⛦ @derelict-saintess - Tumblr Blog

Feb 14

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐘, 𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: FEM!READER X YANDERE!ACADEMIC RIVAL

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: YANDERE THEMES, unhealthy relationship dynamics, inferiority complexes, non/con or dub/con (depending on readers interpretation) under the influence, mentions of "killing”reader off, mentions of barf, reader is in high school but is eighteen (a legal adult) violence, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓: ONESHOT, 9k words

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑: HAPPY VALENTINES! Sorry for the hiatus, loves, college was kicking my ass…anyways this is very dark academia-esque; lowkirkenuinly made me want to write an ancient roman yandere. I recommend listening to ALRIGHTY APHRODITE while reading <3. I think It ties the whole fic in.

Viktor Semyanova irked you to the very bone.

If he was Caesar, then you were Brutus–forever written down as history’s bane of greatness. If he was Augustus, then you were Antony; the loser of a game set up long before you were born. If he was Achilles, then you were Hektor.

Promised death and obscurity, while that bastard had statues carved in his name, epithets crafted for his very image.

Maybe he would have irked you less, had not the masses clung unto him like he was their savior. He didn’t even hide the way it made him feel; you could tell from the glint of those dark eyes that he felt like he was on top of the world whenever your Latin teacher praised him, or when his smile turned too sharp whenever he scored a win that you deserved.

Viktor Semyanova.

That bastard sent from hell to torment you, forever.

...

The bell rings as sharply as ever as the teacher dismisses the class with a tired wave.

“God, class was brutal.” Alice adjusts her book bag as she casts a weary look towards you. “I think I might strangle myself if I have to hear derivative one more fucking time.”

You drag your hands down your face. “I hate math.” You groan.

“Who doesn’t?” Sam mutters from behind you. His blond hair is a mess of curls and the flesh under his eyes dark. “I swear, those fucking nerds who say they like math have got to be lying. They fucking have to.”

You glance up at the clock ticking softly above Mr. Abass’ whiteboard. Half past two, the minute hand ticking closer and closer to the next notch.

“At least Latin will save me.”

Sam casts you a dubious look. “Dead languages saving lives? How ironic.”

Alice snorts out a laugh, before quickly whipping her head back and forth to make sure no-one heard besides the three of you. “Why didn’t you just take Mandarin like I did? Zhen Laoshi is ten times better than Mrs. Berzosa or Mr. Flaven.”

You roll your eyes as you finish shoving in your last book in your already crammed bag. “Mm, yeah, no. I don’t have the time or headspace to learn how to write characters too.”

“Mrs. Berzosa lets us actually eat in class, instead of starving her students.” Sam pipes in.

Alice pushes his shoulder, to which Sam sticks out his tongue.

“We’re gonna be late, guys.” You remind them with a huff of a laugh.

“What are you, a toddler?” Alice grunts as she pushes her book bag up her shoulder, walking towards the door.

Sam replies with an articulate middle finger towards her direction.

–

You have to run to reach your Latin class in time. Your black Mary Janes got scuffed in the process–one of your teachers had accidentally stepped on your foot by accident, to which you had replied with a strained, “It’s fine.” when he uttered a hasty apology.

Your already worsening mood sours when you spot a familiar head of black hair.

“Looks like someone was in a hurry.” Viktor flashes a quaint smile. “What took you so long, [Name]?”

“I’m not late.” You grunt as you take a seat next to him. God curse Mr. Flaven for his wonderful idea of making you two sit together.

Viktor had always been the most charming boy in class. With his porcelain skin that reminded you of those Matryoshka dolls, and even darker eyes that seemed a bit more unnerving than pretty, he always captivated his audiences like how actors took the spotlight. The only thing that would have marred his face was his nose–straight and almost uplifted, as if he was looking down on everyone. Yet he seemed to have made it work, with the way you always overheard the girls next to you at lunch coo over it. You even remember hearing Sam say that some of the boys thought it was kinda hot too.

When you first met Viktor, you were kinda captivated by him too. In a fifth-grade-girl-gets-her-first-crush type of way. The first day back from school, you had dressed up all prim-and-proper like your mother deemed you to be. A cute, blue-plaid dress with a collared shirt underneath. Tights that always were a bit too snug on your legs, and your signature Mary Jane’s. Your mother had dressed you up and had taken a million pictures, calling you the cutest girl on the block. The kids snorted and started making fun– as always–but it didn’t help that you were also the bossiest girl there.

Viktor wasn’t very much different. His mom had also dressed him up, too–white collared shirts, dress pants, his hair even slicked back. The kids didn’t make fun of him; probably because he had messed his hair up on purpose when his mom left, or the fact that he was a boy and you were a girl and a girl who always tries to look pretty just gets made fun of in the end. Either way, you thought you saw a kindred spirit in him.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

It all started when your teacher had asked the class who their favorite character in the book your teacher had assigned was. The answers were as simple as one could get, except for the fact that both Viktor and you had decided to argue on which character was better.

Then, when the annual science fair came around, both you and him fought for top spot.

The list went on and on; your tumultuous past intertwined with his own. From grade five to grade twelve, your hatred for him seemed to only grow, like a snake squeezing its prey with more fervor the closer to death it was. Likewise, Viktor’s enamoured vitriol for you grew too.

The wooden seats of your prep-school makes your butt hurt as you try to situate yourself in a more comfortable manner. Where’s the tuition even going towards? You think.

The class softens as Mr. Flaven hobbles toward the whiteboard. As always, he takes a deep breath before beginning his lesson–something about Cicero and his De re publica. You cast a quick glance towards Viktor, who watches the board and Mr. Flaven with unraptured attention.

That is, until he turns his dark black eyes on you.

You flinch back, much to his chagrin. “Bored?” He whispers, his tone lazy as he spins a pen between his fingers. “If you wanted to take something easier, you should have just chosen Spanish.”

“Funny joke, Viktor. But last I remember, wasn’t it you who chose to take Mandarin before switching into this class?” You retort.

“Something you’d like to tell the class, Miss [Last Name]?” Flaven’s gravelly voice interrupts, and as you quickly return to face the board you already find that his beady eyes have narrowed unto you.

You can hear the soft giggles of your classmates as you mumble, “No, sir.”

God, did you wish to slap the amused smirk off of Viktor Semyanova’s face.

…

Cicero was the most boringest man on earth. That is your conclusion after translating around three pages of the De re publica.

You could sympathize with Mark Antony’s vivid hatred for the man–he spewed so much nonsense you had the inking horror that you would be able to hear Cicero’s words in your dreams.

The library is soft, a quiet sanctuary to your budding thoughts. You had called your mother earlier that day, right when school ended, citing your reasons as to why you had to stay so late. Your mother believed you, of course, because she knew you had no real social life to speak of. Something she took pride in.

You believe you spent more hours in this library than you have in your own bedroom. You even have a favorite spot–the small nook right beside the window–which reflects the sunset’s light in luminescent rays, a favorite librarian (Mrs. Turning always gave you a cookie whenever you worked late), and the imitation of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus next to the Greco-Roman Mythology section always struck you with a sort of wonder-lust you couldn’t really describe.

Flipping from one page to another, your brows furrow as the latin words seem to blur together into one horrid cacophony. Mr. Flaven had assigned five pages of translation; a surprisingly lax amount considering the nightmarish assignments he had given you the past week, but a punishment in-it-of-itself.

You’re contemplating on which bridge to throw yourself off of when the soft sound of footsteps interrupt your thoughts.

“You’re in my spot.”

You glare up at Viktor, who looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t see your name on it.”

He smiles, though it’s more condescending than ever. “Still translating? Cicero’s works can’t be that taxing for you, can it?”

You take a glance at his book-bag. The contents are sparse, minimal–nothing overflowing, no last-minute papers. Instead, a book peeks out. You can barely catch the title, but your eyes narrow as you make your conjecture. “The Aeneid, really? Trying to score points with Flaven now?”

Your words come out as more hiss than true, civilized speech.

Viktor raises a brow, taking out the book with a nonchalant air. He plops himself besides you on the loveseat, his legs crossed as he examines the cover. “Flaven loves it. I prefer the Iliad, but what better way to expand my horizons?”

A scoff escapes your lips. “How machiavellian of you.”

His eyes find yours, a slow grin spreading on his face. “If I’m Machiavelli, what does that make you?”

You stand up abruptly. “Done with this conversation–that’s what I am.” You make to leave, when cold fingers grab onto your wrist like a snare. You whip your head back, your mouth open to unleash the bubbling fury that’s been ready to spill since forever, when you’re cut off.

The look in Viktor’s eyes is almost frenzied.

He seems to realize his mistake a second too late, judging by the way he releases your wrist like it burns him. His face turns stony, before smoothing over to the perfectly charming expression he always wears. “Leaving so soon? You almost forgot your paper.” He croons, his tone dripping with condescension.

You flex your fingers. You think your wrist might be bruised, the way he held onto it so tight. Fucking bastard. “Thanks.” You grunt out, reaching for your paper just before he snaps it right out of your reach.

“What the fuck–”

“Careful now, corculum.” Viktor raises a brow, and you bite your tongue at his next words. “We’re in a library. You should really keep your voice down, hmm?”

“Give it back.” You grit, lunging for it again. But this time, he evades, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“You used the wrong tense here–” He observes as he dodges you again. “And another, right after!”

“Give it back!” You whisper-screech, eliciting a laugh out of the dark-haired boy.

“You’re like an animal!” He cackles. “If you just needed help, you could ask, corculum. I’m right here–”

Your nails dig into the soft flesh of his cheeks. It leaves three, sharp red lines that seem to burn on his pale skin.

You both stop.

His eyes are wide, the pupils almost blown-out to oblivion. Your hands are shaking; there’s a bit of his blood under your nails.

You yank your paper from his limp hands, turning away from him as quickly as you can before storming out.

You try to ignore the fact that you can feel his eyes burning holes behind your back.

…

You try to squash your guilt with justifications you try to believe.

He left a bruise on your wrist, just like you expected. It hurt, and it was on your dominant hand too. You were justified in enacting revenge; he had harmed something of value to you, and you had harmed something of value to him.

That’s what you keep thinking of the next day, when you see his face again. His cheekbones, so sharp and pretty, are marred with three red lines that he doesn’t even hide. When Nessa asks what caused it, he doesn’t even look your way. His words are short, clipped: “It was a cat.”

He doesn’t look at you at all, not even when you sit next to him after Flaven starts the class. Doesn’t even glance at your direction. The only time he does look at you is when you wince after applying pressure to your bruised hand, but even then he doesn’t look at you, but at your hand instead.

You try to catch his expression. When he spots you looking, an undecipherable emotion flashes in his eyes before he turns back to the board.

The rest of class goes by in a blur. You don’t even remember half of the shit Flaven even said.

Alice is the first one to bring up your… “funk.”

“What’s up with you, girl? You look like you just lost the light in your eyes.” She glances at you with a frown on her lips.

Sam slings an arm across your shoulders, his blond hair tickling the top of your head. “Alice, we all know what's up. It’s that little son of bitch.”

“Viktor, at it again?” Alice twirls her dark brown hair. “I can’t believe how he makes everyone…fucking swoon, or whatever.”

You let out a sigh. “It’s…not that. I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Alice pulls you closer to her, untangling you from Sam’s limbs. She whispers in your ear, “If it’s girl stuff than don’t worry about it, I’ve got some ib–”

You shake your head. “It’s not that, Alice, but thanks.” You mumble. Sam glances at your wrist, and a knowing look flashes in his eyes.

He brings up your limp wrist in the air, and a huff escapes your mouth as you ask, “What’re you doing…?”

“It’s your wrist. You can’t write anything now so you’re worried about deadlines and stuff. Don’t worry ‘bout it, the teachers will get it. But, how did you even bruise this thing in the first place–?”

You snatch your wrist away, awarding yourself with a sharp wince. “Fell.”

Alice hums. “How articulate.”

“What more is there to say?” You grumble.

Sam glances at both you and Alice, before mumbling to himself, “Women, amirite?”

“Take that back!” Alice kicks him in the shin.

“I’m joking! I have two moms y’know? How can I be a fucking incel when I have two moms!”

…

Dinner is a silent affair at your house.

Your mother comes home late and tired, like always. A single mother who works day in and day out at the pharmacy, certain luxuries have to be sacrificed. Like the luxury of being energetic when you come home–when you see your daughter for the first time that day.

She asks the first question. “What’s wrong with your wrist?”

You keep wincing whenever you touch your spoon. She must have noticed it, with her sharp eyes–like always. She seems to notice a lot about you, yet nothing at the same time.

“I fell, mom. Nothing crazy.”

Your moms brows furrow. “How are you going to write with that hand?”

You press your lips together. “The teachers understand that I can’t use my wrist as much as I’d like. They gave me extensions on essays. For math I just tough it out.” The words come out of your mouth like a recitation.

“You should have told me earlier. I could have wrapped it for you.”

“You were tired, I couldn’t–”

Your mother hums. “You know I’m never too tired to take care of you.”

Your stomach churns with guilt. Why is it that guilt has become your most prevalent emotion? First it was Viktor, with his horrible face. Then it was your useless wrist, which would do nothing and caused problem after problem. Then it was your mother; always your mother.

“Could you wrap it after dinner?” You mumble.

“I can.” She nods.

–

Junior Year. Last day of school.

Viktor is leaning against the bannister railing of an open balcony. His face looks soft, sweet almost, in the golden light decorating the alcove.

An end of the school year party, hosted by one of your rich classmates. She and Viktor ran in the same circles, gossip told you. Both of them had the same rich-snobbiness that came with money, you concluded.

You take your side besides him, and follow the direction of his eyes–to the bottomless expanse of indigo-blue that now paints the night sky.

“I hate summer.” Viktor confesses.

You arch a brow. “Have a personal vendetta against a season now, Semyanova?”

He lets out a laugh. It sounds a bit carefree. “Maybe. We’re a bit alike, don’t you think? The only emotion we seem to have is hate.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you scoff. “We are nothing alike.” The lie easily escapes your lips as you lean closer toward the railing, your eyes catching his. “What is it about summer that you don’t like?”

He hums. “It’s a wretched season. Too hot. The sun shines too bright.”

You have a strange inkling that he’s withholding information. It makes you strangely annoyed–why couldn’t he share his reasons with you? Did he think you wouldn’t be able to understand? You could. You would.

“Where are your little followers?” He suddenly asks. “Anya and…the other one?”

“Alice. And Sam.” You correct, furrowing your brows. “How do you not even know their names? They’re your classmates.”

“Names are a bit irrelevant, don’t you think so, [Name?]” His eyes find yours, the dark expanse almost abyssal compared to the darkness surrounding you right now. You don’t like how he’s looking at you, but you can’t seem to pull away from him. “After all, no-one remembers a person’s name. They remember actions. Achievements.”

“The Egyptians believe that names created a part of their soul.” You blurt out.

Viktor arches a brow, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you believe that?” He whispers softly.

You can’t help but say, “I do.”

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

“Unlike you, I appreciate emotions. See? I’m not only filled with hate.” A smug smile graces your lips, and for a split-second you catch Viktor’s gaze dropping down to witness it. The moment you catch him, however, his eyes snap back to yours and the intensity is startling.

“I’ll see you, then.” He mutters, almost instantaneously. He brushes past you, his hand barely grazing yours, and as you turn you watch as the last of him leaves your proximity.

You stay rooted to your spot.

–

You like to think that you enjoy history. You find it interesting–the tales of war, the whispers of deceit, how every action a person produced still had ripple-effects that one could still feel today.

You don’t know why you can’t bring yourself to enjoy this, then. Mrs. Ramirez is talking about Octavian Caesar and the start of the Roman Empire–riveting stuff–but all you can think about is how she kept praising Viktor for his essay and barely gave you a glance when she handed in yours. An A. You had gotten an A–a beautiful 97% which decorated the white sheet with red ink. And yet, all you could think is how Viktor got a 98. How Viktor’s essay sparkled while yours dimmed the more and more you furiously looked over it.

Mrs. Ramirez black hair is slicked back into a sharp bun, her cat-eye glasses prim and proper as she discusses the intricacies of the second triumvirate, but all you can look at is Viktor’s back.

He sits up straight, never slouching like it’s a personal slight. His eyes always face the board, his undivided attention solely on how to get his next hundred. He still wears the scars you gave him with a gruesome sort of vitriol, almost like he’s dangling it over your neck.

Your hand softly throbs at the thought.

When Mrs. Ramirez dismisses the class, she pulls Viktor towards the side. Your eyes narrow, before picking your bag and waiting outside.

When Viktor leaves the classroom, you pounce.

“Currying favor with Ramirez?” You hiss.

“How’s your hand?” He replies instead, a smug smirk on his face. “I saw you wincing during class. Does it still hurt?” His voice is filled with faux sympathy.

“Don’t ignore my question!”

“It pains me to see you…well, in so much pain. But then again, really, I’m doing you a favor of even asking how you are. You marred me, too.” He motions to his cheek, the previous red scars a pale pink now.

“You fucking deserved that!” You bring up your own wrist, shoving your sleeve down and presenting the soft skin of the inside of your wrist. “You hurt me first.”

Viktor’s black eyes fix onto your wrist. He stares at it for so long that you can feel your hand going numb.

You’re about to put your hand down, to leave and walk away with a huff, when he snatches your hand from you. It hurts; the way he grips onto it makes the bruise seem to swell and ache even more. And then–

He fucking bites.

You let out a yelp. You shove your hand out of his grip, your eyes widening at the sight of it–mangled with bitemarks and what seemed to be blood. The pain wasn’t bad, but it still stung. Stung more than anything you’ve ever really felt.

Viktor’s eyes are dark, but blown out of proportion. Fucking psycho. The thought keeps repeating in your head, and it’s the truth.

“What?” He tilts his head, coy as a lamb. “With all that whining, I thought you wanted a kiss to make it feel better?” He flashes you a small smile.

A shaky exhale escapes your lips. “Fuck you.”

Viktor shrugs, the words not phasing him in the slightest. “How creative.” He muses, before glancing at his watch with airy disinterest. “I have an internship to be at, so let’s cut this short.”

“You don’t get to make the demands here! Not after you–you bit me, and then–”

Your words seem to spark some life back in him, as he hums. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”

You try to ignore the anticipation in his eyes. But, it’s hard. It reminds you of a long-buried memory when you and Viktor competed for student council president. He had the same predatory gleam as he watched you fumble your speech at the last second, watched you trip over the words and seal your fate.

He was always so excitable when he smelled weakness; like a predator catching the first taste of blood.

You reach out for his wrist–hardly making note of the soft blue veins gracing the delicate flesh–and you bring him in closer. From this distance, you can feel his breath on your nose, see the little beauty mark that dots the underside of his eye. “You’re not going to haunt me every time I fucking see you,” You can hear the desperation in your voice as you hiss. “And when we graduate, you’ll be nothing more than a footnote in my life. Don’t think you’re anything more to me than that.”

His eye twitches, and he stills. “You don’t get to decide that,” He murmurs.

You faintly think that if anyone saw the two of you right now, they would think you both look like a pair of lovers. With your hand on his wrist, with his eyes on yours, you almost feel like one too. But instead of blossoming love, all you feel is hate and torment.

You let out a huff of a laugh. “So? It doesn’t matter who decides, as long as the result is the same.”

You let go of his wrist, dropping it unceremoniously as you turn on your heels and leave.

You wonder what expression Viktor Semyanova is wearing.

…

Graduation day feels like a noose on your neck.

You shouldn’t have been so disappointed when your principal had told you what an honor it was to be salutatorian; how hard you must have worked to get second place. You shouldn’t have been so disappointed when you asked who was valedictorian and a familiar, hauntingly horrible name was the answer.

Alice is busy looking at her mirror as she examines the dress she’ll be wearing for the afterparty. She’s wearing a pretty, luminescent turquoise that matches the same soft shade of blue that is her eyes. Sam is on his phone–he wears a wrinkled white button up and dark slacks that look like he got them straight from the laundry pile.

“You look positively horrible, Sam.” Alice rolls her eyes, catching your own from the mirror and giving a look that screams, can you believe this guy?

“No-one’s gonna see what I’m wearing under my gown, Alice.” Sam retorts, too busy playing whatever game is on his phone.

“And the afterparty?” You ask, giving him an amused look.

“Everyone will be too happy to escape the hell-hole known as school to care,” The blond replies with ease. “And I’ll be too busy eating to care what people think.”

You always envied Sam; his indifference was a stark contrast to your own anxious behaviors. Maybe it was the perfectionist inside you that made it so you couldn’t even think of looking less-than-perfect; the insistent itch to not just look it, but to be it.

You twiddle with your graduation cap, tugging at the tassel. Alice places hers securely on her head, the cap decorated with photos of you, Sam, and her. A snort escapes you as you catch a selfie of you and her posing in front of Sam’s sleeping body, a painted-on mustache and goatee decorating his face.

“At least someone's looking cute,” The brunette winks at you, and a small grin flits onto your face. You had decided to wear your favorite dress for the occasion–you think the color compliments your skin.

Sam pouts. “Man, even when I do dress up no-one ever calls me cute,” He mutters.

Alice glares at him. “You are so annoying, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yeah, this one stuck-up prick named Al-”

“Guys.” You glance at them, your tone brooking no further arguments. “If you two keep this up, we’ll be late for our graduation. I didn’t work my ass off to miss half the ceremony.”

Sam mumbles something under his breath, before grabbing at his keys and twirling them off his index. “M’kay, ladies. We ready or what?”

Alice huffs as she walks past Sam. “Hurry up, gramps. You heard [Name].”

“I’m literally the one driving you, so show some respect!” Sam calls out, and Alice responds with an elegant middle-finger.

You let out a laugh. “Alice, showing you respect? Never in a million years, Sammy.”

You pat his shoulder sympathetically, and let out a louder laugh when Sam groans. “God, how did I even become friends with that witch?”

You shrug as you leave Alice’s room, giving a quick wave to Alice’s parents–who are busy fretting over their camera–and entering the garage. “Y’know Alice, she’s a force to be reckoned with. That’s how she got into one of the top art colleges in the country.”

Sam hums, something flashing in his eyes as he twirls his keys. “Yeah, she’s something all right.” He takes a quick glance at you. “So, what about you, huh? You’re the one going to the top-fucking-uni in what–the world?”

You let out an embarrassed laugh as Sam unlocks the car, opening the backdoor with a flourish as he waves you in. “My essay wasn’t even that great.”

Sam settles in the driver seat, and he checks his watch with an exaggerated groan. “Miss Alice Levene was the first to leave the room and she’s the last to get in the car,” He adjusts the rearview mirror, before turning around to face you. “Heard Semyanova’s comin’ with ya. How you feeling about that?”

You blanch. “What?”

Last time you checked, Viktor had never expressed interest in your desired college. He didn’t even tell anyone which colleges he applied too–much less which ones he got in. You had rolled your eyes and crossed your arms when you heard the rumors; of course, it was always like him to revel in mystery. “W-when did you hear that?” You're ashamed of how you stammer over your words.

Sam shrugs, before finally letting out a sigh of relief when Alice hurriedly enters the garage, almost tripping over her heels. “Semyanova told me himself during math. God, I hate the guy–such a prick.”

Alice shoves herself in shotgun as she hurriedly fixes up her hair. “Sorry, sorry,” she hurriedly says as Sam gives her a glare. “I couldn’t find my phone.”

“And you call me a screenager,” Sam runs the engine.

The ride is shorter than you imagined. Usually, it feels like forever getting to your high school, an eternity of navigating traffic and worrying over tests and school. You should feel happy that the drive is short and sweet, that you are practically on time for your ceremony. But instead, you feel a sinking feeling in your gut.

“You’re not going to haunt me every time I fucking see you,”

“And when we graduate, you’ll be nothing more than a footnote in my life. Don’t think you’re anything more to me than that.”

Your words keep repeating in your head. You had been so confident then.

You thought you could escape Viktor Semyanova. It’s almost sickening, the irony in your words. He was like fucking Orpheus, following you into the goddamned underworld.

You rub your wrist as you rest your head on the car window, Sam’s early 2000’s music playing in the background.

When at last Sam figures out how to park (because the boy is horrible at it, and, much to your chagrin, Alice is so done she forces Sam to get out and makes herself do it instead), the three of you guys finally make it to your graduation ceremony.

The football stadium is huge, and you almost trip over Alice as you try to steady yourself in your heels. Your high school has always been large, and so is your graduating year. Sam is surveying the stands, eyes narrowed before they light up and he starts waving almost comically.

You follow his eyes and spot his mothers, and you give a small wave. Alice beams as she waves back, too, but her eyes are more focused on where her parents are in the crowd. “God, if they’re still aren’t here yet because of the camera–”

You try to spot your mom, but you can’t find her. You quickly avert your gaze, a cold, crushing feeling enveloping your heart.

The three of you take your places in the front, and you catch Sam bouncing his leg; His nerves are apparent, you can tell by the way he’s commenting on everything to Alice. You like to think you’re hiding it better, as you play with the tassel of your cap again.

Opening the ceremony off is no joke, even though it isn’t as important as valedictorian. You’re kind of dreading hearing Viktor’s speech.

You hope he doesn’t sit next to you.

And as luck will have it, he does.

Alice shoots the black-haired boy a glare, but Viktor brushes it off as he sits down. His posture is straight, but he looks relaxed. “Don’t be so uninviting, Levene. It’s not like I had a choice, sitting here.” He doesn’t look at Alice as he says those words, instead, focusing his gaze on the make-shift stage with an almost bored look.

“You’re such an ass, Semya–” Alice begins, before getting cut off as the ceremony starts.

You clench your hands as you get up. You can vaguely feel the eyes of Viktor on your back, but you try to ignore it as Alice mouths, you got this! and Sam gives you a thumbs up.

Walking up the steps of the stage feels like climbing Everest, like your Atlas and you have to hold up the sky. You don’t really know why–you’ve spoken plenty of times before, had to swallow up the feeling of nausea and fear more times than you can count. Maybe it’s because no matter how hard you look, you can’t find your mom in the crowd. Or maybe, it’s because the only eyes you can see are two, dark black pupils that stare at you like you're the only thing that matters.

You hate those eyes. You hate the feeling of them on you.

You can practically hear him in your ear as you adjust the microphone in front of you. Second place. Is that all you’re good for? Silver?

It’s not fair that some people are always destined for gold.

“Good evening, parents, students, and faculty…” You think you’re a bit in a daze. You can feel your mouth moving, but it’s almost like you aren’t the one controlling it.

“...on such a joyous day like this one, I can’t help but remember a quote my Latin teacher–you all know our joyful teacher, Mr. Flaven–would say to us, as we approached the beginning of summer…” You can hear soft laughter as the students catch Mr. Flaven making a face; he always hated being described as anything remotely optimistic.

“...Non nobis solum nati sumus, not for ourselves alone are we born. Throughout the years I’ve spent here, working alongside my classmates who I will always remember as friends, those words have never been truer. We all are a vital note in the orchestra of life, and we all have something beautiful to give to those who hear the music.”

The rest of your speech goes by quickly, and as you leave the stage with thunderous applause, and with Alice grinning ear to ear and Sam laughing, all you can think of is one thing.

This thunderous applause will be nothing, compared to what Viktor creates.

It’s a depressing thought. Alice is whispering how great your speech was, but all you hear is the silence coming from your left. Viktor hasn’t said anything since your salutations, and as your principle makes his way up, you even spot him glancing at his nails in boredom.

You can feel your jaw clench.

When at last it’s Viktor’s turn to say his speech, he walks with the confidence of a god. It’s really not fair, the way his marble mask doesn’t crack even once. When he gets up on the stage, he smiles charmingly.

“First, I’d like to offer my compliments towards my principle, my teachers, and my classmates whose tireless labor has created the fruits we are celebrating today, not to mention that beautiful salutatorian speech,” Viktor’s voice is as smooth as honey, and when he catches your widened eyes, his smile turns even sharper.

“My name is Viktor Semyanova, and I am honored to be able to witness the trials and tribulations that our class has faced and overcome…”

You grit your teeth. How dare he look so effortless, how dare the light seem to shine on him just a little more brighter than it does for the rest? Your hands curl into the material of your graduation gown.

It hurts.

You always wanted to be valedictorian. All those late nights, cramming for tests and memorizing concepts, feel more like a fever dream now. All those days where you had rejected your friends’ offers of fun, seem futile and a waste of memory. The college acceptance letter on your desk seems more like a mockery now, knowing that in a pool of candidates, you were second-best to an even more shining star.

If Viktor Semyanova was Caesar, then you were Brutus–forever written down as history’s bane of greatness. If he was Augustus, then you were Antony; the loser of a game set up long before you were born. If he was Achilles, then you were Hektor.

Promised death and obscurity, while that bastard had statues carved in his name, epithets crafted for his very image.

“Just like how my salutatorian quoted Cicero, I’d like to quote another great man, too. A quote that I think fits all of us perfectly.” The way he says salutatorian makes your stomach clench. It’s like he’s rubbing it in your face–that you're second best and he will always outrank you.

“‘Have I played my part well in the comedy of life? If so, clap your hands and dismiss me from the stage with applause.’”

The applause is deafening.

…

Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Alice’s parents are ushering you and Sam to “smile, with your teeth this time!” While Alice keeps telling her parents to adjust the camera, or leading the three of you to other, more scenic spots. Your mother, who you found just a little while after the ceremony, keeps wiping her eyes. She’s talking to Sam’s mom right now, while Sam’s ma keeps trying to fix Sam’s messy blond strands.

“Really, do you ever brush this mop?”

“I do, actually!” Sam’s voice is all high and pitchy, his face slightly red as he keeps taking glances at Alice, whose snorting at the whole affair.

“Never really seen you with a hairbrush, Sam,” She adds, giggling even harder when Sam’s ma starts up again.

“You did so well up on stage,” Your mom pats your cheek. “I recorded it–you looked very beautiful, I can’t believe my girl is growing up.”

You squirm, trying to make sure no-one but Sam and Alice are here to watch you mom pinch your cheeks. “Mom, I’ve been eighteen for half a year now–”

You mom sniffs.

You shuffle from one foot to another. “When’s the afterparty again?” You call out to Sam, who checks his watch. “In around an hour.”

“What?” Alice splutters. “An hour? Why did no-one tell me? I’m so sweaty under this gown, and don’t even get me started on my hair–dad, stop taking pictures!” She groans.

Your mom takes a glance at you. “No drinking. You better be responsible. Whose hosting the party, again?”

“It’s the same girl who always hosts the end-of-year parties, mom. Beatrice.”

“Beatrice…” You mom mumbles, before taking a glance at Sam’s mom. “Let’s still keep in touch, Xuan. It’ll be so lonely without these rascals, huh?”

As the rest of the parents start grouping up and conversing, Sam raises his hand goodbye before Alice practically drags you back into Sam’s car.

An hour later, you’d like to think that you and Alice cleaned up well.

Sam, however, is still in his wrinkled button-up.

The party is already in full-swing, and, to your exasperation you can already see the red party cups you know full well have alcohol in it instead of soda. You swiftly dodge what looks to be an already drunk girl as she giggles and sways to the music blasting from the living room.

Beatrice’s house is huge, more a mansion than anything suburban. Sam is already making a beeline for the drinks.

“He’s gonna be soooo out of it in the morning,” Alice tsks.

You shrug. “I kinda want some.” You’ve never really drank before, but today feels different. The swirling, empty void in your gut needs to be filled with something, and there's nothing better than liquid joy to do the job.

“You? Want alcohol?” Alice asks, amazed.

“I’m feeling adventurous tonight.” You reply smoothly, already following Sam’s direction.

When you reach him, he’s already chugging down what looks to be his third cup. A small group surrounds him, all of them chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

Sam slams the cup down, and groans. “This shit tastes like crusted up piss on a gas-station toilet.”

Alice looks like she’s about to puke. “The fuck?” She whispers, more to herself than anyone in particular.

A boy–he looks to be a jock–with a buzzcut grimaces. “That’s fucking disgusting, dude.”

A girl with dyed blue hair mumbles, “No wonder Mrs. Carter loved him; I can’t stop fucking imagining it.”

“That bad?” You glance down at his empty cup. Sam mumbles something unintelligent.

“I’m only drinking that stuff if you do, too.” Alice tugs at a stray strand of brown hair. “If I have to go down, I’m taking you with me.”

You glance at the kitchen counter where the red cups filled with the stuff lay. You take a gulp, before snatching one and bringing it to your mouth in one motion. You chug it down.

How could you be so stupid?

It burns your throat and makes you want to puke. You almost start coughing it back up, because it tastes so vile.

At least Alice follows suit, but she almost spits it out all over Sam. “Shit, shit, shit, this is so gross.”

You’re already feeling tipsy. The dim lights of the party seem to blur, and you let out a small, unrefined giggle.

“This shit’s strong as fuck,” The jock-dude mutters as he takes a sip of his own cup. “Where did Bea even get this?”

“I stole it from my dad,” Comes a reply. You turn your head to spot a girl, dark brown skin shiny with what you guess is glitter. “You should be lucky I’m even giving it to you guys, considering it costs like half a grand.”

Beatrice smiles, though it looks more condescending than anything. “Look’s like our salutatorian is a light-weight.” She twirls a dark, curly strand over her well-manicured finger. “First time?”

“She looks like she’s about to faint.” Comes a snide remark, as Viktor Semyanova makes his way to Beatrice’s side.

You bite your lip, trying to balance yourself as you mutter, “This isn’t even alcohol–it’s fuckin’ poision.”

Sam’s words slur as he places his forehead on the cool countertop of the kitchen. “What–what she said.”

You're too out of it to catch the intensity of Viktor’s stare, and you have to steady your hands as you support Alice, who keeps coughing and hacking away.

“Well, I’m glad you got your first…well, first, at my party, then.” Beatrice snickers. “Here’s hoping you experience more!” She turns to Viktor, before muttering loud enough for you to hear, “Fucking virgin.”

You suppress an eyeroll. So what? You were going to the top-fucking-college in the whole country–

Your mood instantly sours.

You take a glance at Viktor, who quietly chuckles at Beatrice’s remark. His hair is slightly windswept, and the low-lights highlight his sharp cheekbones. It didn’t even matter, at this point, which reward or achievement you had under your belt. Viktor had the same, had more, had everything.

Your mouth opens to say something, when Alice groans, “I think I’m gonna barf.”

“Me too.” Sam grunts, before he takes Alice's hand. “Le-let’s go have a bonding experience in the bathroom.”

You blink. “Y-you guys can’t fucking leave me to go puke your guts out–” You hiss, but then Alice looks like she’s about to turn green and Beatrice’s eyes widen. “Oh no, you are not throwing up on the carpet–!” Beatrice starts pushing them both towards the nearest bathroom, leaving you and Viktor alone.

You hate being alone with him.

“You’re holding up surprisingly well, for your first time.” Viktor says softly, his fingers tightening around his own cup. It isn’t the same red–it’s clear, filled with what looks to be water.

“This is-isn’t my first time,” You lie, your words a bit slurred. Why are you even lying in the first place?

Viktor raises a brow. “Totally,” he muses.

“Why are you going to the same college as me?” You blurt out.

“What?” His tone is more bitter than surprised.

“You’re following me. You’re fucking haunting me–stop it.” God, the alcohol is messing up your brain. Starting a fight with Viktor in public? A new low, even for you.

Viktor’s eyes darken. “Why would I turn down an acceptance letter from a top university? You’re so fucking prideful, thinking everything I do is for you.”

“Y-you’re so horrible,” You stammer over your words. You don’t know if it’s because of the alcohol, or it’s because Viktor keeps looking at you with something more terrifying than hate. The party is in full swing right now–it’s only you and him in the kitchen, while the rest of your class is in the living room. “You have something against me, e-ever since you sprained my wrist in the library–”

Viktor’s lips collide onto yours.

To call it a kiss would be a lie. It isn’t; It isn’t romantic, or sweet, or filled with love and longing. It’s a conquest, all tongue and teeth and you think he even bites your lip and draws blood. His hand, originally cradling your cheek, lowers down and starts groping at your breast.

You try to nudge your head away, to break the kiss, but it just seems to drive him even more. He deepens the kiss, shoving you towards an abandoned alcove away from the party.

When his lips finally leave yours, you're disgusted to find his eyes blown out and his cheeks painted a soft pink. “You–”

“You call me horrible?” His hand comes to muffle your mouth, effectively silencing you as he leans in. “You’re so fucking pathetic. You’re so desperate to be me–that you can’t help but want me.” A horse, mocking laugh escapes his lips.

“You think you hate me? Sometimes, I just want to take a knife and shove it in you. Isn’t that romantic?” He sneers.

Your eyes widen.

“All we do is hate and hurt each other, don’t we, corculum?” He whispers, his eyes trained on yours. “We’re just filled with hate, you and I.”

You feel his hand lower, before hooking a finger under the hem of your dress and hiking it up. You let out a muffled shriek, but his hand clamps around your mouth even harder–you can faintly smell his cologne, vetiver and cedar.

A rueful smile paints his face. “You’re not even putting up a fight? Is this a little end-of-the-year gift you’re giving me?”

He shoves his knee between your thighs, and slowly lifts his hand off your face. He rests his forehead on yours. He’s so close you can count his lashes, see the way they touch the soft flesh of his cheek.

He starts stroking your clothed cunt with an aching sort of tenderness. It adds to your drunken delirium; alcohol and a heady amount of desire filling you to the brim. But it still hurts, feeling your core drip with something akin to arousal.

“God, you’re so fucking wet.” Viktor rubs tight circles over your clit, and a soft mewl escapes your mouth. This is so embarrassing. Why aren’t you doing anything to stop it?

You feel pathetic.

He hooks a finger under the lace of your panties, and shoves it to the side unceremoniously. Shoving a finger in your pussy, he sucks in a breath. “And tight, too. I almost feel bad for you–having you first like this.” Despite his words however, he doesn’t seem to care–not when he’s curling his finger so sweetly like that, not when you have to bite your lip just to stop from whimpering.

He shoves another finger, scissoring your hole as he mutters, “I’ve been thinking about this-about you, for so long…” He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck as you cover your own mouth this time, trying to silence the moans–or maybe the cries–that betray you. “...you’re so fucking pretty, huh? Sweeter than Aphrodite,” He nips at the delicate skin of your neck, spreading you out on his fingers as he adds, “But just as cruel.”

“S-stop,” You whisper. It’s a futile attempt, you don’t even think it carries any weight. Viktor will still keep going, because that’s who he is–a man that takes, and takes, and takes. And you? Well, you don’t even know what you want–not when you feel like you're in Elysium and Hell at the same time.

“You’re a liar,” He mutters, but at the same moment he takes out his dripping digits. Your cunt clenches on nothing, weeping as it mourns the loss of Viktor. He brings his fingers to your mouth, tapping your chin with his other hand for you to open your mouth. You do.

He shoves his fingers–drenched with your wetness–on your tongue. “Look, here’s the proof.”

While you suck on his fingers, he nudges your thighs open with his other hand. Smirking, he coos softly. “Practically dripping.” He looks back up at you. “Keep sucking on my fingers, corculum. We wouldn’t want everyone to hear you getting fucked, would we now?”

You glare up at him, and he laughs. He has the fucking audacity to laugh. “Shit, you look so pretty right now.”

He presses his fingers on your tongue, and unbuckles his black slacks. Grabbing your hand, he presses it against his growing bulge. “See how hard you make me? This is all for you.”

You watch as he shoves his cock out, pressing it against your dripping cunt. It’s huge, the thought barely registers in your mind. And then, with it comes pure, blinding panic. It’s not going to fit.

You’ve never been crazy about sex. It just…never came up, ever, in your life. You were too busy writing essays and papers to have time to fool around with other people; and, then again, you never really believed other people would want you. Even Alice and Sam weren’t much for it, either. Sam was demisexual, and Alice was way too shy to ever even talk about it.

It didn’t mean that you were absent of desires, though. You had your fair share of late nights, where you imagined pretty black eyes looking up at you from between your thighs. But panic and fear are funny, fickle emotions. They come at the worst time, coming at you like a thousand knives stabbing a body.

“Stop, stop–” You hiss, but Viktor silences you with a kiss. And then–

It fucking hurts. His cock snatches on your entrance, and he practically groans into your mouth as he slowly shoves it in your tight hole. Your hands, previously at your sides, grab onto his broad shoulders. You dig your nails into the expensive material of his button-up. “You're so tight,” he growls.

When he finally sheaths himself in you, it feels like hell. A terrible, aching hell. Your hole struggles to accommodate his girth, and while Viktor rubs quick circles on your clit, it still takes you a minute to adjust before he starts thrusting into you.

The pain that once filled you now slowly ebbs away, replaced with burning pleasure. Viktor groans in your ear, whispering soft nothings and what seem to be threats at the same time.

“You’re so sweet for me-”

“-You’re so pitiful, it irks me-”

“I hate you so much.”

You want to echo the sentiment, but the way his cock fills you up makes you feel delirious. It’s so sloppy, too–the way he kneads at your tits, or the way he puts his hand under your dress and feels you up makes you almost melt. The way he drives himself deeper into your cunt makes you see stars.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” Viktor whispers the words so lovingly, you think you see white. You come undone on his cock right there and then, clenching and spasming as you milk him for everything he’s worth.

And he gives it to you–with a kiss so brutal it draws blood, he shoves his cock and fills you with a warmth you didn’t know he was capable of.

You two stay like that for what feels like hours. You, staring into his black eyes that seem to have no light in them whatsoever. Him, watching you with a look you could never really decipher.

…

Freshman Year. Last day of school.

It’s sunny. Unbearably so, given the fact you’re all wearing uniforms that are way too itchy for what it’s worth.

You tug at your collar.

Viktor Semyanova sits next to you on the grass, seemingly unperturbed by the heat. At the age of fifteen, he looks surprisingly handsome given the fact that every boy next to him is sweating buckets and looks like they’re undergoing the terrible turmoil of puberty. You wonder how he keeps his stupid face so free of acne.

“An end of the year group exercise” is what Mr. Flaven had called this little excursion. Really, it seemed to you that it was just an excuse for Flaven to torture his latin students with the summer sun.

Flaven turns a page, his tone dreary yet also captivating at the same time–a feat only he could ever achieve.

“‘Fool, prate not to me about covenants…’”

You take a glance at Viktor; he seems entranced. You can tell by the way his eyes are solely focused on Flaven. Viktor always had a horrible staring problem.

“‘There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out an through…’”

You rub your hands on the soft blades of grass that tickle your skin. It’s hot, but it’s a nice day out, you blearily think. You could fall asleep here–maybe if you were lucky, a soft breeze would grace you with its presence.

“‘Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall.’”

It’s not that bad. It really isn’t. Maybe you had a rush of judgement, but now that you think about it, it’s a good day.

You smile.

As Flaven continues his reading of The Iliad, you take a glance at Viktor again.

You find that his eyes are already on you.

@ DERELICT-SAINTESS. do not plagiarize, claim my work as your own, translate or share my posts on any platform outside of tumblr.

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