Yandere! Footballer who uses his fame to get you. He makes subtle hints that he's dating someone. But who?
You, of course!
He makes subtle slip ups in an interview, cryptic Instagram posts and other things that lead fans to your Instagram. All of a sudden, hate comments flood your notifications.
"How dare you get with him?"
"Is it true you hunted him down just to fuck him for some clout?"
"I can't believe you're in it for the money."
Those are the tamer ones. The other comments/dms you would get include calling you mean names like "whore", "bitch", and other depravity you would not ever talk about.
You're a normal person that posts once in a while, or every so often, not because you have fans to post for. You try to push it off and convince yourself it's all going to die down soon enough but he doesn't let it. There's posts that fans psychoanalyze for no reason and somehow it comes back to you?
It's all alleged until he starts following you, and all hell breaks loose.
Being the gentleman that he is, he finally appears at your doorstep with flowers. He gives you that empathetic look and asks, "do you wanna talk?"
Biting your lip in hesitation, you agree to let him in.
"I don't want this," you start.
"I know you don't, but I want to give you a choice," he elaborates.
You take a deep inhale, ready for whatever he's about to propose but you don't know the true weight of the future.
"It's either you bear being known as a "slut" to everyone, or you actually come home with me and we sort things out," he watches you in amusement. "I can make the parasocial fans disappear with one story, as long as we make it official."
"I-" you want to say something, to fight back, but nothing goes past your lips.
"So?" he uses one finger under your chin to make you look at him.
"I-I don't know what to say..." you mutter.
"Just come with me, it's the safer option of the two, no?" he asks, a spark in his eyes that sends shivers down your spine. Possessiveness? Lust? Control? You have no idea, but what you do know is you never wanted this.
"A-are you kidding?" you blurt out.
His expression turns dark. "Do you think I'm joking about this? Is me soft launching us a joke to you?"
"What— no!" you exclaim.
"Alright then, what's your choice?" he asks. "I'll give you some time to think about it."
He leaves you alone in your apartment— thinking and confused.
in honour of the world cup except this is not about a certain football player. also i fucking hate argentina football team & messi so merino better not mess this up.
Synopsis: A stranger you’ve never met before keeps telling you he’s from the future, and how he was actually your lover. You don’t believe his nonsense, until all his predictions come true.
You're not sure when it started.
But some guy you've never seen before has been following you around. Openly. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.
Walks next to you like he belongs there, like you've been doing this for years.
At first you just thought he was a weirdo.
Then, he started telling you stories about yourself.
Not guesses. Not vague stuff anyone could assume.
Actual memories. Things you don’t ever remember telling anyone.
"You broke your wrist in third grade falling off the monkey bars," he said one afternoon, walking beside you like it was normal. "You cried because you thought your mom would be mad about the hospital bill."
You stopped walking.
"How do you know that?"
Was someone pranking you here? Because this wasn’t funny anymore.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he just smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.
It was soft and fond. Like he was remembering something precious.
No… He just followed you. Talked to you. Smiled at you like he knew you better than anyone else.
So, you confronted him yourself.
"Why are you doing this?"
He looked at you quietly for a second. Then said something that made your skin crawl.
"You just haven't fallen in love with me yet."
You stared. "…Yet?"
He nodded as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
After that, the stories changed.
No more childhood memories. Instead, he started talking about your future.
"Next Tuesday your professor will cancel class."
"Your friend Mina will spill coffee on your notes tomorrow."
"You'll take an extra shift at the gas station this week."
Total nonsense, obviously. You laughed it off.
Yep, definitely a hooligan. You labeled him in your mind.
But he said this nonsense so many times you accidentally memorized the lines.
Which is why, when your coworker opens her mouth, your stomach drops.
"Hey, you're on night duty today."
"What? No I'm not!"
She pouts. "Oh, come on!! Please cover this shift for me, I promise I'll make it up to you."
You owe me three other times already.
She begs and begs. Eventually you sigh.
"Fine."
The second the word leaves your mouth, your chest goes cold.
Because you've heard this before.
From him.
Night shifts at the gas station are the worst. Too quiet. Too empty. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional owl from the forest behind the store.
You hate working during these hours, it gave you the creeps. The feeling of being watched.
The bell above the door jingles.
A middle-aged man stumbles in, his walk wobbly. Even from behind the counter, you can smell the alcohol, signaling to you that he must be drunk.
Great.
You force a customer service smile as he approaches. "Good evening, sir, can I help—"
"You."
He points a shaky finger at your face.
"Where's that other wench that works here? Why isn't she here tonight?"
Your blood goes cold.
Word for word.
“Sir, can I help you buy something?” Your voice came out thin. Small. “Maybe some water? Coffee?”
“Don’t ignore me!” He slapped the counter. The bottle in his hand—wine, red wine, just like he said—swung through the air. “I asked you a question!”
You fumbled for the phone in your pocket. But it was too slow. The drunk man was already coming around the side of the counter, eyes wild, breath sour.
“Damn it, stop ignoring me!”
Suddenly he's right in front of you. His hand lifts a wine bottle high in the air, aimed straight at your head.
You can't move. Can't think. Just that same sentence echoing over and over.
You'll be attacked at night in the gas station.
You saw it coming. Saw the arc of it, the way the light caught the green glass. You knew what was about to happen, yet you still couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but close your eyes and scream— “AAHHHH”
SLAM.
The sound followed. Not glass breaking. Not your skull caving in.
A body hitting the far wall.
The crashing sound of shelves collapsing. Candy bars and chip bags and cheap lighters scattering across the floor.
Then silence.
“It’s okay,” The soft, familiar voice quietly whispers. “Open your eyes. I’ve got you.”
You couldn’t believe the thought that crossed your mind. The voice you’d grown used to hearing… for the first time, you were actually relieved to hear.
You hesitate. Then slowly… you do.
You opened your eyes.
The drunk man was crumpled against the opposite wall, groaning, the wine bottle shattered beside him. And standing between you and him—calm, unhurried, brushing dust off his sleeve—was the hooligan.
His smile was gentle.
Lovesick.
Like he hadn’t just thrown a full-grown man across a convenience store.
“Don’t be afraid.” He stepped closer, “I said I got you.”
You, however, couldn’t speak. Could only stare as he reached over the counter and took your shaking hands in his. His palms were warm. Steady.
"I got here a little earlier this time," he says thoughtfully.
"Last time you needed stitches." He mutters to himself.
Your blood turns to ice.
Last time?
He steps closer to the counter, resting his arms on it casually. As if this were just a normal visit. Like he's done this a thousand times before.
His gaze softens as he looks at you.
“Do you believe me yet?” He laughed softly, like this was all some private joke between the two of you. Meanwhile his eyes never left your face. Hungry. Adoring. Wrong.
You can't answer. Your brain is still stuck on last time.
He chuckles quietly, and tilts his head. Watching your face with lovesick patience.
Then his voice drops to something gentler. Something terrifyingly certain.
"Good. Now all you have to do… is fall for me a little faster this time."
You sit alone at the edge of the cafeteria, hidden behind the fortress of your laptop screen and a wall of untouched fruit cups. The noise around you doesn’t register—voices bounce, shoes squeak, laughter surges in waves—but you’re too busy organizing your notes for the third time today.
And then he walks by. Atlas Crowe. Of course his name is ridiculous. So is the way people orbit him like planets caught in his gravitational pull. Varsity captain, head of student council, the boy they built statues of in the hallway with yearbook spreads and committee photos.
You barely exist in his world. Or so you thought.
“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning over your chemistry homework like he belongs there. “You’re the smart one, right? Help me out.”
It’s innocent—too innocent. But then he starts sitting with you. Every. Day. Abandons his throne in the center of popularity to share vending machine meals and Google Docs. People start whispering. You start second-guessing every glance, every compliment.
“You know,” Atlas says one night while you tutor him, voice low and too close, “you’re kind of mesmerizing when you explain quantum theory. Like you’re speaking a foreign language, only I want to learn.”
You freeze. His hands are too clean for this. His face is too pretty. His locker is filled with notes and candy, and here he is—eyes locked onto yours like you’re the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now.
Soon, your blog gets flooded with anonymous messages quoting your writing. Someone starts following all your playlists, liking posts seconds after you publish them. You mention offhand that you’re into niche documentaries—Atlas starts referencing them in class presentations as if they're his new motto.
You overhear one of his friends complaining.
“She’s weird, dude. Like, no offense, why are you into her?”
Atlas smiles, soft and eerie.
“Because she’s not into me,” he says. “Yet.”
And now, there’s glitter on your desk. Not the fun kind—the invasive, sticky kind that somehow spells your name on his notebook. The whole school watches as the golden boy trades stadium lights for late-night texts about your favorite books and obscure philosophers. But it’s not romantic. It’s quietly terrifying.
One day you log into your private study server and find a folder: “She Who Taught Me Devotion.” Inside are transcripts of everything you’ve ever shared—academic papers, chat logs, notes you thought were deleted.
Atlas finds you at your locker, smiling like a sinner blessed by obsession.
“I’m popular, yeah,” he says. “Everyone wants me. But you? You made me need you.”
Yandere!Boyfriend - who begs for you to not leave him alone in the house, alone with his thoughts, alone with his dark imagination, and twisted mind. Worst of all alone with his thoughts about you, and all of the unpredictable things he's gonna do to you when you get home
Yandere!Boyfriend - who can cook, loves to make any meal that pops up into your mind. he thinks also having a fake app, that collects and organizes all of your data and information for him, so that he doesn't miss a beat whether he's on a week long work trip, or right besides you in bed is worth it
craving a grilled cheese ?
already made
wishin' you could have the macaroons you snacked on all throughout your trip in paris two summer ago with him ?
don't worry, he'll personally email the chef who wowed you with them, to send the recipe over, even if that means he has to blackmail him for it
only ever the best for his precious darling.
He also knows his way around the kitchen, he likes to show off by flipping knives around, catching the tips with bare hands as they fall bacm down to the ground, he clutches them in his palms mid-air, you scream at him to stop / cover your eyes.
He never listens though, he likes how concerned you get for him.
ONCE he walked over to you knife in hand, the expensive chandelier above the dining room table caught the edges of it and made it appear sharper, meaner, deadlier.
You swallowed, He watches your throat bob up and down in an emotion he can't place.
Fear ?, Anticipation?, Excitement ? .
The last thought makes his grin widned, it looks like it hurts.
"Y/N" he purrs
You tilt your head up, his silver eyes swirl with mischief and darkness. Warmth pools in your legs, moths on flame skitter through your stomach "Yes ?"
Every fiber of your being screams at you to get up and run for the door. But a lamb-like, almost docile part of you sinks its teeth into his hypnotic act. You've both been so vulnerable and raw and open with each other. He could never truly hurt you....
He takes one last step towards you, silent and as predatory as a lion stalking a gazelle, he bends the knife towards you, and lowers himself down, on his knees.
He traces the blade across the soft curve of your throat, down to your collarbones, and up again. He seems to have fallen into a trance, the hot silver of his eyes cools to a dark stormy grey, but their still alive as ever.
You whisper his name
His gaze never leaves your throat "Hmm" he softly sings. His minty cool breathe, fans across your cheeks, you lean in forgetting the knife. In that spilt second the razor sharp end breaks skin and you wince.
His eyes widen watching as the warm maroon-colored liquid trails down your neck
He doesn't say anything. He just watches.
You fidget and whine
Autumn air from the open balcony doors stings your cut, he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbles it "After dinner I'll have to be more careful not to do it so close to your arteries. You could have bled out, on the carpet"
Yandere!Boyfriend- who would never lay a hand on you or raise his voice. But is a master class manipulator and strategist.
Feeling sick and don't want to go out tonight ?
Well you had all week to to tell him that you didn't feel good and you choose the only friday he has off in months to play this card.
I guess being an alarming 105 degrees, throwing up, passing out and fainting isn't good enough, You bitterly and sarcastically joke to yourself. You have to refrain yourself from rolling your eyes at ridiculous accusations.
With his cold steel eyes, he analyzes you like the way he lazily skims over boring logistics details at work, there was nothing about your outside appearance that screamed ill, so the only other logical answer was.... you were faking it. Why else would you not want to be seen out tonight with one of the wealthiest, most well connected and feared men in the City.
Were you ashamed to been seen with him ?
You promised him once you two started dating to never breathe a word of what kind of work he was in. You didn't know if it was good or bad, but you assumed with his endless amount of positive media coverage, humanitarian awards and the little old grannies blushing and praising him in the streets. He must be doing something right... right?
Yandere!Boyfriend - who blackmails / black balls anyone who dares to disrespect, mock, or harass you.
As a journalist you can face a lot of scrutiny for the types of stories that you take on. Human trafficking, social justice, animal cruelty. Your city being as wicked and as corrupt as it is, gives you years worth of news coverage to write, interview and speak about.
People can tend to not agree on certain beloved politician's dirty deeds you air out, the philanthropic billionaires who appear to mean well and have an genuine interest in helping their community.
Often let buisness politics and their squeaky clean images override their sense of justice; what is right and wrong.
You chose to be good, to be right. To do right. To stick up for those who are afraid or who have been forgotten and back those who have no support.
Yandere!Boyfriend - who hates physical touch even from his own loving parents, crumbls underneath the lightest brush of your blood stained lips across his cheek, your danity fingertips accidentally caressing his shoulder or elbow as you pass. while, you may not notice, your effect on him. he instantly files the feeling and catalogs the moments
Touch of all kind, no matter how, where or when he craves. After a press talk, he will scan the sea of faces in the crowd to find yours, once he does his shoulders visibly loosen and that infamous curl of black hair that never stays put bounces on his forehead as he sways on the balls of his feet with jittery energy, aching for this to be over so that he can hold your hand ; roll up your sleeves, and smell the sweet sweat of your skin, the daily moisturizer you use and and the body oil you lay on top.
Touch isn't just about affection for him. It's also possession and conviction. And commitment.
Commitment to memory how you taste, feel, smell.
Conviction surges through his body like electricity, it's bone deep and ancient. Some higher power gave you to him. No, blessed, gifted, endowed him with you mere presence. The smell of your hair, your mega-watt smile, the curves and marks stenciled with perfect precision onto your body, in his hands to lick, kiss and suck. To wheep into, to confess and to possess
Yandere!Boyfriend - may be a lot of things. An animal, a bully, blurrer of lines, dark guardian, inescapable shadow. A menace to his enemies and those who dare to mistreat his wife girlfriend. He may be all of the above and much more. But he is also
A Provider.
Confidant and Friend.
Wonderful husband boyfriend.
Excellent Lover.
Reliable partner
& Someone who you can always trust to (watch) have your back, be in your corner and keep you safe (even if you don't ask / want it).
You stare at your Werewolf!Boyfriend laying in your bed. It's night already, so all you can see right now is a pile of fur and a snout peaking out of the mess of blankets. It's cute— you rarely ever go to sleep after him, but something kept you up longer. And now, you're standing beside your bed, staring down with a blank face. You narrow your eyes.
You jump on the bed beside him, pulling the blanket off of his face. You place both hands on the side of his head, and begin rubbing your face on to his, hard.
He whined, pulling back slightly, but you kept him in place. He grunted when you didn't stop, rubbing it from side to side on the side of his snout. Now, he moved one of his large hands to push you away, placing it in the middle of your torso.
"Yeah, doesn't feel nice, does it." You ask him, when you slide on the sheets of your blanket and your face is now away from his. His eyes slightly open, and now peering at you. He let out a huff. "I get it...I get it..." He mumbles, nose twitching.
You let out a prideful hum, sitting up to move closer to your boyfriend and laying down beside him with a content smile. But before you could wrap your arms around him, he lifts himself up, and pins you down on the bed. You yelp in surprise, and let out a loud groan when your vision gets blocked by fur and he begins to rub his face on yours; your only defense being muffled protests at his antics.
