Can I have yandere Aka Manto x Reader? I see you write Japanese myths, cuz why not?
Yandere! Urban Legend x Reader [Aka Manto]
You never know when you're going to meet your soulmate. It could be on a beach at sunset, on the last bus home, in the elevator of an office building...Or in a public bathroom after you just finished your business. Nevertheless, this urban legend monster has its eyes on you now.
Content: gender neutral reader, urban legend, part horror part comedy, gore!, monster romance
"Are you deaf? It's occupied!" you shout one final time, giving the door a swift kick to emphasize your presence. That's what you get for using a public restroom. Your coworkers had convinced you to try out another bar after the company dinner, and you might've had one too many cocktails. Thankfully most of the drinks were watered down, although it is exactly because of this detail that you're now hovering above a toilet seat with a full bladder. On a Friday night, in the partying neighborhood of the city, so it could explain the persistent stranger - possibly even drunker than you - who keeps rattling the lock of your stall.
To your horror, the handle begins to turn, and you hear a click. You scramble to get up and secure the door, but it's too late. With your pants halfway down, you gawk at the bizarre individual squeezing his way in: a tall figure wearing a red cloak and a mask. "What the Hell?" is all you can mumble to yourself, awkwardly gathering your garments in order to preserve your remaining ounce of dignity. Out of all the things to happen tonight...Alright, calm down. It's most likely a crackhead. You cast your eyes down and focus on the floor tiles, with patterns strategically chosen to hide as much grime as possible.
Pretty. Almost too pretty to kill. He might just take his time with you and savor the moment. Of course, you'll have to answer his question first. With bureaucratic efficiency, he pulls out two rolls of toilet paper and extends them to you. "The red one, or the blue one?" he asks with theatric gravity. What in the Avon samples Hell is this, you think, fidgeting nervously and avoiding any eye contact still. If you ignore him, he should lose interest.
A minute passes in heavy silence. His ghastly arms begin to tire, so he lowers them with a disappointed creak of the joints. "Y-you have to pick one", he insists. Damn it! Perhaps you've been told what to do if approached by mischievous spirits like him? Ignorance means you keep your head, though he was hoping for a gory night of entertainment. You can almost feel the intense stare coming from behind the eerie mask. The tension becomes unbearable, so you finally decide to push your luck. You will not spend the night stuck with a deranged pervert looming over you in a public bathroom.
Without further delay, you shove him aside and open the door. He lets out a surprised hum, observing your daring gesture and almost expecting you to run for your life. To his even greater shock, however, you stop to wash your hands with a relaxed whistle, completely unbothered by his presence. What happened to the fear, the terror, the dread? You peek at his reflection in the mirror, and your lips curl in a mocking grin. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your nervous system, but all you see right now is a pathetic charlatan who tried to intimidate you with literal toilet paper. A good-for-nothing scoundrel interrupting the innocent from their much-needed bathroom break.
In fact, the more you consider your situation, the more your chest puffs with outrage and bravery. You pay your taxes, you help the needy, and this is how your civic deeds are rewarded? By having your stream cut midway? Unbelievable. Unacceptable. No other soul shall suffer your fate tonight. "Wretch!" you cry out, turning towards the aggressor and continuing your demands: "Evacuate the premises at once!"
You might not understand it yet, but your act of defiance has sealed your fate. The hooded monster smiles, relishing the words that have closed the gap between your fragile body and his blasphemous claws. You have spoken to him; thus, he can do with you as he desires. And yet, his murderous fingers hesitate. Your entrails should be splattered across the rarely polished porcelain by now. What's holding him back? He tilts his head in contemplation, but any intention to ponder his feelings is quickly discarded once a loud shriek pierces his ears.
As it turns out, someone else had been using the neighboring stall and was alerted by your little argument. Their finger is pointed at the cloaked creature, features twisted in disgust and fear. "Can't you tell we're busy?" The mysterious man inquires sarcastically. On second thought, this should be enough to satisfy his cravings.
With a snap of the fingers, the frightened bystander is torn apart by invisible hands right before your very eyes. Their limbs detach with surreal ease, and blood splatters everywhere in hot, sticky bursts. In your petrified daze, you are reminded of nature documentaries: blurry snippets of sharks trashing their victim around, fleshy chunks coming undone from the violent handling. Within seconds, the bathroom is quiet again. The walls and ceiling are drenched in fresh blood, and occasionally, fat droplets collapse into a puddle with resounding echo.
It all falls into place. The hooded creature claps its hands, startling you back into awareness. "That's what it was!", he says with enthusiasm. He approaches you with quiet steps, cushioned by the meaty remains coating the floor. He places one hand over the mask, removes it, and gives it a shake as if to clean off the crimson fluid. You involuntarily gaze at his face, taken aback by the handsome traits. Is this the appearance of a ruthless ghoul who butchers mortals for amusement? You wouldn't believe it if it wasn't for the hot trickle of foreign blood trailing your skin.
"I think I've fallen in love with you", he confesses with a wide, saw-toothed smile. You feel a clawed finger tracing your cheek affectionately. "Well? What're you so silent for? You were quite cheeky a moment ago!" he continues tauntingly, gripping your chin and forcing you to look up. "Or have you seen what happens when you misbehave? No, no, darling, I'd never! There are other ways in which I can ruin you."
You're suddenly very cold. With dry lips, you eventually open your mouth to speak: "I'm not leaving here, am I?"
Info: Aka Manto [The Red Cloak] is a Japanese urban legend about a masked spirit who appears to people using public or school bathroom toilets. The spirit asks the victim if they want red or blue paper; choosing red can result in being brutally cut to death, while blue can lead to strangulation or having all blood drained. Many variations of the legend exist, but they all feature this dangerous choice, often considered a reference to a real-life incident or a story of revenge.
Summary: Ri!Kusuriuri and you investigate a school and take on the Aka Manto.
Relationships: Kusuriuri x FemReader
Characters: Ri!Kusuriuri, Other-self, you, original male character(s), original female character(s)
Hajinobu Academy.
The medicine seller's kimono sleeve brushed against the classroom doorframe as he paused. "Headmaster Motokuro," he said, voice flat as river stones, "your academy's plumbing system appears excessively burdened by... philosophical inquiries."
Motokuro blinked, adjusting his spectacles. "Philosophical inquiries? Young man, we teach mathematics and calligraphy here." Kusuriuri's gaze drifted to the faint, rust-colored water stain blooming across the ceiling plaster near the girls' lavatory corridor. He didn't smile—his face never did—but the purple mark on his upper lip seemed to sharpen. "Indeed. Particularly inquiries regarding chromatic preference under duress."
You shifted your weight uncomfortably. You didn't like the feeling of the place, as you hugged your beau's arm tightly. You heard Kusuriuri chuckle softly, "Relax, my Kiku."
"I don't like this place. It's giving me bad vibes," you muttered, tightening your grip on Kusuriuri's arm. The scent of damp wood and stale incense clung to the hallway, making your throat itch.
He patted your hand absently, his dark blue eyes fixed on the trembling headmaster. "Patience, Kiku. Truth often lurks beneath denial."
Motokuro huffed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Superstitious nonsense!"
Kusuriuri tilted his head slightly. "I've heard rumors that a young woman named Rikoko Hoshiguchi vanished two months ago."
"Rikoko was one of our finest students." His eyes flickered sideways, avoiding Kusuriuri's unnervingly steady gaze. "She was... sensitive. Artistic temperament. The other girls found her peculiar." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the heavy silence. "They teased her relentlessly. Called her names. Left cruel drawings on her desk. She stopped attending classes weeks before she vanished." Motokuro tugged at his collar, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. "Ran away, I'm certain."
Kusuriuri remained impassive, but you saw the subtle tightening of his jaw beneath the purple lip mark. He knew. You knew. Motokuro wasn't certain.
"Artistic temperament," Kusuriuri echoed, the words devoid of inflection yet heavy with implication. He gestured towards the stained ceiling. "Such temperaments often perceive truths others find... inconvenient. Tell me, Headmaster, where did Rikoko Hoshiguchi find solitude? Where might she have sought refuge?"
Motokuro flinched, his gaze darting towards the girls' lavatory corridor. "She... she spent much time in the courtyard garden. But sometimes..." He trailed off, unable to meet Kusuriuri's unnerving stare.
"The facilities," Kusuriuri finished for him, tone flat. "A place of quiet contemplation, away from prying eyes. Until it wasn't." He turned, the psychedelic patterns on his sleeves swirling like trapped spirits. "Then my apprentice and I would start our investigation."
You swallowed hard. "Investigation?" you echoed, dread pooling in your stomach.
Kusuriuri’s smirk deepened. "Precisely. And you, my dear, possess a unique talent for provoking spirits." He gestured to the girls’ lavatory. "Tonight, you will sit in the facility. Alone."
Your jaw dropped. "WHAT!? You want me to—to bait the mononoke? Absolutely not!" Your voice echoed down the corridor, sharp as shattered porcelain.
Motokuro flinched, but Kusuriuri merely raised an eyebrow, the red teardrop markings beneath his eyes catching the dim light like dried blood.
"My Kiku," he murmured, his tone deceptively soft. "The mononoke feeds on fear and isolation. Who better to draw it than someone radiating... spirited indignation?" He produced a folded stack of paper talismans from his sleeve, each inscribed with characters that seemed to writhe under your gaze.
"These will shield you." Before you could protest further, he pressed them into your hands. "Remember to stay calm. I won't lead you astray."
Now, perched on the cold ceramic seat in the farthest stall with paper talismans adorning the walls like desperate prayers, you understood the true meaning of "spirited indignation." It had curdled into pure, icy terror. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic drumming of your own heart against your ribs.
"(*Sigh*)...Why me?" The whispered question hung in the stale air, unanswered.
After a few minutes of dead silence, the talismans suddenly activated—sigils curling like burning leaves until the eyes opened, glowing red! You jumped with a slight jolt upon hearing the heavy footsteps echo from outside the bathroom stall.
The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and heavy—each step sounded like a wet cloth slapping against the tile floor. The talismans lining the stall walls began to glow brighter, the ink sigils twisting like living things, emitting a low hum that vibrated in your teeth. You pressed your palms flat against the cold ceramic seat, knuckles white, trying to steady your breathing. The footsteps stopped right outside your stall door.
"Ku-Kusuriuri...?"
No answer. Only the oppressive silence pressing down, thick as wet cotton. A cold draft seeped in, carrying the faint, metallic tang of old blood and something else... stale ink? Like discarded calligraphy brushes left to rot.
The footsteps resumed—slow, deliberate—dragging across the tile like a wet rag wrung out too many times. They halted directly outside your stall door. Beneath the gap, you saw the hem of a cloak, crimson as fresh arterial spray, pooling on the grimy floor.
Slowly, the door opened without a creak—as if the hinges themselves held their breath. The figure stood framed against the flickering hallway light, draped in a cloak so violently red it seemed to bleed into the dimness. Its face was hidden behind a featureless Noh mask, smooth and white as bleached bone. You couldn't see eyes behind the mask's carved slits, but you felt its focus—cold, impersonal, like the weight of a stone pressed against your chest.
Then, a voice. It wasn't human. It vibrated, layered like cheap paper rubbed thin—a whisper scraping over gravel, yet echoing as if spoken down a long, empty corridor. "Human," it hissed, the words chillingly intimate despite the grotesque, featureless Noh mask you glimpsed beneath the hood.
"Paper pleases. Choose: red? Or blue?"
The voice scraped against your eardrums. You froze, breath trapped in your throat. The Aka Manto. Kusuriuri's teachings echoed—red meant flaying, and blue meant strangulation. Neither option ended well.
The talismans protected you physically, but not from the paralyzing dread clawing up your spine. Your mind raced. Kusuriuri was nearby, hidden, waiting for the spirit to fully manifest. But right now, you are alone with a nightmare.
The Noh mask tilted slightly, unnervingly curious. "Paper pleases. Red?" A crimson sleeve lifted, revealing fingers like dried twigs beneath the cloak. "Or blue?" The other sleeve rose, stained a deep, unsettling indigo. The air thickened with the scent of wet paper and decaying roses.
You swallowed hard, throat clicking. Stall. Stall for Kusuriuri. "Neither," you blurted, louder than intended. The talismans flared brighter, humming against the stall walls. "I brought my own!" You fumbled desperately in your kimono sleeve, pulling out a crumpled sheet of cheap, pink paper—the kind used for wrapping candy.
You held it up like a shield. "S-see? Pink paper!"
The Noh mask tilted sideways. Silence stretched, thick with the ozone crackle of activated talismans and your own frantic heartbeat. Then, a low, papery rustle emanated from beneath the cloak. Not laughter. More like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
"Pink?" The voice rasped, layered with confusion. "Pink is... unexpected." The crimson sleeve twitched, fingers curling slowly. "Not red. Pink." It sounded genuinely perplexed; the impersonal menace was momentarily fractured.
You clutched the crumpled candy paper tighter, knuckles digging into the cheap texture. "Y-yes! Pink. For... wrapping candy, like Konpeito." Your voice wobbled, adrenaline sharpening the scent of damp wood and stale incense clinging to the stall.
Behind the mask, you sensed a flicker of something akin to annoyance—irritation.
"Pink offers no... satisfaction. No release." The words vibrated, colder now. "Choose properly. Red?" The crimson sleeve drifted closer, radiating a sickening warmth like fevered skin. "Or blue?" The indigo sleeve followed, chilling the air instantly.
"I..." The word dissolved into a choked gasp. The crimson sleeve drifted closer, radiating unnatural heat like sun-baked asphalt. The blue sleeve followed, chilling the air to frostbite sharpness. Your fingers trembled around the useless candy paper.
"Aka Manto!" The cry ripped through the bathroom, sharp and commanding, shattering the suffocating silence. Relief immediately washes over you at the sound of your beau.
Kusuriuri stood framed in the lavatory entrance, his silhouette cutting through the gloom. His light teal kimono seemed unnaturally crisp against the tiles, the psychedelic patterns on his sleeves swirling subtly, catching the dim light filtering through a high, grimy window.
The Aka Manto shuddered violently, its crimson cloak billowing as if caught in a sudden gale. The Noh mask snapped toward the medicine seller, the blank eyeholes radiating pure malice.
"Shape," Kusuriuri stated, his voice unnervingly calm. He didn't advance, merely stood poised in the doorway, the ornate sword Ri held vertically before him. The little demon head clacked its teeth. "Manifested as Aka Manto, the chromatic phantom bound to death and sorrow. Observed."
The spirit hissed, a sound like cloth tearing. Its form flickered like static, momentarily revealing glimpses beneath the cloak—shifting shadows, the suggestion of tangled limbs, and the glint of something metallic caught in folds of impossible fabric.
Kusuriuri’s dark blue eyes tracked the distortions with clinical precision. "My Kiku, are you unharmed?" You heard him call out to you.
"Ye-yeah...! Still alive!" Your voice cracked, but the confirmation was enough.
Kusuriuri nodded sharply, his gaze never leaving the shuddering crimson phantom. The air thickened with the smell of wet paper and something acrid—like sulfur soap left too long in water.
"Reason...?" he murmured, fingers tightening around Ri's hilt. The sword remained inert, its secrets locked.
Hmm, he needed more information.
Just then, the lavatory door slammed open. Headmaster Motokuro stood panting in the doorway, spectacles askew. "What's going on in here!?"
The red cloak snapped towards him. The spirit froze—then shuddered violently. A low, guttural growl tore from beneath the Noh mask. It wasn't layered paper anymore—it was raw, feminine, and choked with fury. "Headmaster!" The name hissed like steam escaping a kettle.
Motokuro stumbled back, face draining of color. "Wh-what devilry—?"
Suddenly, there's a cracking sound as the three watch the noh mask fall off, revealing a dark void filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. The crimson cloak billowed like blood spreading in water as Aka Manto lunged toward Motokuro with a guttural screech—that raw, feminine voice tearing through the air. "YOU PROMISED!" The scream echoed with the agony of betrayal, sharp as broken glass.
"W-WAHH!"
Kusuriuri moved faster than thought. Multiple paper talismans flooded out from the sleeves of his kimono, snapping through the air like startled birds. They surrounded him and Motokuro with a sudden rush of wind, forming a shimmering barrier just as Aka Manto slammed against it.
"Kusuriuri..!" You poked your head out from the stall.
"Stay there, my kiku!" Kusuriuri's command cut through Motokuro's screams.
The barrier flared where Aka Manto clawed at it, each strike releasing sparks that smelled sharply of burnt hair. The spirit's void-mouth stretched impossibly wide, those teeth clicking like castanets. "YOU SAW THEM HURT ME!" A female voice ripped from it, thick with tears and rage. "YOU SAID YOU'D HELP ME!"
Motokuro cowered behind Kusuriuri, trembling so violently his glasses slipped off his nose and shattered on the tile. "W-What the devil is that thing?!"
"Dunno. You tell us." Kusuriuri's voice remained flat, but his dark blue eyes pinned Motokuro like specimens. The headmaster flinched as Aka Manto slammed against the barrier again, the impact vibrating through the tiles beneath your feet. The spirit's scream dissolved into choked sobs.
"You...lied!"
"It seems to know you, Headmaster," Kusuriuri said softly, his gaze never leaving the thrashing spirit. The barrier flickered with each impact, casting shifting amber light across his impassive face.
"Truth," he murmured, fingers tracing the ornate guard of Ri. The sword remained dormant. Not yet.
"Tell me, headmaster... What really happened to Miss Hoshiguchi?" Kusuriuri asked softly, his voice slicing through Motokuro's whimpers.
The barrier flared brighter as Aka Manto slammed against it again, sparks showering the tiles with the stench of singed silk. The spirit's teeth clicked wildly behind its void maw. "YOU BURIED ME IN THE GARDEN LIKE A DOG!" Rikoko's voice tore free—less scream, more shattered sob.
Motokuro flinched as if struck. "I—I didn't know!" His eyes darted wildly, avoiding Kusuriuri's unblinking stare. "The bullying... I told her to endure it! To be stronger! But then she—" He choked, gaze dropping to the shattered spectacles at his feet. "I...I found her hanging from the ceiling. Already cold." His shoulders slumped. "I-I-I panic. So I cut her down...and buried her in the garden." The admission hung thick, sour as spoiled milk.
"YOU PROMISED TO PROTECT ME!" Rikoko's shriek rattled the barrier. The crimson cloak dissolved into swirling shreds of fabric, revealing a translucent girl in a torn academy uniform. Her neck bore a vicious purple bruise. Black tears streaked her cheeks. "YOU LEFT ME ALONE!"
Kusuriuri’s gaze snapped from Motokuro to the weeping spirit. "Truth acknowledged," he declared. Ri began to chatter its teeth again. "Shape: Aka Manto, born of betrayal. Reason: Rikoko Hoshiguchi, abandoned in death. Truth: Headmaster Motokuro’s cowardice." The sword’s guard clicked open. "Exorcism commences."
Motokuro whimpered, scrambling back against the barrier. "Stop it! Destroy that thing!" Rikoko’s spirit lunged again, her translucent fingers scraping the shimmering wall. Kusuriuri ignored him, stepping forward with Ri raised. The blade glowed faintly, humming like a tuning fork struck against bone.
"[Y/n], my kiku" he called, eyes locked on Rikoko’s weeping form. "The pink paper. Throw it." You blinked, clutching the crumpled sheet. "Now." His command brooked no delay.
You flung it through the barrier. The cheap candy paper fluttered like a dying moth, landing at Aka Manto/Rikoko’s feet. She froze, staring at it.
"Pink paper?" Kusuriuri’s voice was soft and deliberate. "For wrapping candy." He took another step forward, Ri humming louder. "Pink... It holds no promise of pain or oblivion. It holds... possibility."
An innocent color.
The world flips. Not like turning a page, but like ink spilled into water—swirling, dissolving, reforming. Kusuriuri’s light teal kimono bleeds into gold, the psychedelic patterns melting into twisting lines of molten metal. His dirty blonde hair streams upward, lengthening into an impossible cascade of white silk unrestrained by any bandanna. Where his pale skin was, dark tan spreads like spilled tea across parchment. The red teardrop markings beneath his eyes invert, becoming golden trails climbing his temples. His dark blue eyes vanish—replaced by pits of liquid night with crimson irises burning like coals at the bottom of a well.
The air doesn’t crackle; it thins. The scent of burnt hair and wet paper evaporates, replaced by nothingness—a vacuum where sound dies mid-vibration. He exists between. Not spirit, not flesh. The Divine Ritual.
His gaze fixes on the crumpled pink paper lying on the floor. The Other Self moves. Not walking, but displacing air like a stone dropped in honey. His golden kimono doesn't rustle; it absorbs silence. He crouches, picking up the pink candy paper—his Kokoro's answer.
His dark fingers, traced with glowing gold lines, brush the cheap, rough sheet. The paper shivers, softens, and bleeds color. It blooms upward, unfurling into a perfect, velvet-pink rose, its stem thornless and cool against his palm. Its scent sweet as candy and floral.
He holds it close to his chest before turning to the Mononoke. Her spectral form flickers, the torn uniform and bruised neck momentarily visible beneath the dissolving crimson cloak.
The Other Self speaks, not with Kusuriuri's layered cadence, but with a voice like wind through mountain pines—deep, resonant, and utterly final. "Your truth is known. Your pain is seen. Rest now."
He raises Ri. The blade isn't drawn; it unfolds like dark origami, revealing edges that drink the light. A single, graceful arc cuts through the air—not at Rikoko, but through the clinging resentment binding her. There's no scream, only a sigh like dry leaves settling. The red cloak dissolves into motes of dull red light that fade like dying embers. Rikoko's spirit stands transparent and whole, the bruise gone from her neck.
She looks at the pink rose in the Other Self's hand, then at Motokuro cowering behind the fading barrier. A sad, fleeting smile touches her lips before she dissolves into soft pink sakura petals that drifts upward and vanishes into thin air.
The world snaps back. The oppressive chill vanishes, replaced by the mundane smells of old soap and damp tile.
"My kiku," Kusuriuri stands before you, Ri sheathed at his hip, his light teal kimono perfectly ordinary. Only the rose in his hand remains—real, velvety, and smelling sweet.
He steps close, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than usual. Without a word, he tucks the thornless stem carefully behind your ear, his fingers brushing your temple. The petals feel cool and surprisingly sturdy against your skin.
Motokuro stares at the spot where Rikoko vanished. His trembling stops, replaced by a hollow stillness. He picks up the broken frames of his spectacles, the lenses shattered like his denial.
"I... I'll go to the authorities," he whispers, his voice raw. "Tell them everything... where she lies. In the garden. Beneath the cherry sapling." He doesn't look at either of you as he shuffles out, shoulders slumped under the weight of confessed guilt.
You both watch him leave.
Later, beneath a twilight sky streaked with lavender, you stand with Kusuriuri in the academy’s neglected garden. The cherry sapling Motokuro mentioned is thin, barely taller than you, its young branches stark against the fading light.
The freshly turned earth beneath it is dark and damp. Kusuriuri produces a simple stick of incense from his sleeve, lights it with a flick of his fingers, and plants it firmly in the soil. The sweet, woody smoke curls upward, mingling with the cool evening air.
You clasp your hands, close your eyes, and offer the only prayer that feels right: "Rest in peace, Rikoko. May your soul find kinder gardens." The incense smoke swirls around your ankles, smelling of sandalwood and something softer—like pressed flowers forgotten in a book.
When you open your eyes, Kusuriuri is already turning away, his geta silent on the path. You catch up, falling into step beside him. Your hand finds his, warm and sure, as you walk away from the school yard.
No words needed to be said. Kusuriuri's hand tightened around yours as you walked, a rare anchor in the drifting twilight.
