What were you going to tell her? That on one fateful night, the man you once called your best friend called you crying. That next thing you knew, you were hiding bodies, hands drenched in red that wasn’t yours, that you kept your mouth shut as he spiraled deeper?
Love Me, Love Me Not Part 4
Yandere bestfriend x Obstacle reader
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5
Tags: excuse my rusty writing, wow it's been a while since I've updated..I'll try to fix the loopholes later cause the pacing is so bad😭, cringe, Abusive dynamics, one sided love (reader loves yan), gen neutral reader, mixed signals from yan, mentioned character death, non consensual affection
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It was supposed to be a one time thing, an accident. He should've pushed you away, he shouldn't have enjoyed the way your lips were wrapped around him. He's disgusting, awful. He feels like a vile cheater for letting you suck him off. It was one time, he keeps reassuring himself, until it wasn't. There's a silent rage in his eyes, the heaviest look of betrayal directed towards you. But you don't care, and with his hands locking your head in place, he doesn't seem to hate it. What was wrong with you? You know better than to indulge in whatever this was. He says he'll stop you, the next time you try anything, he'd bash your head into the floor. But he doesn't, and he never stops you. There's something special about it, something intimate and unforgettable. He hates to admit it, but he enjoys losing control when it comes to you. Whatever, he's a man with needs, and Mila isn't currently meeting them.. Yet. Whatever was going on between the two of you would stop eventually. He'll move on, forget, and you'd do the same, depending if he changes his mind and decides to kill or spare you.
Speaking of sparing you, he often ponders keeping you alive. He said he would, and he wants to, but there are some moments where you drive him insane to the point he wants you dead. When you stare at him with attentive eyes, sickly afraid yet willing to put up with him, when you look at him like you're the victim, he feels like ripping out your eyes. It's on and off, but, for now, as it seems, he wants you alive for whatever reason it might be. He makes excuses for your situationship. It's not cheating if he hates you, he tells himself, and you're in no mood to disagree.
In a way, the two of you benefit from this weirdly now intimate dynamic of yours. He gets to push all the fantasies he has in mind for his darling onto you, and you get the opportunity for once get some sort of love and affection from the man you considered a bestfriend and old crush. It hurts on your end, but, it gives you some control, a way to distract yourself from all the screaming victims in your head. Though, as days would pass, he seemed to stop, weening himself off of you.
Today was different from all the other days. You went out for once. You didn't know what the special occasion was, but you were more than happy to go out when it didn't involve killing or disposing others. Buying furniture for the apartment, renovating the space. You had your suspicions, he was preparing for her. What the two of you shared, that relationship, it was coming to an end, and soon you'd be out of the picture. You’re placing the decorations in what was about to be her room, and you weren't sure how to feel.
It seemed surreal. What was the point of everything? You push those thoughts aside, you didn't want to focus on anything more that would damage your already non existent mental health. The two of you don't talk about it, you don't need to. It's coming to an end, the both of you know it. He has to admit it, he's gotten used to your company. Then again, he's not opposed to you leaving. He's meticulously pefecting his apartment. You place a small potted plant by the window, her window. The soft light filters through the glass, casting gentle shadows across the room. You move with quiet purpose, pulling trinkets and carefully chosen gifts from the bags, arranging them just right. You fix the bed, smooth out the sheets, and adjust the decor to make the space feel warmer, more personal. All for her.
Still, something feels off. You call Marco in. He steps inside, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room.
“Ehh… good enough, but let’s try....” he mutters, cutting himself off as he pushes past you, making small but deliberate changes. You let him. Everything was all for her afterall. When the room is finally complete, you step back, taking it all in. A satisfied hum lingers in your throat. She’s lucky, you think. Lucky... You stand at the doorway, fingers idly tapping against the frame. One last detail.
Your hand reaches for a scrap of paper and a pen. A small note—nothing much, just a whisper of something left behind. You hover, hesitating. What good would it be if you ever told her anything?
Ignorance is bliss, after all.
You write onto the note, doodling cute happy
scribbles. You leave the room, giving it one last look before closing it. Throughout the entire day, you and Marco didn't talk much. You didn't feel like talking. Now that she was coming, would he spare you? Now that he had no use of you, would he kill you like he's always openly fantasied about? Does he still believe you were after her? What was the point of any of this?
You find yourself back in your own room, stark white, empty, hollow. You sit on the floor, staring at nothing, lost in the quiet hum of your own thoughts. Hours slip by. You don't bother keeping track. Dinner is awkward. Poking at the vegetables, your stomach refusing to keep the food down. Eyes now on you, he breaks the silence. "How's the food?"
"It's good" you say, taking a bite out the beans mixed with rice. He looks a bit dissapointed with your answer. "Yeah?" His tone tells you you said something wrong. "Nono! Yeah its good!" "If you say so.."
The meal ends. You offer to do the dishes, but he waves you off. "Go to your room."
You roll your eyes, dragging your feet like a scolded child as you leave. Stomach grumbling, you start to feel unwell. Clutching your stomach, body now sweating, you take off an article of clothing to cool off. Something was wrong. You begin to take off more and more, leaving yourself in your underwear. Sick, is what you could describe the feeling. You lay on the bed, a pounding headache blooming. Then, drowsiness. You began to close your eyes.
Everything around you went blurry, then, it dissappeared.
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His foot tapped anxiously, this wasn’t going as planned. Wiping his hands, he cleaned up again, fingers trembling. He rushed to the door, nearly tripping as he shoved his shoes on. But before leaving, he slipped into your room, easing the door open.
A flicker of guilt surfaced when he saw you clutching your stomach. Well… At least it didn’t kill you.. But if it did, it wouldn't matter. He wasn’t a chemist, just an amateur fumbling with crushed pills.
They made it look so easy in the movies.
He tip toed close, kneeling next to you. There was something he couldn't put his finger on. Brushing your face with his fingertips, he just stared. Quickly, he left, closing the door behind him. Rushing out the apartment, fumbling with the keys, he took the elevator down.
The doors opened, and he sped out. All the cars aligned, he stuffed his hand in his pocket, fishing out his keys.
His car yelled, calling his attention. Swiftly, he rushed, opening his trunk. The guitar case, large and bulky, with a few poked holes. He heaved, putting it over his shoulder. Back at the apartment, gently and carefully, he placed down the heavy case. "Omhf!" He groaned, feeling the weight off his back. With shaky hands, he breathed in, preparing himself, and with a smile, he undid the locks, opening the case like a present.
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You woke up, god knows for how long you were out for because by the time you looked out the window, the sun was about to set. Nose sniffling, you forced yourself up, sitting on the bed. You listened. The apartment was deathly quiet. You kept listening and–
You jumped. You were still a bit hazy from whatever happened when you had dinner with Marco. Slowly, you walked to the door. Turning the knob, you gently opened the door.
You muttered under your breath, utterly horrified.
"MhpHF?! HMNGH?! NHHNNN–"
Tied to a chair, wrists bound, ankles secured. Duct tape plastered over her lips, muffling her frantic, choked cries. Thrashing around, familiar red hair swinging, flagging down her distress.
Weren't they dating? You set them up? How the hell did Marco fumble THIS badly?! He had her number, you swore they dating with how he swooned and bragged about their relationship. The times in that abandoned basement of some building, cleaning up the metallic blood, in the background he would swoon and heavily emphasize how they were in love.
And THIS is where it led?!
Then again, why would you trust a madman's ramblings?!
She was sobbing through the tape. Trying to knock down her chair. You never thought your respect for Marco would stoop lower than it already had. You forced yourself to move, kneeling infront of her. Her eyes widened when she saw you, and for a brief, shuddering moment, she froze. She recongized you, and you recongized her.
Her hair clung to her damp skin, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants. You were knelt in front of her, darting a quick glance around the room. Where was Marco?
"Shhh! Shhh! Okay, just- be quiet for a second!"
Your own voice was shaky, the panic clawing at your ribs. Hands trembling, you reached for the tape.
"Alright," you whispered, voice hoarse. "I'm gonna count, okay?"
You ripped it off in one swift motion.
Then gasped, coughing. Hiccuped sobs followed, her crying painfully echoing the room. You were quick to go to the kitchen, grabbing a cup of water before going back.
You urged. She was in hysterics, looking around, trying to scream for help.
She began thrashing around. Out of instinct, you dropped the cup, slapped her, freaking out from her outburst.
You hissed, hushing her. You glared at her, listening for something.
You asked, talking quietly as if at any moment he would pop out of nowhere.
"He left! He left I don't know what's going on–"
You let out an exasperated groan, your hand dragging down your face.
She laughed, her face wet from her tears. Getting up, you grabbed tissues, wiping her face. She seemed thankful, still sniffling and hiccuping. Calmer now, she stammered, the poor thing trying to understand what was going on.
The words hit you harder than they should have. You didn't know how to respond.
She laughed, before frowning. She snapped, her voice was edged with anger.
"Well that doesn't tell me anything."
You yelled, scowling. She smiled, her eyes open with a manic panic.
"Well, then I guess I’ll assume you’re also with him in whatever god awful plan you both have!"
"Do not lump me and him together."
Your finger jabbed toward her as you stepped closer, voice low, warning.
"Then just answer me and tell me what’s going on," she said, voice deceptively steady. "Because I think I’m being preeeeetty reasonable and calm right now."
Her forced smile stretched wider, but the way her breath hitched, the way her hands twitched against the restraints, she was barely holding it together.
And honestly? So were you.
What were you going to tell her? That on one fateful night, the man you once called your bestfriend called you crying. That next thing you knew, you were hiding bodies, hands drenched in red that wasn’t yours, that you kept your mouth shut as he spiraled deeper. That somewhere along the way, he started looking at you like you were the enemy, YOU were the thief, YOU had stolen her away, when all you ever did was try to make him happy.
That you murdered for him.
That you stood there, blood pooling at your feet, all because of her.
Would she love to hear how everything started because of HER?!
"Please don't do this to me right now." You took in a deep breath. She was testing your patience. She always tested your patience.
She thrashed around her chair, empathizing the current state she was in.
"What can I do when I'm fucking like this. Fuck! Take me out! Just HELP ME. PLEASE."
Her breath hitched on the last word, breaking into something raw. You clenched your jaw. She was making this so much harder. You could rip off her restraints. But with what? Marco had hidden the knives or anything sharp. What if you were able to rip her out of there with your bare hands?
He would come looking for you. He'd probably say something along the lines of you kidnapping her. Marco with his oh so wonderful creative mind would find some way to make things worse for you.
You remembered what he did last time...That woman, her dead face etched into the back of your mind.
'If I'm going down, I'm dragging you with me..'
No, you couldn't let Mila out.
Because what would she say then? What would you say when they questioned you? What would Marco say then?
You said, putting down the idea. The words felt heavy on your tongue, like admitting something irreversible.
Her voice cracked, desperate. She struggled harder, the chair rattling against the floor, breath coming in ragged gasps.
A choked, trembling sound, laced with hysteria.
Tears welled up again, slipping down her cheeks as she shook her head, her breath uneven.
"I’m gonna die, aren’t I?" Her voice wavered, breaking on the last word. "Y-You’re gonna kill me."
"What?! N-No, no one’s gonna kill you!"
Her eyes sharpened. "Then why did you stutter?!"
"I don’t know okay?! But you are NOT going to die."
She weeped in response, her voice wailing for an answer that would reassure her. "Then whats gonna happen to me?"
You didn’t know how to answer that. Because you didn’t have a clue either.
Would Marco force her into some sickened version of a relationship? Keep her locked away, gaslight her into thinking she was meant to be his? Lovingly ruin her life?
Would he break her the way he’d broken you?
"I’ll figure something out," you said, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.
She scoffed. "That’s not really comforting."
"I’m not trying to be comforting, I’m trying to keep you safe."
A silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.
Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.
The door jiggled, the sound of keys echoing. Without thinking, you ran, nearly slipping on the wooden floors, rushing to your room. You closed the door, breathing, heart pounding in your ears. Marco had returned, groceries in hand. He smiled, the red nest of hair, the apple of his eye in center of his home. "I'm home~" he sang, skipping towards the love of his life, tied up like the world's most perfect present. Marco’s arms wrapped around her from behind, his grip tight, possessive. He crouched to meet her level, cheek pressed against her tangled red hair.
"Oh, I missed you, I missed you!"
His voice was too giddy, too sweet, like he was greeting an old lover instead of a girl he had tied to a fucking chair.
Her breath hitched, her body rigid beneath him.
"Get the fuck off me," she hissed, voice shaking.
Marco only sighed, nuzzling closer, fingers tracing patterns over the bindings on her arms like he had all the time in the world.
"You’re so mean to me," he pouted. "I go through all this trouble to bring us together, and this is how you act?"
Marco paused, his arms slipping away as he straightened up. His smile didn’t waver. "Where’s your tape?" She swallowed hard. Her breath was uneven, but she still forced herself to glare up at him, chin lifting like she had any control here.
"I licked them off," she said, voice dripping with false confidence.
Marco’s brows raised in mock surprise. "Did you now?" His eyes wandered. A cup of spilt water. He detached from her, picking up the cup. He held it up infront of her. "Seems like you guys already talked." Getting up, footsteps now outside your room. He knocked on the door, like it was normal, like he was giving you a choice, as if you could actually shoo him away. He barely made it past 2 knocks before barging inside your room. He found you there, pretending to be asleep on the bed. You heard him chuckle, large hand patting your body. "Cute. But that's not gonna save you." Large hands picked you up, dragging you to the living room. You struggled, trying to get up on your feet. Hauled onto the floor, you heard her begging. "Marco please don't do that–" She hiccuped between pleads. "Just let me go, don't, don't, p-please–" he pushed you on your knees infront of her. Patting your shoulders, he smiled. "You two were chatting earlier," he murmured, amused. "Go on then," he patted your back. "Talk."
You turned to look at him, voice careful. "Marco, we didn’t—"
His hands went up, a lazy chuckle slipping from his lips.
"I’m not mad, just curious."
The grin stretched wider, his tone sing-song. "Come oooooooon, don’t leave me hanging!"
Across from you, Mila frowned, her eyes flicking to the side, away from both of you. "This is so fucked up..." she muttered under her breath.
Marco sighed. "Oh babe, don’t say that…" His hands settled heavily on your shoulders again, kneading the muscles almost affectionately.
"I mean, I knew you two would start catching up eventually." He sighed, shaking his head. "Just forgot you’d wake up before I planned…"
Yeah… Forgot how long the drugs would last, you bitterly thought.
Mila responded, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Nothing. They just gave me a cup of water."
He looked at you, his smile dropping.
You both nodded, you and her. He got up, grabbing the bags he had placed down earlier.
"Good, because I'm cooking dinner soon!"
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You and her, across from each other at the dinner table. The sound of his humming in the background. She looked at you, and you looked at her. No words were exchanged. She looked away, staring off to the distance.
Awkward was an understatement. This was pure torture. The sizzling stopped, and Marco brought the plates. "Bon appetite!" He smiled, placing down your share before placing her plate down. She just stared, still on that damned chair that tied her down. He sat beside her, pulling a chair. He had that stupid look on his face. All giddy, dumb and loopy. It pissed you off. "Ahhhhh" he grabbed a spoonful of rice with a mix of pork stew, one hand underneath the one that held the spoon. She kept her mouth shut, reasonably not wanting to eat whatever the madman had cooked. You on the other hand, ate. What's the worse that would happen? He poisoned it? A part of you wanted to die. He drugged it? It wouldn't be the first time. "Come on stop being so difficult..." He huffed. Reluctantly after some persistence, she opened her mouth. "Good!" He kept feeding her. Poor girl, you could tell she was struggling to keep the food in her mouth. Dinner ended, and you put the dishes away. From the corner of your eye, you saw him crouching down. "Shhh just stay still...." You kept peeping. He tore off the ropes with his bare hands, allowing her hands freedom. Next were her feet. "Here, try standing" He held her two hands, helping her stand. "Thanks.." she wobbled a bit. She followed his steps, smiling..
Before stomping hard on his feet. He winced, letting out a sharp gasp of pain.
She ran to the door. She fidded with the multiple locks. It was short lived however as Marco grabbed her, one hand yanking her away from the door. It was a bit pitiful to watch. She fought, wild, desperate, thrashing in his grip like an animal.
And she screamed like one, too.
"GET OFF– MHNMMGM!!! MNHFFF!!!!"
Marco barely reacted. His grip tightened, arms caging her with effortless ease. "Shhhh....Sweet heart...Calm down.." Marco kept his reassuring smile, but, it was clear he was a bit disturbed. "Honey, you’re gonna hurt yourself…"
Marco’s voice was light, almost affectionate. Like he was talking to a child throwing a tantrum. Mila didn’t care. She screamed.
Her body twisted, thrashing, kicking, biting, anything to get away.
Marco sighed, adjusting his grip with ease.
"God, you’re stubborn," he muttered, almost amused.
With a sudden shift, he slammed her back against the nearest wall. Not too hard, just enough to knock the fight out of her. The air left her lungs in a sharp, choked gasp.
Her legs gave out. He held her up.
"There we go," he cooed, pressing his forehead against hers.
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You're sitting on the couch, elbows on your knees, eyes just wide and staring into the air. Currently, Marco was struggling to get Mila to sleep in her own room.
"Come on, sweetheart, you need to rest…"
A thump. A rustle. A muffled curse from Marco.
"I SAID NO!" Mila’s voice was hoarse, raw from screaming.
Marco sighed, exasperated. "It’s just a bed, babe. Not a death sentence."
She barked out a laugh, shaky and bitter. "Says the guy who KIDNAPPED ME!"
You heard more struggling.
A sharp inhale from Marco. A warning tone. "Mila-"
You ran a hand down your face, breath slow, controlled. Would the neighbors hear? Did you have any neighbors? You could guess that she made a mess of her room. And after all that hard work you put into decorating it for her... An hour passed and you see Marco walking back, defeated and worn out. There's a huge frown carved on his face. He looked at you like a wounded dog, and you can't help but laugh. "What?"
"..How'd it go?" He lifted up his shirt, a bruise around his ribs starting to form. "Wonderful." You snorted, laughing at his expense. "Damn..." "Yeah yeah, laugh it up asshole."
Marco sat beside you on the couch, then, leaned onto your shoulder. "Oh what's this?" You scoffed. "Shut up and just let me have this.." He murmured. You rolled your eyes, pushing him off. "Hey, you wanted this. You're dealing with it." He grumbled, moving to lean onto the couch cushions. "...So, how'd you get her to bed?" Marco didn't respond. "............." "Marco?"
She was gagged, hands and feet tied to the each bed post. She was staring at the ceiling, cursing the universe..
"I had to improvise" He sheepisly answered, turning away from you. "Uh-huh...." The two of you were on the couch together, sitting comfortably. Marco looked at you again. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, something hesitant. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. "Do you still hate me?"
"Again with that question?" You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple.
"Yeah," he admitted, voice softer than usual. "Guess I just wanna know."
You crossed your arms, hugging yourself.
"Would my answer even matter?" you asked, voice flat. "I think you should care more about what your "girlfriend" thinks rather than me."
"That almost sounds like jealousy."
You scoffed. "You're delusional."
Marco hummed, clearly amused despite the situation. "Maybe."
"......I'm free to go now, aren't I?"
You’d done what he asked. Played along. He even offered helping you find a place to stay.
Marco let out a quiet hum, tilting his head as if considering it. "Hmm… free?" He rolled the word on his tongue, then smiled. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
You frowned. "That’s not an answer."
Marco stretched, arms lazily draping over the back of the couch. "Sure it is."
You clenched your jaw. "Cut the shit, Marco."
"Okay sheesh, fine. I was just joking around! You can go. I mean, I did say I'd at least help you find a place to live…"
You shook your head, cutting him off before he could go any further. "No, no, honestly, just give me the money… it's fine."
".....Stay one more night?" Marco’s voice was softer this time.
".....One more night to pack my things."
He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yeah… One more night."
