[🍁Yandere!Canada x Reader] but It's Set in MORIAL 🚧🏗👷♂️🚉⚠️
genuinely a recession indicator that im writing this but its a popular trope with aph canada so i thought id try this out. like a yandere, i love montreal but sometimes i doubt it loves me and that's how this happened
fun fact, the 'delai' pic is actually from my camera roll
It's always the same. Every first day of the month. That anonymous sender, blocked thousands of times over. Whoever this was, they were methodical, serious - and most frighteningly, doggedly determined.
They'd send the same message at the top of your notifications, from your Instagram to your phone's instant messager. You wondered when and where you'd let your phone number slip. Buzzed by caffeine and fearful adrenaline, your mind flitted from one blurry face to another. Distant friends you'd barely met, and then their friends after, in a valiant attempt to identify a shadow of who it was...
You read the message again.
[It's the first day of the month. I recharged your OPUS card, babe.]
It was different this time. Usually, they'd just remind you to do it yourself, but for reasons unknown (perhaps the rough weather), they were feeling extra generous. You nearly break a nail as you press on the blue and orange transit card, which was missing from its usual spot on the dining table. Yesterday, you found it on the end table near your balcony, covered in a small pile of rose petals.
Just as you're about to open the Chrono app to check your balance, three dots pop up from the corner of the screen. You turn white.
[Don't worry, I didn't forget about your new job in Laval. I got you the Zone AB monthly.❤️]
Holy SHIT. You launch the Chrono app and practically smash the cheap plastic into the back of your phone. Sure enough, it scans, and the brand new pass is reflected on your screen.
Against your better judgement, you text back.
[bro thats like nearly 200 bucks??? 😭]
They saw it immediately.
[You weren't planning on driving there, were you? It's been freezing rain all month. I won't allow it.]
You roll your eyes.
[la STM is still on strike when am i supposed to use this]
[st ciboire i got you the pass the least you could do is check when its running you ungrateful bitch]
Well, there goes whatever scraps of a gentlemanly fantasy you had.
They did have a point, though.
No sane person in your life would ever go to these lengths for themselves, much less for you. Blowing $160 on one month's unlimited use of transit that would not run for 70% of the day would be romantic... if it wasn't impressively stupid.
Caught between reporting the obvious break-in to being morbidly fascinated (and somewhat infuriated) by the inner machinations of your admirer, you end up trying to convey this to them. Killing two birds with one stone was the idea; expressing your annoyance to hopefully make them give up the chase.
[so what i have to leave my house at 9am for my shift at 2:30pm? be so fr]
[omfg its not rocket science TAKE THE REM ITS OPEN]
[and walk 1 HOUR from the station?? in -26C?]
You hold your breath and the sender on the other end actually stopped typing for a moment. Were they finally getting the message? Would they leave you alone on their own accord?
[bud i was just tryna be nice but u had to do me dirty like that. walk to work for all i care. if i ever see u ur fuckin dead]
Maybe you could've been a little more careful with what you wished for.
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
You send a string of haphazard apologies, but in a surprising turn of events, you find your abhorrent admirer has blocked you instead. But you could wait to see if that was a blessing or a curse. You had spent so long on your petty back-and-forths that it was already 8am, one hour before the first window of shut-downs.
You could be murdered, for all you care, but as long as you reached Montmorency first. Then, you could confide in the safety of your car in the parking lot. Because as much as you loved downtown, you'd rather ditch your car on another island than suffer the gauntlet of parking-less potholes and the hordes of manchildren tailgating you on the 40.
Doing an awkward dance to put on three layers and your winter coat, you swing your work bag over your shoulder and peek cautiously through the window. The same cracked, slush-covered streets, dusted in asphalt while the flourescent glow of unseen signs cast warm hues on the iced-over roads. The signs you could see were an eyesore. Rue Barrée. Rue Barrée. A menagerie of triangles and orange cones, part of the natural fauna since you were born. The construction workers, too.
The same people, year after year.
Your blood runs cold. A sheet-pale youngster, hiding a head of shaggy blonde hair under a beaten red helmet.
How long has he been looking at you that way?
You don't bother with the lift. You bolt down the stairs. Sure enough, when the apartment complex doors open, he's gone too. But you see a shadow skid between the grid of brick buildings, high-vis flashing against the snow, and you know it's probably too late.
The burst of apocalyptic wind from the metro doors nearly throws you across the road, but you don't relent. You're a fighter, if the way you practically ice-skated from your front door to the train is indicative of anything. You're going to live.
"...Slow down there, would you?"
A breath of air down your neck. You don't turn; you already know who it is.
The platform slides into view, just in time. The roar of the trains pierces through the brutalist concrete bunker.
9am. 15 minutes still left on the clock. You finally breathe, hoping to leap to safety, lose yourself among the crowded cabin -
Attention. Interruption de service ligne 2 - ORANGE entre Côte-Vertu et Montmorency. Reprise prêvue vers 14h00.
"I said slow down, there's no use."
The high-vis clad teen held his knees with his hands, catching his breath. His lightless blue eyes held yours in a death grip.
"D-Don't hurt me - " You stammer.
"I should be saying that to you!" He gestures to himself, eyes wide with mild amusement and offense - then raises his arms in surrender. "Look. We're done. Just trying to catch my train home here."
"Where do you live?"
The teen sucked in a breath, like he'd just been stabbed.
"...Longueuil."
"That sucks bro."
Just you him, and the slight scent of ammonia on a barren platform. Like the stations on the now empty line, not a single train of affection had been exchanged between the both of you. The teen, with the name 'Matthew' hastily scrawled on his vest in permanent marker, stood bewildered as he dusted the melting snow off his boots. While you were just glad to be alive, the relief wasn't mutual. Matthew was already digging his nose into a variety of apps, anxiously planning his next route.
A wave of pity washed over you. Sure, he was your stalker. But was it necessary to beat every semblance of goodwill out of him, then sentence him to walk outside in a snowstorm?
"Listen. I'm sorry. You're not off the hook, but I was way too much. Uh, maybe I could get you a coffee -"
You put a hand on his shoulder. He slides away and walks off.
It’s the middle of a balmy Newfoundland summer, and here you are at your second aunt thrice-removed’s summer home to celebrate your great great grandmother’s 104th. Spending what little break you’ve been afforded at a retirement home party with relatives you barely know isn’t exactly your first choice for a vacation, but you were thankful for your family’s generosity in putting you up, and for any excuse to get away from it all; away from him.
Matthew, that spindly blond boy from your English 1090 class. The one who you made the mistake of giving your phone number to during a group project. The one you’ve blocked at least a dozen times in the past week, but who stubbornly refuses to take the hint and quit. He never talked much with the group first or last, but for some reason he’s been tethered to you ever since. He’s always showing up in the corner of your vision on campus, at every bar and shop in the city, and by da jeziz you could swear you’ve caught a stark violet stare through your window late at night.
But now you’re all the way in Clarke’s Beach. Cleanly an hour outside of the city on a good day, with nothing to see but a distillery and a few spectres. Getting here would’ve cost a small fortune in gas if you hadn’t come with family, and forget getting a taxi. There’s no way even the most determined creep would follow someone out this far. Besides, the rugby team worth of people sardined in this house right now should make you feel safe, right? Right?
You pick up your little travel clock to set an alarm for the morning. You don’t deign to turn your phone back on, lest a new message intrude on what fragile peace you have left.
You move to set the small plastic cube on the bedside table, but it slips from your fingers to the floor when you’re suddenly struck by the image of his eyes locking on to yours from outside your fourth floor residence. You consider for a moment that, just maybe, he is fanatical enough to follow you. The thought makes your blood run cold.
Then you remember where he’s from.
What townie in their right mind would trek this far into the boonies?
You write the idea off as paranoia and settle in for the night, taking one last look at the clock on the nightstand beside you. You believe you’re safe.
Your illusion of security lasted all of eight hours.
You wake up to the smell of salt water from the window beside you. It’s pleasant, but you don’t remember ever opening it. The bug screen is missing too. Its absence makes you acutely aware of your itching flesh; the nippers have made a fine feed of your arms. You definitely wouldn’t have done that.
You cautiously slip out of bed, eyes scanning the room for further disturbances, hoping to find none. That’s when you notice it; a gift bag hanging from the door handle. It’s from one of those shops downtown you love to have a gawk in but are too broke to actually patronize. A bright pink sticky note is stuck to the side, your name clearly legible.
You tentatively approach the package, plucking the note off to inspect more closely. What you read makes you feel queasy.
[You ran off before I could give this to you, but it’s okay. I always know how to find you <3]
Ran off. As if you were late for something. As if you were intent on seeing him again at all.
Morbid curiosity drives you as you inspect the contents. Blessedly it’s nothing morbid like a dead animal or a severed finger, but the specificity is still unsettling. You remember these. You were out with friends and you spied this outfit, this ensemble at a boutique on New Gower. You might’ve tried it out for fun but the price tag on the shoes alone was enough to put a person into cardiac arrest, so you left it. Now it’s in your lap, exactly your size and all..
You desperately tried to find any excuse to believe your problem hadn’t found its way out here. Your cousins just loved to torment you as children. Some of them never grew out of it. Maybe it’s a dumb prank? Or perhaps it was a genuine gift undercut with a misguided note? Matthew has never come closer than five feet to you, how did he muster the nerve to break in?
Try as you might to quell your apprehension, you can’t stop your stomach from churning when the fabric makes contact with your skin, so you opt to tuck it away in a corner. Maybe someone will ask about it and you’ll get some closure, but for now it seems best not to dwell on it. You have places to be and people to see.
Your worst fears are realized that afternoon the second you arrive at Callingwood Downs for the celebration. You nearly drop the envelope in your hand when you spy Matthew across the hall.
There he was; hair brushed, less of a streel than you’re used to, smiling with his arm draped over the guest of honour’s shoulder, as if they’d known each other his whole life. You might have thought it sweet had it been anyone but him, but his presence only encourages your thoughts to spiral. How is he here? How did you not know you had a mutual connection? Does he even actually know her?
A worse thought crosses your mind.
Please, for the love of fuck, nobody say “sure das yer cousin”.
You don’t want to stick around and find out. Your eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape that’s out of his line of sight, but he catches your gaze before you can find one. He flashes you a polite smile, but you can still feel him seething; you rejected his gift and he’s taking it personally.
“Forgotsomethingbackinasec-”
You practically shove the birthday card in your hands at your cousin as you book it out the way you came. You have no idea where you’re headed, but hopefully neither does he.
By the time Matthew slipped away from the festivities and caught up to (y/n) it was already dark. They’d gained a nice head start by leaving so rudely, and they’d been on the move for hours. But that hardly mattered; he’d planned for this.
“Oh (y/n), you really thought you could outrun me, eh? I told you I know how to find you. You always used to be so smart too.”
He smiles a sickly sweet smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, proud of himself for outmaneuvering his beloved yet again. They really knew how to fatten his ego.
“I should thank them for pissing me off so bad. I don’t think I’d have the guts to be alone with them otherwise.”
Matthew glances down at the arrow on his phone screen indicating the direction and distance from the air tag it was tracking. It didn’t seem as if they were on the move anymore. He chalked that up to a combination of fatigue and environment; trying to cross a swollen river with no stamina is inadvisable, to say the least.
0.1 km NNE. Perfect.
He followed alongside abandoned rails until they led him to North River, overflowing with the previous week’s torrential rains.Just ahead he spied a figure; he could barely make them out in the dark but the location data told him everything he needed to know.
“Come on, (y/n)”, he shouted, “I just wanna talk! Too good to acknowledge your admirer now, are ya? And after all that effort too!”
The figure ahead of him pauses for a moment before turning their head. Slowly, they reveal a pair of glowing red eyes, burning holes where their gaze landed.Clearly, whoever this was felt disturbed by his intrusion.
“SORRY, SORRY, WRONG PERSON, PLEASE CONTINUE,” he blurted out, hands held in front of him like a shield.
He paces backward slowly a few steps before turning and running full tilt back the way he came, red gaze still biting at his heels making him wonder if the figure from the bridge had followed him. He keeps running until his legs can’t carry him any further, ultimately collapsing in a patch of overgrown wild grass.
I've seen a few moots doing this and it looked fun!
* Make this picrew of yourself
* Take this uquiz (How Fandom Would See You If You Were A Fictional Character)
...yeah that seems about right 😅🫠
Not sure who's done this already so tagging the besties @thetumblingmoron @redheadsramblings @woundedsoul12 @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @aurorabiggs @thepalehorsevictoria @kiir-do-faal-rahhe and anyone else who would like to play!
vaporwave
gummygunk
gamechangershow
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
