SUB-5? YOU'RE A SUB, ALRIGHT. (1/7)
Trigger/content warning: lots of incel/blackpill terminologies, self-deprecation, brief suicide ideation mention, brief non-consensual touching. Pathetic reader. This is a Yandere male x male reader. MINORS DNI
Dividers credit: @/saradika-graphics Word count: 3049 Masterlist Part one (You are here), part 2
So you're a fucking loser.
You're still living off Mommy's money and locking yourself in that dingy basement you call a bedroom. You're not in the best shape, you have a completely useless degree that gets you no work, your friends have either drifted apart or moved on without you, you have no girlfriend, and there's a you-shaped stain on your bed sheets from how much you lie on them.
The only light you get is from your computer screen, and you hiss at the rays coming from the living room whenever your mother opens your door to hand you your chicken tenders.
You thought you were so over. This is it, this is what you're going to do for the rest of your life. No aspirations, no goals... there's nothing good going on for you. Well, it never even started for you. When mom goes, so do you. Heard that a bullet to the head does quick work.
But then.
Your screen suddenly turned black.
As if you were snapped out of a trance, you frantically mashed the buttons on the keyboard and your mouse. Nothing. Tried turning the CPU on and off... nothing.
Begging, praying, scolding at your device, desperately wanting it to work again. You NEED your instant gratification!
But nothing works. All you could see staring back at you is the faint and disheveled reflection of yourself on the black screen.
You let out a shriek when you realize that your computer is broken.
Your doting mother of course came down to see what's making you bawl your eyes out like that.
In a fashion so pathetic, you whined and complained about how you're going to die. How your beloved computer betrayed you by dying while you're doing whatever you're doing.
Distressed, she tried to placate you, reminding you that you have a smartphone. You sobbed harder, because of how much more time you spent on the computer, you haven't upgraded your phone in a long time. Yes, it has a touchscreen. But it's considered a fossil in this day and age. It's impossible for you to scroll through your favourite websites without waiting a millennium for a pixel to load!
Your mother froze, some cogs started turning in her very tired brain while you threw a disproportionate tantrum over the death of your darling computer.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sure you'll find something else to do." She stroked your hair, sympathetically smiling at you.
You ended up bluntly asking her to buy you a new computer. To your biggest dismay and shock, she said no. It was the first time she had said that word to you.
You started having a bigger meltdown, how could she?! Does she not love her child anymore? Does she not see the pain that you're in? How could a mother be so cruel?
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She's worried for you, as she knows she's getting on with age and you're still... like this. But she knows this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to give you a kick in the ass to better yourself.
"I'm sorry. You need to grow up. I'm getting older and I won't be here forever."
That felt like you had ingested a pound of lead. You knew that her patience was finally run thin.
She's finally realising what she's looking at; her son, withering away just because she was too afraid to be heavy-handed, too scared to hurt your feelings more than how your father did by walking out of your life.
Her resolved hardened and so did her gaze. She needs to woman the fuck up and raise her pathetic son.
However, that really was, the ultimate kick to get you to stand in front of a cafe in a semi-bustling street, in your best outfit, trembling. As you were about to start your first day working as a barista.
You didn't even apply for the job yourself, your mother pulled some strings (begged her friends) for you to immediately get a job there.
You gulped, nervous as hell. The reason why you became an extreme shut in, in the first place, is because you got yelled at once in your last part time job. And that spooked you enough not to try again. Or try at all in life.
For the sake of your happiness machine, your computer, you decided to endure this all over again.
And maybe it's also because you kind of saw the writing on the wall, where your mother is probably going to kick you out if you're not showing any signs of improvement soon.
You were a recluse among your coworkers. Yes, your social muscle has deteriorated badly, but not completely. You remember how to do small talk, albeit quite stumbly and awkwardly. You have no intentions of making new friends, the computer was your only friend, and you need to work to get them back. Hell, your brain was so rotted that you think that everyone is secretly laughing at you for being a sub-5 male.
You were neither a star nor a slacker. You were just painfully average, at the peak of the bell curve. You blended in, became invisible- absolutely disappearing into the background, and that's what you wanted. Fuck no, you are not going above and beyond, the management will put more and more load onto you until you break. You're here to work, get that money, and leave.
You worked the cash register fairly frequently. You have taken orders from all walks of life, most of which appear as a blur in your memories as they're nothing special. Except this one man who comes in every morning at 6, when the Cafe opens.
He's an absolute stunner; pitch black wolf cut that almost always covers his no doubt, hunter eyes. You surmise that he's going to an intense gym session after, as he only wears a black, skin-tight fitness top that flaunts his muscular figure with a snatched waist. That baggy, grey yoga pants may hide his gains, but you're not fooled; he doesn't seem like the type to skip leg day. That gym bag that he's constantly carrying reinforces your idea, too.
He's massive. His shadow would cast over you as you take his order, requiring you to crane your neck up so high that it sometimes strains you.
"An Americano, please." He would always say in a voice so low, deep, and effortlessly sensual that you can never dream of emulating. Even his mouth movements when he speaks are hypnotic, with that beautifully chiselled jaw and his black, star-studded earrings complementing his angular features, how can it not be?
Oh, he is mogging the fuck out of you every morning when the sun is barely even up.
He stands out in your head, not just because he's the Chad of all chads. There are other Chads and Staceys that come in to get their convoluted caffeine fix, but he stood out because he acknowledged you. Calling you by your name, displayed by your nametag, and thanking you almost earnestly whenever he receives his drink. He lets his electric blue eyes with lush, black eyelashes, poorly concealed by his hair, linger on you for a while.
Even his name, Adonis, is mogging the fuck out of your most likely ordinary one. His parents really gave him a name that's already a self-fulfilling prophecy. You felt like you're dirtying his name by calling it out or writing it on his coffee cup. Adonis doesn't seem to mind, though, always offering you a small smile- a smirk, whenever he's called.
And it feels absolutely horrible to be seen by such a godly figure. You think he's internally snickering at you for being a wagecuck heightcel.
Well. You shouldn't dwell too much on that. The faster you earn, the faster you can get the fuck out of society and live with your computer and WIFI forever. So you carry on, while bleeding from your insecure wound.
The normies you work with all swoon at his presence. Especially the women, they only talk to you if they want to swap places with you. Adonis became this celebrity figure over the weeks just because he has a 10/10 face, physique, and voice. So your female coworkers would ask if you could work at the back while they man the cash register, wanting a whiff of Adonis's celestial aura. You would gladly say yes, anything to not get brutally mogged that early in the morning, it's nice to give your very fractured ego a rest sometimes-
"I want him."
That bold fucking statement made everyone snap their head towards him- two of your coworkers and especially you, as you're in his direct line of sight- sweeping the floors.
"He knows what I want." Adonis continued, crossing his arms and expectantly waiting for you to come back behind the counter. All heads snap towards you now.
"Only he makes it the way I like it." The smile on his stupidly handsome face made the women instantly ovulate, but freeze your blood.
Looks like there's no escaping this then. It's now an unspoken rule that you are to be at the frontlines when Adonis is here, be it taking his order or giving him his drink. Or even making his damn Americano. Does he like tormenting poor sub-5s like you? You think he's a fucking bully, but voicing it will make you sound insane. What proof, other than his mere existence, do you have?
"Morning."
He would always greet first after a while, always in this deep purr. Of course, you greeted him back, and through pure muscle memory, you logged in his usual order. Then, you turned the card machine to him, so he could pay and piss off for a while.
"Oh? I haven't said my order yet." Adonis looked amused as you stammered an apology and scrambled to cancel the payment. You then asked what he would like to order this time.
He lets out a chuckle. "I was just teasing. You know my usual."
You fucking hate Adonis. Why can't he just leave you alone? You're already beaten up by life; why does he need to join in and kick an incel when he's down?
"But... I'm down to try something new." Luckily, your finger was just hovering over the "Americano" option, and you haven't pressed it yet.
You asked him what he would like today, for the second time.
Adonis hummed and rubbed his neck, looking at the chalked menu above and behind you. "Hmm. What does my favourite barista like?" There is no doubt that you're holding that title, as he's gazing intensely in your tired eyes.
You just want him to go away. If you didn't need this job, you would have just said a cup of ice. But you need that cash for your computer, so you simply said that you too liked an Americano. It's definitely the easiest and quickest to make.
"Ah, is that so?" He fished his wallet out of his pocket. "I'll have two, then."
And then, it's been established that he would buy you one every morning, too. You wonder what he works as, because he comes in every day without missing a beat. And from what your coworkers say, you only got the special treatment; whenever you're not in, he only orders one Americano for himself.
You think his mogging is contained during work hours. But you were dead wrong.
One day, your mother gave you a physical shopping list. She told you to do the groceries for you and her while she heads off to hang out with her friends. Friends who have children who are much more successful than you.
This is bad, you're in the vegetable aisle and you're struggling to figure out what the hell is a shallot and your phone is too ancient to run the Internet. You're on your own for this one because your mother made it clear as day, she won't be entertaining any questions when she's with her girls.
Whatever. You're going to get something that you definitely can't ever fuck up: eggs. A dozen eggs, doesn't matter if it's cage-free or cage-prisoned, as long as it's the cheapest.
Last you heard, there was this avian flu plaguing the chickens in your country. So eggs might be a rare commodity now. You sped walked to the dairy section in pursuit of your proteins.
Your eyes lit up when you finally saw the shelf, and it's the last carton, too. Glad you made it just in time before some other exhausted single parent snatched it all up.
But that's where your luck ended, as someone else needed their proteins badly.
You felt your blood run cold when a large, veiny, and calloused hand enveloped yours the instant you placed it on the carton. That damn familiar hand with the onyx bracelet and silver statement rings. It's radiating a lot of heat, much more than you can ever give with your slow ass metabolism.
Damn, he's handmaxxing too? You are so over.
You whipped your head to the right to see who the owner of the hand is. And no surprise, it's the 6AM man all in his beefy glory.
You felt intimidated by how much testosterone he must be producing daily. He's towering over you and making the dozen eggs look like a soda straw in comparison to his hand.
"Hey." He spoke. Voice deep and husked, as if he hadn't used them today. He hasn't pulled his hand away yet, effectively covering yours for over 15 seconds now. A small, cool smile graced his unfairly handsome face. You were praying that he didn't recognise you, but you just fucking know he did.
He probably needs the eggs more than you do, seeing that he actually lifts weights. So you retracted your hand and muttered an apology, you also started walking away.
"Hm." He hummed. The man began to pace after you, making your pulse quicken. You do not want to have a social interaction right now. The lights are buzzing and giving you a killer migraine.
He clamped a hand on your shoulder, making you turn around. He's holding the egg carton, and you rather stare at that, as looking at his face requires you to bend your neck almost perpendicular to the floor.
"You take it." He placed it in your basket. "You had it first." Adonis continued, his hand never leaving your shoulder, but you swear that you felt it slide up to your neck a little.
You quickly thanked him, hoping that he would release you from his evil, evil, Chad grasp.
"You doing anything after this?" He asked, still holding you hostage.
You instantly said yes, you're busy. Even though you knew you would probably just spend the rest of the day (and your cash) in an internet cafe. Every second spent around Adonis felt like you were hit by radiation damage.
Adonis's broad shoulders shook as he chuckled in amusement. He narrowed the gap between you and him.
"You're always in your own world." He said, scanning your face for god knows what. Adonis didn't say it like it's a bad thing; it's almost like he's endeared by it?
You remained silent, unsure what else to say.
"We should hang out. You seem cool." You don't think he's being ingenuous when he said that you're "cool". But you're damn sure that he wanted to be around you a bit more, you just don't know why. You think he's going to stuff you in a locker like a high school bully for being an inferior specimen.
You stuttered in agreement, really wanting to evacuate the scene. Adonis appeared to be satisfied with that, although you have a nagging feeling that he expected more.
He lets out a laugh, letting you go, but not without ruffling your hair as if you're a fluffy puppy to him. "Go on, coffee boy. I'll see you on Monday."
You let out a surprised squeak when he gave you a smack on your ass. The ones you would see varsity players do to each other, and in a similar bruising force, too.
"You really need to work on your glutes." He remarked. But before he can continue, you're gone.
You darted in the opposite direction from him. You're booking for the checkouts now. You didn't even bother to complete the other half of the list; you just needed to get the fuck out of there. This encounter has left you so stressed that you started hallucinating; you think you heard Adonis muttering about how "cute" you were.
You went home, half-empty (or half-full if you're being optimistic), handed. You quickly put away whatever groceries and locked yourself in your bedroom. Sobbing from the devastation of being severely and brutally mogged every single day by one man, Adonis, your tormentor. Luckily, your mother is still out, most likely getting drunk out of her tits trying to cope with the reality of her son being a low-tier loser. At least you don't have to explain why you're having a massive breakdown.
You looked at the display on your phone. You have a day before Monday comes. Before you're inevitably crushed by Adonis's potent looksmaxxing aura in the morning.
Something in the corner caught your eye. It's a full-body mirror covered in dust.
You slowly got up from your fetal, crying position and stood tall in front of it. God, you look horrible. It's so over.
You tried to pathetically flex, but there was no structured bulge anywhere. You're literally a Kissless, Hugless, Handholdless, Manlet Virgin. Adonis even wristmogged you. What the hell do you even have?
Oohh... you feel sick. You really feel sick over how your life is. So you had a second breakdown.
This time, though. Your tears were flowing so much that you didn't notice the light from the living room seeping into your basement bedroom.
Your mother, unsurprisingly, a little tipsy, watched you curled up into a ball of misery from the door frame. She sighed, grimacing and rubbing her forehead defeatedly. Looks like she needs to pull some more "strings" to help her only son.
