𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖𝒔

≡^∇^≡ venus !! ↓✭ she/him ⚊ entj-a ೄྀ ≫ amateur writer

[venus-xcy]

𝑮𝑶𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑳𝑬𝑿 ᵇⁿʰᵃ

❝…It's so frustrating to know how terrible, how fake a person actually is, yet everyone loves them because they put on a good show… isn't it?❞

ⁱⁿ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ…

A beautiful, deceiving, cunning young girl who-in the eyes of others-aspires to be a hero with that golden heart of hers and her kind smile.

But, oh, how wrong were they…

𝒚𝒂𝒏!𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒃𝒏𝒉𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Please, read the disclaimers!

———————-

Chapter index:

DISCLAIMERS

0 || HER

I || ABOVE

II || AN ANGEL

[venus-xcy]

𝑰 || 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑽𝑬

❝(Oh-oh, here she comes, she's a maneater) watch out boy, she'll chew you up❞ [Maneater - Hall & Oates]

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

The harsh, honeyed rays of the morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, painting every inch of the room in a fluid glow. The walls—at night an undistinguishable, dull white tinged with a silver of pale blue—now vivid, each edge and nook bathed in the light. As you roused from sleep, the light pooled around you, warm and almost tangible, slipping beneath your eyelashes and persuading your senses awake. Your fingers twitched as you rubbed at the sleep still clinging to your eyes. The wooden floor beneath you creaked softly with the shift of your weight.

You walk down the stairs to find your mother—still on her night robe—humming a soothing tune while sizzling your breakfast to life. You sit down on one of the highchairs of the bar, holding your head on your fist—all supported by your elbow propped against the cold material—as your hair frames your face. “Did you sleep well, honey?” Reika asks—to which you merely hum in response—, not turning around to face you as she scraped the scrambled eggs away from the pan and onto a plate, quickly moving to the fridge and taking out a plastic package of blueberries to pour them into a bowl for you. Once she sets the plate and bowl in front of you, she walks over to the chair next to yours to sit down and watch you.

You arch an eyebrow at her while you chewed on your breakfast, finding your mother's unusual—seemingly genuine—kindness eerie. She brushes a strand of hair away from your face before kissing your cheek. “We're going to the park today, sweetheart. Go change.” Your initial skepticism to her mood dissipates as you rush upstairs to change before she could have time to change her mind, changing onto a soft color pinafore dress over a white blouse and a pair of black mary-sue shoes over dark tights.

You bounced on your feet—never letting go of your mother’s hand—as you waited for the human design on the pedestrian traffic light to turn from red to green, commanding the people to go on. You relished on the way people’s eyes seemed to soften when looking at you; your cute childish outfit, the perfectly crafted smile that reached your eyes—forming the dimples that added to that image of an adorable and lovable child—, the neat ponytail your mother had styled your hair into—so that you wouldn’t get it filthy with sand and dirt, everything seemed to captivate the people around you, even if it was a first impression. That’s what you let them see. Finally, the green light turns on for the pedestrians, shepherding all of those who waited into walking to the other side of the road.

You excitedly stride from the limit between concrete with the vivid grass of the park towards the playground, aiming for one game in particular. You climb the stairs to the metal platform of the slide, admiring the view from above as you get ready to slide. However, someone had the audacity and ignorance of pushing you against the guardrails—your skull hitting the metal with a clang—to take your rightful spot. You glared at the blond’s nape, fists clenching at the sight of the cocky smirk you could catch when he angled his face barely to the side. As if an instinct had awakened in you, the boy is surrounded by a pink-ish luminescent aura before he’s tossed to the side—falling onto the dirt below without causing more than a bruise and a few grazes. He looks up at you—sitting on the start of the slide about to skid through the hard plastic—with teary eyes, you slide down and walk up to him, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

Pathetic, was the only thing you could think about. Your head throbbed in pain after what he did, and you weren’t whimpering like a mindless baby—like you didn’t have the ability to reason. That’s what positioned you above him. ”Don’t cry, you don’t see me crying after what you did. Are you a baby…?” You trail off—the mockingly sweet tone not once leaving your voice; like a honey-laced poison—, silently commanding him to give you his name, and like a dog, he answers. “K-Katsuki Bakugou…” He sniffles out, wiping off the tear that streamed down his cheeks. You cup his cheeks—thumbs sinking down in the soft flesh with a softness that contradicts the action itself—, scanning the crimson of his eyes before humming. “____ Sōzōkami, remember it.” You help him up, dusting off the dirt from his shirt before holding his hand to lead him to the swings. “You’ll push me,” you say, sitting down on the swing before he could even mutter out a response. He complies, not a single word escaping his lips—which, against all odds, played a soft ghost of a smile that complemented the equally faint blush on his cheeks. You paid no mind to it, believing it was the best, and simply enjoyed your commands being followed as well as the air that brushed your cheeks with gentleness.

With the warm colors palette of the barely setting sun of the afternoon, you walk back home beside your mother. She looked proud, in an odd way—you guessed it was because of what you did; and you guessed correctly. “Good job, sweetheart. Seems like you pocketed yourself an admirer.” Her last words are teasing—but laced with truth underneath—as she crouches down to pick your tired form up, kissing your head with that sense of pride you had noted a silver of a second earlier. “I saw it, everything. His mother didn’t, thank me for that.”

You sat in the kitchen like earlier in the morning, you held an ice to the back of your head as your mother cooked dinner. You looked down at your legs, swinging them unconsciously as you reviewed the earlier events—you too, felt proud of yourself. While dinner is served and devoured—once your father arrived from the agency—you answer with a practiced script your fathers questioning about the ice on your head, and narrated a meticulously crafted story about your new ‘friend’.

“You know, Reiji, ____ has a quirk.”

⇋♤⇌

You started meeting Katsuki—or as you liked to call him; Suki—more often, and each time he seemed to like you even more—not that he would ever admit it, for that he was too proud. o proud. To him, you were unpredictable; you could go from smiling at him, holding his hand to lead him to the games the playground had to offer, to completely ignoring him to go play with others—with made him frown with an emotion his still developing brain couldn't put a name to—and frowning or glaring at him.

He wouldn’t admit it—never could, not even to himself—but he was drawn to you. Like snow attracted to warmth; self-destructing and deeply longing. There was something about you, something beyond your sharp words and sudden smiles. You were like wildfire, unpredictable, fiery, but magnetic nonetheless. He never knew which version of you he’d get—the one who pulled him along by the hand with a sweet smile, or the one who walked past him like he didn’t exist, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes focused somewhere beyond him.

It made something ugly curl in his chest. A need to be acknowledged. To be chosen.

Sometimes, he caught himself wondering if he’d done something wrong—if maybe he hadn’t run fast enough, hadn’t climbed high enough, hadn’t made you laugh loud enough. Because when you smiled at someone else, it felt like a challenge. Like a dare. Like a punch to the gut he’d never admit stung. And yet, Katsuki kept showing up. Kept standing beside you, waiting for a nod, a look, a single word that proved he was still seen by you.

Because on the days you were kind—when you held his hand and told him where to go and what to do, like a commander with her loyal soldier—he felt special. He liked the sound of your voice when it wasn’t laced with sarcasm or mockery, the softness of your grip when you weren’t pulling away. And most of all, he liked how you understood him; how you not only comprehended his ambition and determination to be the best, but fueled it and pushed him to be better and better until he was the best.

Your kindness always edged with the sharpness of someone who knew exactly how far to stretch people before they snapped. You went from hot to cold in an unpredictable way, for the rest at least. And still, Katsuki let himself be pulled by your tides. Because even though he didn’t understand you—didn’t understand himself—he knew that when you looked at him, when you really looked at him, it felt good. Right, even. But for a boy too proud to admit his feelings and too young to name them, you were already the center of his universe. A star too bright to look away from, even if it burned.

Your birthday was coming up soon, you had subtly made it clear to him. And of course, Bakugou remembered. You had expected something from him, of course. After all—you did plant small seeds into his mind.

As you wandered down the familiar path that led to the park, the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees in golden patches, casting mosaic shadows over the concrete. You spotted a blur of movement near the park’s entrance—bright golden tufts of hair darting left and right, like a restless flame searching for fuel. Katsuki. Even from afar, you could sense his impatience, the way his feet shifted constantly against the ground, like standing still might kill him. His eyes were scanning the crowd, narrowed and sharp.

When they landed on you, something subtle flickered behind that crimson gaze. Not surprise—he’d been waiting—but something softer that he smothered instantly beneath a scowl.

He stomped over, fingers twitching before he finally reached for your hand—not roughly, but not gently either, as if the gesture embarrassed him but he couldn’t help it. You allowed it with silent satisfaction, your fingers curling around his. He tugged you along without a word, leading you past swings and climbing bars to one of the old wooden benches under a cherry blossom tree. His mother sat there with a knowing smile tugging at her lips, her arms folded over a neatly wrapped bento box resting in her lap.

He was quick to snatch it, his pouty lips and frowning face angled to the side as he shoved it—with no real spite—to you. You open it to find quite a few homage cookies for you to feed on, at the bottom of them all—a small note that reads ‘Happy Birthday’. You smile with pride—for both yourself and Bakugou—as you eat, sending Mitsuki a perfectly crafted sweet smile. You then give the bento box to your mother, and—like always—took his hand to lead him to play.

It was his reward, a silent message for him to understand that he’d have to be the best. Even in something as simple as the gift he’d given you.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

[venus-xcy]

𝑰𝑰 || 𝑨𝑵 𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑳

❝You look like an angel (look like an angel) / Walk like an angel (walk like an angel) / Talk like an angel❞  [You’re the Devil in Disguise  - Elvis Presley & The Jordanaires]

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

You sat at your vanity, the soft whirr of the morning air mingling with your quiet humming—a melody as delicate as it was distant. Your hands moved with gentle precision, smoothing out each section of hair until it fell exactly the way you wanted. Neat, polished, intentional, each strand was carefully coaxed into place—not a single flyaway daring to break free from your meticulous styling. The reflection that stared back at you was as polished as your intentions—smiling sweetly, eyes lined with the faintest shimmer, and not a flaw in sight. It was the same smile you wore every morning: calculated, charming, and entirely yours.

You rose to your feet with the grace of someone who’d practiced posture and poise since toddlerhood, brushing invisible creases from the hem of your neatly pressed black blouse and smoothing down the pleats of your black skirt. Everything about your uniform was immaculate—crisp collar, perfectly ironed fabric, the red neckerchief at the end of the sailor collar tied in an elegant knot. The golden pin on your chest gleamed faintly under the soft bedroom light, a small but deliberate statement. You liked things to be just so.

Your room was untouched by chaos, not even a misplaced book or askew pen. Every corner was clean, every surface wiped to a shine. Your mirror reflected a still life of control and charm.

Descending the stairs, you walked into the kitchen with practiced grace, your steps silent on the wooden floor. You took your usual seat at the countertop—a tall, velvet-cushioned high chair that felt molded to your shape after years of the same morning ritual. It was your spot, as much yours as the air you breathed.

Reika stood behind the kitchen island in her pressed robe, pouring the final swirl of syrup and placing the last few blueberries over a short stack of soft pancakes. She slid the plate in front of you, her movements fluid and efficient. As always, your breakfast was warm, balanced, and perfectly portioned. You didn’t speak as you picked up your fork and began eating—methodically, like you did everything else.

Reika leaned her elbows onto the cold marble, folding her arms and tilting her head slightly to study you. “Is he going to walk you to school today?” she asked, her voice casual, but her eyes sharp with curiosity. The faint upward twitch of her lips hinted at amusement.

You didn’t answer verbally. You simply shook your head once, a graceful, quiet dismissal that spoke volumes. He wasn’t needed today. You had more important company to be seen with.

The girls you associated with weren’t friends—though they believed otherwise—, not in the traditional sense. They were alliances—chosen carefully after your transfer at the beginning of middle school. Girls with polished nails and gold wristbands, who spoke in sweet tones laced with superiority, and laughed at the right moments. Girls who didn’t just follow trends—they created them. Being near them meant eyes on you, status.

And you loved that.

Outside, the cool morning air wrapped around you like a hug. The pavement glistened faintly from last night’s dew, and the smell of wet leaves drifted from the trees that lined the neighborhood path. Your black polished loafers clicked softly and gleamed with every step, the rhythm matching the quiet giggles and half-hearted whispers of the girls around you.

They walked in a loose cluster, their uniforms pristine and accessories chosen with delicate intent—gold or silver simple yet elegant chains with charms, hoops or earrings that varied in sizes, subtle designer touches that whispered wealth instead of shouting it. Their laughter rang into the morning air like wind chimes, and you joined in at just the right moment, adding your perfectly rehearsed chuckle.

You didn’t need to dominate the group with words, you had already done that with just your presence.

And as the school building came into view—tall and imposing under the rising sun—you felt it settle again: that quiet satisfaction.

Like everything was exactly where it belonged.

Just like you.

You sat casually on top of your desk, legs crossed, swaying your foot to a rhythm only you could hear as your fingers absentmindedly weaved strands of your friend’s hair into a loose braid. The hum of classroom noise faded into the background, your attention only half on the girl sitting in front of you—more focused on the movement of your hands than her steady stream of gossip.

She was ranting, voice hushed but dripping with malice, tearing into one of her own. Apparently, one of the other girls in your group had dared to develop a crush on the same guy as her—an offense treated like treason in your circle. Now she was being dissected, piece by piece, for her audacity.

The girl being talked about didn’t hold much weight in the group. She was tolerated, not respected. Not like the one currently airing her dirty laundry, who sat comfortably in the middle of the social ladder. And definitely not like you.

You didn’t need to chime in. You were above the petty back-and-forth, the whisper campaigns disguised as concern. Your silence spoke enough—detached, knowing, superior. You simply kept braiding, your expression unreadable, while your friend did the dirty work of keeping the hierarchy intact.

This was how it worked. Alliances were fragile, loyalty conditional. And only those who knew when to stay quiet managed to keep their crown.

“Done, do you like it?”

You asked, your voice soft and laced with feigned kindness—perfectly crafted and practiced like always.

You leaned back slightly, palms supporting your weight against the desk as your friend eagerly pulled out her phone to open the front camera. She turned her head from side to side, admiring the loose braid now cascading over her shoulder. A wide, self-satisfied smile bloomed on her face as she angled her head towards you.

You watched her, chin tilted slightly downward, an unreadable look flickering across your eyes. On the surface, you remained composed—yet that sweetness you always wore like a second skin remained. But beneath that facade, your mind was always moving. Measuring. Weighing. Judging. She was pretty. Not threateningly so, but enough to be useful. Enough to stand next to you without dimming your light. For now, at least.

“I love it,” she breathed, eyes never leaving yours.

Of course she does, you thought, smile tugging faintly at your lips. You made sure of it.

You slid off the desk with slow, graceful ease, brushing invisible lint from your skirt before stepping back into the center of the group. The tension from earlier—the whispers, the venom disguised as gossip—still lingered in the air like a cruel mist.

Excusing yourself to go to the bathroom, you slide open the classroom door with a quiet hiss, stepping into the soft gold haze of early morning light flooding the hallway. The building was unusually still—eerily so. The usual murmur of voices and shuffling of shoes were absent, muted by the fact that most classes were in session. Yours wasn’t, thanks to a conveniently absent teacher. A lucky break, really.

The soles of your loafers clicked softly against the polished floor as you made your way down the corridor. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of sunlight slanting through the square windows, the warmth brushing your skin like the calm before a storm.

As you neared the restroom, a familiar, sharp voice echoed from somewhere down the hall—aggressive, hoarse, unmistakably his. The blond you knew all too well. He was yelling at someone again, his voice ragged with irritation, like sandpaper dragged across steel.

You didn’t stop walking. Not yet, at least.

Instead, you pushed open the heavy restroom door and stepped inside the cool, sterile space. The tile floor gleamed beneath the flickering fluorescent light overhead, and the scent of strong lemon cleaner clung to the air.

You moved toward the sink and turned on the tap after having used the toilet, letting the cold water run over your hands. The noise of the world dimmed for a moment, and your reflection stared back at you with practised serenity.

Perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly charming.

But the second the metallic click of the main door echoed behind you, your instincts took over. You moved quickly, silently, slipping into one of the stalls and shutting the door without a sound. In one fluid motion, you perched on the toilet lid, legs folded up, the soles of your shoes pressing firmly on the cold porcelain.

Two pairs of heels tapped into the room, followed by the sound of giggles and the door being clicked shut. You recognized one of the voices immediately—naive, bubbly and cloying. The other voice that responded sent a cold prickle across your skin.

Ayumi.

The girl who’d been the target of everyone’s spite that morning. And now, apparently, the one spitting venom.

“She’s such a bitch,” the high pitched voice of one of them scoffed. “I don’t get why they—especially ___—hang out with her.”

A short pause. And then Ayumi’s voice, quieter but steadier than you'd expected.

“___’s not that much of an angel, you know? People believe it, but she’s kind of like all of them.”

Your hands clenched the fabric of your skirt, the black of your knee-high socks wrinkling beneath the pressure of your grip. Your breath stayed even, but your heart drummed once, hard, behind your ribs.

How dared she?

How dare she speak about you like that. Like you were something ordinary—worse, mean—like you were just one of them.

The other girl hesitated. “No way! She’s like—so cool and kind! She gets along with everyone!”

But Ayumi didn’t respond. The silence hung between them, heavy and telling, before the sound of the door opening and closing marked their exit.

You didn’t leave the topic behind. You couldn’t.

⇋♤⇌

By the end of the month, Ayumi was gone.

Of course, no one pointed fingers at you. Why would they? You had spun the perfect web—an intricate ballet of rumors, whispers, and twisted truths. You had made it look like one of your friends had taken things too far. That girl had always been a little dramatic anyway. Ayumi was suddenly "too sensitive," "too distant," "overreacting."

Slowly, carefully, her days at school had turned gray. Her locker would be empty before lunch. Her name would go unmentioned in conversations she used to be a part of. Every smile turned sharper when aimed at her. Every glance, colder.

By the time she transferred, her existence had already been erased.

Because you couldn’t let her spread those poisonous little thoughts. You couldn't risk the wrong person hearing her words and believing them. You had spent too long polishing your image into something dazzling—something untouchable.

And power, true power, doesn’t come from mercy. It comes from maintenance. Precision.

One doesn’t stay at the top by brushing aside specks of dust. You wipe them off before anyone notices they were ever there.

That same day, once the final bell rang and the classroom had emptied, you lingered behind under the pretense of forgetting something. In truth, you wanted to visit Ayumi’s old desk one last time—like a farewell to a chapter already closed. You stepped inside, the classroom bathed in golden late-afternoon light, empty chairs and quiet corners echoing with the ghosts of conversations.

But you weren’t alone.

As you silently slid the door open, voices—sharp, rough, and far too close—snapped you out of your thoughts. You stopped cold.

Against the chalkboard, Bakugou had Midoriya cornered. His usual scowl was twisted with something deeper—anger, maybe frustration—and his two lackeys loomed nearby, their presence making the air feel heavier. Midoriya, tense and wide-eyed, looked trapped like an insignificant insect.

You didn’t move for a moment, your eyes locking with Midoriya’s—wide, panicked, and desperate. A quiet, almost imperceptible sigh left your lips as you offered him a feigned look of concern. With a gentle motion, you slid the door closed again, as quietly as you'd opened it, letting the scene dissolve behind you like steam off water.

A muffled explosion cracked through the air—then the sound of something heavy hitting water. You turned on your heel, pace unhurried as you made your way toward the patio koi fish pond. Ripples still danced across the surface—and the poor fish living there swam away from the disturbance—as you crouched down, arm reaching in to retrieve the floating object. Your fingers curled around the waterlogged cover of a white notebook, the words 'Hero Analysis' barely legible now.

Izuku Midoriya’s precious treasure.

You shook it gently, droplets cascading like tiny tears, then tucked it away inside your bag with quiet precision. A quick scan of your surroundings confirmed you were still alone. Perfect.

You started walking toward the school gates, expression unreadable, but the sound of rushed footsteps behind you brought your performance back into place.

“Sōzōkami-chan! Wait, please!”

His voice was trembling. Too easy.

You turned, that warm, polished smile slipping seamlessly onto your lips as if it had never left. Your voice softened with false concern. “What’s wrong, Midoriya-kun?”

He launched into the story, stammering and frustrated, relaying Bakugou’s aggression, the explosion, the ruined notebook. You listened attentively—eyebrows furrowed just enough, eyes wide in well-crafted sympathy as you denied seeing the notebook he asked for.

When he turned to leave, defeated, you caught his hand.

“Midoriya-kun…”

Your voice, a gentle purr, held him in place. You cupped his cheeks like he was something fragile, like you might break if you didn’t handle him carefully. “I’m so sorry I didn’t stop him. I saw it, but… I just froze. Bakugou’s anger terrifies me sometimes. You’re so strong, so determined. I wish I had that kind of courage.”

His cheeks turned scarlet beneath your fingertips. You stepped back, the smile lingering just long enough to burn into his memory.

Then you walked away.

As you rounded the corner of the school building, the warmth slipped off your face like a shed layer of skin, replaced by something more neutral—detached, even. You didn’t flinch when you saw him.

Bakugou was already there, leaning against the same brick wall where you’d first seen him that morning. His hands were shoved tight in his pockets, jaw taut, eyes narrowed in the way that meant he was barely containing an explosion. You stopped a few feet in front of him. He opened his mouth, but movement behind you made him hesitate. Midoriya walked past, his head down, not noticing the two of you—thankfully. Bakugou’s scowl deepened at the sight.

He didn’t say it, but you caught the way his fists clenched tighter than before.

“You took your damn time.”

You raised a brow, expression flat, uninterested. “Didn’t know I had to report to you.”

His glare sharpened, but he didn’t reply immediately. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder and started walking, and after a beat, he followed. The silence stretched long between you, but you didn’t offer an explanation. Let him break it. When he finally spoke again, it was low, clipped.

“So where were you?”

You didn’t turn your head. “None of your business.”

Another pause. You could feel his frustration radiating off him like heat from the pavement. But he didn’t press—not yet. Suddenly, you stop on your tracks, cupping his chin and stopping him as well.

“Suki~... getting this mad over him? I thought better of you. But, I guess I was wrong.”

The last words were cold, your hand leaving his chin as you resumed your path. The rest of the way to your house was silent, Bakugou emanated jealousy, rage, and a turmoil of emotions he couldn't quite handle nor name.

And you—you were calm, mockingly so.

⇋♤⇌

Izuku lay sprawled across his bed, the soft sheets crinkling beneath him as the cool breeze from the barely open window stirred the quiet room. Pale moonlight poured in through the sheer curtains, casting silver streaks across the floor, his desk, and finally across his face—softening the boyish features now painted in wonder.

He stared up at the ceiling, but his mind was far from it. His green eyes, wide with thought, sparkled faintly under the moon’s glow, and a shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Slowly, without even realizing it, his hand drifted to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt right over where his heart was thudding gently against his ribs. The warmth of the memory spread through him like a whisper.

Your voice echoed in his ears—the kindness in your tone, the way your fingers had cupped his cheeks like he mattered. Like you saw something in him that no one else did.

His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks even though no one could see it in the dark. But it was there, bright and burning, all for you.

You had looked at him with soft eyes. You had smiled at him like he was worth something. You were so kind and sweet. His fingers curled tighter over his heart, the faintest tremble in his hand.

You weren’t just nice. You weren’t just beautiful. You were something out of reach, something dazzling.

An angel. His angel.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:1

[venus-xcy]

0 || 𝑯𝑬𝑹

❝Look what you made me do.❞  [Look What You Made Me Do- Taylor Swift] 

.

.

.

Your fists turned your knuckles white and held a tremor that had nothing to do with fear—but with rage. Loathing, even. You watched her, the new girl in your class, being surrounded by a group of girls and boys as she spoke, an innocent smile on her face. You were supposed to be there, in the eye of their attention. Not her. And you wouldn’t allow anyone to take your rightful place. 

You were born for it, weren’t you? 

 ❖

"Above all, I will love you. But, I don't think others will if this happens and they see it." 

Her soft and warm—excluding her rings, which were cold against your delicate child skin—hands cup your cheeks. One couldn't even call what laid before her small feet a corpse, just a grotesque mess of flesh, filth and a few small bright red feathers. 

"What was that, my darling?" Reika asks, the ghost of a revulsed sneer escaping the woman's attempt to contain it, she looks away from the mess, her eyes focusing on yours with attempted calm and kindness. 

"A Robin bird..." you say, your eyes dazed and fixed on the former bird. Your mind was reeling, your heart pumped blood relentlessly—and most importantly—, the arteries on the sides of your forehead throbbed in what felt like a dagger straight through one end of your skull to another.

And then, a black void. 

Your eyes, being blinded even behind their eyelids, open in discomfort. The first thing you see are your hands on the sides of your laying body, covered in a thin blanket provided by the hospital you were now in. 

"Sōzōkami, ____?" A gentle voice that carries the years lived and knowledge calls out your name, and you search for its source. The elderly woman smiles sweetly as she ambles over to your bed, kind eyes looking down at yours. "Honey, how are you feeling? You've got quite a sleep, huh? 6 hours." She chuckles softly as your eyes widen in surprise. Your head now was better, though the trace of that excruciating pain remained lingering, and an uncanny feeling that something had stirred inside you—that something within you had changed—gnawed at your mind. 

"What happened to me, miss?" Your voice was still sleepy, but preserved that sweet edge that always had for others. The woman smiles and explains what your mother—ever the silver-tongued, made up a short and concise story—told her you suddenly fainted and how she suspected it might've been because you hadn't had breakfast that morning, and the old lady ate it up. Soon, it was your mother who walked through the door and replaced the elderly woman's presence, sitting on a cushioned chair beside you. "You didn't tell her about the bird, right?" Upon your consistent silence, she calls out your name to break your daze, finally earning a 'no' for an answer from you. With a satisfied smile, she kisses your head and brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

❖

Before you could even really think of the morale of your actions, you act on instinct when you took your classmates and your own toys, plushes, and any other personal object you could find—courtesy of today’s date; show and tell—and stored them into her cubicle. Quickly, you return to the playground before anyone could even notice you were gone, and to fit with the story you created, she goes to the bathroom. 

The confused cries of your classmates reach your ears, acting as a melodic symphony to your successful plan. The teachers began to look into everyone’s cubicles, finally making into the girl’s and finding the children’s objects. With a satisfied smirk masked behind your hands—playing the role of victim and being comforted by your friends—, you watch her being escorted to the principle’s office. Sitting down back onto the dwarf colorful tables from the equally colorful classroom, show and tell begins, but you pay no mind to whatever they had to talk about as you were transfixed on the window expecting the girl’s shameful return. 

It seemed, though, she had not learnt her lesson as she continued to try and steal your spotlight. Of course, she failed as you were way to far up in your pedestrial for her to even hope to reach the bottom of it, but the continuos attempts annoyed you—infuriated you, even. Again, you kept framing her, building her a reputation that slowly descended her in the social hierarchy pyramid present in your kindergarten, the one you yourself built and the others followed. Your perfectly crafted ‘crimes’varied from simple rumours such as her having lice to her destroying the girl’s bathroom, or losing the class’ pet hamster. 

Soon enough, she was expelled—and you couldn’t be more satisfied and prouder. You had played your cards right, perfectly strategized what to do without being either too exaggerated or too measly to be effective. You now swung calmly on the swings watching as the girl walked past the gate of the playground beside her mother with her head hung low in shame and the woman seething with anger, your lips played into a smirk when your eyes locked—and it told her everything she had to know and no one would believe. 

You did it, you framed her. You won. You were the devil.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

[venus-xcy]

𝑫𝑰𝑺𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑰𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑺

Before reading, please know the next: 

While this is an 'x reader' fanfic, it's really hard to write it fully in that style (completely neutral). So, just so you all know, I decided to make the reader/___/y/n (whatever you want to call the MC) have a similar personality to, for example,: Tomie (junji ito), Jessica Lovejoy (The Simpsons), Regina George (Mean Girls, 2000s). This means she'll be cunning, manipulative, deceiving, ambitious, charming, and seemingly sweet. Her quirk is heavily inspired on Atom Eve's power (from Invincible), and that might make her a bit OP, but I'll try not to. 

If anyone dislikes her personality, her quirk, or the fact she's a female, find another fanfic, simple as that. Other than that; 

--- Mild & graphic descriptions of violence and gore. 

--- Themes of death 

--- Yandere tendencies/behaviour

--- Toxic behaviour

With that being said, read at your own risk and enjoy.