tension in your shoulders. "Please refrain."
The man smirked, taking your response as an invitation to press further. “You sure? You’re not one of those shy types, are you?”
You took a step back, holding your composure, but it was too much for Kiku. His pulse quickened. The tightness in his chest grew unbearable. He watched as the others, noticing the scene, began to snicker, sharing looks that made his blood boil. These men didn’t just admire you—they were treating you like an object, their entitled hands and crude remarks making his skin burn.
Kiku’s fists clenched, his breath shallow. His eyes locked onto the man’s hand, still resting on you, his touch inappropriate, invasive. A surge of fury coursed through him. How dare they think they could touch you? How dare they think they had any right to make you feel uncomfortable in any way?
The night had begun to unravel, and so had his patience.
The laughter continued to echo in his ears, mingling with the murmur of the crowd. But Kiku’s gaze remained steady, fixed on the men who dared to ruin this moment. He would let them think they were in control, that this was their night. But they had no idea what they had provoked.
He leaned slightly forward, lips curving into a cold smile. There were consequences. And they didn't even see it coming.
Not like he could help it. The thread had snapped, like the final stroke of a katana slicing through the air, severing the restraint he had so carefully maintained. The fire surged through his veins, fierce and unrelenting, as if Kagutsuchi, the god of flames himself, had set his soul alight. It consumed him—body, mind, and spirit—filling every corner of his being with an overwhelming heat, a rage that pulsed with ancient power.
His hand found the knife on the nearby table. The cold steel felt almost... familiar, as though it had been waiting for him, as if it were an extension of his own will. He raised the blade, the glint of metal flashing like the edge of a sword under moonlight, reflecting the fire now burning in his eyes. With each step toward them, he moved like a shadow, swift and decisive.
At this moment, nothing else mattered.
The first slash was quick, clean, and almost too easy. Blood splattered, painting the floor in red streaks, but Kiku didn’t care. The crimson stain of their lives was nothing compared to the purity of his desire. The warm, thick liquid sprayed across the room like the petals of a sakura in full bloom—scattered and gone in an instant, yet forever marking the earth beneath.
The thought of their hands on you, those impure hands, tainted him to his core. Their very existence had defiled something sacred. His heart thudded in his chest, a rhythmic pulse amid the chaos, his breath quick and uneven. How dare they even think of you like that?
Five of them. Five arrogant, filthy students, too blind to realize their actions, would cost them everything. He couldn’t let them live. Not after what they had tried to do.
“許せない、許せない、どうして…どうして君に触れた?”
The second slash came faster than the first, cutting down one of them as he collapsed to the floor, lifeless. Blood sprayed in a violent arc, mingling with their screams and desperate pleas. Kiku’s rage burned hotter, unstoppable now. They scrambled to escape, but it was too late. Another slash. Another life snuffed out in an instant.
He moved through them like a shadow, his strikes swift and merciless, as precise as death itself. They couldn’t escape. They shouldn’t have touched you. Their blood splattered across the floor, and it felt almost... cathartic.
The fourth one—a desperate, shaking figure—reached for the door in vain. Kiku closed in, catching him in an iron grip. A swift slash across the throat, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless, joining the others.
And then there was just one. The last student. Kiku walked toward him slowly, savoring the terror in his eyes, the hopelessness settling in as he realized there was no escape. His apologies fell on deaf ears; his words were useless. They meant nothing now—not when they had tormented so many others before they tried to harm you.
The final slash was quick, precise, and the last of the five fell without a sound. Kiku stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, the knife still dripping with their blood. Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the steady drip of blood hitting the floor.
He didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care that he had taken their lives with his own hands. What mattered now was that they would never touch you again.
You were his. And no one, not a single soul, could take that away from him.
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The knife slipped from Kiku’s fingers, clattering to the floor with a metallic thud, but he hardly noticed. His chest rose and fell, breath coming faster, as his gaze found you.
You.
Your figure trembled in the dim light, and in his eyes, you were like a spider lily in full bloom, a beautiful apparition drenched in red. Crimson painted you in streaks, trails of black running down your cheeks as you watched him, wide-eyed and tear-streaked, a delicate petal shaken by the storm.
Kiku’s breathing stopped, his heart halting in his chest as his world narrowed to you, only you. He was so close, close enough to catch the faint shiver in your frame, close enough to see the tears glistening in your eyes. It was intoxicating, a sight more beautiful than anything he had ever witnessed in his endless lifetime.
His fingers twitched, aching to reach for you, to trace those stains of red like brushstrokes on silk. You, trembling before him, so perfect, so untouched by anyone else’s taint—now his. His alone.
A slow, almost reverent exhale escaped his lips. No other nation, no other woman had ever sparked this feeling in him. In centuries of existence, through wars and alliances, through lifetimes of encounters, he had never felt this pull, this ache, until you.
The feeling was ancient, relentless, filling the depths of his soul like the tides. He had wanted many things, fought for many things, but this… this was different. A possession he had claimed, yet one he longed to cherish, to hold, to keep forever close.
He took a step forward, then another, as if entranced, his heartbeat finally catching up to the flood of emotions overwhelming him. You were his. And no one—no force, no man, no fate— would or could take that away.
His fingers brushed against the red phone in his pocket, pulling it out with a deliberate slowness. A dark smile curled on his lips as he held it up, his gaze never leaving you. His eyes traced every inch of your form, as if committing you to memory. His black suit was stained with crimson, the blood that had spilled from the chaos now forgotten, its significance drowned in the quiet tension between you.
The phone’s screen lit up, and with it, the soft click of the camera captured the moment. Another flash. The light illuminated your face, your trembling form, and your wide, fearful eyes. Kiku could almost taste the fear in the air, and he relished it, savoring every second.
You lay there, weak and trembling, your body unwilling to move but your mind screaming for escape. The dress you wore—delicate, lace-trimmed, a soft shade of pale pink—clung to your form, stained now with the same blood that marked his hands. It was a stark contrast to the nightmare unfolding around you.
Kiku’s smile remained serene, calm in a way that made your heart race, as if nothing were wrong. He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, slow, savoring the moment. The room was heavy with silence, your breathing the only sound filling the space. The blood spattered across his face, and yet his expression remained as composed as ever, as if this was some twisted art he was admiring.
"言ってみろ。もう二度と逃げないと言いな,"
Kiku whispered softly, his voice smooth, almost tender, but laced with an authority, a threat, a plea, a promise.
Say it. Say you'll never run away again.
You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even move. Fear had paralyzed you, and his gaze held you captive, making it impossible to tear your eyes away. Every instinct screamed for you to fight, to flee, but there was no escape. You were trapped in his world.
Kiku’s fingers pressed down on the phone’s screen one last time. Another flash. The light lingered, and in that brief moment, you saw the truth: he had captured you. Not just your image, but something deeper, something irreversible. You could never escape now. You were his.
❮❮ Where Kiku Honda (Japan) drugs you and gives you a Yoni massage.
Artwork by: ensd@5chan4so
⚠️🔞 : Contains non-con sexual material, use of drugs, manipulation, intoxication. Scroll past if uncomfortable.
It all began when you approached a man in a convenience store local to your area. You asked if you could sit in front of him because there were no more chairs available. The man glanced at you, smiled faintly, then said “Sure, go ahead.”
You met him in a convenience store local to your area. You asked to sit beside him because all other seats were occupied. He gave you the spot right next to him. He was handsome. Has straight black hair, styled neatly, with pale skin, small nose, and soft golden eyes. He looked like an ethereal model who fell from the sky. You’d know he was a foreigner in that instant.
And so when you asked for his name, he replied with a plain “Kiku.”
You began to talk with each other ever since. Through chat, or even if you somehow see him by coincidence. He was polite, charmingly formal, and a deeply composed man. He looked too perfect to be a simple human, his charisma captivates people all over, like a sun.
His age apparently was twenty-seven. But he barely looked like an ageless angel.
You want to learn more about him, because you were drowning in the spiral. You're infatuated. You're attracted to him.
He got you to tell lots of information about where you can mostly be found, but when it’s your turn to ask him, he always dodges it by saying the simplest things such as his hobbies, his likes and dislikes.
Apparently he is fond of 2d girls, he watches anime, he likes photography and painting, he has a dog named Pochi, and doesn't like socialising so much.
Meanwhile, you have told him about where your university is, what mall you often go to, or some basic details but in a way not too personal. You wanted to see him more often, and be closer with him.
Days passed. The sun rises and sets. Until it's been weeks.
You noticed there was a gap in those days where you would chat with him online. He never reached out to you, you were the one who always did. Every ten days, you would occasionally ask him what he’s doing, and sometimes he would reply an hour or more later.
It began to tire you out. Maybe trying to get him to like you is impossible. Maybe he’s way too busy with work to care for someone like you. In other words, you concluded that he just doesn’t share the same interest you have over him, and decided not to chat with him anymore. And so to create an effort to get over with it, you decided to restrict his account.
Another set of months passes by. Your life got so much better. Those urges you have of constantly tiring yourself out trying to get him to notice you eventually faded. You’ve developed a new crush at your school, and that feelings towards them were much deeper and seem to be in control with your heartstrings.
You thought you were getting out of it, of the infatuation that set chains down your neck towards him. But you were wrong. One time, out of curiosity, you opened your messages just to feed that tiny little thirst you crave for him. And to your surprise, the chat was filled by him asking you out.
It was a simple, “Hello, how are you doing today? I wanna know if you’re doing good there.” Followed by similar messages several dates later on. He, the man you thought who wasn’t interested in you is suddenly flooding you with messages? That’s so unheard of.
Quickly, you replied to his messages, creating excuses that you’ve been busy in university errands.
His latest message is what caught you off guard. He made a strange offer, a meal in his house. He explained further in the message that it’s a Japanese custom to invite and let friends drink tea in their houses. You, oblivious as ever, decided to give it a try.
Kiku's intentions have never been clear. Even if you want to know, reading upon his eyes would be like trying to see through a weather filled with mist. It's so cloudy and thick. Those hollow golden eyes that you'll never know if he's speaking the truth or not until it's too late, he attracts you in like a magnet.
The currents are strong, you feel it. There's something magnetic that pulls you in like an anchor, a warning or a feeble emotion?
You're conscious of the fact that you're infatuated with him. But the idea alone is illogical. First, he's a mysterious twenty-seven year old man. You're a college student. And he invited you to his apartment just because it’s a tradition of his apparently.
How could you? How could you walk blatantly into an old man’s house solely because of an invitation?
You wanted to fight against it and hell, you wanted to question everything. But that invitation was so alluring it twists your mind and fills your gut with desire. Your eyes darted around his apartment, so minimalist and neat in design. Everything reminds you of him.
He gave you expensive desserts and green tea. These are the types of foods you would longingly look at in a mall, something you can’t afford. Yet here you are, luxuriously eating them. He’s so rich and that's a fact.
But you're truly stubborn, aren't you? You did not know he put benzodiazepines in your drink.
You leaned close to read a statement in his laptop, the words suddenly became twos. Your vision was starting to blur. You squinted your eyes, trying to get a closer look while acting nonchalant.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly, his breath on your shoulder. You staggered away, but ended up almost falling. He had to put his hands over your shoulders to support you. His eyes flashed with worry.
You realized the position you were in, and quickly backed away. Your mind began to spin. “Y—Yeah, I am.”
Kiku noticed it. You cannot lie any longer. “I feel dizzy and—” you tried to just laugh it out, maybe pretend. But damn, your vision was starting to turn black. He catches your figure and leans you against him once more, his eyes showing concern.
“—my body hurts.” You closed your eyes and tried to pull yourself together. His cologne made you feel lightheaded. Your face on his shoulder.
His eyes held a mysterious glint in it, and for a moment, he just held you to himself. His mind? A cloud of mess. Oh you don't know what he wants to do with you alright, he's going to show it with actions. He planned this for so long already.
It's a stupid mistake you made to trust him, after all.
Your eyes started to droop. You couldn't catch a faint of emotion in his eyes, a predatory glance.
Kiku watched as your head rested on his shoulder, your body slowly relaxing against him under the influence of the drug. His pulse quickened slightly at your closeness, the scent of your hair filling his senses.
"Would you like to have a massage? You mentioned that your body hurts all over." His soft voice echoed around the room.
You blinked at him, your eyes mere half lidded now. You don't know what he's planning. But you nodded and whispered, “Yes, please.”
At that slurred consent, he gently moved to lift you up, his hands sliding beneath your knees. You felt so light and delicate in his arms as he carried you over to his spare room. There laid a bed that he bought for this perfect moment. A waterproof sheet laid on top, a few scented essential oils already prepared from his drawer in advance. He laid you down on the soft sheets, his gaze never leaving your face.
It looked too suspicious. There's no mistake, these oils and humidifiers and lighting, it looked like it was prepared in advance.
The corners of his lips twitched faintly, not quite a smirk, but it's almost there. Almost unnoticeable.
There were even flowers from the bedside table, and a single memory foam pillow. To make you feel comfortable, of course.
He prepared another two sheets to ‘cover’ you up. After wearing disposable gloves, the glint in his eyes grew ominously. He gently whispered to you to prepare and take off your clothes, then pointed to the sheets for you to use as a cover. He left the room and gave you space while you absentmindedly prepared, still oblivious to what's about to happen.
Soon, he knocked softly, and came in. He saw you lying on your stomach, one sheet covering your behind and the other simply draped over your head.
Cute. He thinks.
His gloved hands gently touched your bare shoulders, the cool texture of the rubber skittish against your skin. With a subtle touch, he began to spread the scented oil over your back, his fingers working in small, circular motions to loosen tight muscles.
As he massaged your muscles, he noticed the way your body responded to his touch, your breathing growing labored and your skin flushing slightly under his ministrations. His half-lidded eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion as he slowly moved down to your legs.
He gently pinched the roll of your calf, a limb he could easily snap if he wanted to. He pressed on the muscles, watching the way you visibly twitch in response. He moved to the other limb, before slowly going up. With careful ministrations, he took great care of your thighs.
At this point your entire body was covered in scented oil, and you didn't know, it was laced with certain ‘simulation inducing’ drugs. Designed to make you feel sensitive.
And you were starting to feel it. Your legs were quivering. Your parted lips were now panting for air, and your hands balled tightly into fists.
You couldn't look at him, your head still covered, oblivious to what he's planned for you. You were embarrassed. You didn't want to show him that you were starting to feel aroused, he was the one specifically eliciting it out of you.
He pressed different pressure points in your body that are actually erogenous zones. He's very knowledgeable about the human body.
“Turn around and lay on your back, please.”
A soft gasp escaped your lips as you found it difficult to do so because of how sensitive you felt, but you did it anyway. It was because of the drugs.
You removed the sheets from your face when you laid on your back, your once sparkling eyes now glued on the ceiling, in daze. You forgot to cover your chest.
His eyes were now glued on your chest, imagining how it would be like to twirl his fingers into circles along your nipples. But he didn’t.
He placed his gloved hands on your collarbones, the coldness sending a shiver down your spine. He slowly moved his hands down, tracing a path over your breast and lingering for just a moment before going past your navel.
You let out a soft squeak when he stopped right at the sheet covering your hips, causing you to feel a strange surge of sensitivity as you covered your mouth.
“Hm? Is something wrong?”
When you looked at his attractive small face, your body began heating up even more. His deep voice intoxicated your mind. Your vision was now getting blurred. Yet his face remained unreadable.
A soft gasp escaped your lips, whispering, “Why am I feeling good?”
Your cheeks flushed deep red. At this point the desire was unmistakable. It blurred down the line. “Mister Honda…” you whispered, your mind slurred and intoxicated. “Please touch me.”
His fingers twitched once. His jaw was tightening. But his eyes remained in its hollow mist of gold. Your mind, the receptors in your brain capable of recognizing danger, was turned off and put to sleep. Now what laid bare was your desire to soothe the sensitivity.
The corners of his lips curled faintly. “As you wish.”
He reached out, his fingers lightly touching your skin until it reached your nipples. He circled it so slow enough to send more sensitive shivers rippling through your skin. He watched as your breath hitched, the way your chest rose and fell more rapidly now.
He was studying your reactions, taking in every little movement you made, how your body arched towards him and how your hips lifted just slightly, as if begging for him to touch you more.
"Have you ever heard of the term 'Yoni' massage?" He asked, his face an eerily composed mask. You didn't—couldn't answer.
A gentle smile curled on his lips as he molded his hands on your chest, while you willingly let him. You were now deeply affected by the drugs. A low hum vibrated from his chest, masculine, it made you feel utterly weak.
One of his hands reached down and slowly lifted one of your legs, his slender finger slowly running down your thigh. A gasp escaped your parted lips.
“Wait—” you whimpered, his gloved hand now tracing patterns on your clit. He was going so slow, so gentle, yet it felt so good. Your legs shook weakly in response.
He looked completely calm as he removed the sheet off your hips, adjusting his position. He's no longer hovering above you, instead he gently lifted you up in a sitting position, moving to settle right behind you. He restrained one of your legs and kept the other spread out, while he reached for the oil. He muttered something in Japanese. Not that you needed to understand.
You were breathing so heavily, the back of your head rested against his shoulder. He let the oil drip down your sensitive part, before resting his gloved palm down and cupping it.
Your mind was swirling. The scent of flowers wafting in the air, the scented oil, his ministrations, his gentle movements, oh goodness… you're losing it.
Kiku observed your reactions with quiet fascination, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. The way your body tensed and relaxed under his touch did not help soothe predatory thoughts in his mind.
He wants to ravage you, pin you down and overstimulate you until you're a screaming mess. And yet... despite how far gone you were under this drugged haze—his own face remained completely composed. Not a single flicker of emotion crossed it beyond calculated interest.
"Do I..." His thumb swirled once more before pressing down gently. He likes how warm your twitching cunt is. "...make you feel good?”
Your skin pulsed beneath his fingers, which began to grow more deliberate, clear with intention. You helplessly cried as his hold on your leg tightened just faintly from behind, keeping it open when it twitched.
“It feels… good—” you gasped when his strokes on your clit became deliberately faster, and a weak whimper escaped past your lips. “it feels so good…”
A faint predatory smile coated his lips. The drugs were effective. The benzodiazepines on your green tea, the simulation-inducing ones in the oil and his cologne, he even put a small amount of chloroform in the air humidifier. Everything designed to rewire your brain and strip you off your defenses.
He made sure your mind wouldn't even sense that you're being violated. Because it became submissive before it even realized. Now you were a muddled mess of whimpers and pleasure. He continued pressing his finger, then swirling it, making sure you feel every single thing.
His eyes darkened, a glint of desire seeping through. He's truly twisted, isn't he? For a man who is known to despise physical intimacy, to be doing this with a straight face is something that falls on the topic of peculiarity.
His finger trailed right at your warm entrance, and he didn't even need to put it in. Your body readily accepted him and took it all in without protests. You clenched as he slowly moved around, trying to find that one particular spot he's knowledgeable about making you a crying mess. Your already labored breathing grew erratic as he inserted a second finger. It brushed past your tight walls, and he bit his lip upon feeling how tightly your hole was swallowing through his fingers. And for a split second, his restraint almost cracked. A dangerous crack.
The tip of his finger brushed along a certain path that elicited a good jolt of your body and a small squeak. He let out a small huff. Almost a scoff. He found it.
Immediately his speed picked up, hitting the same spot over and over again. Your body, unable to shoulder the sudden skyrocket of pleasure, twitched and arched at his touch. Your head was thrown back against his shoulder, weak whimpers turned into cries while his other hand rubbed roughly on your clit to send the pleasure spiking high.
“W-Wait— Aah!” A broken sob went out, blood rushed through every single part of your body. He didn't falter, but his head had been angled lower now, his expression hidden beneath the shadows of his bangs. His jaw was clenched tight with visible restraint now.
Your helpless cries echoed around the room until you erupted in a full-blown climax that sent a small squirt of juice out of your body. He almost lost all self control he inflicted on himself upon the sight. He slowed down, and continued until your orgasm finished. Then he pulled his fingers out with a pop. Your entire body was trembling, weak and still lingering from the intensity of what you went through. Tears were flowing down your cheeks, and you looked so captivatingly enticing with your perfect half-lidded eyes and parted lips.
Kiku carefully removed his gloves, discarding them on the nearby table before turning his attention back to your trembling form. His fingers brushed through your hair as he studied your dazed expression—the way your chest still rose and fell unevenly, how your legs remained weakly parted.
“Rest now.” He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead—almost tender if not for the dark satisfaction lurking beneath it—before pulling away entirely. He placed the sheets above your form, watching as your eyes fluttered shut before sleep claimed you completely.
For a moment, he just watched you. His shaking fingers betrayed the rampaging thoughts running in his mind despite his stoic composure. He couldn't deny that there was a tiny bit of need bubbling up in him. The need to hear your moans forever. Because fuck, the way you squirted and shook during your orgasm made him lose it. He wanted to overstimulate you until your throat went dry from all those moaning.
But it's enough for today.
After all, you wouldn't remember. And it better stay that way. Because even if you will, by some chances.
You won't be able to do anything. He made sure of it.
He smiled softly, before his eyes trailed around and on a red dot blinking, hidden behind a vase of flowers. Ah. He almost forgot.
His steps padded on the floor as he took out the tiny camera shining ominously, a seal to your fate, and a one last predatory look before ending the footage.
Wrote this during an outburst. I dunno, it may seem random. This is like, some sort of an accept request thingy, that indicates I'm open to write anything, and im gonna write it while on a hiatus for dunno how long.
I accept request on what should I write or something, amephil? What plot? Others?
No one seems to notice how scary America actually is.
- A short Amephil prompt
Alfred F. Jones is the representative of the United States of America. Everywhere he goes, he evokes a profound sense of excitement for various reasons, shaped by his complex personalities, built upon the interplay of sociopolitical, cultural, and environmental factors.
He embodies the contradictions within American culture—values of freedom and individualism juxtaposed with instances of aggression and isolationism. This duality can generate a sense of anxiety, as one is left to ponder the implications of such contradictions.
Other than excitement, Allfred can also evoke a sense of apprehension through several characteristics that reflect both the nation's strengths and its complexities. He encapsulates a blend of charisma and unpredictability, reflecting a nation that can be both awe-inspiring and frightening. His portrayal serves as a reminder of the complexities inherent in American identity, leaving a lingering sense of unease beneath the surface of his bravado.
No one seemed to notice Alfred's carefully designed and assembled mask, with each yarn representing a crime he considers noble. Every time he looks at someone, they are indisputably standing on top of bleeding thorns, which only he can push and bring to fall.
“Millions have been hurt by the very actions he sees as noble. He’s a tornado in a glass factory, and no one else seems to notice.”
Yet—people view him as a hero.
"Behind the mask of freedom, America wields his influence like a sword, offering friendship only to those who bend to its will.”
Only to those who bow before him.
The personification of the Republic of the Philippines, one of the oppressed nations, is a few who sees Alfred's agglomeration of emotions compressed in a single mask.
The way Alfred treats him—not like a human, a country, a representation. He is treated like a mere doll, a toy, a slave.
When Phil is alone with him, his charismatic and attractive mask fades into nothing. A completely different person stands before his own eyes. The warm smile melts away, replaced by a cold, calculating glare that sends shivers down Phil’s spine.
“The hero everyone adored is nothing more than a master of disguise, concealing a heart steeped in manipulation.”
“Do you understand, Phil?" Alfred circled the Filipino nation with his once lively blue eyes now dark like a night sky in absence of stars.
Completely hollow, lifeless, cold.
"Should the thought of fighting for liberation, independence, and national democracy cross your mind again," he paused in front, leaning in. Their lips were barely inches apart. “Tell me. I will be more than happy to remind you of your miserable situation.”
A smirk was stretched on his lips.
“In this fascinating world, those who oppress are the only ones who prevail. I promote freedom. The ability to own and use a property as one sees fit.”
The Philippines a decade hence is still a neo-colony.
Hi, can I request the darkest fantasies of yandere axis members?✨️
I love how you sent this 10 min after i started posting. I love you for it btw, you are now the subject of my yandereness. Congrats! (lol) I will also do the 2ps just for you:D
Anyways here are the fantasies!
1p Germany/Ludwig Beilschmidt
So wants someone to be like a yandere towards him as well, in the bedroom preferably. Basically he wants to be loved like he loves, and he wants to be so secure in the relationship that he can give up all control in the bedroom sexy times
1p Italy/Feliciano Vargas
He wants to let go of all that holds him back and have the trust of his darling for free use basically, this doesn't mean he'll do something you have as a hard limit, it just means that he can do what he wants when he wants and you'll be eager and willing, to a certain extent of course. He doesn't want to really hurt you though
1p Japan/Kiku Honda
He knows this one isn't realistic as he doesn't have magic but he really wants to try to live out hardcore hentai scenarios like tentacles (he is in control of them)
2p Germany/Lutz Beilschmidt
The thought of having someone so devoted to him they would encourage him to kill anyone who looks at his partner is really hot to him. And then ofc fucking them so hard they need medical care while still loving it and begging for it.
2p Italy/Luciano Vargas
Blood, he wants to do all sorts of unspeakable things with blood, period blood, normal blood, doesn't matter. Though never to the point of a blood transfusion unless his blood is compatible and being used for it. The thought of you with his blood is a major turn on. But if you tried to leave him he'd do it if you don't have the same blood types, so you can never leave him
2p Japan/Kuro Honda
so i think for him and a childhood friend it would be to give each other a bit of your souls. Binding you forever, akin to soul mates, meaning that you can keep each other alive with this connection and all sorts of crazy things. And yes reaching out to touch the other's soul via this connection can be very pleasurable and is also part of his desire. The dark part of this is that he will basically own you, as he is proficient in soul magic, a magic anyone can do regardless of other magical abilities, also the hardest form of possible magic. He is so possessive that he wants to effectively own his partner for all eternity, woooo
Some Lore lol
so i haven't touched much on the magic system in my version of this world, but soul magic is what keeps 1p Prussia and 1p Romano alive, as their brothers unknowingly share a part of their souls with them, making that as long as the brother lives, so does said "should not be alive" country
Kuro knows this magic because he's an opportunist and he has a Katana blessed by the gods and it can take his victims souls (including his own, which is why he's super protective of it) and it powers him physically, making him dangerous as fuck. He's the last person you'd want to fuck with, and most of the other 2ps are not aware of this because he keeps his most powerful card a secret. He's not seen as a super powerful 2p, in reality he is one of if not the strongest, this comes through through many aspects, such as a high intelligence, tactical knowledge, charisma, and soul magic.
If you're literate enough and can read correctly, it's called Stockholm Syndrome for a reason. Of course it is a series of torments.
And so what if I will represent America and the Philippines’ relationship in that way? Because if you're thinking of me sugarcoating their relationship, which I won't do because as much as possible I wanted the reality to represent what I write, then you're wrong.
I do not romanticise or condone such actions, and it is morally wrong to do it. But you have to accept the fact that America and the Philippines’ relationship is NOT and NEVER good, that their relationship is equivalent to that of a mere master-puppet stance. You need to open your eyes to the real situation of the Philippines.
If you expect me to give them all a bubbly, fluffy relationship, you're dead wrong. If the Fandom gets hated because of what I write, it's because they do not like the way I present the reality of our situation in a writing. Do not even interact with my account if you do not like what I write. It's that simple.
For your fic about AmePhil will you keep Phil's name as Angelo or change it to something else like "Phil" "Philip" or "Felipe" ? √('∆')√
I will. I'm sorry. I'm nearly finished writing my fanfiction, and all I used is the name ‘Angelo’, because that's what I interpreted his human name to be. I am used to thinking Phil and Philip are just shortened names for the Philippines.
Though, if you want, I could make America call him by that as a nickname during a dialogue.
A quick sketch of my ship, AmePhil, at midnight before my audition the next day lol.
This quick sketch is for my upcoming fanfiction: “The Stockholm Syndrome” that explores the deepest depths of toxicity between America and the Philippines.
"You look cute when you cry," Alfred said softly, his breath coating Angelo's lips. "Come on, cry some more." He urged as if the Filipino wasn't having a panic attack. As if a devil were whispering lovely nothings into an angel's ear, laced in pure venom. He massaged his cheek with his thumb in slow strokes, creating a false sensation of comfort....
