This blog is for me to reblog dark fics away from my main blog. Also for easier access when I want to go and reread any of them. I sometimes post original work, but not often. I'm in my 20s.
- Most shit here is dark content, but they'll probably be other content as this is just a place for me to reblog fics I enjoy. That being said, most things here will have yandere behavior, non/dub-con, or other disturbing content that can be discomforting or triggering. Viewer discretion is advised. Don't like, don't read 👍
⤷ TW: Features themes of severe psychological obsession, possessive yandere behavior, intense emotional manipulation, manic outbursts, physical violence, and institutional settings. Please read with care.
requested by: @lemon12345
They called the basement of Saint Jude’s Psychiatric Facility “The Well.”
It was where the state dumped the cases that defied medicine, God, and basic human decency. Down here, thirty feet below ground, the walls bled damp salt, the air tasted permanently of industrial bleach and damp wool.
Nurses on the upper floors avoided taking shifts down here after four in the afternoon. The sub-level held the long-term containment cases, the ones the state had given up on classifying. But you were twenty-six, freshly certified and newly transferred from an outpatient clinic in the city, you were young enough to view the transfer as an opportunity. Your predecessors had relied heavily on chemical restraints and brief, ten-minute check-ins conducted through the door slots. Your approach was different. You believed that consistent, unhurried human contact was the only thing that actually produced long-term behavioral changes.
Marcus, the chief orderly on the sub-level, stood outside the heavy door with a ring of brass keys in his hand. A dark scar ran through his left eyebrow, pulling the eyelid down in a permanent squint from an old injury.
"He does not talk to staff," Marcus said, keeping his voice low as he reached for the deadbolt. "The last doctor tried to sit across from him without guards in the room and lasted four minutes before he panicked and ran out. Keep your distance from the table. If he moves toward you, hit the wall button immediately."
"I reviewed his file over the weekend," you said, adjusting the heavy leather folder under your arm. "I know he has a history of sudden aggression."
"His file is fifty pages of incident reports," Marcus grunted, turning the key until the iron latch gave a hard, metallic pop. "It tells you he broke a guard's arm in October. It does not tell you what goes on in his head."
The heavy door creaked open on dry hinges.
The cell was narrow, lit by a single long light fixture mounted high on the ceiling behind a steel wire cage. A thick steel table sat in the middle of the room, bolted directly to the concrete floor, flanked by two heavy stools.
In the far corner, sitting flat on the cold floor with his back against the wall, sat Eli.
He was lean and slightly built, his frame looking small inside a faded grey canvas jumpsuit that hung loose on his shoulders. Messy dark hair fell over his forehead, almost touching his hazel eyes. He remained still as you entered, watching the floor.
You pulled out the stool on your side of the table and sat down. You placed your notepad flat on the metal surface, uncapped your pen, and waited.
The first month proved to be a test of endurance rather than a clinical breakthrough.
For six consecutive sessions, Eli offered zero verbal responses. He spent the hours tracking the movement of your pen, staring at his own scarred knuckles, or fixing his gaze directly on your throat. He was watching for the subtle signs every other visitor showed: the quick glance toward the security camera, the nervous shifting of feet, the shallow breathing of someone trying not to show fear.
During the third week, he finally pushed for a reaction.
Midway through a routine question about his sleep schedule, both of his heavy palms struck the metal table in a sudden, deafening blow.
The metallic impact echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot. Key metal rattled frantically in the lock outside as Marcus’s heavy boots rushed the door.
Though your pulse spiked and blood roared in your ears, you forced your muscles to remain still. You kept your hands away from the red panic button, took a slow breath through your nose, and rested the pen back on your notepad.
"Marcus, stay outside! I'm fine," you called toward the door, keeping your eyes locked onto the patient. "Do not open the room."
The footsteps outside paused, then slowly retreated.
Silence settled over the cell once more.
Leaning heavy across the table, his chest heaving, Eli searched your face for any sign of fear. He expected pale skin, a trembling lip, or the instinctual flinch of a victim.
Instead, you remained steady, meeting his gaze directly.
"That was loud," you noted, keeping your tone smooth and even. "Did that clear out some of the tension, or are you still looking to hit something?"
His aggressive posture stalled. A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his sharp features, and he slowly drew his hands back from the steel surface, inspecting his own palms.
"We have twenty minutes left," you added, straightening your pad. "Whenever you're ready, we can try again."
For the next two weeks, the routine remained unchanged—a tense, quiet standoff where he offered little more than monosyllables. But things changed during your fifth week, on a humid Tuesday afternoon when the main generator died during a heavy storm.
The facility's backup system kicked in instantly, but the emergency low-voltage humming sent a piercing, high-pitched buzz through the concrete walls. To the staff, it was a minor annoyance. To Eli, whose senses were already hyper-reactive, it was unbearable.
When you entered Cell 409, Eli wasn't at the table. He was curled up in the corner, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his fingernails digging so hard into his own temples that small beads of blood were forming on his skin. He was hyperventilating, his eyes blown wide, trapped in a severe sensory meltdown.
Outside, Marcus reached for his pepper spray. "Doc, step back. I'll call two more orderlies and we'll throw him in leather restraints until the power resets."
"No," you said firmly, placing a hand on Marcus's arm. "Restraints will only traumatize him more. Give me five minutes."
You closed the cell door behind you, blocking Marcus out. Instead of staying behind the table, you crossed the room and knelt directly on the cold concrete floor right in front of Eli.
"Eli," you said softly, keeping your voice low and rhythmic. "Look at me."
He shook his head wildly, a broken, breathless sob escaping his throat as his knuckles bled into his hairline.
Without hesitating, you reached out and gently wrapped your hands over his trembling fingers, slowly pulling them away from his forehead. His skin was burning hot, his pulse hammering like a trapped bird. The moment your fingers touched his, Eli froze completely. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, wide with shock.
In Saint Jude’s, touch meant force. It meant orderlies pinning him to the floor, needles piercing his skin, or heavy handcuffs biting into his wrists.
He had never felt a touch that was soft. He had never felt someone willingly hold his hands to anchor him.
"You're safe," you murmured, holding his hands securely between yours, ignoring the blood smudging onto your knuckles. "Focus on my voice. Breathe in through your nose. Follow my rhythm."
For ten minutes, you stayed on the floor with him in the dim, buzzing light. Slowly, his ragged breathing hitched, slowed, and aligned with yours. His hands, rough and calloused, relaxed inside your grip. He didn't pull away. He stared at your face as if he were seeing color for the very first time, taking in the faint warmth of your hands, the calm line of your jaw, and the absolute absence of disgust or fear in your eyes.
When the emergency generator finally cut off and the lights stabilized, you gently let go of his hands and stood up.
"Our time is up for today, Eli," you said softly, wiping your hands with a tissue from your pocket. "I'll see you on Thursday."
Eli remained on the floor, staring up at you. He lifted his hand, touching the exact spot on his fingers where your palms had rested.
From that exact afternoon, the atmosphere inside Cell 409 completely transformed.
The other patients in The Well were not quiet men. They screamed at the ceiling, banged their tin cups against the bars, and fought the orderlies during every shift change. But whenever Eli was led down the central corridor for his mandatory fifteen minutes in the courtyard, total silence fell over the entire floor.
Patients who usually threw violent fits backed away into the darkest corners of their cells the second his bare feet touched the hallway floor.
During a routine group intake assessment in the recreation hall, a large, unpredictable patient named Miller suffered a sudden psychotic break. Miller had snapped a wooden leg off a broken folding chair, swinging it wildly at the staff. The orderlies scattered, pulling their batons, but Miller lunged directly toward you, his eyes wide and unseeing.
Before Marcus or any guard could step between you, Eli moved.
He did not shout. He crossed the room in a quick, fluid run, slipping behind the larger man in a second.
A sharp, loud crack echoed through the room as Eli dislocated Miller’s shoulder, driving the man face-first into the concrete floor.
Eli pinned Miller down, placing his knee firmly against the back of the man's neck. Leaning down until his mouth was inches from Miller’s ear, Eli whispered something so softly that only Miller could hear it.
Miller, a man who had spent five years terrorizing the guards, went completely stiff. He stopped struggling entirely, weeping quietly into the concrete, terrified to make another sound.
Within seconds, the blaring alarm screamed through the recreation hall. Four heavy guards rushed in, batons drawn, slamming their boots against the floor.
"Get off him! Hands behind your back, 409! On the ground NOW!" Marcus barked, aiming his pepper spray directly at Eli's face while two other orderlies grabbed Eli by his arms, yanking him off Miller's back with violent force.
Eli didn't fight the guards back. As they forced his arms behind him, twisting his wrists into heavy steel handcuffs, Eli kept his head turned entirely toward you. He ignored the guard forcing his shoulder down and the orderlies shouting in his ears.
"Did he touch you?" Eli asked softly, his voice shaky as he tried to pull against the guards' grip to step closer, his eyes scanning over your face, your hands, your clothes. "Doc, tell me he didn't touch you."
"I'm... I'm fine, Eli," you breathed, stunned by the chaotic contrast.
"Secure him! Take him to Isolation Cell 1!" the head guard ordered, shoving Eli hard toward the heavy security doors. "Four days isolation for assault!"
As the four orderlies dragged Eli down the narrow hallway toward the punishment wing, his eyes never left yours until the heavy iron isolation door slammed shut between you.
Because Eli was placed in isolation for four days, you had to request special administrative permission to visit him in the punishment wing. When he was finally released back to Cell 409, his fixation on you had evolved into something absolute.
To help him channel his thoughts, you brought him a sketchpad and a set of charcoal pencils. When you walked into Cell 409 the following Tuesday, the entire pad was filled with detailed drawings.
"May I see?" you asked gently.
Eli slid the pad across the table, his eyes tracking your face for any sign of disapproval. He did not sit across from you anymore; he pulled his stool around to the side of the table, sitting as close to your chair as he physically could.
You flipped through the pages. The first page showed a small wooden house surrounded by tall pine trees, with two figures holding hands on the porch—unmistakably Eli and you.
The next page showed a bright kitchen set for two, complete with paper tea cups. The page after that held a drawing of a simple gold band resting on a bedside table next to a small glass vase holding a dried flower.
"What is all of this, Eli?" you asked softly.
Eli leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek, his eyes wide and bright with a nervous, intense energy.
"It’s after," he whispered, his voice shaking with excitement. "When my evaluation is done and you tell them I'm cured. We’ll buy a place up north where it doesn't smell like bleach. You won't have to work anymore, Doc. You won't have to look tired or deal with the guards. I’ll make the tea every morning. Exactly one packet of sugar, just how you like it."
He reached out, his fingers hovering right over your hand resting on the table, waiting for permission.
"We’re going to be so happy there," he added softly, a faint smile breaking across his face. "I draw it every night before they turn the lights off so I can dream about marrying you."
You gently closed the sketchbook, feeling a heavy knot form in your stomach. "Eli, you know my role here is strictly professional. I'm your therapist."
His smile faded, his eyes narrowing as a still, unblinking look settled over his features.
"You're the only person who looks at me, Doc," he murmured softly, leaning closer until his cheek almost touched your shoulder. "That makes you mine."
He began quietly altering the facility's routine to claim more of your time. He learned that if he refused his morning medication, the staff would call you to administer it. If he refused to leave his cell for recreation hour, he would demand that you come read his progress notes to him instead.
Slowly, he shaved away your time with other patients. He altered your daily schedule until almost every hour of your shift was spent either inside Cell 409 or writing reports specifically about his care.
One afternoon, while you were reviewing his chart, a loose thread unravelled from the cuff of your sweater. Before you could pull it off, Eli reached over, snapping the tiny string between his fingernails.
Instead of throwing it away, he wound the thread around his ring finger, tying a small knot at the base.
"Eli, what are you doing?" you asked with a light, nervous laugh.
He looked up at you through his dark hair, lifting his finger to show the string. "Now I'm carrying a piece of you with me when the door closes. So I don't get lonely."
He wore that frayed piece of thread on his finger for three weeks, guarding it fiercely during morning wash hours, refusing to let the orderlies scrub it off.
In late February, a sudden stomach flu left you bedridden. High with a fever, you called into Saint Jude’s at six in the morning to take your first sick day in five months.
By eleven o'clock that morning, your phone began ringing continuously.
It was the main desk at The Well. Marcus’s replacement, a frantic senior orderly named Jenkins, was shouting into the receiver over a loud background noise of metallic crashing and blaring sirens.
"Doc! You need to get down here right now!" Jenkins yelled, his voice cracking. "He's losing his mind!"
"I... I called in sick, Jenkins," you muttered weakly, gripping your phone in bed. "I have a fever—"
"I don't care, Doc, you have to talk to him!" Jenkins begged, a loud screech of metal echoing through the line. "He woke up, realized you weren't at his door at ten, and snapped! He tore his cot off the wall! He broke two guards' ribs when they tried to slide his tray in! He's screaming that we hid you from him!"
Through the receiver, you heard a deep, raspy voice screaming your name in the background—a raw, desperate sound.
"Put him on the speaker," you whispered, sitting up in bed despite your spinning head.
Static hissed over the line, followed by heavy, ragged breathing directly into the microphone.
"Doc?" Eli’s voice came through, raspy and frantic. "Doc, where are you? They hid you. They took you away from me. I'm breaking the door, Doc. I'm coming to find you—"
"Eli! Stop!" you commanded, forcing strength into your voice. "I'm sick, Eli. I'm at home in bed. Nobody hid me."
Absolute silence fell on his end of the line. The heavy crashing stopped instantly.
"Sick?" he murmured, his voice shifting in a single second to a soft, heartbroken tone. "You're hurt? You're all alone?"
"I just have a fever. I'll be back on Thursday—"
"No, no, no," he whispered frantically, his breath hitching over the speaker. "I need to see you. I can't breathe when you're not here. Please, Doc. Please come back. I'll be good. I won't hit the guards. Just let me see you..."
You spent twenty minutes talking him down, listening to his desperate pleas until he finally allowed the orderlies to lock his cell.
When you returned on Thursday, still pale and weak, the damage in Cell 409 was clear. The concrete walls had deep scratch marks, the metal table was dented, and Eli was sitting in the corner, covered in bruises.
The moment you walked through the door, he stood up and stepped forward immediately. He didn't wait. He pulled you into a tight, suffocating hug, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He held on so hard it made it difficult to breathe, his shoulders shaking as his fingers dug into the back of your coat.
"You came back," he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled and raw. "You came back to me..."
You stood there, frozen, feeling a heavy mix of deep pity and fear as he refused to let go, his grip locking you against him.
Your sick day forced the administration to take a closer look at Cell 409.
Reviewing the incident reports and hallway footage, the chief administrator realized Patient 409’s behavior was not improving; he was simply hyper-fixated on you. They saw how he had altered your daily schedule to isolate you, and how your absence had driven him to tear his cell apart.
On Friday morning, you were called into the director's office.
"We are transferring you to the state psychiatric hospital in the upper district," the director said flatly, sliding a reassignment document across the desk. "Effective immediately. Your vehicle is already packed, and a transport car is waiting outside."
"What?" You stood up, your chair scraping the floor. "You're transferring me today? Director, I need to go down to The Well and explain this to Eli. If I just disappear without telling him, he will tear that wing apart! You saw what happened on Tuesday!"
"No," the director said sternly, raising a hand. "You are not going back down there. Telling him will only cause a scene and trigger another violent episode. It is safer for you, and for the staff, if you leave quietly. The new doctor is already taking over his case."
"Director, please—"
"That is all, Doctor. Security will escort you to the transport car."
You were escorted out the side doors of Saint Jude’s, unable to say a single word of goodbye.
Down in Cell 409, Eli was waiting.
It was ten o'clock on Tuesday morning. He had spent the entire morning preparing. He had scrubbed his hands clean, combed his dark hair back with his fingers, and tucked a small, carefully folded piece of paper into his pocket.
It was a letter he had spent two nights writing—a full, clear declaration of everything he felt, telling you that he was ready to leave this place with you, asking you to take him away so you could start the life he drew in his sketchbook. He had even smoothed out the frayed piece of sweater thread on his finger, turning it so the little knot faced up.
He sat on his stool, his eyes fixed on the heavy iron door, waiting for the sound of your key in the lock.
10:02 AM.
He smiled to himself, humming softly. You were often a few minutes late because of Marcus or the hallway checks. He adjusted his collar, his heart beating fast against his ribs.
10:05 AM.
The heavy iron bolt finally retracted with a loud metallic pop.
Eli stood up instantly, a bright, genuine smile lighting up his face as he stepped toward the table, reaching into his pocket for the letter. "Doc, I—"
The door ground open.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, middle-aged man with graying hair, holding a thick yellow clipboard. Two heavy orderlies stood directly behind him, their hands resting on their stun batons.
"Patient 409?" the new doctor said, stepping into the room without looking up from his papers. "My name is Dr. Evans. Dr. [Last Name] has been permanently reassigned to another facility. I will be taking over your case evaluations from now on."
Eli stopped dead in his tracks.
The smile on his face didn't fade right away; it froze, twitching slightly as his brain tried to process the words. He looked past Dr. Evans's shoulder, searching the empty hallway behind him.
"Where is she?" Eli asked. His voice was extremely quiet, devoid of any emotion.
"She was transferred to the upper district hospital this morning," Dr. Evans replied casually, pulling out the stool across the table. "Now, sit down so we can establish a new baseline—"
"Where is she?" Eli repeated, taking a slow step forward.
"I just told you, she's gone," Dr. Evans said, frowning as he finally looked up from his clipboard. "Now take your seat, 409—"
In the hallway outside Cell 409, the air suddenly shattered.
A horrible, blood-curdling scream echoed off the concrete walls, followed immediately by the sound of heavy metal crashing, tearing wood, and the frantic, panicked shouts of the orderlies.
Down in the main lobby, miles away from the transport car that was currently driving you to your new hospital, the red emergency sirens of Saint Jude’s began to wail.
Three weeks passed.
Your transition to the upper district hospital was smooth on paper, but your mind remained completely tethered to Saint Jude's. You barely slept. Every loud noise in the quiet clinic hallways made your stomach drop, and you found yourself constantly checking the news, terrified of reading a headline about an outbreak at The Well.
On a rainy Thursday evening, long after your shift had ended, you sat alone at your desk in your new office. The floor was dark, save for the single desk lamp illuminating your paperwork.
A soft knock sounded at your office door.
You jumped slightly, looking up. Standing in the doorway was an old colleague from Saint Jude’s—a nurse named Sarah who had worked on the upper floors. She looked pale, her jacket wet from the rain outside, holding a heavy envelope under her arm.
"Sarah?" you asked, leaning forward. "What are you doing here?"
"I shouldn't be giving you this," Sarah whispered, her voice shaking as she stepped into your office and closed the door behind her. "The director ordered everyone to keep quiet about what happened after you left. They're trying to cover it up so the medical board doesn't investigate."
Your blood ran cold. "What happened to Eli?"
Sarah set the envelope on your desk.
"The moment Dr. Evans told him you were gone, Eli lost his mind," Sarah said quietly, holding her arms tightly against her chest. "He broke Dr. Evans's jaw before the guards could even draw their batons. It took six orderlies and three sedatives to pin him down. He tore the entire cell apart, Doc. He kept screaming that they stole you from him, that you would never leave him on your own."
You stared at the brown envelope, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Where is he now?"
"They moved him to maximum solitary in the basement's lockdown wing," Sarah whispered. "He refuses to eat. He doesn't sleep. He just sits in the dark, staring at the door. But... before they moved him, the cleanup crew found something tucked under his old mattress. I thought you should have it."
You reached out, your trembling hands opening the unsealed envelope.
Inside was Eli's sketchbook.
You pulled it out, flipping open the heavy cover. Every single drawing inside—the wooden house on the porch, the bright kitchen, the simple gold bands—had been ruined. The dark charcoal lines were smeared with faint, dry red stains from where his knuckles had bled as he gripped the pages.
Taped to the inside back cover was a small, torn slip of paper.
Written in Eli's familiar handwriting was a short, shaky declaration:
You didn't leave me, Doc. They took you. I'm going to tear this place down until I find where they put you.
Tucked right beneath the note was the tiny, frayed piece of sweater thread—tied neatly into a little ring, waiting for you to find it.
A/N: hey everyone, i’m finally back! i am so, so sorry for the radio silence and for keeping you all waiting on an update—college has been absolutely drowning me lately, and finding the time to sit down and write has been a real struggle TT. I hope you guys love how it turned out!
tw: gn reader, noncon, (mention of reader having children), minor injury, drugging, victim blaming, video tapping, creampie.
your heady scent wafts through the air.
it’s taking everything in him not to take what he wants, right here, right now. his fist clenches underneath the table. he offers you a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, noticing your attention drawn to him as the conversation lulls.
you’re collarless, scent gland on display.
it’s a bit engorged. the skin raised from your impending heat. he’s never known omegas to flaunt themselves like that. not unless they wanted something to happen to them. that’s what this is, right? some little signal to him? you’ve always been so elusive. it’s hard to tell when it comes to you.
it’s starting to drive him insane, but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be his all the same.
he sits a bit closer to you, throwing his arm around the couch as he listens to you prattle on about some show he can’t be bothered to care about, not right now. not with your scent coiling in the air like that.
you smell so sweet, even to someone like him with dulled senses. it’s so much better close to the source.
when you lean into him, head knocking into his shoulder, his mouth waters. his teeth start to ache. all it would take is one bite. he’d pull you into a hug, grip your hair tight, splay the delicate line of your neck to him.
no, no, no.
not one bite. it wouldn’t last, not from someone like him. he’ll have to keep doing it, over and over and over again. make the mark stick, leave his indentation in your neck. until you never have to wear that stupid collar ever again.
you’ll bear his mark on your skin instead—the perfect necklace.
for now, he’s keep listening, keeps letting you press yourself against him, none the wiser that he has something special planned for you.
“i’ll get us something to drink,” he states abruptly, squeezing your shoulder as he departs.
he doesn’t wait for you to answer, just getting up and heading into the kitchen. he’s been here long enough that everything’s become second nature to him. he knows where the utensils are, where you keep your favorite snacks, the food you eat, nearly everything about you at this point.
that means you’re perfect for each other.
he opens the fridge, grabs the pitcher, and sets it on the counter. his hand lingers on his front pocket, on the little packet of heat inducer. it was surprisingly easy to obtain; who would’ve thought? you know a guy who knows a guy, and things just magically fall into your lap.
he tested it on himself first, of course. luckily, it didn’t do much but give him an erection that seemed to last for fucking days. he’s not leaving this shit to chance. he waited too long for you to mess this up.
he grabs two cups from the dish rack, not wanting to dawdle too long. that’ll seem suspicious, and he’s not that type of guy. he pours it into your cup, watching the white powder be absorbed by the juice.
it’s supposed to be flavorless.
hopefully, you’re not one of those people who notice everything. as much as he doesn’t want to hurt you. he’s not afraid of getting rough, but it’ll still be really unfortunate to break that illusion.
all of the work that went into carefully crafting his personality to your liking.
all down the drain.
he returns to your side, a smile on his face as he hands you the glass. “for you,” he adds, gaze lingering on your face. his fingernail scrapes down the glass as he counts down the seconds, that drag into minutes, waiting for the drug to kick in.
any day now.
and there.
he feels the exact moment you slump into him, nearly slipping your drink onto the floor. he takes it out of your hand, breath hitching from the contact. even now, just the touch of your skin against his is enough to set him off.
he sets the drink down.
that sweet smell deepens, practically pressing against his nose. his tongue swipes across blunt teeth. he wraps his arms around you, nosing against your neck as he lets out a pleased sigh.
“w-what? what did you give me?” you slur, trying and failing to push him away.
you can barely feel your fingertips. it’s like you’re watching everything happen from outside of your body. your mind’s growing all hazy with want. it feels like you’re going into heat, but that shouldn’t be possible.
you take your pills on time. you shouldn’t be due for another week at most.
it couldn’t possibly be him.
he’s supposed to your friend.
he licks a stripe up your neck, allowing you to slide down the couch. you’re rag-dolling at this point. he has to position your legs to keep you from falling off. he’d prefer to do this in your bed. just so you can remember this exact moment, every single time you fall asleep.
but he’ll accept this for now. the drug isn’t going to wear off that fast, especially not for its intended target. he paid far too much for this shit to be a dud.
you feel the exact moment his teeth sink into your scent gland. the smell of iron burns your nose. he bit down hard enough to draw blood. you want to cry, but the tears just won’t come. the only reaction you can muster is the slight hitch in your breathing.
he pulls back, just enough to look at your face. he wants to write this moment in his mind forever. you’re just so beautiful, even limp and useless. you can’t give him a proper reaction right now, but that’s alright.
you have all the time in the world. you didn’t really think he’d be alright with just having you once, did you?
his grin widens, showing off blood-stained teeth. his hand comes down to caress your cheek, trailing down to your gland. the skin is angry and bruised, teeth marks imprinted on your delicate throat. he presses his thumb into it, watching the beginning of tears well up in your eyes.
finally, a reaction.
“oh, did that hurt, darling?” he questions, tone mocking. he brings his thumb back up to his mouth, licking the blood, your blood, off his finger, reveling in the sight of your teary face.
fuck, that’s so hot.
he chuckles, reaching into his back pocket. he takes out his phone, the first photo he’s ever taken of you staring back at him as he unlocks it. he opens the camera app, the click of the shutter breaking through the noise as his library fills with more pictures of you.
“i think i’ll keep this one, and that one, and the other one,” he teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. “might even make it my lock screen. you’re… god, you’re just so beautiful, you know. you just… make it so hard to keep my hands to myself. honestly, i’m surprised i lasted this long.”
he sets the phone to the side for now, returning his attention to you.
“i’m gonna take reeeal good care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, nimble fingers sliding your pants down your legs. his gaze lingers on the sight of your slick, soaked thighs. you’ve managed to make a mess of your underwear, and he hasn’t even properly touched you yet.
still, he’s a gentleman.
he’s not going to skip out on foreplay and pass up the chance of tasting you. he takes off your underwear as well, stuffing them into his pocket for safekeeping. he kneels between your legs, face hovering inches from your glistening sex.
ah, you’re so wet and all for him.
the scent of you is even better here, all musky and sweet. the flavor of your essence erupts on his taste buds as he licks a stripe up your sex, letting out an airy moan. his nails dig into your thighs as he drags you closer, arranging your legs to dangle over his shoulders.
he laps at the slick dripping from your entrance, fingers stroking the length of your arousal. it’s pulsing beneath his fingertips, throbbing like it has a heartbeat of its own. you’re just as wet as he’d imagines you’d be.
the real thing is way better than the omega porn he watched. only, after he found out your designation. there’s never been a point in watching it anymore. not when he has actual material right in front of him.
he takes you into his mouth, suckling on your swollen heat. his gaze is drawn to the shaky rise and fall of your chest as he keeps sucking. yeah, you’re starting to feel it now. he squeezes your chest, rolling your pebbled nipple through your shirt.
you’re just so responsive. when he licks, your thighs start to twitch. when he sucks harshly, you let out an exhale that sounds more like a sob than anything. a sob of pleasure? yeah, that’s what it is. you want this just as much as he does. you always have. you just needed a little more… coercion.
someone like you—an omega.
you just don’t know what you actually want. that’s why you need someone like him to take control. someone who’ll fill your mind with blissful pleasure. that’s how it’s supposed to be. people like you don’t have ambitions. you don’t need to go to school or keep that shitty little job that doesn’t pay you enough.
you’re supposed to have his children, stay home and take care of them. in fact, you shouldn’t ever leave. it’s not safe. what if someone has the same idea as him? of course, they would. you’re just too enticing.
that’s why he can’t help acting this way.
it’s all your fault.
you caused all of this to happen. why else would you have invited him into your home? no, your home together, so close to your heat. allowing that sweet scent of yours to coil around him like a lover’s embrace.
you’re so coy.
acting like you don’t want this, when you’ve been throwing yourself at him this entire time.
his finger breaches your hole, two at a time. you’re so wet that his fingers slide right inside. he listens to the messy squelch of your hole, teeth biting into his lip at the lewd sight. with every push of his fingers, more of your slick drips out. if he keeps this up, you’ll stain the couch.
so naughty.
oh, it’ll be so sweet. just think about it. every time you sit down on this couch, you’ll remember just how we took care of you, ate you out, fingered you open, prepped you to receive his love.
now, that he thinks about it. what better way to remember this special moment than with a video? a photo. those are alright, but a video. he’ll have all of your cute little reactions saved in the memory of his phone. it’ll be something sweet to look back on with you. wouldn’t that be so nice?
right, sweetheart?
he pulls away for a moment, fingers glistening with your juices as he reaches for his phone. he props it up on the discarded glass, making sure the angle is right before he presses record. he takes a moment to think to himself.
he’s actually doing this. you’re finally going to become one.
the sound of him pulling down his zipper rips through the delicate moment of appreciation. he can feel the weight of your teary gaze on him and see the subtle motions of your lips mouthing out words. he doesn’t wait for an answer, merely pulling his pants and underwear down far enough to slip his dick out.
he lets out a sigh of relief. god, it feels like he’s been sporting a half chub since the moment he got here.
he climbs on top of you, bracketing you in as he strokes himself. “are you ready, love?” he murmurs, gaze filled with possessiveness and, most of all, pure love. his hand finds yours, intertwining his fingers with your limp ones as he presses inside.
he lets out a satisfied sigh, feeling you tighten around the intrusion. he noses at your neck, sucking on your scent gland as he rocks against you. that sickeningly sweet scent wafts into his nose once more. it’s euphoric, better than any drug.
it’s almost enough to make him come from the thought alone, but he won’t.
no, not yet.
he has to make sure you enjoy yourself first. he might not be able to satisfy you with a knot like an alpha would, but a few orgasms should do the trick. that’s what it said online, at least. when he was doing… research.
his hand wanders back down, rubbing between the junction of your thighs. your eyes are still glazed over, face lax with a line of drool decorating your chin. mmm, you’re so sloppy. that’s what he loves about people like you. the kind who lose control during sex, making a mess all over themselves.
he starts to thrust faster, feeling himself start to leak inside you. “a-ah, yeah. you feel that, sweetie,” he murmurs against your skin. it’s like you’re trying to push him out every time he thrusts back inside you. “y-you keep making me feel that good, and i… i might just put a baby inside you. you want that too, right? a bunch of brats together? just me and you… and our kids running around the place.”
you’re not responding to his tentative touch anymore, but… that’s alright. he knows just how overwhelming things like this can be, having your first time with your soulmate.
he can’t even believe it’s happening himself.
he surges forward, lips pressing against yours for the first time. his tongue parts your lips, slipping inside your mouth as he loses himself in the taste of you. the gentle smacks of his lips pressing against yours fill the room, a backdrop to the sound of the television that’s grown long forgotten, the very moment he handed you that drink.
he continues rutting against you, keeps rubbing his fingers along the throbbing heat between your thighs as he presses your prone form further into the couch cushions.
he’s going to make you come.
he can feel it.
your body doesn’t lie, even with those deceptive tears that are spilling from your eyes. god, he wished you'd stop with the fucking theatrics. having a cock inside you can’t be that damn bad.
you’re in heat. you want this.
if he didn’t come over here. you’d probably be on your hands and knees for the first dick that appeared, begging to be knotted. if anything, he’s doing you a favor.
so, you should be grateful. grateful that he even prepped you at all. maybe you would’ve preferred he just shove his dick inside you dry. no slick to help with the intrusion.
just him.
he grits his teeth, willing away those thoughts. he just needs to focus on the feeling of your hole fluttering around him. don’t think about other people with you. he’s here with you right now. it’s his dick that’s making you feel this good.
no one else’s.
that euphoric feel that he’s been chasing catches up to him as he lets out a choked-off moan. his fingers tighten around yours, hips slowing to a still as he paints your insides white with his release.
he really did it.
he came inside you. you have his teeth marks on your neck.
something that only happened in his wet dreams that would keep him up at night.
he pulls out of you, taking the moment to admire the sight of his seed dripping out of you. now, this is something he can get used to. your beautiful face, and the sight of your freshly bred hole. he scoops back up his come, fingering it back inside your entrance.
you didn’t think really think he about your little problem, did you? he might be coming down from his high, but he still has to breed out your heat. show you that he’s way better than any of those useless alphas.
and he’s going to make sure you come again, and again, and again.
notes: im tired so idk if i stopped making sense halfway though.
You can feel every muscle in your body. It’s robotical, the way you have to think about putting one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Stretch out your right arm. Twist your hand clockwise. You’re in. Take smaller steps, now bend your knees.
You’ve made it to your seat. The next person is opening the door now, the eyes aren’t on you, so it’s safe to doodle before class.
Psssst…
“Take a look at this.” There’s a phone held out near you, online. “Someone left this in the school.” It’s a whisper, and there’s a little giggle after it that they’re half-trying to hide.
It’s fiction. The words on the page, you recognize those characters. It’s…
It’s yours.
There’s something in your jaw, and when you move your hand up to feel it, it’s really agape. The words you hear in your head, they aren’t good. There’s silence for a long time, because your face is locked. “It’s really weird, right? Who the hell writes this crap? Not that people can’t write, but it’s just bad.”
Your eyebrows are furrowed. You’re just… focusing on your worksheet. There’s a tally on the paper. It goes up every time you hear someone laugh. And by the end of it, you come out of class with an empty worksheet.
It could be a coincidence. It’s not… it can’t just be that. But, when you walk. People are talking. You can’t just not think about it like that.
There’s a loud squeal to your right that makes you want to cover your ears. “It’s so stupid!” And then they say something, and they all laugh. “What are they even talking about?!” You almost miss a step and bump into someone. You hold your books together.
There’s another two up ahead. “Okay, but. Have you watched the actual show though?” Someone shrugs in your periphery. “It’s pretty good.” You glance over to see the other student shaking their head. “I don’t care about the show, I’m just saying the person is braindead! Like, look at this crap right here, I…” They huddle together.
It’s fine.
At least out, in the greenery and blue sky, there’s no sound but the birds. For a short time, it’s over. There’s a robin, black and orange bellied, sitting on the fence. The doves are in the trees, and their coos are never ending when there are always so many of them. Inside your bag, the writing you brought to school today is still there. You exhale slowly.
Your eyes are in a bit of a hypnosis, watching the birds fly and the grass is gently angled to the side by the wind. You haven’t even eaten yet. There’s nothing in your mind, but something is wrong with the way you tilt your head down to the pavement.
“You really don’t know how to write, do you?”
They’re standing above you, holding… the writing you lost. It’s in their hands. Waving it back and forth as if it was laminated.
“Nuh uh, sweetheart.” They hold it above your head. “Oh! It’s over here. Over here now!” They move it to the right and to the sky and in your face before it slaps back close to their chest. Your expression. It’s too intense to look at, so they just slap their knee. “I’m just messing around, silly. I guess I’ll give it back to you.”
The papers are all crinkled. It has dry splotches.
You let yourself go limp, and the pain of the hard thump on your bottom is muffled. “I’m—whole school—heard—going to do?” The voice is clear, yet you couldn’t hear most of it, but there’s a smooth hand on your back. “Guess you’re crying it out now.”
It’s really loud right now. Your mouth. Nobody has put a hand on your back like this today. Their hand stays, tapping a rhythm on you.
They wait until you start sniffling and snuffing those noises. “See, look. You’re going to be fine.” Grinning widely, it takes up most of their face. “Do it like this.” They stretch that expression even more, pushing the edges of their mouth upwards. It’s an accident, but with so little energy you play the mirror.
They drag you towards them by wrapping their arms around your neck. “I have a deal for you. You cannot be having this happen. I’ll help you!” The reminder turns the faucet back on. “If you don’t let me help, you know, fix up this dumpster fire, I’ll show the other stuff you have. They’re gonna make fun of you again if it’s trash anyways, so.”
You don’t think you can take the crumpling of your labor.
~
They would have a red pen in their hands. They’ll say something to you, and you’ll say something back, but you're just watching for what they cross out. You tense up when it lifts, bracing for those wounds. They might stare at you for a little while, and it’s impossible to say what’s inside that head, but then they’ll doodle and dawdle around on your paper and hand it back to you.
You can’t understand the internal logic, because they’ll give their praises and then act like it’s pathetic an hour later. But ‘we can just agree to stop the deal if you want to be so sensitive. You aren’t a baby, are you? Noooo… so take it without whining like one.’ They ‘playfully’ hit you with the pen.
And the next time, their knee will rest against yours as chatter goes back and forth. You laugh with them when they talk about these random things. Surprisingly, they have the same posters. And the same shows in ‘recently watched’.
Those drafts feel more polished. And it reminds you of them and of things that aren’t you. When you put the pen down and don’t want to write anything else, they’ll say ‘Maybe later then, let’s just go grab a bite to eat together.’
“Look!” There’s a familiar tune. They take your arm and pull a little, just so your arm feels a stretch instead of a pain, and as you get closer you see the different pictures of ice cream on the truck. “Which one do you want?” You can’t even get a word in about money. “It’s on me! Get whatever you want, really.” And they pull out the bills they have.
The cold is exactly what you need as the days start to get warmer. It’s dripping down the sides and sticking to your hand faster than what your hunger can keep up with, so you have to lick your fingers a few times. In these moments, it’s nothing more than nice spring weather. “It’s really sweet, right? Do you like it?” Taking more licks at it, you nod. The driver asks if the two of you are dating…
“I don’t really know~” Your ‘friend’ takes a step and is inches away from your face. “hey. You like romance, you wanna be lovers?”
You stare at them. They stare at your lips.
“Haha! It’s just a prank, no need to take it so seriously!” And they’re already a step back.
Within 2 weeks, you don’t hear anything that makes you tally up all the previous snickers. You’re at a table at lunch, with them and other people. “This is a friend of mine. Well, not really but we hang out and all.” While they also put an arm around your hip and pinch to see if it’ll make you squeak.
And things go on like that for a little while. Someone’s passing around candy or gum and you’ll get a piece too. There are conversations happening, and nobody’s huddling up anymore. People like you! When someone tried to give you their number in front of them, they ended up punching a hole in the wall in your name. Drywall. But it counts. You’re not sure what to think when they want to defend you.
Being asked out is no good for them, though.
You stand near the front of the school until less than 5 minutes before class. People are still walking in, so you’re standing off to the side. There’s no text even when you refresh your notifications. You have to squeeze through the crowds to get to your seat. The desk to your left is empty. Where are you?
“Do you like it like that? That’s what you really want?” That group of people who always cause trouble are leering at you. They’re. Repeating corny romance lines at you, in a sing-songy way. Each line makes a louder howl before the professor walks in.
It’s the same at lunch. “This seat is taken already.” For every open space. With people you know.
You’re eating outside again. There is nothing on your mind.
“Hey.” There’s nothing else to it, as they slowly approach.
You push them immediately. “H-how could you– How could you do this to me?!” Your voice cracks when you first try to say the words, it’s broken and coming out as chokes. It still comes out as a sob when you finish the sentence. Everything. The ice cream and the lunch table and the friends and the movies are nothing, they mean nothing. You’re a joke. Everything is a joke and a stupid ‘gotcha!’ prank. Your hands grip their clothes so hard your nails are digging into your skin.
Up against the wall, they speak, holding their hands up in the air. “Honestly, calm down!” When that ‘somehow’ doesn’t work, they continue. “You’re being unfair, you didn’t even hear what happened yet!”
“Then. What is it.” You start digging your nails into their skin instead and they flinch.
They slowly move their hands out, almost pressing against your shoulders. “Someone came over, and I still had the papers and some drawings of you. They were the ones asking me whose it was, and I had to tell them it was you or else they were going to think it was me.” Shrugging their shoulders, they laugh. “Honestly, we all make mistakes. Just didn’t expect it to spread as much as last time. You understand.”
You don’t. You pull your hand but they can see more clearly than you can, and shove you back rougher than you did, until your head hits the wall. You put pressure on the back of your head to relieve it while your lower half stumbles. They take the advantage by putting their arms on either side of you.
“Look.” Their bottom lip is wobbling. “I’m sorry that you feel upset. Is that better?” You cough something out, and they roll their eyes. “I realize what I did. I’m upset too. But I’m going to need to distance myself for a little while, until things cool down with your situation.” They’re choking on their own chuckle after saying that.
“Don’t go after me, or I’ll make things worse. Got it?” Their eyes are watering.
A shoe is grounded into your foot for good measure, before they let you fall down. Your ears are ringing loudly.
~
They come back the next day. With your favorite food. They don’t mention what happened yesterday, and if you decide to, they’ll force feed you. The two of you shouldn’t even be seen together, so be grateful they’re at least not letting you go hungry.
In class, in public, they say you’re a loser. You’re boring. They quote lines from the things you care about and then play it up for laughs. And somehow, people love them for it. “I really can't believe all these people wanna stay on my good side now. I basically rule the school.” They say one day on a whim in private. Then they slowly drag you by the hips into their lap, and leave a peck on your cheek. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be on my good side though.” It’s low and into your ear. At least you don’t have to make eye contact.
You think you can push them away? They’ll let you! For now. But even if you can handle a one on one, can you push it up to five to one? They’ll do it, sic their ‘friends’ on you when the two of you aren’t alone, and then softly explain while putting a bandaid on a bruise. “Man, if you think that was bad, there’s no way you would have survived things at my old school on the bad side of town. I’m basically treating you like sweet sugar in comparison.” ‘’Messing with you’ is fine ‘since it’s funny’, but they still need their goodbye kiss before you go home.
You talked to your professor. And they talked as well. “Listen, I think you’re making this into a bigger deal than it has to be. They’re a good person at heart, and one of the best in the class. They’re immature, and that’s how the typical young person is. You are more mature than them, and it’s wonderful. There’s no need to feel obligated to be around them. You just need to move on, and find something else to focus on. Leave them be, let them do their thing, and do something for your own sake instead of theirs.”
They’re just misunderstood, and you can never understand.
One day, they actually approach you in the hallway. “I’ve decided I’m tired of doing this whole hiding away from you thing. They practically worship me, so I should be able to do what I want.”
“I won’t let anyone touch you anymore, and we can go out. But you can’t talk to them. Which won’t make a difference to what you do now, right?”
You can’t feel the bones in your body, they’re like loose strings. That’s the you that’s sobbing, holding your hand to your face. What are you going to do? You just want it all to end. You have to get away. What do you feel like you deserve when you’re alone?
They hold out their hand to you.
But your eyes are still twitching, your lip is still wobbling. You can feel the raging acid bubbling up inside of you. That part of you replays the montage of everything they’ve done to you. This isn’t right. This isn’t right…!
“Are you going to bitch about it, or are you going to take my hand already?” They open and close it quickly.
But if it isn’t, where is the justice? Why does nobody see? That you feels their teeth grinding together, their body coiling up like a spring, vibrating and about to burst.
Is this all a fucking joke, or is it not?! Do they hate you, or are they playing with you?!
The final answer in your mind chooses what you do next.
yandere!bully: he wasn't your bully, not at first. You guys only ever got to know each other because your dad was his dad's employee. Such a circumstance—and a few others—granted you the honor of becoming one of the conglomerate's financial-aid scholars. Another charity case to help polish the company reputation.
You attend the same private academy he does. He tried not to care too much at first; you were just among the few others lucky enough to have the kind of intelligence eyed by his father's company. But that was the thing—you didn't. You were ordinary.
He wondered if his father made a mistake, choosing to sponsor some no-use nobody. Maybe you were a coal in the rough yet to be a diamond. But weeks into the first year of senior high and you showed no signs of blooming. Hell, you even placed at the bottom list in academic standing. You didn't fail; everyone else were just children of the wealthy who afforded private tutors. Maybe an appropriate scholar would have caught up just fine, but you weren't one.
yandere!bully who decides to approach you, frustrated with your mediocrity. Who is he kidding? He doesn't give two shits if his father made a mistake, he was fascinated with your mediocrity. Greatness no longer intrigues him, having been surrounded with it all his life.
Wow, is this a joke? You really aren't good at anything. Not at math, science, Latin, nada. You just do enough to get by.
He speaks to you about it, about that mediocrity. You interpret it as a threat. You can't lose this scholarship now, you just got it. You beg for his mercy that you may continue studying in this prestigious academy. The whole "I'll do anything!" "anything?" conversation ensues. Now he's got you in the palm of his hand.
yandere!bully who starts it small. Makes you his little errand puppy. To him you were like a little dog running around doing what he makes you do. It can't even be called bullying, everyone else interprets it as acts of gratitude for his father granted the scholarship to you.
But then it escalates. Soon he's making you do things that you hesitate to do. Sneaking into faculty to take a picture of the test answer sheet. Smuggling a bag of "stuff" in school (you aren't dumb, you know what these rich kids got their hands on). Forcing you to skip a day of school so you can be his little errand pup while he did golf, playing truant with his friends.
One time you're asked to kneel before him, right between his knees. You ask why. He tells you not to question him. He only wants to see you that way. He watches you for a moment, unfazed, before telling you to stand back up.
Enter his friends, and things turn for the worse. It's like they've been itching their whole lives to get their hands on a human being to torment. They've got their butlers and maids but they're paid workers; you aren't. Clearly, yandere!bully is dangling this scholarship thing above your head like a golden apple. It's enough to keep you in your place, make you go against your own survival instinct to retaliate against a threat. They can do things to you and not suffer the consequences, and they intend to take full advantage of it.
It starts small, too, this torment by his inner circle, but soon it evolves more than just carrying their shopping bags or retrieving the tennis ball whenever they go play.
Soon they laugh when one of them extends a foot to trip you. They steal the math homework you worked hard on even though they've already completed theirs courtesy of their private tutors. Pour water over your head, pinch your skin for fun with their filed, polished nails.
They heard him call you "errand puppy" once, so they had a collar custom-made with his name on it next to the phrase property of, its buckle 18k gold, leather lined on the edge with lab-grown diamonds. Then they made you drink milk like a mutt out of the cafeteria's metal tray.
The boys cornered you in the locker room once, made you pull down your bottoms. You were crying while they took pictures of your underwear, wet snotty face too. They shared it to the girls and it circulated within their friend group for a while. The next time that those specific guys encountered you, though, they seemed to hold back from picking on you. No one ever made a comment about that incident, not about the photos, the crying, the cheap underwear, and they grew quieter when yandere!bully entered the room.
With his friends it's always physically violent; never with him. You would argue, though, that he is the cruelest. Because he's got the power to make them stop and he chooses not to. He just watches. You gather that he likes watching you a lot.
yandere!bully plays soccer; he's a varsity player of your academy. Every after training you're tasked to carry his school and sports bag back to his luxury sedan which he drives to and from campus. Tonight he makes you stand in front of the goal net. His friends are lined up some meters before you, having gathered all the soccer balls the academy owns.
You're nervous. You know what's about to happen and you should run, but you don't, because you think the scholarship is worth all this.
"Don't let them score and I'll extend your scholarship to college," is all the warning you get.
You're hit everywhere. The arms, shoulders legs, torso—everything hurts. One ball after the other to your head, and you feel dizzy. Of course, you try defending yourself; you yell at them to stop, that it hurts, and all you get is: "don't you want that scholarship?"
What made you cease is the blow to your chest. It's a strong hit, delivering a pain so hot you think it shifted your ribs, and you cough and wheeze and they're still throwing balls at you until your form is thrashing on the grass like fish on land.
Your head feels so hot and prickly from the lack of air, you're sure it's bound to explode. Black spots your vision and you literally can't breathe but all you can think of is: did I get that scholarship?
You're hospitalized that night. Bandages on all limbs, tapes to hold the cuts produced from the skin being hit too hard. Nasal cannula around your face.
You wake up slowly. There's a mildly comforting heat on your bandaged hand that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. yandere!bully is seated by your bed, watching you as always.
His hand touches your face. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by the bandages wrapped around your head, ears included. Then his thumb tenderly brushes over your busted lip.
Finally, he leaves the room, and you're left to stare at the ceiling.
Upon discharge, you don't hear anything about dues from the hospital—a big relief for you. No warnings from the academy either for having missed a week of school. You speculate he's got something to do with it for the sake of reputation. No one is supposed to know that the son of the chairman of such a conglomerate beat its scholar to death's door.
School is different after the incident. You're no longer abused as much by his peers, although you still do their various errands. He still makes you do naughty stuff, like skipping classes when he feels like it. Only this time it seems only he's around to do errands for.
These errands are different now, too. It's not the typical labor-heavy tasks like before, fetching for his tennis ball or carrying his bags. You're more like an actual pet puppy at this point; he just brings you around wherever he goes. Almost like he has to keep an eye on you at all times.
yandere!bully who finds himself missing you during the summer. Everyone left for their own respective vacations, out of the country to Maldives or Monaco or Switzerland or whatever. You're back with your relatives in that quaint little downtown neighborhood of yours. He would know, having hired private investigators to stalk your ass. He is going with his family to the countryside estate.
Father, mother, eldest sister, older brother. He's the youngest. It's a quiet family. Sister grew up just to be like father, cold and austere. It seems he's on the way to becoming just like that, too. Only brother inherited mother's benevolence.
Father doesn't care about anyone and anything but mother. yandere!bully only ever talks to Father whenever it's necessary. Otherwise, both of them are content minding one's own business.
yandere!bully asks Father about you. As he suspected, Father makes no mistake. He says you were really meant for the scholarship.
"I had a feeling," Father says, "that you two would make very good friends."
yandere!bully who's touchier now, second and final year of senior high. Or he's become touchy, since he never was back then. He drags you by your wrist at short distances, a palm on your nape whenever he tells you to look at something. A hand on your lower back, sliding dangerously low every time before letting go. He also often fixes your collar, fingers always ending up brushing your neck.
He tells you to strip one time at some high-end clothing store. You stare at him, dumbfounded, before he gives some silly excuse that it's for a cousin with your same build.
He makes you try on different outfits. At first it's various tops and bottoms that complement your shape, colors that go well with your skin tone, all the like. You glance at yourself in the mirror and wonder if this is how you look born into that top 1%. You look nice.
Then he makes you strip back to your underwear, and lets you try on the white [dress/blazer]. There's a moment of silence before he tells you to come over to him, and he stands up, towering over you with his gifted height.
He looks down at you, seemingly lost in thought, like he's visualizing you in a certain light...
"Do you like it?" He asks.
You tell him that you think his cousin will. His expression is undisturbed, but he exhales almost like a huff. Quite suddenly he grabs you by the waist, thumb gliding circles.
"I asked if you like it."
You stutter out a pathetic 'yes.' Honestly you don't give a damn but you fear his negative reaction your comment. Although if you had to, you'd say it's a bit too fancy for your liking.
He only hums before letting you go. You proceed to wear the next attire.
You shiver to think about how he views this certain cousin of his, having you wear a bunch of skimpy outfits. Some that showed your stomach too much, others exposing your legs. One top you're pretty sure can rival a tape going around your chest area, covering only what needs to be covered. He stays aloof the whole time, jaded eyes planted on you.
After that, things start to get kind of disgusting.
The touchiness escalates tenfold, and he isn't as insecure about it as you are, showing off to his friends. It's like the roles have switched: now he's the physical one instead of them. You're still a slave to their torment, of course, but only he gets to touch you like this. His friends don't find anything odd about it, in fact they look as if they enjoy your discomfort. They egg him on.
yandere!bully who brings you with him to a speakeasy, exclusive only for students of this certain private members club. The top one percent of the top one percent, they would say. It's like a den of iniquities, these kids doing all sorts of nefarious stuff: drugs, dealings, gambling, and most dreadful of all: whores.
Man or woman, they aren't obvious. You only know because they're distinguishable from the rich clients of the club who dress minimalistic. You suppose a more professional term for these people are escorts. They're conversing animatedly with their young clients, some linking their arms with them, a few already making their way to private rooms.
yandere!bully sits on the loveseat across his peer who's got two escorts in his arms. You only stand behind him, listening in on their conversation. Something about stocks and real estate. Networking. If he knew this, what he thinks about that.
You drone their voices out. The smell of weed is getting to you, making you feel all woozy.
yandere!bully tells you to sit on his lap. Dumbed down by the smoke, you comply a little too easily, like the puppy you are. His peer whistles lowly, eyeing you with a predatory glint.
He doesn't do anything about it because he knows they all can only afford to look. The truth is you belong to him, and only he gets to touch you this way, his hand now shamelessly gliding down your rear while you stay pliant. As long as you're after that scholarship, you belong to him.
He shifts you on his lap, his mouth feeling dry as he feels you press against him. You're really just asking for it, aren't you?
yandere!bully: he finds you in the library, when everyone else is in the school gym for graduation practice. This serves as your only safe haven from him, from his friends, from this whole aquarium filled with predatory fish. Oftentimes it feels like you're the only herbivore out there. The library happens to be the oldest part of this castle-turned-campus, which means: no CCTVs.
You scream when he pins you against the table, cut off halfway when he slams a palm on your mouth. The other hand encases both your wrists in one secure grip as his leg forces your knees apart, and he starts grinding against you like a dog in heat.
His eyes are half-lidded as he's watching you with his mouth parted, a sick grin forming. He thinks it's hot when you cry, if he knew this before he would have done better to get you to cry more often.
"Dumb puppy," he sneers, "dumb little errand pup, you're no good for anything at all, aren't you? Only at following your master and fetching balls."
Your panic discourages you from registering all the painful words he's saying, the names he's calling you. You try your best to escape his coil that only seems to get tighter the more you move like a boa constrictor. Arousal seems to give him inhumane strength.
Having had enough, he lifts you up momentarily, before slamming your back against the table, hard.
"Stop fucking moving, you stupid mutt!"
That does indeed get you to stop fucking moving. You even stop trying to scream, and stop... breathing? He pauses his ministrations and looks down at you. You're staring back at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Then you start convulsing for air.
He doesn't know what to do, and for the first time in his life of luxury and wealth he's genuinely terrified. He's always seen you suffering, but this time, this time you're suffering and he can't put a stop to it. He can't control it.
You're grasping the sleeves of his uniform, still spasming. He gets the hint and aids you in sitting back upright on the table. He already has half the mind to pull out his phone and call emergency, but you're already breathing fine, trying to catch your breath.
Your hand moves to deeply rub the center of your chest.
Shit.
Was this... was this the soccer injury? Haven't you already recovered from that? The doctors said you'd heal eventually. The cuts, the deep bruises. Did you turn out to have an unattended rib fracture? Is this... chronic?
It's been almost a year since that incident.
Have you always had this pain, and kept it to yourself?
He's never felt this level of trepidation consume him, shaking him to the core. His heart is in his stomach as he looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the damaged he's done. You're tired. You're scared. You're miserable.
You are readmitted to the the same high-end hospital not long after. This time you're scheduled for surgery. He covers all the expenses, makes sure to get the best of the best of surgeons out there. You don't really have a say in the matter, you're not dumb enough to refuse such an offer just for the sake of your dignity. What left of it is there, anyway?
Father visits him during that period, noting the considerable dent in his son's bank account for that big of a purchase. He meets Father shortly after freshening up, having vomited at the thought of your broken countenance.
yandere!bully tells him everything except the attempted assault. Father only sits and listens, unnervingly silent, like he understands. It's the first time he's ever opened up to his dad. To his surprise, Father does not disappoint.
Likewise, Father also tells him everything. How, in this family, there is the tendency for some members to manifest passionate emotions in various ways. They feel so little they end up feeling so much for very specific things... sometimes persons. And they tend to be violent with it.
You were meant to be the recipient of this violence. Your father owed his father a great deal of debt, and so you were basically sold off, your purpose for him hidden under the ruse of scholarship. Not that you knew.
It all makes sense now, Father's devotion to Mother, and her aversion from him. His sister's fierce attachment to this one specific guy who also just so happens to be a scholar of the company. His feelings for you which he can't seem to make amends with.
"Once you find that someone," Father says, "you sink your claws into them and never let go, even when they bleed."
You're back to school in two weeks. Like back then, you didn't receive any disciplinary actions for your absence. You try not to wonder how you manage to keep your place as a scholar in this prestigious academy despite all the missed assignments on top of your already mediocre grades.
yandere!bully avoids you like the plague, and so do his friends. It seems everything went back to how it once was, how it was supposed to be. Everyone here ostracizes you for your socio-economic standing but it doesn't bother you at all, not when you prefer this over the active bullying.
The next time he interacts with you, it's already graduation. You're wearing the appropriate formal attire under your graduation robes, which you can guess is the cheapest out of everything in this venue where the school-sponsored grad party is being held. There's an afterparty held at some penthouse bar after this, hosted by one of yandere!bully's friends, but you aren't invited.
You exit the venue to begin the 20-minute walk back to your dorm, but someone stops you.
His hand is on your wrist. You get unpleasant flashbacks, but you keep it to yourself. He asks how you're doing, you say you're just fine.
He then asks if you want to celebrate this milestone.
No, you don't. Not with him. But you're not about to lose your diploma when you just got it.
So now you are in his Porsche and he's driving you both to one of his many family estates. It's smaller than most, he describes.
According to him at least. The whole thing is the size of your entire neighborhood. It's a long driveway before he even gets to arrive at the actual building. He parks right in front of the manor.
Inside, you're invited to have dinner with him. It's only the two of you in this large dining hall, where you're seated adjacent to him at the end of the grand table. But the selection of food nearly reaches down to half the long table, as if he had the chef cook every food that could possibly be your favorite.
Still, you end up eating light. He offers you to choose the brand of wine but you refuse, saying that it hasn't been long enough since your operation. A pause, before he nods, instead picking the wine himself.
Instead of alcohol you're served apple juice. It's freshly squeezed, you could tell by the bitter aftertaste.
Glass in hand, he leads you out of the manor and to the rose garden, where you can see the stars so clearly due to the lack of light pollution thanks to the vastness of his estate. There's a small pavilion housing a large couch. He leads you toward it, makes you sit.
You feel yourself deflate instantly on the cushion, exhausted from having your guard up around him at all times. If he noticed he didn't comment a thing about it. He's on his third glass and you're currently nursing the first glass of apple juice you're nearly finished with, when he calls out your name.
"Congratulations."
You congratulate him, too, since he also graduated.
He downs the rest of his wine in one go, sets it on the side table. Then he steps closer to you, fueled with liquid courage, sinking into the space next to you.
You try to sit up and scoot over. You can't.
"I was afraid for a moment," he starts, "that you wouldn't accept my invitation."
Afraid? He put you through hell, and only now has the gall to hesitate on you? A pit begins to form on your stomach.
He turns to you, taking your glass out of your hand and setting it down the ground, before holding that same hand with his own warmer one. He inches closer. You can't move.
You ask, "Would you have forced me to come anyway?"
He smiles at that. "You wouldn't have said no."
He's now hovering over you on the couch, same standoffish eyes tracing your face, your eyes, nose, settling on your mouth. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down.
He has so much to say to you. You look so pretty right now, basked in the moonlight, not fighting him. He's sorry for all the rough treatment, for hurting you and making you cry. He swears it's just his feelings for you manifested in the wrong manner. But now he knows, after his father explained everything it all makes sense. He's just in love with you.
yandere!bully kisses your trembling lips, tenderly. You try to fight it off but it's no use; you realized too late that he's done something to your drink. You're sobbing when he parts from you, terror and anger evident in your eyes. When he begins to pull off your clothes, he speaks.
"I would never do anything to hurt you." Your stomach churns in resentment. "Never again."
He kisses the column of your neck down to your chest, your surgical scars, where his lips stay longer. When he feels you're sort of hyperventilating, he rises and cups your cheek.
"Breathe. Breathe," he says your name. "Okay? Relax. I've got you. I promise I'll take care of you. You just have to breathe."
He rubs your chest. His own aches just at the thought of your distress. It's his fault you ended up like this, so he intends to make up for it for the rest of your lives.
He makes love to you that night. As promised, he did take care of you. It doesn't hurt when he slides it in, having poured a generous amount of lube all you feel is the pressure instead of the sting of his very well-endowed member intruding you. He's got a way with his hands, too, stimulating all the right parts just enough to get you unfolding beneath him within an hour. He would have done it within minutes but he took his sweet time just to get you so wet and ready for him.
He's so damn gentle with you like he was your lover for the last two years and not your bully. Of course, to you this wasn't 'making love.' For the most part you were delirious both from the drink and his expert ministrations, and are only hit with the the graveness of your reality when he finally spills his essence into you. His body quivers, and right then he pulls you for a deep, tongue-heavy kiss. When he pulls away, he mutters something in his frenzy: "I love you."
yandere!bully doesn't bother you after that. When he wakes up on that couch in the pavilion you're already gone. You left in a rush. A butler drove you off back outside of the estate, having received no orders to make you stay.
You've graduated. Your credentials will surely spark competition among universities for you, being a graduate from one of the most prestigious academies in the world. Still, you ask yourself if it was all worth it.
You aren't the same after those two years. You feel as if you've lost all purpose in life after that night. Like something valuable was stolen from you, and could never be returned. You don't want to keep going.
But reality will always dictate what you do. You can't afford to be like this because you're poor. Mental health doesn't exist to the poor, your father would insist. You've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And you may be mediocre, but you're not dumb enough to seek justice against someone as powerful as your bully. You don't even have the money for that.
So you went on despite grievances to the next stage of your life: college. Countless scholarships from different sponsors. The same conglomerate that covered your senior high scholarship is offering you another full ride—living arrangements and all—to the country's number one university.
You refuse the offer this time. A thousand scholarships from that conglomerate isn't enough to repair the damage that's been done. Besides, you never want to encounter anything associated with him ever again.
Instead you accept to be sponsored by a different company; a smaller one (at least in comparison), but they covered your tuition of four years in the same prestigious university. Sure, no living arrangements, but that's more than what most sponsors give.
You enter the CEO's office, having been invited so she can get to know you more. There are two individuals in the room. She, and...
Your heart drops to your stomach.
The CEO introduces him to you, although there is no need for that. He's standing there in a tux, hair slicked back, jaded eyes glinting with mirth at the sight of you. It seems he's grown taller in the few months you haven't seen each other.
Apparently his dad's conglomerate is the parent company. How could you be so stupid?
Madame CEO excuses herself to take an important call, leaving you alone with him. He doesn't hesitate to walk closer, smiling as fondly as his austere face can manage.
"I missed you." He speaks, voice full of yearning. He takes your hand in his. "How are you after our shared night? Why did you leave so suddenly? Don't do that again, love."
Ripping your hand away, you asked why he was here. If he knew and orchestrated to have you accept this scholarship.
"I don't break my promises. I'd hate to start with you." He explains.
You demanded what he meant by that. He doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying your turmoil, but you can't even find it in yourself to get it together this time.
"No one scored that night." He shrugs. "They were all so focused on hitting you."
...what?
"I promised you your college scholarship, remember?"
yandere!bully who follows you all the way to college.
You enjoyed being alone. For one you get to know all the drama from the people actually involved without anyone knowing. Like how Zach, the jock on the honor role, got cheated on by his girlfreind before he even found out. What you hated about being the school loser is that even though Zach was your bully and harrasses you on the daily you still had your moral code.
The news of the power couple breaking up led to the queen bee being exposed as not only a cheater but also a gold digger. Which is the first time you ever heard about Zach's power. His family was insanely rich, in the top 1% of the world's wealth. Honestly you couldn't get paid to care.
Than again you did go to a very prestigous private school. The only poor student in a class of 13,000 students. You weren't being hyperbolic. There was only 36 upper middle class families while some were lower to middle rich. Still Zach was the most powerful and richest kid in the school. Honestly you didn't care.
You lived in a school issued studio apartment due to being homeless and your parents incapability to properly take you to school. The only reason you're here is because you got a schalorship you worked your ass of to get. Now you work in the art studio. You prepare the tools, clean all the materails, help people who are struggling to find certain tools. It was reasonable work, and pretty calm.
What a lot of people didn't know is that Zach has a sister, Alisson or Alice for short. She was a lot more humble and kind than Zach. Often visiting the studio to work on different techniques and generally just practice in each medain. Yet today she brought Zach with her, "I promise you if you just tried you'll enjoy it." Alice was desperately trying to cheer up her pissed off brother.
"Hi Alice, do you want me to just log you for your usual or are you planning on staying longer?" You had already filled in the usual information just hadn't submitted the form. You got an actual look at Zach, eyes bags, messy hair, and his lower lip was recovering from having it busted. You took a moment before logging it for 7 hours, an hour longer than Alice's usual time in the studio.
Back in to the zone. Headphones on, and taking a lap around to reorganize everything. Stopping once in a while to grab a materail for someone or to log someone in. You were the only employee that's been there longer than a few months, why? Because the rest of them kept messing up the balance of the place, at least that's what you tell yourself.
It was going to the end of Alice's time up but she seemed locked in one her sculpture. She was at her max for the week so you just logged it as Zach's extra time instead, who was fixated on the painting he was working on. Than you just went back to your work, it was around closing time and those two were still there.
"I'm so sorry to bother you but it's around closing time." Zach seemed suprised like time moved around him and just nodded. In less than 15 minutes they wrapped up but this time Alice slid you a 100 (U.S.) dollar bill with a note attached. You were shocked and tried to refuse, but she keep insisting saying that you deserved it for working so hard.
You forgot about the note and the money until you were eating dinner.
Dear [reader]
Tommorrow afternoon take a day off. Please. Don't go to work. We don't want anything happening to you. Feel free to contact me if anything happens.
+1 (XXX) - (XXX) - (XXXX)
- Alice
Who the hell is we?? What the fuck was this shit? You were just some guy working at an art studio why the hell did Alisson just give you her number? Why the hell was this note so damn ominous?
You were a loser not a dumbass. You tried to avoid going to work but they threatened to pull your scholarship. Only Zach came in that day. Mainly due to the fact that there was an art festival happening. You did your usual rounds around the place and since there was no one else you decided to draw. It was just the studio and the surroundings which included Zach.
At one point in boredom and the ending of your shift you decided to see what Zach was painting. To your suprise Zach was amazing at painting. You were sleepy enough to not notice the fact that the boy in painting was you around campus. You cataloged everything before notifying Zach it was closing time. Like the night before he packed up in 15 minutes this time he gave you a small smile and left.
You saw a note that Zach left. It wasn't just a note, there was a watercolor painting with blood stains. Crisp hundred dollar bills with handwriting on the back.
Stop talking me and Alice or I'm gonna make you suffer. If you dared to think for a second that I'd ever like a loser like you your dead wrong.
Oh. Oh shit. Nope, nope. You weren't gonna test it. You didn't talk and just silently did your usual routine because you don't get paid enough for this shit. Alice wasn't even confused just seemed pissed off at Zach. You shifted your attention to other regulars and customers. All at the end of the night pulling that bonnet or dew rag on your head and cozy in your bed.
Zach was a lot more agressive towards you. God forbid you breath too loud or he'll beat the shit out of you. And because Zach was getting more agressive everyone got more agressive. Slurs, degradtion, humilation, turned to verbal abuse, mental abuse, harrasment, threats, and borderline voilence. All for what? You honestly didn't know. You requested to transfer to another school your scholarship and arrangements could be accomadated.
It got denied. Alice was there when ever Zach wasn't around. You got pretty close to her. You found out she was lesbain and was crushing hard on a girl in her sculpture class. And she found out you were queer. It didn't take long for trusting Alice to backfire on you. Because Alice was telling everything to Zach who used it against you.
Fuck your life. A bitch can never be happy apperantly. You did have one good thing. One thing that couldn't be messed with too much. You had a crush on this boy named Marcus. He was the only person actually nice to you. You were happy on crushing not really wanting it to go further. It was the one thing that you didn't tell Alice.
The one thing you had to yourself. He'll let you enjoy it for now. But he won't for long not when his anger was turning into something a lot more deadly. Something that would make sure you never looked at another person again.
sorry this is kinda bad and rushed ( T∀T)
hope you enjoyed and I'll link part one when it's finished dw
𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | yandere! demon x male! reader | contains NSFW
pairing: yandere demon x male reader
CONTAINS:
extreme yandere
nsfw
extremely dubious consent; stockholm syndrome
violence
self harm, mental spiral
none to be glorified and romanticised, work of fiction
SUMMARY: A demon posing to be a human prince takes a dark interest in a human. Things can only turn out one way.
Perdition: Utter destruction; loss of the soul and eternal punishment. The noble, beautiful, and perfect crown prince has been taken over by a demon. Everyone in the palace seems to be blissfully unaware of it, save for Y/n: and now he must also pretend to not see the change to ensure his survival. And yet in a morbid twist of events, the demon takes an interest in him — an interest that soon spirals into an all consuming, ruinous, and obsessive pursuit. Y/n is horrified, unwilling, and completely filled with terror — but it’s too late: demons take what they want, through any means.
wc: 13.5k words, long oneshot
please comment, reblog; and like this if you enjoyed it!
Secrets are burdensome, heavy little things.
There’s a secret that Y/n constantly keeps close to his heart.
It’s something he keeps locked under his fragile tongue, never to be said aloud. He’s not even sure if he should know about the secret, considering the terrible contents of it; but at the same time, he often thinks to himself that it is impossible that he’s the only one he knows about it. Y/n cannot help but wonder often if other people are blindingly oblivious, or if they’re like him and simply too scared to say anything about it.
After all, no one dares to claim that the crown prince, heir to the noble, grandiose empire, is a demon. Or a more accurate description: no one can claim that the crown prince is a madman who stalks the corridors of the palace every night murdering and killing, skulking for prey. Those words are blasphemy; they are traitorous: and yet they are right.
The Crown Prince, Rein Sterling — is blessed, beautiful, and beloved. In the same vein of those adjectives; he is malignant, malicious, and merciless. He’s a brilliant actor, Y/n thinks, in the sense that he masquerades perfectly in midday; all light, genteel smiles and graceful movements. The servants giggle over him — fawning, adoring, and his parents fuss and praise. He is a paragon of a ruler, generous and cheerful.
Y/n wonders if he’s the mad one, for being so terrified.
But how can everyone treat that like a human, like His Highness? Does no one not see the terrible, foreboding glint in his purple eyes? Do they not see the crimson matted on his golden hair; the blade he pushes through the numerous fallen bodies? How about his bloodied attire? Surely some must see it in the morning; when it is to be washed. What about the corpses?
Y/n wonders if he’s hallucinating the scenes that plague him; the scenes turned nightmares that keep his goosebumps prickling on his skin, that tighten his throat and tears the oxygen from his lungs. He remembers them. The sound, the view — the crunch of the bones, the soft laughter, the mutterings. Y/n remembers the crouched figure; the bloodstains pooling on the floor, the wrangled limbs. He remembers fleeing; his steps clumsy and on his breaks erratic and oh god, Y/n thought he wouldn’t survive.
His mornings are unpleasant, filled with sticky sweat and choked breaths, days peppered with awkward moments of ducking his head when the prince walks by. Y/n keeps his head bowed and chalks it up to respect and manners when really, he’s fucking scared.
He’s unsure when he started being so acutely aware of this. Y/n remembers mentioning to a fellow servant flippantly: of the disappearances in the palace. Unnamed servants, advisors, nobles disappearing; bodies undiscovered. He remembers the shaking of the head, the genuine confusion. He remembers thinking he’s hallucinated, before the next night rolls by and the killing is back again.
Y/n remembers the first time he’s stepped out of his room, hearing that thud outside; he remembers — him. He remembers rubbing his eyes; and then finding out that the figure bathed in blood and rubbing his cheek absentmindedly— smearing red all over his pristine skin — was the prince.
And the prince had turned around, his purple eyes glowing and oddly red. They seemed to miss Y/n completely, looking at him but not quite seeing. And Y/n had realized immediately that there was something else within the prince. Something menacing had taken his body — something that was wearing the prince’s skin but wasn’t him.
Something so awfully wrong. Something shaped in the wrong form; like it shouldn’t have been created. Like an endless, black hole had taken the place of something else. Instinctively the word grew in Y/n’s head.
Demon.
A demon had taken over the crown prince’s body.
The prince — that innocuous thing — had continued to look at him, unmoving; unbothered. He had smiled. And when Y/n had done absolutely nothing in return, just staring stupidly at the figure — the demon had let out a soft sigh, rolling his eyes. He had dropped the body and had licked the blood on his fingers, turning around. Y/n caught the back of his figure; saw the way the red stubbornly clung to his luxurious clothes.
“Pity,” the prince had murmured in that silky tone of his, “For a moment I thought he did see through me. That would’ve been nice, but it does not matter anyway… I shall let him go. My appetite is sated.”
Y/n had been spared, in a lucky turn of events. That day, the demon had been full, his hunger whetted.
And now Y/n lives, but he will not tell the tale.
**
Y/n can recall some things about the crown prince — the real one. He’s not too sure when the exact switch occurred, or why it happened. But he remembers the crown prince being almost meek; though everyone took it as a delicate, endearing trait. He’s so sensitive, they said. They took it as gentleness, though Y/n had always rather disliked it; the passiveness of the prince’s nature.
It doesn’t surprise him that much, in a way, that the weak crown prince would allow a demon to take over his body. Y/n’s read about it in storybooks; supposed legends and fables — of summoning circles supposedly making your wishes come true. Perhaps the crown prince had been sick of this perennial cycle where there was only endless coddling. Perhaps he had wished to be strong, and had gotten sucked into the insipid, insidious world of demons. It is safe to assume, probably, that the real crown prince is long gone and dead, his soul buried in a grave.
The issue is that the way the demon and the crown prince acts is light and day, but no one seems to notice. It’s not a flawless transition at all; everything about the demon screams madness and power — and yet, and yet —!
The demon must find all of this painfully amusing, watching the humans be blissfully unaware of these obvious changes. Y/n wonders if the demon chuckles and laughs about their foolishness to himself. He wonders if the smiles on the demon’s face are genuine in the sense that he’s mocking them: the humans, that is.
Y/n reads of demons with his curtains closed, candle flickering feebly. His fingers catch minuscule paper cuts where his hands palm through weathered, old pages of diaries and journals. If anyone catches him they’ll say he’s plotting, he’s mad. He gets his books from forbidden sources: the warded off places in the Imperial Library where he will be executed if anyone finds out of his activities.
Why is he researching? Why is he entertaining this foolishness, this innate curiosity that will herald his demise; that will usher in his downfall? Is it because Y/n’s life is so boring, he must tempt it with a little game of death?
He does not know what will happen. He does not know what can transpire. The nightmares do not stop. The research does not stop, either; neither will relent. Y/n thinks he is going a bit mad, a bit drunk on delirium, on the dark knowledge he breathes into his own soul, the evil that he invites into his body, that he nurtures.
Y/n knows this is sinful. Y/n knows dabbling in this will change his life. Y/n knows that he should stop, that he is lucky to have been spared that day during the killings.
But he can’t. He won’t.
**
“His Highness has a fiancée, and she’s coming to visit,” someone tells him one day, when Y/n is wondering about the origin of the new decorations along the walls, opulent and gorgeous. He’s been clueless about the things going on in the palace, far too distracted by Rein Sterling. It’s a bit embarrassing to be so wholly consumed.
Y/n almost laughs, but he stops himself in time.
“Oh…I see,” Y/n chokes out.
A demon, having a fiancée. She’ll be lucky if she survives the wedding night, if they even get married. Rein’s probably going to kill her, the demon that he is, and then wipe everyone’s memories and pretend it never happened. Y/n’s learned that demons are capable of manipulation, the altering of memories; the nasty work of changing and erasing them completely. Memories are what makes a person whole. They consisted of a patchwork of events: of people, of emotions. You rip that away, and they become hollow, inhuman.
This work of disassembling the memory is why no one ever suspects the demon. Y/n’s still a little confused on why the manipulation hasn’t worke on him.
The person he’s talking to is called Mark. Y/n sees the name on his badge; Mark’s popular, he finds out, and he likes to gossip and socialise. Y/n might have cared a little in the past, but he’s too absorbed in all of this finicky evil things to focus on anyone else right now.
Mark looks sympathetically at Y/n. “You had a thing for His Highness, didn’t you?”
Y/n’s eyes widen until they look like saucers — impossibly big, comically large.
“What?” He sputters out.
“You look at him all the time,” Mark teases him. “It’s alright; everyone’s got a little crush on His Highness. It’s one of those inevitable things you grow out of.”
“I do not have a crush on that thing,” Y/n manages to say, his words soft and horrified. He forgets his manners.
Mark looks at him reproachfully; “you’re lucky nobody heard that. Don’t be so defensive to the point you’ll use such derogatory language.”
If only everyone knew of his true identity, Y/n laments. If only they knew the truth that their beloved crown prince is a monster.
“I actively avoid his gaze.”
“You used to,” Mark says, “quite funny; you being so shy. But recently it’s like you’re fixated. Like he’s so interesting that you can’t keep your eyes off him. Smitten, hm?”
Oh. Has it looked that way, then? Rather unfortunate; rather creepy, but Y/n supposed it comes with the fiery curiosity. He hadn’t even realized it; he’s still too terrified to actively look at the prince — the demon. He still can’t sleep, not with those horrid nightmares. Not with his blankets twisting and turning around his body like they’re a noose and he’s stepping to his death. Not with the silent screams and murders happening in the corridor, with those red eyes.
“He is beautiful,” Y/n shakes his head. “But you have the wrong idea.”
Mark sighs dreamily. “He is, isn’t he?”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“You have work to do,” Mark says, miffed, “don’t be so spaced out. You’re been…” he chews her lip, suddenly looking nervous, “I don’t know what you’re doing, actually, and… well, be careful.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Mark.”
Y/n’s brain is like mush; all soft and tender and strangely distant from the world. He thinks of the malevolent, vile things swirling in his head, thrumming beneath the surfaces. Pulsing, alive, unpleasant.
He feels like he might throw up. All of a sudden he shivers, and the good natured spirit leaves his body, and Y/n feels somber, quiet, dismal. Y/n rubs his eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n manages, but he stumbles as he walks away, and he wonders if he will remember the conversation he just had.
**
The dark magic he’s been researching is obviously affecting him in some way. It’s an unquenchable thirst. Something he keeps in his mind now. It’s distorting the relationships he has, bit by bit, the ultimate destroyer, the ultimate weapon. The one that will kill him. Y/n must have been friends with countless of these people before, but now he does not — he does not remember their names, their faces. He does not —
(He does not even see them anymore. They are dead bodies.)
Y/n sobs at night, encumbered by bitterness and misery. He wonders why he had chosen to step out of the door at night. Y/n, for all his bravado in searching up all those demonic things— is a coward; he trembles; he cries. He’s bruised, battered, torn, hopeless.
Do they not see, is the thought that haunts him, that continues to do so. Do they not see that a demon has taken over the crown prince, do they not —
He repeats his name to himself, lest he forgets.
“I am Y/n,” he says, and the first sentence is usually understandable, legible if he would write them down, “I am Y/n.” He feels foolish, petulant, a little dumb. There’s mirth, at first.
And then afterwards; in quick successions; “I-I-” Stammering, trembling, remembering the unholy splatter of blood, the absolute gruesome macabre; the waltz with death; his own dead body —
Y/n, Y/n, Y/n. That is his name.
He moans, groans, rolls around in pain. He regrets it. He refuses. He throws up; the bile rises in his throat. Y/n agonizes. He longs, yearns, to be comforted; to have this darkness coaxed out of him, to have it tamed and leashed. I didn’t have this at first, he thinks. But associating with these demonic forces changes your mind. I knew it then, but from the moment I locked eyes with Rein, I was cursed; doomed.
Y/n wonders if the demon knows of his pain, his horror, and if he laughs at it; all teeth glinting with flesh wedged inside. Demons are not cannibals; but they are not impervious to human flesh. They will hunt, they will eat, they will seek pleasures in earthly things and toss them away. In the end, demons cannot exactly feel, they lack the capacity for that. They are non altruistic beings drunk on the capability to inflict pain on others.
“Why,” he begs, “why does this happen to me?”
The shadows slinking around his room will not answer his questions. They seem to mock him. Laughing. Scowling. Giggling. Naughty, naughty, naughty, for venturing into such territories. You knew this would happen! But you are getting claimed! You are getting taken; Y/n!
Y/n clutches his head and rocks himself into an unpleasant sleep. He wakes up with a scream — he does not know if it belongs to him.
**
Layla is her name — the prince’s fiancée. She is beautiful and too innocent to be a victim. She hooks her arm around Rein and she is oblivious to the darkness swirling in Rein’s eyes. The prince seems cheerful at the prospect of her prey — he is hardly angry. Y/n stares at Layla, seeing her beautiful black hair and glittering blue eyes. If blood gets stuck in her hair, nobody will notice. The princess catches Y/n’s gaze and her cheeks turn pink. She manages a little wave, thinking Y/n is ogling at her, but he is not. The man beside her — his presence is suffocating.
Y/n doesn’t want to turn his head. He doesn’t want to move. He will not — he will not have eye contact with the absolute monster who shouldn’t be here and who’s only pretending and how cruel and callous and completely wrong.
He sees Rein’s mouth open. Y/n must leave; he must leave now before his gaze will be forced to trickle upwards to see his full face, and Rein’s expressions will be the death of him. Rein’s tiny eyes that are not purple; gleeful and glittering as he derives joy from fooling all of these humans. From wearing this human’s skin and earning their love.
Words are forming. Rein raises his hand, fingers curling. He points.
Y/n is at the receiving end of it.
“You there,” his voice is light, and Y/n feels tears already welling up in his eyes, “it appears Layla needs some drink. Will you fetch some for us?”
Y/n cannot move. He thinks he might cry; this sudden explosion of tears that will startle Layla and will blow his cover. His lips tremble; his knees feel like they must give out —
And they’re heading into his direction now, and they’re —
“Poor thing,” Layla says, “he’s shivering all over!”
“Ah, yes,” Rein murmurs, and his lips curl into a smile, “nervous, isn’t he?”
Y/n steps back; Rein steps forward.
“Let’s not trouble him,” Layla says prettily, scratching her neck, “He looks unwell. Is he feverish?”
“You are thirsty; you say?” Rein looks at Layla then, his voice sweet. “Absolutely parched, is that so?”
Layla sighs. “Yes. The trip here wasn’t the best. Before leaving, I only had a single glass of lemonade, and I have yet to sit dow here for a cup of tea. I hear that the rose tea in this Empire is absolutely excellent —”
Rein looks bored, that empty smile still on his face. Y/n shakes all over, clutching the edges of the fabric of his clothes.
“Y-Y-Your Highness,” he finally says, “I-I can get you the drink you want; I can —”
“That won’t be necessary at all,” Rein says in an oddly fond tone, one so sickly sweet it could give Y/n decay in his teeth. “Thank you.”
Layla looks confused, opening her mouth to speak, but then —
Rein flicks his hand in a lazy, smooth motion — and for a moment nothing happens. Y/n is ready to exhale — yes, of course; nothing can happen, it’s broad daylight and it’s foolish to think that Rein could do such things when it’s not at night, he can breathe easy and still fetch the drinks and escape —
Layla chokes a little.
“Pardon me,” she starts, looking surprised, “something is in my throat.”
“I must really get you a drink,” Y/n begins, “if you would let me…”
“Y/n,” Rein says, and the weight of his name on the demon’s tongue sends complete shudders down his spine. It should not sound this sacred, it should not be so whispered, so intimate, so sensual. It should not sound —
“Look,” Rein whispers excitedly, “marvel at her.”
Layla begins scratching her throat. Then she starts to dry heave, and tears form in her eyes.
“It’s unpleasant,” she starts to murmur feverishly, “it’s uncomfortable. Ah, I’m so sorry for my lack of manners. I don’t know what has come over me. My throat feels so strange…”
“A miracle she can still talk,” Rein’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Don’t you agree, Y/n?”
(How, how, how does the wretched demon know Y/n’s name?)
And then there’s red. Swimming in her jaw. Coming from the gaps of her teeth. She gurgles like something's absolutely choking her, and she starts to cough. The red keeps pouring out non-stop, like she’s a broken faucet and it won’t turn off.
“Her thirst should be sufficiently satiated,” Rein turns to Y/n, and Y/n’s eyes cannot leave the gruesome sight. It’s either that or Rein, and so he cannot — he cannot tear his eyes from the convulsing princess, the poor delicate princess who was so polite, so needlessly innocent.
He stares. A corpse lies before him, and the other side, the grin reaper, the sinful demon.
Y/n flinches.
Rein’s fingers travel to his jaw, pressing down on it. His fingers are tender as they caress his skin.
Y/n dissociates. The fear that blooms underneath his skin cannot be quelled; it’s like a poisonous branch, with tendrils spreading deliciously through his skin, coursing through his veins. They thump and burn.
“It took me this long to find you,” Rein says, and his voice sounds so adoring, so light — jubilant, merry, “I should’ve known that night. You saw me that day, didn’t you?”
Y/n snaps his head up — he knew — and shakes his head repeatedly. “Y-Y-Your Highness,” he stammers, the tears slipping from his face now, “n-no.”
Rein sighs and shakes his head. He clicks his tongue. “You tremble,” he says, “it’s cute that you think you can lie. How could you? You liked me enough to research about me.”
How did he know? How did he find it out? Why? How? Will he torment me now, will he kill me? I don’t want this; I don’t want to die — or perhaps I do, to be released from this — ever since that day I’ve been living in hell —
“I thought I would observe you for a little while longer,” Rein continues, pleased. Ah, his arms are moving now, his voice cruelly soft. His hands are wrapping around Y/n; his palms neatly fitting around his waist. It feels like the demon can devour him whole, tear him apart with his veiny, strong hands and dig into his carcass, sink his fangs in. It feels like Y/n can break, fragile thing that he is; flesh and bones all surrendered to Rein.
“But I was afraid you would get the wrong idea…” Rein continued, “seeing me with Layla. I saw your crestfallen look as she approached you. So I decided perhaps it was time for me to finally embrace you; shower you in my affection.”
It was you who I’m terrified of, is what Y/n wants to say, but every inch of his body won’t move. He can’t speak, he can’t defend his name. His body is still being crushed into a hug, a boneless, mindless sensation. His lips are dry. He can’t see now; his vision is blocked but that image of dead Layla is still there, and the noises of he gurgling, choking —
Y/n whimpers, and it only makes Rein — it only makes this demon — kiss the top of his head, and lightly tousle his hair.
“Poor thing. Are you tearing up?” Rein giggles, “poor darling; you must have been so scared.”
“You’ve got the wrong person,” Y/n says, his voice hoarse. The tears fall from his eyes. “Your Highness —”
“I have not,” the tone spirals into one of utter seriousness, “you have a rather sly tongue,” Rein hums, “worry not; I could always do you a favor and cut it off. It would make your life far easier; wouldn’t it?”
“Your Highness, why —”
“Why?” Rein echoes. Another kiss, this time plastered on his forehead. The hug is bone crushing. “Do you know how tiresome it was to inhabit this rather useless body?” His hands brush against Y/n’s back, and he trembles. “He wanted to be stronger, but it was a far-fetched goal for a boy so weak — which is why I ended up being summoned. This body is handsome, beautiful; yes,” Rein says carelessly, “but demons are always beautiful, so it was not exactly a bonus. I was so bored out of my mind…”
Y/n is silent. He stills. Even his thoughts are quiet. He cannot think, he cannot…
He wants to throw up. Take his blankets and cover him. Hide.
“…but you came!” Rein says cheerfully, “you looked at me that day; all frozen and terrified. How adorable. I’m glad I didn’t kill you that day. Then seeing me wasn’t enough for your darling heart: you went on to do your own little research. You allowed the darkness to take your mind; your dreams. Your soul. An exceedingly romantic declaration,” he says dreamily, “what a brilliant proposal, Y/n. And your stares have been so noticeable.”
“I —” Y/n stops abruptly, words dying in his mouth.
Stupid, stupid him. He has pored over those books but failed to read the most important part. He neglected the most crucial part, the most interesting and intricate and intriguing.
What else but courtship? What else but vows? Demons cannot feel wholly; but they have passion; they have desires. They are twisted; utterly wrong, they are like gangrene with rot that sticks to their souls. But it is there. It is present.
And now Y/n had teased it out of Rein through his fear, through his foolish budding curiosity. He’s splayed out the demon’s soul and has imbued it with this webbed emotions. With this desire; the hot headed, feverish rush of desire.
“Ah, no take backs,” Rein frowns. Y/n feels that lips move against his hair, “are you disturbed? You must have been, by Layla. Or by Mark, even though I’ve sufficiently gotten rid of him. You must rest,” Rein cajoles softly, “come, my darling; shall I lead you to the bedroom?”
“Scared,” Y/n shakes his head and continues to hiccup, “I’m scared.”
“Of who?” Rein says, fondly exasperated. “I am right here, my sweet.”
Of you.
Y/n is not exactly pliant under Rein’s touch: he’s frozen stiff; his muscles commanded by the demon, every contour, every inch surrendered to him. Or perhaps it’s better to say that it’s been ripped from him; this merciless act of giving something to him without consent, without permission. But consent is no concept to a demon; it is a fickle social abstract invented for the comfort of humans. The demons will not care of the ramifications of stealing; to them — humans are inferior, humans are theirs from the start.
The act of ownership.
That’s the first moment that Y/n truly feels he does not belong to his own body; that his own body does not belong to him. He’s a leashed lamb, trailing after the shepherd, rope around his neck.
He feels it tugging. Y/n cannot go the other way, or his neck will snap.
Death or suffering. Not much of an option, really.
**
The room is magnificent, befitting of a prince.
That’s the bed that Layla was supposed to be ravished. Dainty, delicate, demure maiden who slinks under the covers, who waits for her equally perfect husband. They both shall be meek; peering at each other in the dark, kissing each other tentatively, with mutual, endearing inexperience. Their lips will find each other and miraculously become hungry, slick, greedy, and they will indulge in pleasure.
That is not the case tonight. The bride is dead, and Y/n looks at the expansive room, his pupils wavering. Wondering what he’s done to deserve such a crude fate.
Rein is nipping at his ear, humming a tune that Y/n doesn’t recognize. It sounds like death.
“Humans are quite weak,” Rein says, and Y/n feels his limbs weaken, nearly collapsing on the floor. He can feel, he can very vividly feel Rein’s hot breaths against his ear, voice sickly sweet. He does not know if this is considered lucky, if this horrid misunderstanding — courtship, of all things — is to be laughed at.
The demon had kissed him. Whispered tenderly to him, called him pet names. He had taken him so gently, with that firm grip of his — had led him to the bedroom, had —
“You’re quite a fragile thing, hmm,” Rein says, “beautiful. Look at the way you shake.”
“Your Highness,” the plea falls from Y/n’s lips. “Your Highness, I —”
“Shh,” Rein smiles, “I apologize,” he says flippantly, and the ironic thing is that he doesn’t sound very sorry at all, and Y/n isn’t even sure if demons can feel sorry in the first place; “did you feel neglected? Isolated? I shouldn’t have waited so long.”
“I didn’t mind at all,” Y/n stutters his answer out, and he’s being honest: of course he wouldn’t mind one bit. He won’t mind if Rein drops dead now by some miraculous action, if he himself passes out and if Rein ignores him —
“I have realized this thing the humans call fondness,” Rein looks at Y/n, “why, seeing your efforts: how could I not reciprocate?”
It is a terrible mistake, is what Y/n wants to tell him. Everything is. Everything is a lie, a hoax, messy jigsaw puzzles all now together but placed in the wrong order. This wasn’t supposed to happen, when Y/n had read those books and had studied them vigorously, convincing himself it was for education, to survive better. Studying the dark magic — looking at the spells, researching about demons is a risky move; he knows that: but oh, how could Y/n ever anticipate this morbid turn of events?
Rein leans down, and his breaths are hot against Y/n’s; coalescing, entangling, intertwining. Y/n’s heart drops when he realizes soon after that the demon has kissed him; thankfully chaste; though the hunger swimming in Rein’s eyes speak otherwise. Demons love pleasure, after all: they will bask in it. And pleasure is different from love.
The kiss is soft — not entirely unpleasant, in a sensory way — though it makes the tears in Y/n’s eyes burn; it makes him recoil and shudder, though the firm touch around his body will not allow him to do so.
Trapped, he thinks dismally, I’m trapped.
Rein seems to study him delightfully — Y/n’s reactions, horridly, seems to give him a wild, unfettered delight; and he does that again — pressing his soft and yet firm lips onto Y/n's. There’s no obscene sheen of saliva just yet, no tongue, no wet noises — but still, Y/n —
“You are inexperienced,” Rein smiles. “Wonderful; darling. I was afraid that if you had spent time with another, it would’ve been rather foolish. After all; you don’t court someone after having already tainted yourself, right?”
Y/n just stares at the ground, unable to move. Rein’s fingers press on his lips. It’s not yet bruised.
“I’m tired,” Y/n manages, and it’s not even an excuse; it’s the truth. His bones are heavy and so is his heart. He wishes for the bed to come to his coffin, for his lungs to stop working.
Rein tilts his head. “Tired,” he repeats tonelessly.
This is when Y/n feels absolute fear, the feeling climbing up his spine, his body wrenched by a sleazy, sudden burst of pure terror—
“Of course,” Rein sighs, “I did bring you here for you to sleep well. I forgot how weak humans were,” he mutters.
“W-Weak,” Y/n repeats, stammering. Please, let him sleep. Please, let his body remain his for a little while longer; his sanity is gone, his heart is breaking. Let his body remain his own.
“They die so rapidly,” Rein continues, and his eyes are bored into Y/n’s own, “so quick; like lightning. Didn’t even put up that much of a fight, when I surprised them at night. And nobody noticed the disappearing, except for you,” he clicks his tongue. “Not much of a good species —” he smiles at Y/n, “though perhaps that is subject to change. You’ve been immensely impressive, my dear.”
Y/n swallows. “T-Thank you.”
“So modest,” Rein remarks. “Well, you should dress and sleep. Do you want me to help you?”
The correct answer is yes, hanging tautly in the air between the two of them. But Y/n can’t bring himself to say those words. To begin with, it’s hard; terribly hard, Y/n finds, to reconcile the fatality of the man’s gaze along with his tender actions.
“I’m all dirty,” Y/n says at last, “please don’t — trouble yourself, Your Highness.”
“Hmm, I am disappointed,” Rein says quietly, “but —” an abrupt crescendo of his tone, “but! Since you’ve been so darling; I shall let it slide.”
Y/n breathes a shaky sigh. Thankfully, Rein doesn’t seem to notice, and instead presses one more feathery kiss on Y/n’s forehead, his tight clutches slowly loosening. He looks adoringly at Y/n.
“My little human,” Rein says silkily, “I shall join you in bed later. Fret not: if your anxious mind is worried about what others might think, they shall not know.”
Rein’s treating him like a pet to be reared. Y/n supposed that these are all humans are to him; pets. Like dogs, cats — are humans just that, too? In the way yes, as all animals are living things and they eat and breathe.
For now — Y/n — has slipped out from any immediate danger. He doesn’t know if that’s a thing to be grateful for, but the truth is; everything is simply delayed.
Rein is inevitable.
That much has been established.
**
When Y/n’s all washed, he climbs reluctantly to bed. The sheets are soft; softer than anything he’s ever experienced before (the idea of him being in the prince’s bed is laughable), to the point he feels a sharp feeling of envy — quickly replaced by dread — as he lies there, heart thumping against his chest.
He can’t help but feel he’s waiting for death. Lying there, like a sacrifice, like a piece of meat. Like a hunk of flesh ready to be devoured; like he’s waiting for his life to bleed out from every orifice. Y/n swallows, his throat filled with bile. Despite the comfortable bedding, he feels incredibly uneasy — tonight, he wishes to be left alone. He prays for nothing to happen. Oh, god please, let nothing happen.
He’s tired, Y/n knows. Bones heavy, eyelids slowly shutting. Like there are forceful, gentle hands pressing down at his eyes, willing him to fall asleep — willing him to be a willing prey, because he knows that demons do not care about the state of their prey. Or would it be better for Rein to take him when he’s already asleep, so he won’t feel the pain, the unmerciful act of having something wholly taken away from him? The act of ripping off his body, feeding it to Rein. Pushing it into his mouth, surrendering his claim over to him, handing over the reins.
Someone else, take me away, Y/n begs, body curled around the pillow, body crumpled. He’s terrified, he knows, the sense of horror permeating through his exhaustion, keeping his mind awake whilst his body cries out for rest. He does not know yet, but the dark magic is swirling, dormant, eager. Eating away at his soul with a sadistic soft glee.
Of course, his pleas go unanswered: nothing happens.
Y/n lets out a little sob, wondering where it all went wrong. Where he fell so prettily into the hands of Rein. When the demon decided to spare his life just to stake a sleazy, slow claim on him.
When his life decided to spiral downhill, from the moment it took over him.
I’ll join you in bed later, Rein had told him. Sort of a promise. Y/n tosses and turns, sleep refusing to wrap around his mind.
At last, after a stretch of torturous minutes — or hours, Y/n does not know: he hears the soft footsteps of someone coming into the room. Y/n’s eyes burn, and he readies for this inevitable act of having himself taken apart —
But a soft kiss pressed onto his forehead, his breaths hitched — arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer. A breath exhaled.
No attempt being made. Just — just holding him, like they exist in a domestic, delicate space.
Which they don’t.
Y/n notices the fingers holding his waist, colored with blood. With red. His nose stings at the smell.
“Sweet dreams, darling,” Rein whispers into his ear, and Y/n forces himself to relax against the steady thrum of the heartbeat pressed against his back.
That night, Y/n had waited in anticipation, he waited with bated breaths, thoughts scrambling for purchase, body trembling. He had felt phantom pains littered across his body; sacred parts not meant for taking, and he had felt it anyway: thighs shivering, lips shaking, eyelids burning.
But Rein had not made a move.
**
When Y/n awakes, he cannot help but wonder if it was all a cruel, crude dream.
He must have dreamt this line of events. The demon, finding out about his existence — the demon, seeing through him, mistaking his feeble attempts or survival for courtship. The demon, recognising the black tendrils of darkness spreading through Y/n, a quick disease — and loving it, adoring it.
The demon, who had held him in his sleep like he was something precious, with carmine stained fingers; a life for a life. The demon who —
The demon who could not feel, and yet claimed he did.
This cannot be real. This must be his imagination working overtime. Surely, Y/n will awake from this dreadful day, and he will be awake in his solemn servant chambers, feeling cornered again as everyone around him sings praises of the prince who is not who he truly is. But even then, feeling cornered is better than — than being cherished in this nonsensical manner by a malicious, malevolent being.
Anything is better than what went down. Anything…
Y/n stares at the luxurious ceiling.
A tear falls from his eyes. He reaches out, a fragile attempt to test his body health — and he does not feel any muscle ache, except the full throbbing of his head, so he knows he was lucky last night.
This is reality, he thinks with despair. The endless beauty of the room that surrounds him: it’s the prince’s room, after all. So this means he is still a prisoner. But —
Y/n reached out to press his fingernails against his skin. A strangled groan falls from his lips: his nails are so sharp that they leave a faint trickle of blood, and the mild pain is enough for him to realize that he’s still here, that he’s still a victim to all of these frankly ridiculous happenings, and…
Y/n sits up fully, and numbly, completely numbly, he punches the pillow. His knuckles burn, despite the softness. He does it again; and again — and when the agony becomes a murmur in the back of his brain, he slams his head against the headboard, pain whizzing through his muscle.
Y/n gasps, tearing back and clutching his head. And yet the agony is such a darling respite: he does it again; doing it until the red soaks his skin and he stares at it in horror.
His vision blurs. He feels his vision sway, and watches as the pristine bed sheet is matted with his blood, his pain, his sorrow…
Y/n wants to howl. Wants to make an animalistic, wretched sound that will tear from his lips.
But it continues to burn, everything does.
“F-Fuck,” he manages to stutter out, wheezing, “ah, fuck!”
The vulgarities bring him some sort of clarity. Evil goes to clarity for him to completely still when the doorknob shakes, and the door opens.
Fear encumbers him. Y/n starts to tremble when Rein stares at the mess — all bloodied sheets, his messy hard —
Rein starts to laugh, shaking his head.
“Is this a gift you prepared for me so early, Y/n?” Rein says calmly, walking over and brushing Y/n’s hair lightly. “I didn’t know you would even offer your own blood as a treat.”
Rein licks a stripe on Y/n’s crimson cheek, humming. “So sweet, darling,” he whispers hotly, “so sweet of you. And your bed hair is so adorable. You are so cute…”
Y/n’s breaths catch in his throat, especially when Rein releases Y/n from his grip and turns around, unbuttoning his shirt.
Y/n stares. The previous prince had been weak, but clearly, the demon has been putting in the work. Does he get vitality from the humans he kills? His muscles are evident, arms having swelled up impressively, and his torso is refined, and —
Rein catches Y/n’s stare and he tilts his head. “Is it a pleasant sight, Y/n?” He says sweetly. “I have yet to see yours; your undressed body; that is.”
Y/n immediately whips his head around.
Rein only laughs; an empty, hollow sound that sounds too much like he’s mimicking how it’s like.
“Feel free to roam,” Rein sighs softly, “within the place, of course. And of course, the imperial physician will have to attend to your injuries. Does it hurt terribly?”
In all his fear, Y/n has forgotten that he has bashed his head in. The sudden pain startles him — he groans, and Rein clicks his tongue sorrowfully.
“What a thoughtful gesture, but you are too careless,” Rein says, “but remember; your body is mine, which means that your injuries are too. Don’t be too reckless with your body, alright, Y/n?”
Y/n nods his head shakily. Rein doesn’t seem to care about him being in pain, only about the act of ownership — which is — to be expected, of course, considering how he genuinely can’t feel and empathise and the only string connecting the two of them is —
“I’ll be off, then,” Rein says, smiling lightly at Y/n. “Take care.”
Feel free to roam, he had said.
But it’s a reminder; the palace is nothing but a golden jail. A golden birdcage. And only Rein had the keys to them.
**
After the physician attends to him, leaving Y/n a bandaged mess, akin to a mummy — he stumbles out. Rein has made no effort to elevate his effort despite his claims of love, and Y/n has duties to attend to. People send him glances as he shamefully steps out of the chambers.
He has worked so hard to be invisible, yet here Rein was, undoing all of his hard work. Y/n’s mood sours, and a wave of bitterness takes over his body; he bites his lip.
“He spent the night with the prince…”
“Who knew His Highness’s tastes would extend to even the lowly folk of the palace? Does this mean that I had a chance —?”
“Don’t be daft. Perhaps —”
The mutterings are endless, ceaseless. Y/n thinks scornfully to himself that they do not notice the fact that their prince is a demon, and yet they gossip about these events so tritely. All of this anger only makes his headache even worse, and he clutches the wall to regain his balance.
“Fucking hurts,” Y/n manages to hiss out. The fear is deflating. Rein isn’t here right now. He isn’t —
Y/n managed to squirm and move slowly towards a little corner of the palace. He has a broom and a bucket next to him, if anyone stumbles upon him and accuses him of not doing his duties — but for now, those stay useless as he sinks to the floor in relief.
Finally alone, Y/n thinks, and his body relaxes. A shudder escapes from his lips, as he thinks about Rein’s touch, that hot, warm touch — the lips pressing to his body, the tongue licking —
He groans, a pitiful, guttural sound. He has a few minutes of reprieve, laying on the cold, comforting ground, before his peace is interrupted. Y/n doesn’t feel the deadly fear that encompasses his body whenever Rein draws near to him, and so he sighs in relief — before he looks at the person who has entered.
It’s the young butler. John is his name; an innocuous, plain one. He must be here to chastise Y/n for not doing his duties. He operates like a head maid — he keeps his eyes on the servants, and manages them well.
“Sorry,” Y/n says tiredly, “I was just resting.”
To his surprise, John seems — he seems hostile, like he’s ready to lash out at him.
“You mere bedwarmer,” he hisses out, “you do know that you’re a lowly servant; right?”
“I- I did not —”
“Lies,” John says, “everyone says that they saw you stumbling out from His Highness’s room. His Highness is so pure, so delicate. How have you tainted him?”
At these words, Y/n cannot help but — he cannot help but keel over and laugh, and then he huffs. An anguished scream nearly leaves him, but Y/n keeps it in.
“Pure,” Y/n repeats, the anger growing, “delicate?”
“Say it. What dastardly methods have you -”
“You’re blind!” Y/n screams; “you’re all blind and foolish. You clearly do not see that frolicking in him. He is the one who has — the one —”
Why? Why? Why? Why am I so unlucky? What have I done to deserve this, why is it that all I can do is lament my fate? Why is it that all I can choose to do is wallow in my sorrow; drown in my misery? Why?
He feels it, rather than acknowledging it. The spread of something insidious, swirling around him, threatening to burst. Y/n feels his vision black out for a moment — he sees his hands raising themselves up, even though he doesn’t think he’s in full control of them, he hears a faint whoosh, sound, descending from above; he hears a terrified shriek and the darkness is —
Do it, Y/n! Use me! Use the darkness you’ve been cultivating every night with your almighty curiosity! Use it!
Snuffed out.
Now the indomitable fear creeps into his chest; and Y/n whirls around, his vision having cleared —
“Ah, ah,” Rein says cheerfully, nuzzling his head into Y/n’s neck. “That would’ve been brilliant, but don’t waste it on people like that, hmm?”
Rein mutters something, and in a flash: John disappears. There is no blood, for once, only…
Only nothing.
Y/n tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving up and down. He tries to speak, except that — except that he doesn’t know just what happened; and he’s all out of breath; and Rein….
Rein looks extremely pleased.
“I’ve never been so proud of these urges.” Rein purrs, “of your urges. You have the darkness at your fingertips, despite being a mere human. Just like you have made me fall for you, you have seduced the darkness, too.”
But I did not ask for that, Y/n thinks desperately to himself, but you must know; that I did not ask for any of this.
**
I had been proud of those urges. What did that mean? That little comment sprinkled in the midst of his excessive praise — evidently, it had referred to that moment when Y/n could not think, and when he had completely fallen apart, giving his body to that darkness, letting it control him.
Y/n breathes out. He must be a hypocrite. He must be some sort of fool, for being so terrified of Rein, when he himself had been dabbling so freely in fake magic, and letting himself fall prey to it. When he had nearly become the murderer and Rein — the demon — had been the savior, the one to — take that sin away from his heads before its anatomy had been fully carved out.
Before Y/n had become a full sinner. But he already is one, is he not, toying with the biggest evil in the world: a demon.
The laugh he heaves out is completely despairing. He can’t escape from the dark magic which he had invited. He's in danger, Y/n knows: he feels his moral compass collapsing, and it doesn’t help when Rein praises him for that, when Rein cajoles him and tells him that he is proud.
After that, Rein has taken his mouth again, a wet, heated kiss — and Y/n had been completely consumed by it, eyes blazing over and his body burning.
And they had broken apart, and Rein had looked at him so lovingly then, and Y/n could not help but wonder which human he mimicked, with that love-stricken expression.
So, so proud of you, Y/n.
Y/n had soaked in that feeling for a while, letting the feeling fester in him, slather over her his skin.
So, so proud of you.
**
Later, Y/n finds that everyone — the people of the palace — calls him the consort. The prince’s betrothed; most beloved — a title just held by Layla, who nobody remembers. She is nothing now; only someone remembered by Y/n. He doubts Rein bothers to remember the victims. John is another name scraped onto the surface, having disappeared. At least, with Layla, there had been blood. But with John; absolutely nothing.
No evidence to show that he had ever been alive.
Y/n feels his sanity break little by little.
He weeps.
He cries.
“I d-d-don’t know,” Is what he slurs when a bottle of alcohol accompanies him, “what’s real. Am I living in a constant delusion, am I — am I even alive?”
Y/n won’t remember it when he wakes up, but Rein will pluck that bottle of alcohol from his hands, studying the cold, hard glass of it, seeing his reflection. And he’ll smile longingly at Y/n’s madness, thinking that it’s awfully cute, and he’ll shatter the bottle.
With a glass shard, he’ll prick Y/n’s hands. So blood falls out; so Rein’s doing a favor: that he’s reminding poor Y/n that he’s alive.
“You are, my sweet,” Rein coos, and he will keep smiling, because everything is so amusing and of course, only Y/n is beloved and worthy enough to provide such joy in his otherwise mundane life, “you are alive, and you are mine.”
Y/n; descending into madness. Y/n, as he scrambles for clarity in his darkness and despairing mind, trying so hard to find memories that aren’t broken and shattered.
“You are mine,” Rein repeats, tilting his head. He traces the blood on Y/n’s palm, spreading it and smudging it all over his human, brittle skin.
“Mine.”
He has not taken Y/n yet. No; he’ll let Y/n wait, so Y/n and him can fully enjoy it when it comes. After all, a prize must he earned; and oh, Y/n is so close to that.
**
In his bouts of madness that plague him at night, Y/n remembers his past. Something he hadn’t thought about ever since the demon had overtaken the prince’s body, but now he is reminded of it.
They say that everyone has demons of their own. Before Rein, there had been his family. His family who tormented him, who broke him before he morbidly repaired himself, the family who had first made the darkness in Y/n’s heart appear.
Yes, the darkness had been there, already. Rein; Y/n’s curiosity — had only drawn it out, made it all the more obvious. But it had existed; floating around aimlessly in his chest. In his soul.
Y/n remembers his family passing away, never really atoning for their cruel sins towards him. An iron pressed to his heart when he misbehaved; the heat that made him shriek, the lashes on his legs that leaked blood and grew into terrifying monsters that would haunt Y/n for the rest of his life, until Rein.
The yearning, the desperate need for warmth. The want for tenderness. The shame in wanting those things. Thinking of tenderness as pain as it was easier to see it that way.
One night Y/n grows desperate, as the nightmares that aren’t Rein make him sob.
He remembers Rein, who had held him before. Who had given him that warmth so readily.
I’ll take anything, the darkness whispers, I’ll take anything at all. I’ll take anything to fill up that hole your fault left. Replace them.
And so Y/n clutches at Rein deliriously, his brain feeling like it’s been shattered. From the time he smashed his head into the headboard — his head feels like it’s never been completely healed. He cries like a petulant child.
Like a lonely one.
“Help me,” Y/n begs, “the nightmares will not stop. Comfort me, please, caress me; love me.”
He strips away his dignity then. Offers it to Rein.
And so Rein does; he does it in a frenzy, he rushes in and captures Y/n’s lips and he pushes and pushes and he craves —
He adores this. Poor, pathetic Y/n finally comes to him for help.
“You have sacrificed plenty for me,” Rein whispers, “for your endearing little courtship. How could I not?”
Y/n’s hands loop around Rein. It’s warm. It’s—
It should not be. And yet. And yet.
The fingers that stroke his hair so slowly. The ones that sweep over the expanse of nape, making Y/n tremble. The hands offering comfort, though they should not —
Y/n sleeps, finally, a peaceful one. He exhales.
**
The next day the shame is absolute, unforgiving. Y/n remembers the way he had clinged to Rein, the way he had — had surrendered himself. And now he is in the room, seeing the food that Rein has left behind, obviously as a reward. A reward for giving my dignity and self respect away, in embracing the man I’m scared of; terrified of. Of pushing my humanity away.
And just like Y/n has abandoned his humanity, he abandons the food; he pushes the plate away abruptly, digs his fingers into his throat in revulsion. His eyes burn, disgust twisting though every fibre of his body, woven within his heart.
I had wanted it, needed it, Y/n thinks, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. I don't want it.
He rushes to the bathroom, throwing it all up. Each heave, each time he throws up — he thinks to himself, he tells himself, he assures himself, that this vomit — is his shame.
He’s throwing it all up.
**
Rein continues to be sweet. Little kisses pressed against his bare skin, and the way he smiles, brings dessert that Y/n later throws up. Y/n wonders where this patience has come from; why Rein hasn’t —
But the illusion of safety; of tenderness is broken when one day Rein saunters in, his smile still fixed onto his face but there’s blood everywhere, and Y/n can smell it, and Y/n can almost taste it; how unholy it is, how demonic it is —
Rein reaches out to Y/n and shoves his tongue down his throat, and Y/n’s eyes burn with unshed tears. He struggles, tries pushing Rein off, but the prince’s hold is completely unrelenting, not moving an inch.
Y/n can feel the prince’s arousal hastily pressed against his, he can feel the prince pushing apart his thighs and feels it wedged in between them —
He can’t speak; for his mouth is used.
And when Rein finally releases his mouth, Y/n crumbles, trying desperately to regain his breaths. Inhale, exhale —
“Mmh,” Y/n makes a moan, when Rein’s tongue expertly presses against his and when the pleasure is spurring his own body on, when he’s lost inside it like a pleasure puppet, when he’s —
“I’ve been so patient,” Rein nearly growls in Y/n’s ear, “I’ve been so patient and my patience wears thin.”
“Y-Y-Your Highness —”
“I’ve been so laughably human in the sense that I’ve waited, like a dog. Like a human.”
Rein’s teeth skims against throat; thumbing over the ridge of his jaw. It’s unrelenting, pushy in the sense it continues to take and offers nothing in return. It’s needy; he’s needy and greedy and his hunger is growing, it’s spiraling out of control.
At last, Rein takes his cock out, forcibly using his fingers to open Y/n’s mouth to push it in. Y/n shivers and trembles, shaking as he feels the length and girth of it completely push him to his limits — he feels how it presses to the back of the throat and makes him choke —
Rein smiles, breaths in, satisfied.
“Look how pretty you are.”
Of course, Y/n cannot answer.
**
That instance fills Y/n with contempt. Fills him with a sense of desolate despair. His mouth is raw and hoarse, and he can’t speak; he can’t even talk before the taste of it fills his senses and he wants to sob, cry.
What does he have left, when he’s stripped of everything he has? Is it a crippling sense of darkness, nothing else? Is he that —
Rein leaves him alone after that, for a while. He’s busy, Y/n finds; and it explains his desperate, heated rush for something. But it leaves Y/n to his own devices.
I’m human, Y/n tries reminding himself, I’m still human; and I still want to be human. I will not — I will not surrender to this taunting darkness that simply wants to take everything away from me.
And so he becomes utterly selfish (ironically, the most human he can be): and he befriends someone.
It is a death sentence for the person; Y/n knows. Him becoming close to someone else means death for them, because demons are possessive, and they crave, and they crave and crave, and they never let go. They will never relent. Never repent.
It makes Y/n sober to know that this is his fate. Death might be a better option. This is his life now; the empty end before him spreading to god knows where, the endless darkness.
Y/n cannot even remember the person’s name. But the person brings him temporal comfort, in the sense that — in the sense that he finally has normal conversations about the weather; about the food they eat, about their duties.
The comfort is short lived.
If anything this attempt only proves to Y/n how far gone he is: in the way that he cannot find any interest or budding curiosity in anyone else; not the way Rein and the darkness had completely taken hold of him.
I must be growing mad, Y/n knows.
A blistering, upsetting admittance; I am growing mad.
**
This act comes with its own repercussions and consequences.
Y/n doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rein furious, but he now does.
Oh, oh, the prince’s touch is absolutely bruising as he clasps Y/n’s hands, smile now deranged and not empty in the sense that it’s oozing anger; it’s oozing madness.
“I leave you alone for a while,” he snarls, “and this is what you do. Is that right, Y/n?”
Rein stalks towards him. His hands go around his neck; Y/n wheezes — the prince is strangling him. And yet Y/n knows that Rein will not kill him — no, this demon is far too entrenched in him.
Rein brings Y/n for a kiss, and this time it’s painful, as Rein bites on his tongue with vicious desire and draws blood out. Their lips are a mess; all bleeding and bruised when they part, and Rein’s hands press against Y/n’s hips, so painful and tight that Y/n lets out a pained groan. But Rein swallows that sound greedily and aggressively pulls his hair to make Y/n look at him.
“Look,” Rein says giddily, “look, Y/n, look at his dead body. Look at his eyes that I’ve gouged out for you. Look at his tongue which I’ve cut off for talking to you. Look at his wrangled limbs. Look at this sight.”
Y/n blanches, face turning white.
“You are mine,” Rein whispers, hysterical as he’s still smiling, absolutely mad. He breathes in Y/n’s scent, bites his neck so hard that blood trickles out. Leaves hickeys all over.
“You did this to me. You took my heart; you made it yours. You courted me. You were so sweet; so darling, so beautiful.”
Y/n feels sick to his stomach, for all the wrong reasons.
He yearns for this. He craves this darkness. He sins, wondering if running away is an option —
And at last, Rein takes him, fucking him roughly, not as a reward, but as a punishment. His cock is painfully large as it pushes into Y/n’s entrance, and the sounds are obscene and wet as the thrusts grow faster, as Rein completely consumes him; pleasure riddling both their bodies and as the tears continue to fall from Y/n’s lips.
Oh, oh. How dirty this is. How ruined Y/n is. How —
“Don’t you dare ever do that again. Remember,” Rein smiles, but it is now so empty; completely mirthless. “You are mine. Do not ever do that again.”
Y/n can’t respond, and so Rein coaxes him, tone now far gentler, “you’re learned your lesson, have you?”
The heat of his mouth enraptures Y/n again; he returns it with a pleading kiss, a desperate one. Take all of me, ruin me, so I have no parts left of myself to look at, to hate. Destroy me whole, not partially. Finish your job.
**
Y/n is reminded that Rein is a demon when Rein is unable to grasp the telltale signs that he’s upset.
Rein, after that brief altercation yesterday, has resumed to be merry and happy. Demons, after all, do not understand emotions, and Rein is no exception. He praises Y/n, saying that Y/n has made up for his mistake, that he wants to take him again, that he wants to love him again — and Y/n is subdued, wondering why he’s allowed this to happen.
I’m allowing him to do this to me, Y/n thinks angrily, I’m letting him do all of these to me. And I am upset, but of course, Rein shall never understand. He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.
Rein does impart him with a warning:
If you do that again, Y/n, I’ll rip the heads off everyone in the palace and fuck you in front of them.
**
Y/n obeys for a while (how could he not)?
He’s completely claimed by the darkness. Absolute non negotiable, brooking no argument; allowing no reason. He's ensconced in it, swallowed by it.
Who was he before all of this? Does he remember? Does he want to remember?
**
“The prince is a demon.”
The sentence sends Y/n scrambling for purchase, as he stares at the owner of the voice.
He stares.
Once upon a time Y/n had yearned for this to happen.
Bathed in a benevolent light that seemingly does not fit the status of a servant having just joined, this girl in front of him is radiant, gorgeous and beautiful. She has silky silver hair, illuminating golden eyes — and it makes Y/n’s heart ache.
Finally, a person who has recognized the fact he has been living with. And yet, too late. This makes Y/n bitter. Why is this happening now?
“I can help you,” she says, her voice desperate. “I see the darkness controlling you. You must have had a hard time.”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I am the High Priestess. The saintess. I can sense demons — the temple has been targeting this place for a while. I’ve just been sent here to eradicate him: the man who has taken over His Highness.”
The darkness ripples in Y/n’s chest.
A while? He thinks — a while, and yet they couldn’t come to save him sooner —
“My name is Myra,” she says quietly, “Y/n, please.”
“Go away,” he says bitingly, not recognising the person who he has become, snapping away at a person who can save him — “you’re too late, don’t you think?”
“The one who has claimed the prince is the lord of the demons,” Myra says quietly, “the most powerful. That was why we could not act so soon.”
Y/n doesn’t react, and his empty state makes Myra anxious.
“I understand; you must be shocked —”
“If the prince wasn't the lord of the demons, I would’ve been even more surprised,” Y/n laughs, “no, it makes so much more sense. Only someone as cruel as that could’ve…” he trails off.
Cruel; yes he is. But that man…
“Don’t butt into this,” Y/n whispers; “don’t.”
“But —”
“Don’t try to help me,” Y/n shakes his head, distraught, “leave.”
“I am the priestess,” Myra says resolutely, “I—”
“You will be murdered,” Y/n says softly, “he is powerful beyond words. He cannot be denied. Leave, please.” A beat. “Please.”
If Myra is shaken, she does not show it.
“My duty is to eliminate demons anyway,” she swallows, “I have to do this. For the sake of everyone here, for the sake of the people, for the sake of the temple. For the sake of you.”
It’s a noble thing to say, but it only makes Y/n’s stomach churn. Why? Is it because he’s worried for her, or if he —
(Or he realizes that he doesn’t want to be saved?)
Secretly, he knows it’s the latter.
**
Y/n refuses to help Myra. It means punishment for him too, and again he’s selfish; being more human.
“You have to do this!” She raises her voice at him, “you’re just — you’re just letting this happen to you.”
“I am,” Y/n says blankly. He thinks of Rein’s hands around his throat, this time strangling him to death. Not a bad way to die. What if Rein thinks he’s colluding with the temple? He’ll be extremely angry then. Y/n doesn’t want — he doesn’t want Rein to be angry at him.
“You’re corrupted,” Myra spits out, completely beyond control. You’re evil. You’ve let the darkness corrode you.”
“Yes,” Y/n whispers, “when did I deny any of this?”
A beat. The two of them are staring at each other, and the clock is ticking. Y/n closes his eyes. Any moment, Rein will discover this and —
“I pity you,” Myra says sorrowfully, and Y/n’s eyes fly open. If there’s anything he’s expected, it wasn’t this.
“I pity that you were led to this. That your circumstances have changed you; that you’ve been forced to do this to yourself. That you’ve somehow been entangled into this relationship beyond your control, beyond your consent.”
“I did this,” Y/n’s voice is hoarse, completely ripped into shreds, “do not pity me. Curse me; hate me — but do not pity me!”
“Y/n —”
“I was not — I was not forced!” Y/n screams; and he’s in agony, his heart is twisting and turning and he’s — shit, he’s dying inside, “I used to think that,” he says breathily; his loud exhales with his chest rising up and down. “And I was wrong.”
“Y/n,” Myra’s voice is so painful, so soft, “do not say that.”
“It was right of you to call me dirty, unholy,” Y/n shakes his head, tears slipping from his face. “It was true. I am dirty. I am wretched; torn everywhere and broken in all the wrong places. But I did this. I invited him, I let the darkness crowd my mind…for goodness’s sake,” he looks shakily at Myra: “I let him bed me!”
“Oh, Y/n,” is all she can say.
Y/n continues to shake, the raw, awful admission falling from his mouth. “It’s; it’s fucking wrong. I know that. But I am wrong. I had a choice to run from it then, to never open the books,” he moans, a guttural, agonized sound: “I researched, Myra. I —”
He had kept blaming it on others. On his fate, on his luck, on — on a billion other factors. But the truth is; he had done it. Y/n had opened the walls of his soul, had taken darkness by the hand and had taken demonic spirits into it. He had cared for it. Had —
“So you mustn’t pity me,” Y/n whispers, “if you care for me, then don’t. You can continue to hate me, rebuke me. You made efforts, but as you can see, here I am. Unmoving; unwilling to budge. I will walk to my downfall with him. I will…”
“Is it too late, then?” Myra says very sadly, her eyes wet, “it is never too late.”
Oh, but it is. From the day their bodies had shared a communion; a shared bond. From the day Y/n had found warmth in the demon. From the day the fear had twisted into something more menacing…from the day Y/n realized that overtime he had accepted it; wanted it, even.
He shakes his head. “Give up, Myra; it’s futile. I never should’ve let you do this in the first place.”
Myra’s voice is broken. “Do you love him, then?”
Love. Loving a demon. Loving something so wrong everywhere, loving a monstrosity that will ruin him. Oh, but that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s the wicked, heavy, and malicious truth. It’s cruel to admit, yes; it tears something from Y/n’s chest — but still, it’s the truth.
“I do,” he admits, and it’s sinful, rotten, and terrifying, “I’m sorry.”
Her face turns ghostly white, and Y/n sees it then; that Myra has finally acknowledged it.
That he’s beyond saving.
**
Myra will die. It’s a fact written in the stars. The temple can do nothing. Holiness can do nothing. Faith will shatter.
The world will do nothing, can do nothing. Y/n knows this.
Y/n stares at the mirror of the bathroom, watching as his reflection distorts and warps. Is Myra dead yet? Is she —
He’s tried cleaning his body, his hands, to rid themselves of the impurity. But no endless scrubbing can fix the mess that he’s become.
“Murderer,” he says shakily, looking at his reflection, “you’re a murderer, Y/n.”
He had practically led Myra to die. Led so many people to die, people who he can’t even remember the names of. He had done this.
“Wretched,” he says bleakly, voice so weak that it trembles. “You’re despicable. Fuck. You’re —”
Y/n stops, as he sees Rein appear at the corner of his reflection, leaning against the door. Their eyes meet each other in the reflection and Rein smiles sweetly. There’s blood splattered all over his clothes — Rein has made no attempt to wash himself off, instead wearing the blood of the divine like a badge of honour.
Y/n watches him, completely defeated, making no attempt to leave.
Rein comes to him, claiming him. He watches Y/n’s expressions and reactions in the mirror as he takes him all over again, as he elicits sounds of pleasure from Y/n and takes delight in them. As Y/n is sprawled, naked, on the bathroom counter as he’s forced to watch himself in the mirror as Rein ruins him; fucks him with a ruthless tenacity. Still covered in blood.
As usual, Y/n lets Rein take what belongs to him.
**
“You killed her, didn’t you?” Is what Y/n tells Rein one day, “Myra. She claimed she was a priestess. She was —” Y/n says tiredly, “a good person.”
Rein starts laughing, merry and light — but then he abruptly stops, watching Y/n’s expressions carefully.
“Oh, you weren’t joking,” the smile is completely erased from Rein’s face — and now he looks — he looks terrifying, face turned dark; face completely expressionless save for that smile on his face, that constant smile that —
“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n,” Rein exhales; the three words rolling off his tongue easily, “you really make me realize that patience is a virtue.”
“So you did kill her. The blood belonged to her.”
“You seem to forget,” Rein says softly, looking at Y/n, “that I’m a demon. Simply because I cherish you.”
Of course, Y/n thinks bitterly, I must always remember that he is a demon. I must always remember that he is cruel, that he is inhuman…
“I don’t forget,” Y/n says in response, tone listless. I can’t forget.
Rein hums, pleased.
**
Love is a terrifying thing.
Y/n is slowly making peace with the fact that he loves a demon. He is human. Love is possible for him. Love can happen to him.
And yet, Rein.
Rein is a demon. Rein is inhuman. Is Rein capable of love? Obsession and desire; yes, but love — that may be an obsolete concept. It may not be possible for Rein. Mercy and pleasure do not equate to love.
“Demons and humans share something alike,” Rein tells him one day, “they share souls. Demons are heartless, but humans have hearts. But souls…they are made one and the same.”
“Souls,” Y/n repeats, “souls…”
He wonders what they look like. Is he completely dark? Is he gone? Is this even — even human?
“They come in shapes and colours,” Rein says thoughtfully, like he has not brooded over this topic in a while, “I got to have a glimpse of it, for a moment.”
Y/n is curious. Of course he is. After all, it is his curiosity that has led him down this prickly, painful path. But the final stage of grief is acceptance, and he supposes he’s there now. Empty, but existing.
“What did it look like?”
Rein smiles at this question, reaching towards Y/n and hands circling around his wrist. The action bleeds affection, but Y/n wills himself not to believe in it. Desire and love are not the same.
“Ruby,” Rein says fondly, like he’s reminiscing a pleasant moment, “it was so red; so delightful. I even remember when it was made. A date that it was conceived. February fifteenth, if we go along a human’s perception of time.”
Ruby, like blood, Y/n thinks to himself, immediately shoving that awful thought elsewhere.
“Why do you ask?”
“I was curious.”
“What an endearing trait of yours,” Rein laughs quietly, “don’t you agree, my darling human?”
Y/n swallows. “Yes.”
**
The funny thing is; the date that Rein’s soul was made draws near. A birthday, of sorts. Y/n doesn’t think anything of it, at first, but in a startling turn of events he — he considers a birthday gift.
Deranged, he knows. The mere thought of it depresses him for a while immensely, as he’s acutely aware of how much he’s fallen. Going from someone who feared the demon, who condemned him, to wholly giving himself to him. To love him. What a joke; what a mess.
Y/n finds himself making a little ring that has the shade of ruby embedded on it. The date intricately etched upon it; a little line that only Rein’s sharp eyes would catch.
A gift. A ring. It’s such a tender, beautiful thing that doesn’t even make sense. Y/n laughs bitterly at it all. When he succeeds at it he feels the pride enter his body for a brief moment, and he allows himself to feel it. Another emotion besides the shame and pain and love he carries with him everyday, knowing he’s condemned to live the rest of his life entrapped by the demon.
Isolated from the world.
Y/n picks up the ring, admiring it, placing it upon his own finger before taking it off.
He is a demon. He is inhuman. He is completely —
(He cannot be in love.)
Don’t expect him to be sincerely touched by the gift.
If only.
**
Y/n is proven to be the most unlucky person in the world when the ring gets stolen on the 15th of February.
Of course it would; he was foolish in leaving it haphazardly. The ring — he had worked at it, had spent a considerable money to bring in the ruby —
What is it that he feels? Complete defeat, humiliation; that even after all the things that he’s endured the very thing that breaks him fully now is theft? That he’s shaking now, crying as he realizes that his effort is for naught?
Is this what truly breaks him? An act of theft?
It was my first admittance that I had fallen in love with Rein, Y/n thinks, made physical. A ring. But perhaps Rein wouldn’t have wanted that, anyway, would he?
Still. The thought of that glittering ruby ring, which he had slaved away at getting stolen:
It tears something at Y/n. It makes him distraught, shaken. He’s heaving, his tears bitter and his mind reprimanding him for his childishness, at how careless he was, that it is a ring and not deaths that made him wallow like this —
“What makes you so distraught?” Rein looks amused as he sees Y/n tremble, wiping away his tears, "what a crybaby you are.”
Rein’s — Rein’s teasing him; like this means absolutely nothing to him.
(He will never comfort me unless I beg for it; unless I throw myself to him.)
Rein has seen Y/n crying so many times that perhaps the meaning has been diluted and dissolved in his mind. But now it makes Y/n even more upset; when he is again reminded: this man is a demon. He cannot feel. He cannot love me —
“A birthday gift,” Y/n chokes out, because Rein does not like silence. “I got you a birthday gift. A ring. It’s what humans when they give it to the people they like.”
“…”
There is brief silence, before Rein laughs, and the hope finally plummets down Y/n’s stomach.
“You joke,” Rein says smoothly, “a birthday gift? I do not even have one. But that would’ve been adorable.”
“…15th of February,” Y/n says shakily, “you —”
“Then where is it?” Rein interrupts, “I do not not see it,” he smiles, “you are lying, then. Oh, Y/n. You had no need to lie. What are you trying to do?”
Another brief silence — before Y/n completely breaks down at the sheer unfairness of Rein’s words and the fact that this love he has denied for so long is the one that makes him so humanly weak and susceptible to emotions — though at the same time he’s so disgustingly selfish and inhuman —
“Rein,” he manages between his sobs, realizing he’s crying now, upset. Why can’t you be more human? Why can’t you truly love me? “I — someone stole it,” he gasps, “I wasn’t lying; there’s no point in me lying, I just thought it would be something nice to do —”
And in the most unexpected moment — Rein stands up abruptly, and Y/n peeks at him, expecting for the demon to be utterly bored, unaffected —
And he flinches.
Rein’s smiling still, but the anger now is different from the ones he’s displayed so far.
No; this one is dark, menacing, and…
Rein kisses his tears away, gentle and soft. “Oh, Y/n,” he says, “don’t be so upset. I’ll settle it. And I’ll bring you a little gift after that to cheer you up, alright?”
Y/n stares, his sniffles dying away as he just —
He watches Rein leave, with that unfamiliar brand of anger.
Almost like he had cared.
**
That moment that Y/n cries over the birthday gift — the ring, Rein feels something within him break, a thin, precious piece of his soul dying.
His voice is deadly when he speaks to Y/n. A sense of calm washes over him, though it’s false and it’s wrong and it’s utterly disgusting.
Humanity, he finds, is worming its way to the cracks of his soul. Rein feels rage, yes, rage, as an emotion; not as something he merely displays. He feels touched, painfully touched at the gesture of the present that his Y/n had so previously prepared, anger at the ring being stolen.
At someone daring to take Y/n’s previous effort and take it for themselves, even though everything that was Y/n’s belonged to him.
Humanity. This is what his humanity is. And yet this little piece of humanity will only serve to make him even worse. More evil, as now his — ah, yes: love, continues growing.
As now he is sure that he cannot live without Y/n.
Where had it started? When he had realized that someone had seen through the tiresome facade he put up as the prince? He had been bored out of his mind. And then, yes, there was that lovely courtship by Y/n. Y/n had always been so loving, and yet so endearing; in the way he had trembled and shaken.
Rein had always understood emotions in the literal sense. He didn’t know how they felt, but he could read them well. And yet, humans seemed to be the opposite. No one seemed to be able to tell who he was, all foolish and daft…except him. Even the sex, which was an inherently pleasurable thing — had stirred emotions within Rein. Had been insatiable, had made him crave endlessly.
The hunger that could not stop.
That would never be whetted.
Rein had not fully grasped it yet, that humanity was slowly beginning to bleed into him.
Y/n had scrapped him hollow. Made him anew.
**
Of course Rein finds the culprit and brutally tortures him.
Of course he does it slowly, ripping off his limbs, spearing him inside and out until his shrieks die beautifully in his ears. Until Rein tears his soul apart again and again and puts him back together so he can experience the same agony. Until the culprit’s blood rivals the ruby ring now sitting on his finger, precious and loved.
He does it until the man is a carcass, brutally mangled, beaten, tortured, unrecognisable. Until the man’s limbs stop twitching and the process repeats over. He took what I had, Rein tells himself, drunk on his power, on his rage; on his newfound humanity that will only make him ever more uncontrolled and incorrigible.
But he knows what this is now; beyond obsession, desire, and pleasure:
There is love.
Later, when he returns to Y/n, Y/n lights up when he sees the ruby ring placed on his finger. He has learnt not to ask questions, dutiful and obedient as he is. And yet Y/n too, has those flare ups of disobedience that are endearing all the same; that fiery spirit that the darkness loves too.
The darkness that they both possess are one and same.
**
Y/n has sinned, he knows. He’s been corrupted, damned for eternity — he’s filthy inside and out.
This love; this horrible, cruel, and disgusting he harbours, that he accepts — it will ruin him eventually. He knows that. It’s something he will not turn away from.
All of the deaths on his hands. A murderer, a wicked sinner, an executioner. The sin is grave, terribly grave. And so this is his punishment too, this is his debt to repay and this is his life to live. Choking, suffocating, filled with so much timorous pleasure and darkness he cannot even begin to comprehend it. His torment is his.
This love is his perdition.
**
A/N
comment, like and reblog if u enjoyed! wow this was a pain to edit.
It be so cool if people who make long posts learn to use the -read more- feature here on Tumblr. Like I need you to understand, going through your blog to explore your fics would be so much easier if we don't have to scroll past the entire block of text from the posts we aren't looking for.
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
Prompt: It's on a stormy day that you meet him, a man who claims to be here to save you. Thinking he's crazy, you run away and ignore him. He doesn't give up, though, continuing to appear in your life. Is he insane or is there more to it?
M Yandere x F Reader, reader is trans, skeptical, sarcastic, yan is intense, grim, inhuman
Rain pours down from the nearly black sky, drowning out the noise from the city. It thunders on the metal overhang above you, creating a huge puddle in the pothole a few feet from you. You pull your jacket closer around you, shifting from leg to leg. You forgot an umbrella today, so you're taking shelter until the rain lessens some.
The street is oddly empty today, of cars and people. You check your phone, the display flickering. You dropped it earlier while you were running for shelter. Hopefully some rice will fix that right up. Do you have rice? You frown, trying to remember what's in your kitchen.
You shove the phone back in your purse, leaning forward to peer up to the sky. It's a bad storm, the kind that just sits and drenches everything for hours. Your spine prickles with unease. You glance up and down the street. Where is everyone? It's the middle of the day, and this is one of the busier streets, having several stores.
Even if it is pouring, people in this city always have an umbrella or two. It's normal for this time of year, and the city doesn't stop moving because of some water from the sky. The air feels heavy, charged with something, though you tell yourself that it's just the lightning flashing in the sky.
A splash to your right startles you, but it's just another person joining you under the overhang. The man swears as he tries to relight his cigarette, running his hand through his black hair and shaking water out of it. He gives up, tossing the cigarette on the ground.
"Nasty weather we're having today, huh?"
You tense. His voice is low and raspy, almost…amused.
"I guess."
"You guess?"
He looks at you then, with eyes a grey so pale they look nearly colorless. Something about his gaze sets you on edge, like he's testing you to see if you're worthy. He's young, younger than you probably, dressed like he thinks he's in a 90s biker gang. His hair is unkempt, plastered to his forehead and curling at the base of his neck.
"It's nothing out of the ordinary."
He tilts his head slightly. A cross hangs from one ear, swinging from the movement.
"If it was ordinary, there'd be more people out and about."
You look away from him. Great, you're stuck with a weirdo.
"Sure," you reply.
The silence stretches after that, and you hear the chk of a lighter. The rain continues, increasing in intensity. You sigh.
"Something on your forehead."
"What?"
You reach up, but the man's hand is already there, brushing something away. When did he get so close?
"Uh, thanks," you say.
He stares down at you, cigarette hanging from his lip. His face is completely expressionless, features so blank he almost looks fake. A chill skitters down your spine. You're alone with a man on an empty street. A weird man.
"Do you…need something?" you ask, shifting away from him.
"Should be asking yourself that."
Your brows furrow in confusion.
"What do I need?"
"Saving."
"From what?"
He points to your forehead. You give him a flat stare.
"Look, dude, I don't want what you're selling."
"Not selling anything."
"Okay, well, I don't need spiritual guidance or a reading or anything either."
"I didn't say you did."
"You said I needed saving."
He leans down toward you, looking right into your eyes, bridge piercing glinting. His pupils dilate in a weird way, making you shiver. It's just dark under here. That's why.
"I did."
"I don't want it."
"You need it."
"I really don't."
"You do."
Annoyance rises in you.
"I don't need to meet jesus, or god, or the holy spirit or whatever."
You put a hand on your hip, glaring up at him.
"So you can just fuck off already," you growl.
He reaches out, brushing his ice cold index finger down the length of your nose.
"The attitude is cute. But it won't keep you alive."
Your stomach drops. You back away from him, reaching into your purse for your pepper spray. His eyes flick to the movement.
"That won't either."
"Stay away from me. I'll scream."
He takes a drag from his cigarette, flicking the ashes onto the sidewalk. His bottom lip is split, like he was recently punched.
"You can if you want. That won't help—"
"Go away!"
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure."
He scans the street, tilting his head like he's listening for something.
"It's not safe right now."
"I swear to god if you come near me at all…"
"Thought you didn't believe in god."
"It's a turn of phrase, you asshole."
He ignores your insult.
"You should swear to something else. Swearing to something you don't believe in is just asking for trouble."
"What the hell is wrong with you? Was today just the day you decided to fuck with some random lady on the street? Is that what you do instead of going to school?"
"I graduated three years ago."
Jesus, he's eight years younger than you. You're getting bullied by some little twerp. You're letting yourself get bullied, you realize. That's really fucking pathetic, a new low even for you. You should just leave. You turn away from him, sprinting down the sidewalk. The rain instantly soaks through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.
You glance behind you, but the kid doesn't follow you, just watches you with those pale eyes and that blank expression. You shiver and turn back around. What a weirdo.
Rain splashes onto your clothes from your steps, and you groan at the thought that your shoes are going to be wet for days. You turn down an alleyway, navigating a veritable maze until you reach the back entrance to your apartment. You unlock the door and hurry up the stairs to your door.
"Oh, Ms. L/N!"
You wince at the high, nasally voice of Mrs. Summers, your landlady.
"Hi, Mrs. Summers," you say with a fake smile.
"Oh dear, you're soaked to the bone! Do you still not have a car?"
"No, Mrs. Summers."
"You poor thing. Say, the lady at the laundromat has a handsome son. He works in real estate, gets paid well," she winks, rubbing her thumb and first two fingers together.
You stand there shivering as she keeps yammering, wishing she would just shut up. You are so not in the mood today. It's not that you hate her; the woman just doesn't know when to shut her mouth. Eventually, she waddles back to her apartment, having forgotten that she had something in the oven.
You stumble into your apartment, peeling off your socks and shoes at the door, the rest of your clothes ending up in a pile on the laundry room floor. You walk to your bathroom, dripping water all the way. You pause to look at yourself in the mirror, wiping yourself off with a towel.
You look as exhausted as you feel, seconds away from collapsing. Your fingers trace a sticky spot in the corner of the mirror where a sticker once was. It had been a trans flag, subtle enough to escape notice until you had ripped it off because Mrs. Summers had gone on a twenty minute rant about "that damn trans flag".
Couldn't people just leave you alone? You think you've used up your allotment of patience for people for the month already and it was only the first week. Thunder rumbles directly overhead, rattling the ancient windows in the living room.
You laugh without humor thinking about that weirdo kid. Sure, someone was going to kill you, you who lived in an apartment that should have been condemned a decade ago and had nothing to her name. They'd probably take pity on you and drop a couple hundred dollars on your curled up body after they realized how much of a loser you were. What a joke.
You leave the bathroom and walk into your bedroom, flopping onto your bed, not even bothering to close the curtains to the window that leads to the fire escape. Who cares if someone sees your naked body? You're too tired to care. Besides, maybe you'd finally get some action. You laugh bitterly, closing your eyes and falling asleep almost immediately. Your last thought is that you don't remember if you locked the door before you drift off to dreamland.
You politely smile at the customer who seems to think that you specifically are the cause of them not getting their order in a timely manner even though you are working the register and, in fact, have nothing to do with actually making the food. You offer platitudes, trying to reason with the man but it only makes him angry.
Eventually, he just leaves, threatening to leave a bad review online. Jokes on him, the owner of this joint doesn’t even know how to not crash her computer, let alone make and maintain a website. You’re the resident IT person, even though you’re the next oldest person after her.
You sigh, staring out of the cafe’s window in boredom. It’s raining again, has been for a week straight. You’re starting to forget that the sun is a thing. You grab a cloth and wipe down the counter, just to look like you’re doing something. It’s perpetually sticky; you don’t think you’ve ever seen it actually clean.
The rain increases in intensity, drumming against the metal awning outside. You silently groan. At least you brought a umbrella today. The bell over the door rings again, so you plaster what you hope is a welcoming smile on your face. It falters when you see that it's the guy from the other day. He's soaked again, and you wonder for a second if he's just always sopping wet.
"Good afternoon. What can I get for you?" you say automatically.
His pale eyes flick down from the menu above your head, landing on your forehead. He reaches out and swipes something away before you can react, rubbing his fingers together and frowning. Well, sort of frowning? You can't really tell.
"Dude, do you have a forehead kink or something?" you glower.
He looks back at you.
"No."
You stare at each other for a few minutes.
"You should avoid the alleyways today, Y/N."
With that said, he turns around and leaves, dripping water all over the floor. You're left speechless, unable to process what just happened. Did he really come in here just to touch your forehead and give you a cryptic warning? And how did he know your name? Oh, right, your name tag. Stupid. Fuck, he knows your name now.
It's just your first name, though, and you don't think he knows anything else about you. What a fucking weirdo. Does he get off on bothering people like you? People who obviously have no prospects in life or any hope left in their tired bodies? Asshole.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, and soon, you're on your way home, umbrella resting against your shoulder. You avoid the puddles as best you can, but you still end up soaking your shoes. At this point, you're starting to think they'll never be dry again. You're worried they're going to start growing mold or something. Wouldn't that be something? Moldy, ruined shoes right when you have no fucking money.
A clatter from behind you startles you, and you whip around to look, catching the skinny, hairless tail of a rat scurrying under a dumpster. Jesus. You're usually not jumpy. You guess that guy's words got to you. Speaking of which, you've wandered right into the mess of alleyways that serves as your path home. Your skin erupts with goosebumps. You rub your arm, telling yourself to calm down. You've walked this path a million times, and no one has ever bothered you.
You turn around, sighing and walk straight into someone, dropping your umbrella and almost falling on your ass. You swear viscerally, glaring up at whoever you ran into.
"What the fuck!? Do you just stand behind people so you can laugh when they fall?"
The person says nothing, and it's then that you take in their all black clothing, the mask over the bottom half of their face, and the cap pulled so low only their eyes peer out. You scramble to your feet, grabbing your umbrella and wielding it like a sword. You know trouble when you see it, and this is trouble with a capital T.
You edge around them slowly, but they don't move, don't even look at you, standing so still they could pass for a statue. Your blood turns to ice in your veins as you catch a glimpse of a tattoo right behind their ear. Something about it screams evil, the black lines of an unblinking eye staring at you. The longer you stare, the more you swear it's alive, the lines seeming to shift.
You scream when the person suddenly reaches out to grab the edge of your umbrella, hurling it away from you. They lunge at you then, and you barely dodge, your shoulder slamming into a brick wall. You break into a mad dash, shoes slapping against wet concrete. Your heart leaps into your throat as they pursue you, quickly gaining on you. Oh fuck, oh fuck, you're going to die and no one's going to care because you're just some poor trans woman and your body is probably going to rot in some dank corner of this alleyway.
You make a sharp turn down a smaller alleyway, hoping to throw them off a little, but they keep pace easily, as if they expected that. Tears sting at the corner of your eyes, and you hurriedly blink them away. Now is not the time for that. You trip over a trash bag, arms flailing as you nearly slam your face into the ground. The person catches the corner of your jacket, but you simply pull your arms out and let them have it, cold rain assaulting your now bare arms.
You turn another corner and despair slams into you, dousing your fighting spirit immediately. It's a dead end. The person behind you stops, knowing that you have nowhere to go. You skid to a stop, your chest heaving. Your throat closes up with a sob. Is this really how it's going to end? You dying in an alleyway? Twenty nine years of life fighting to keep yourself afloat, and this is how it ends?
Fury bubbles up in you, and you spin on your heel and launch yourself at the person, fingers clawed and teeth bared like some wild animal. The person reacts a second too late, not expecting your attack, and you collide into them, clawing at their face and screeching like a banshee. Blood flows under your nails, and they tip backwards, unbalanced by your weight.
You go straight for their eyes, jamming your thumbs into the vulnerable flesh. They grab your wrists before you make contact, throwing their weight forward and flipping you around. You thrash and kick, determined to take them down with you. They punch you in the diaphragm and you wheeze, distracted for a second. That second is all it takes for them to wrap their strong hands around your throat, choking you. You bring your knee up and hit in the back hard, scratching at their eyes again. They lean back, dark eyes utterly devoid of emotion.
They tighten their grip, and your panic increases, unable to draw any air into your lungs. You grab one of their wrists and dig your nails into the underside of their wrist, but it doesn't seem to phase them, their fingers only pressing harder. Suddenly, their weight is gone, and you can breathe. You roll over, gasping, drinking in sweet, sweet air.
You hear a terrific crash behind you, the clang of metal trashcans and what sounds like bone hitting brick. You look behind you, coughing as you rub your throat. That kid stands in the middle of the alleyway, his back to you. The person groans, holding their head as they stagger up from the ground. The brick wall behind them crumbles a bit, a visible crack in it. Jesus h. christ. What in the actual fuck?
The guy moves, so fast you barely see a blur, and a horrible, wet crunch follows. The person coughs violently, and you see blood pour to the ground between the guy's legs. He shoves the person away, and they fall with a thud, still and unmoving. The guy turns around, blood dripping from his left arm all the way up to his upper arm. Bits of flesh cling to his leather jacket, one falling to the ground as he turns. Bile rises in your throat.
"I told you, didn't I?"
You don't answer, eyes stuck on the red that drips from claws that grow from the tips of his fingers. The rain slowly washes most of it away, a trail of it leading to the massive pool of blood behind him. He just killed someone. With his bare fucking hands. Thrusted his hand through them like they were butter and he was in one of those stupid action animes.
His eyes follow what you're looking at, and he shakes his hand out, flinging droplets of blood everywhere. He appears unaffected, as though he was just taking out the trash or getting the mail. Like this is normal to him.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Do—Do I fucking look okay?"
He starts toward you, way too fast, and you scurry backwards, scared that you're next. He only hauls you to your feet, though—with his other arm, thankfully—peering down at you in something akin to curiosity. His fingers trace your throat delicately, over the bruises you're sure you're going to have.
"You put up a good fight."
Your brows furrow.
"You were—cough—watching?"
He tears his pale eyes away from your neck, leaning down to stare directly into your own.
"I thought it might help you realize how serious this is."
You slap his hand away.
"What the hell is wrong with you!?" you shout.
His eyes dilate at your outburst, pupils expanding in an unnatural way. He crowds you against the wall, getting right in your face.
"Don't—not right now," he says lowly.
"Are you insane!? Get the fuck away from me!"
You struggle, trying to shove him away from you, but it only makes him get closer, pupils blown wide. This close, you notice that his brows cast a shadow over his deep set eyes and his roman nose is ever so slightly crooked. His nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply, breathing you in. Some long buried instinct tells you to stop fucking moving, that you're enticing a predator. But that's ridiculous. This is just a really weird guy.
"Get away! You fucking dick!"
You bring your knee up, hitting him hard between the legs, but he doesn't react like you thought he would. In fact, he moans, like it felt good, burying his face in your neck and licking a hot stripe over your skin. You shiver involuntarily, your body freezing. What the hell? Is he a masochist? His hands land on your hips, pulling you into him. He's hard as a rock, pressing insistently into you. Your mind blanks. What. Is. Happening. He nips at your skin, teeth too sharp to be normal.
"Wh—What the hell? Stop!"
He grinds against you, some low keen escaping him. You gasp, trying to twist your hips away. He grabs one of your thighs, lifting it up and pressing himself back into you. You can't help but moan as he rolls his hips, his cock rubbing your mound. His fingers dig into the fat of your thigh and hip, teeth scraping over your skin.
"Hah, I'm not—I'm not supposed to do this," he mutters, more to himself than you. "Can't fuck my charge."
You have no idea what he's talking about, only that he's shifted himself and happens to be grinding right into your clit. Pleasure sparks through you, warming your chilled body. The motions get stronger, rougher, like he's imagining thrusting into you. And god help you, but it's kind of hot that he wants to fuck your pussy so badly. He pulls his head away, jaw snapping shut so hard you hear the clack of his teeth. You think he just almost bit you.
He yanks himself away from you, panting, his cock straining through his black jeans. His irises are completely gone, just pools of desire and hunger. He licks his too sharp teeth, the entirety of his attention directed at you. The intensity sends a shiver through you, one that he sees. It makes him hiss and snarl.
"Go home. Now," he growls.
"H—Huh?"
"Go home!"
You flinch at his bark, reality coming back to you. There's a dead person a few feet away and the crazy, horny guy who killed him in front of you. What are you doing? You swallow hard, the chill of the rain making you shiver. The guy snaps his teeth again, impatient.
"Go. Unless you want me to eat you alive."
That finally gets you going, something about the tone of his voice telling you that he means it literally and not sexually. You stumble out of the alleyway, breaking into a run once you leave his line of sight, the insanity of the night causing you to laugh manically. What a fucking shitshow. Did you eat something expired? Maybe you drank too much coffee at work today? Maybe you've just finally gone crazy. Anything sounds more plausible than what actually happened.
Because there's no way—no fucking way— that the guy who has been bothering you just killed someone by punching through their body and then got horny and tried to feel you up. There's no fucking way. You must be high or something. You're going to go home and have a shower and wrap yourself up in your blankets and sleep for twelve hours and when you wake up, it will all just have been a bad dream.
You slingshot your bra across your apartment, sighing in relief once your tits flop out. The rain stopped a week ago, but now it's hotter than satan's asshole. Various bras and other clothing items litter your apartment, having been stripped off as soon as you got home. You walk to your bedroom, climbing onto your bed and lifting your breasts in front of the air conditioner. Ah, such wonderful cold air.
Your gaze snags on the pair of jeans from that day, still draped over your desk. A bloody hand print is stamped on one thigh, taunting you with the knowledge that something absolutely insane happened to you. You look away. You should wash it. You should have washed it as soon as you got home that day, but of course, like all the other things you should have done, you haven't.
It's like you're torturing yourself by having the jeans in plain sight, forced to look at the bloody hand print every time your eyes sweep past. Maybe it's because your mind doesn't want to believe, so you have to have some sort of proof that you're not crazy. You haven't seen Sicko—that's what you decided to call him—since that day, nor any more people trying to kill you.
Your hand moves to your throat. You had bruises for a bit, but they healed quickly. Abnormally so. Something else you don't want to think about. Things like—him weren't real. It had to be body modifications, lots of training at the gym, something like that. You screw your eyes shut, letting cold air wash over you. There is a perfectly normal explanation for what happened.
You open your eyes and jump down off your bed, nearly jumping out of your skin when you see someone outside your window. The window you never lock and that leads to the rusting fire escape. You almost relax when you see that it's Sicko, but no, that's not great either! You rush over and grab the top of the window as it starts to slide up, your half terrified and half irritated gaze meeting his.
The window slowly inches upward, your strength no match for his. You grit your teeth and put all of your weight into it, failing miserably. He opens the window and ducks through, straddling the windowsill. He's much too close now, his face nearly in your breasts. He's momentarily distracted, some expression flitting across his face, irritation? Or exasperation?
"You don't keep your window locked."
It's a statement, not a question, edged with the same exasperation you saw on his face.
"People don't usually crawl through it," you huff.
"I did."
"Well, you're a weirdo."
"It could have been someone else."
Someone dangerous. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to.
"Why are you here?"
"Don't go to work tomorrow."
You frown.
"I have to go to work. The bills won't pay themselves."
He tilts his head, then reaches for his wallet, pulling a hundred dollar bill out. He slides his fingers, and it impossibly becomes six. No way. They were stacked on top of each other. Right?
"Are you actually handing me money?"
"You need it."
Your mouth opens, then shuts. Yeah, you do need it, but it feels really fucking patronizing.
"Get out."
He holds out the money.
"I'm not taking your fucking pity money."
He blinks slowly, like a cat.
"It's not pity money."
"It sure fucking feels like it."
"Would you rather I stick it in your panties or something? For showing me your tits?"
You gape at him.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
He reaches out, pulling the waistband of your panties and stuffing the money in. He nods, as if satisfied and then makes to leave. You grab his elbow.
"You motherfucker! I'm not done talking to you!"
His head whips around, pale eyes fixed on your hand. His fingers twitch on the window frame. You let go of him, but don't step away, taking the opportunity to let all your questions slip out of your mouth.
"Who are you? Why are you giving me money? Who is trying to kill me? Do you work out a lot? How long is this going to go on for? Are you a masochist? What's your nam—"
He presses his index finger to your lips, stopping the barrage of questions. He looks hopelessly confused, head cocked at you.
"I don't—what?"
"I said—"
"No. Don't—Don't do that again."
He stares at you for a moment, and you swear you can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure what you just said.
"I'm...a protector. The money is for your bills. It's better if you don't know. I—I guess. Until they're dead or you're dead. Um, no? And I can't tell you my name."
"That does not answer any of my questions. And if you don't tell me your name, I'll just keep calling you Sicko."
His brows furrow infinitesimally.
"Sicko," he repeats.
"You never told me your name," you say, raising your brows.
You think he frowns, but you can't really tell.
"You can just call me V."
"Like...the letter?"
"The letter."
"Alright. V. V for Vendetta."
"V."
"Yeah, V for Vendetta."
He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it, letting you have your way.
"Also, if you're not a masochist, then why did you moan when I kneed you?"
He goes entirely still, rigid as a flag pole.
"I have a high pain tolerance," he says, devoid of any emotion.
"...Okay."
He moves to leave again.
"Hey, wait! Are you just going to keep coming around?"
"As long as you're in danger."
"What if I just move?"
"It won't—"
"Help? Figures."
You gaze down at him, some whim causing you to grab one of your dirty panties and drop them in his lap. His pupils dilate, fixated on what you just gave him, and you take the opportunity to shove him out of your window. His ass lands hard on the metal landing, rattling the fire escape all the way down. You slam your window shut, locking it and yanking the curtains closed.
Why did you do that? Are you insane? Is he rubbing off on you somehow even though you've only met him four times? Are you really that desperate? Are you really that pathetic that you would give your dirty panties to a guy you barely know just because you thought he deserved something for the money he just gave you? You rub your forehead, feeling a headache beginning to form.
Whatever. You have money to pay your bills, and you don't fancy getting almost murdered again, so you'll stay home and play video games or something. You pull the money from your panties, thumbing through it. You thought it was six hundred, but it now seems to be eight hundred. How the—nevermind. You don't want to know.
Somebody's been watching you. Other than V. Lingering just at the edges of your vision, gone when you turn to look. You'd pass it off as V, but he doesn't have bubble gum pink hair. You told him about it, and he just looked at you with that inscrutable expression, telling you he'd handle it. Whatever that means.
You've seen a lot more of him lately, giving you more cryptic warnings and even saving you from another potential murderer. You hadn't liked that very much, the image of a person torn literally in half burned on your retinas. But you were alive, and you guess you were glad for that. Better them than you.
He's also been staring a lot, like he's memorizing the shape of your face and the color of your eyes, like he thinks he'll never see it again. He hasn't touched you at all, just stares and stares. Sometimes at your body, because you have a penchant for being half naked or completely naked. Look, you don't have it in you to care. Besides, you worked hard for this body, grew it yourself, as you like to say. To yourself. You don't talk to people.
V is...interesting, to say the least. There's something about that feels distinctly inhuman, but that you are treating as autism. Because paranormal beings aren't real. Even though he can make money out of thin air and rip people apart and his pupils do weird things. You couldn't possibly say what he would be, if he really was inhuman. Some sort of cat thing? You don't know.
You can't say that you like him, more that he's the only person you really talk to. And well, maybe you kind of want him to do something about all the staring. He wants it, doesn't he? You're this close to just being as direct as possible and spreading your legs for him. Maybe it's messed up that you're thinking about that, but you've always been weird. Different. Other.
You can't really bring yourself to care that he is the single most weirdest person you've ever met. He's still unsettling, of course, what with all the staring and blank expressions. You sigh and roll over on your bed, pulling your tank up to expose your belly to the air conditioner. It's hot again, over a hundred outside. They say it's a record breaking heatwave.
You are so bored. V told you to stay inside again, and you obeyed, like the good girl you are(n't). Yeah, fuck that. You want ice cream. Since there isn't any in your apartment, you are going to venture out into the sweltering heat and brave the dangers to get yourself a pint of your favorite ice cream. He can always just come rescue you again.
You get up, opening your closet to see what's clean. You don't really have a lot of clothes, consequences of being poor. It's mostly just whatever was cheapest at the thrift store, jeans, shirts that are too big, a couple jackets. In the very back, though, is a sundress that you save for special occasions, i.e. to stare at longingly.
You pull it out, pressing it to your front and looking down. It's your favorite color and perfect for boiling hot summer days. You decide to wear it, even going the extra mile and wearing a pair of low wedges. You stare at yourself in the mirror that hangs on the back of your closet door. You look...good. Like every other normal woman.
For a moment, you wonder if V would like it on you. No. You reach for the hem of the dress, intending to peel it off of you, then pause. It's hot outside. Do you really want to wear jeans out? You go back and forth for a full ten minutes, finally just grabbing your purse and darting out the door so you can't change your mind.
You instantly regret it, the heat pressing down onto you. It's humid today, threatening a coming storm. Ugh. You sigh and walk down the stairs to the front entrance for once. You'll make V's job a little easier by walking down the actual streets. You stroll along the sidewalk, enjoying your brief freedom. The city is bustling today, cars honking in traffic and people crowding the sidewalks. It's nearly noon, lunchtime for most people.
You pass by a wide alley, a group of men sitting just inside wolf whistling at you. Your nose wrinkles, torn between being mad that they're catcalling you and elated that they think you're pretty enough to catcall. You ignore them, focused on your destination. The almighty convenience store. Where they house the exalted ice cream. Okay, now you're just being ridiculous.
The store comes into view, a sign in the window declaring that they have the best hot dogs around. Yeah, sure they do. There's no rats around here, suspiciously enough. You're not saying they make the rats into hot dogs, but you're not saying they don't. The ruddy faced man at the counter barely looks up at you, reading what you believe to be a porno mag. In broad daylight. In a store for the public. You roll your eyes.
You walk to the back of the store, fishing out a tub of ice cream and grabbing one of those cheap puzzle books. You might as well entertain yourself somehow if you're going to be on house arrest after this stunt, which something tells you you are. V is not going to be happy about this. He'll probably get that tiny little crease between his brows, pale grey eyes staring unamusedly at you. He can't seem to decide whether he likes your recklessness or hates it. You head to the counter, clearing your throat to get the man's attention.
It takes him a minute to acknowledge you, tossing down the magazine in disgust and snorting in that way that only people who smoke do. You hand him the items to scan, curiously looking at the magazine. It's open to a spread of a man vaguely similar to V fucking the life out of a big titted redhead. Hm.
"4.65," the man says gruffly.
You hand him the money and he sighs, annoyed that he has to count out change. He gives it to you, coughing into his collar.
"Can I have that?" you ask, pointing to the porno mag.
He gives you an incredulous look.
"...It's not good."
You shrug.
"Beggars can't be choosers."
He wordlessly slides it over to you, staring at you like you're an alien. You tuck into your bag and leave, entertaining fantasies of jacking off to V from craig's list. Would he fuck you like that, all rough and animalistic? Or would he be slower, teasing maybe? Maybe he'd fuck your thighs first, insisting on not touching your pussy, but then not being able to help himself, impaling you against the wall and rearranging your insides. You're so lost in your fantasies that you don't notice that the real V has appeared in front of you, yanking you into a small alleyway and against his chest.
You freeze in shock, too stunned to do anything but let him drag you deeper into another even smaller alley, into the shadows. It's noticeably cooler back here, not that it matters because V radiates heat. You look up at him, opening your mouth to say something, but he shushes you, eyes fixed on the alleyway entrance. He's stock still, chest barely moving.
Someone rushes past, then another person, and a third. Their footsteps echo off the walls, quieting as they head away from you. V relaxes after a minute, turning his head to you. He blinks in surprise at your dress, lifting a hand to glide his fingertips over your collarbone. His gaze travels down, over where the sundress highlights your chest. He licks his teeth, something you've noticed he does when he's trying to contain himself.
"Why are you outside?"
"I wanted ice cream," you reply.
He glances down at your bag. You slyly smirk, the next words out of your mouth ones that you shouldn't say, but are, because there's no hope for you.
"And a porno mag. One of the guys kind of looks like you."
His eyes snap to yours, pupils dilating.
"Me."
"You. Except I don't think he has your eyes. Not that anyone does."
His throat bobs.
"You need to go home."
"Yeah," you agree.
Neither of you moves, just standing there pressed against each other, his hard on poking the little divot between your belly and mound. You lean forward slowly, and his pupils blow wide.
"Go home," he says, voice strangled.
"Hmmm, nah."
"Y/N."
"What?'
"You—" he stops, starts again. "I can't."
"You keep saying that, but you're really hard right now."
He hisses through his teeth. You really don't know what's come over you. Surely this is a very bad idea, taunting the man who you think wants to eat you figuratively and literally. You lean back a little, lifting the skirt of your dress. And that does it, makes his irises disappear and his whole body dive down between your legs. You gasp as he rips your panties off with his teeth, roughly licking your clit. His tongue is hot, slightly raspy, lingering on you. He groans at your taste, lapping at you like a starved dog.
Your hands go to the wall in front of you to support yourself, your hips rolling into his mouth, soft moans leaving you. This is so much better than a fantasy. His tongue finds your vaginoplasty scars, rolling the skin between his teeth for a moment. He moves on to your pussy itself, thrusting his whole tongue into you.
"Ahn!"
Your moan spurs him on, his tongue digging into you as far as it can possibly go, like he's trying to suck your pussy into his mouth. He's ravenous, tongue curling in and out of you with a vengeance. His fingers find your clit, twisting it until your body is singing with pleasure, hips bucking. You're practically bouncing on his tongue, chasing your high just as desperately as he's eating you out.
Good god, how is a twenty one year old so good at oral? You've met thirty year olds who didn't even know what a clit was and this little boy is wringing your orgasm out of you like it was an olympic sport and he was a gold medalist. His fingers pinch and roll your clit viciously, even pulling on it meanly. You let out an embarrassing whine as you come hard, your muscles seizing with the force. You barely manage to hold yourself up as V licks up your release, finally pulling away with a sharp intake of breath. His face is flushed, and he pants, eyes unnervingly unmoving.
"Did you breathe at all down there?" you ask teasingly.
He doesn't answer, standing up slowly, his leather jacket scraping against the wall. He licks his lips, your cum shining on his lips. The air around him is cold, so cold you shiver, and there's a vicious glint in his eyes. He lifts one of your thighs, high enough that your other leg dangles a bit, his other hand going to his jeans. You hear the zipper and the rustle of fabric, and then he's thrusting into you.
"Oh god! V!"
He lets go of you, bracing his hands on the wall behind you. Your legs wrap around his waist as he fucks you hard and fast, hissing and growling. He's decently big, enough that you're going to feel this tomorrow. And the next day. Your hands scrabble at his back, your bag of groceries having long been forgotten on the ground. The crunch of plaster and brick sounds by your ears, and you look over to find that he's clawed his fingers into the wall. You suddenly find yourself glad that his hands aren't on you.
He leans down to swipe his tongue across your neck, almost burning because the air is so cold now. You swear you can see your breath. His saliva drips down your collarbone, because he's drooling like a wild animal, sucking hickeys and bite marks into your skin. You turn your head to give him better access, moaning as he bullies your pussy.
"Touch yourself," he snarls.
"Ah, ah, huh? Ahn!"
He growls in your ear, the growl of those big cats you see on national geographic. You clumsily fit your hand between your thighs, stroking your sensitive clit. Your head falls back against the wall, whining at the familiar coil of your orgasm. He seems to sense it, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in, the head of his cock pounding into the fleshy back of your pussy.
Your walls clamp down around him as your pleasure peaks, screaming his name. He hisses, hips stuttering. Hot cum splashes inside your pussy, so much that it pours out of you and you hear it splatter on the ground. He buries himself to the hilt, more of the wall crumbling away. His cock twitches, once, twice, each twitch bringing a new spurt of cum. He breathes hard as he finally stills.
"Holy...fuck," you moan.
He snarls.
"What, big boy? You mad that I successfully tempted you?" you croon.
A horrid sound leaves his mouth then, a multi-pitched hiss from hell, like a discordant wail of violins. You flinch away from him. His eyes latch onto you, drool spilling from between his pointed teeth. There's nothing human about the way he's looking at you, all animal need and predatory stillness.
"Um, hey, we're done here, right?" you laugh nervously.
He tenses.
"Done?"
"Yeah, I mean, I came, you came, that's—that's done, right?"
His body relaxes bit by bit, and you don't think you want to know what he thought you meant. He frees his hands from the walls, fingers covered in dust, unwrapping your legs from your waist. He reluctantly slides out of you, brows furrowing ever so slightly as his cum drips out of you. He looks to your panties, but they're ripped into scraps.
"You're paying for those," you say.
You squeal as he bends and lifts you into his arms in a princess carry, leaving the alleyway. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, about to ask if he grabbed your bag, only to see that he already did. He walks soundlessly, almost gliding over the concrete. You wonder how long he had to train to be able to do that.
"It's not cold anymore," you muse.
He doesn't answer, as usual, just keeps walking. It's uncanny how he manages to not jostle you whatsoever. And he lifted you so easily, like you weighed nothing. You stare at his profile, the curve of his nose, where his piercings poke out, the flat line where his lips meet. Huh. Bad boys aren't really your type, but he's handsome in that fifties biker way, minus the slicked back hair.
You reach for a curl of his messy hair, twirling it around your finger. It's longer in the back than it is in the front, almost a mullet but not quite. It hangs in his eyes a lot, a weird part sort of in the center where he keeps brushing it back. You comb your finger through the hair at his neck, finding a knot. You work your fingers through it, blanching when your fingers come away red.
Right. That's enough of that. Your apartment soon comes into view, V climbing the fire escape. Unfortunately, no matter how quiet he is, it still creaks and groans under your combined weight, protesting at being used when it probably should have fallen off before you were born. He opens your window with one hand—how? It was locked, you swear—and gently maneuvers you inside, climbing in after you.
He sets you down on the bed and fishes a pair of panties out your dresser, slipping them onto your legs and up, pulling them snug against your pussy. Aw, he wants his cum to stay inside. Too bad you have work.
"I have to shower for work tomorrow."
"You don't."
"V. I'm sweaty, and my thighs are covered in cum. I have to shower."
He looks up at you from where he kneels on the floor, something of a pout on his face.
"No."
"Are you seriously arguing with me?"
"...No."
You raise a brow at him. He stands up, escaping to the window. You call out to him as he ducks his head through.
"Hey, V?"
He tilts his head at you. You bite your tongue, changing your mind.
"I want a new pair of panties. To replace the ones you ripped."
His fingers tap on the bottom of the window. He nods and leaves, smoothly shutting your window. The locks snap shut somehow, and he's gone. You lay back on your bed, enjoying the lingering warmth inside you. You might be falling for him. Might. He's sweet, in a way, and you like talking with him even though he doesn't say much. You have to admit that it's nice to be wanted for once, desired. You just hope that you won't be too hurt when he inevitably leaves.
You pull a gorgeous strapless dress out of a bag that was left on your bed, giddiness rising in your chest. Oh, you are being spoiled, but it is so worth it. Ever since you asked V to replace your panties, he's been bringing you things, pretty dresses and skirts, blouses, heels, lace lingerie, all exactly your size. Some of it isn't to your taste, but a lot of it you love.
You've always wanted to dress more femininely, not having the chance because you couldn't afford things like that and the nicer clothes at the thrift store always got bought up quickly. You giggle at the thought that V is like a sugar daddy, although he's younger than you. You clutch the dress to you, twirling around. Is this what girls feel like when they get clothes from their boyfriends?
Is V a boyfriend? Sure, he buys you things and kisses you and fucks you, but does that make him a boyfriend? What would he say if you brought that up? He says he's protecting you, and he is, very well, in fact. You're very not dead. It's just that you can't tell if he does want you in that way, or if he's just momentarily interested in you. What if he just thinks that you're something to play around with? A toy for his amusement? Well, if you are, you're not giving back the clothes.
A knock on the window startles you out of your thoughts, and you turn to find V outside. A small smile upturns your lips, and you skip over to open the window. He ducks through, tilting his head at the clothes you have spread over your bed. His eyes narrow minutely, pleased that you like his gifts. He leans down to give you a kiss, tasting of cigarette smoke and cinnamon.
"Any warnings today?" you ask.
He leans back, his head swinging to the window. The temperature around him decreases, a sign that whatever emotion he's feeling is intense.
"They keep sending people. And Nat...I haven't caught him yet," his voice deepens on the last few words.
"Is Nat the bubble gum head?"
He turns back to you, blinking.
"Don't worry about it."
"Alright."
He walks over to sit on your bed, moving a few things over. The silence stretches for a bit, V examining the clothes you've put in your pile of things to keep. He seems to really like that you've kept all the lingerie. You do like it, but he also keeps ripping your panties when he's riled up, so it's more of a necessity. Your mind turns to Bubble Gum Head—er—Nat, as you now know. He must be a cut above the rest if V hasn't managed to kill him.
He still hasn't told what exactly is going on, why those people want you dead and why he wants you alive. You can't think of anyone you've pissed off enough to want to kill you, nor why they're so determined. As far as you know, you're just a normal, boring woman living in a shitty apartment. No one had ever threatened you before you met V or even looked at you twice.
You step over to V, reaching your hand out to cup his jaw. His eyes close, leaning his head into your hand. You think he would purr if he could. Who is this man? What is he? You don't know, and he won't tell you. Inexplicably, he seems to trust you, closing his eyes around you like some big cat, sure that you won't take the opportunity to hurt him. What does that mean, though? That he likes you that much?
"V."
His eyes half open to look up at you.
"Who are you?"
"V."
You give him a flat stare.
"It's better if you don't know," he says.
"I don't like not knowing anything about the person I'm dating."
"Dating?"
His pupils dilate.
"Well, what else is this?"
"Mates. But I like dating."
"Mates?"
He tries to turn his face away, but you catch the other side of his jaw, the dress you were holding sliding to the floor with a soft flump.
"V. Explain."
"Explain what?"
"Don't play dumb."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Your grip tightens on his face, smushing his cheeks until he looks like a goldfish. You glare at him, but his expression doesn't change. Not that it was something. He grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from his face.
"I'll explain one—"
He stops suddenly, eyes latching onto the window. He launches himself up, crushing you against his chest and throwing both of you behind your bed. The air wheezes out of you as he presses you to the floor. You hear a splintering crash, as sound you recognize as glass shattering. V whispers sharply into your ear, telling you to stay put. He leaps off of you, and a scuffle ensues, one sided by the sounds of it. The sharp coppery scent of blood fills the air. Your heart pounds in your chest, hand pressed to your mouth to keep yourself quiet.
You hear a clang and a shout, then the sounds grow quieter. Did they jump off the fire escape? You scoot forward, peeking around the corner of your bed. Your window has been completely destroyed, shards of glass all over the floor. There's a huge spray of blood on the wall and some shining on the jagged glass left in the window. You don't think that person is long for the world.
"Wow, that worked better than I expected."
You jump. A man stands in your bedroom doorway, dressed in black slacks and a ruffled dress shirt. His hair is bubble gum pink, tied back in a tiny ponytail. Glittering blue eyes watch you, filled with malice.
"Hey there. It's been a real pain in the ass getting anywhere near you, you know, thanks to that abomination."
You open your mouth to scream, but he's in front of you before you can so much as blink, yanking you up and slapping his hand over your mouth.
"None of that now."
He tosses you over his shoulder, walking to your ruined window. Huge, feathered wings appear from nowhere, folding out of his back. They shimmer like oily milk, lifting up, up, up, then a swift downstroke that launches you into the air. You scream, high pitched and terrified. A sharp smack lands on your ass.
"Shut the fuck up," the man—he must be Nat—growls. "Screaming right in my damn ear."
The ground rushes away from you, your hands gripping his shirt so hard you're sure to leave wrinkles. You jerk your head back to avoid his wings hitting your face. The wingspan is incredible, at least twice as long as he is tall, shaped like eagle wings. The wind whips by your ears, lifting the hem of your skirt.
"Nice undies," Nat comments.
"You piece of shit! I'll kill you!"
"As if you could," he snorts.
You grab the feathers on his wings, ripping them out with every bit of strength in your body. He howls in pain, tipping the two of you into a barrel roll that makes your stomach lurch. When he rights himself, he shifts you to tuck you under his arm, your limbs dangling hundreds of feet in the air. The city zips by below, the man swerving between buildings.
"You fucking asshole! Put me down! Fight me like a man!"
"Put you down, you say?"
You realize your mistake too late, Nat dropping you like a hot potato. You scream, the street becoming much closer much faster than you would like. Just before you slam into the asphalt, arms wrap around your middle, wings beating to lift you back up.
"You sure you want me to put you down?"
You grit your teeth at his patronizing tone, resigning yourself to being carried through the air like a sack of rice. You'll kick his ass once he puts you on solid ground. You watch the ground fly past, noting that he doesn't have a shadow. Neither do you, for that matter. You swallow hard. You can't explain this away. Simply put, you are being carried through the air by a man with wings.
Nat flies for a while, weaving through the city to the industrial side. He angles himself toward a half finished skyscraper, the rebar rusted and concrete crumbling. His wings beat the air as he slows, landing with a jolt and trotting a few steps before he stops. He unceremoniously dumps you on the ground, waving his hand. The sounds of the city instantly cut off, the wind stopping dead. It's like you're inside a soundproof room, not the unfinished floor of an abandoned skyscraper.
You rub your shoulder, sitting up and glaring at the pink haired man. He sprawls onto a moth eaten couch, crossing his legs on a low coffee table. He looks entirely unbothered by your vicious glower, raising a white brow. His wings are gone, presumably folded back up. The only sign that he's anything but human is white talons that grow from his where his nails would be if he had them.
"What the fuck are you?"
"That's the first thing you ask? Not 'Why did you kidnap me?', or 'Oh no, Mr. Sexy Angel, please let me go! I'll do anything! What do you want?'"
Your glare deepens.
"You're really full of yourself, Bubble Gum Head."
"...Bubble Gum—what? Seriously? That's what you've been calling me?"
"Answer the question," you snarl.
"Alright, alright, chill out," he raises his hands in surrender. "I'm an angel blooded, to answer your question."
Your brows furrow, and his eyes roll.
"It means somewhere along the line one of my ancestors fucked a human and voila! Here I am. Terrible decision, really. You humans suck. And because of that oh so slutty ancestor, it's made trying to get to you a real pain because that thing isn't human at all."
"V?"
His face scrunches in a disgusted expression.
"V is such a stupid name. I mean, come on. Does he really have to be all dark and mysterious?"
He crosses his arms, white talons tapping on his upper arms.
"Why did you kidnap me?"
"To kill you," he smiles.
"You're sure talking a lot."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to just get on with it?"
You scoot backward.
"No."
"That's what I thought. You want to hear why all this is happening, don't you?"
"You're going to tell me?" you ask suspiciously.
"Sure. You're going to die anyways."
He uncrosses his limbs, planting his feet on the ground and leaning forward.
"I'm sure it's very confusing for a poor little human like you, being caught up in all this."
"Caught up in what?"
"You have a very interesting bloodline, human."
The way he says it sends a chill down your spine, as though it was some great crime.
"Bloodline? What?"
He wags a finger at you.
"You can't have known, being estranged from your grandparents, but you come from a very, very long line of mages."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"You," he points to you. "Have the potential to become a powerful mage. And my client would rather you didn't. So, I sent people after to kill you. Unfortunately, that abomination got in the way, so I had to come myself. Doubly unfortunately, is that he's a right mongrel, a hybrid of so many species that it's straight suicide to go anywhere near him."
"Do you mean like, I'm supposed to do magic or something?"
"If you were trained properly. But your mother left that family and decided to marry a normal guy, so she was excommunicated. Then they learned that she had a son and suddenly, they wanted to be family again. Really, it's lucky that you decided to get the hell out of dodge."
"They kicked me out," you say sourly.
"Did they?" he hums uninterestedly.
"They told me I was an affront to god and that I should die on the streets."
"Well. Good on you for staying alive? Do you want a gold star or something? I don't care about your sob story."
You grip the hem of your blouse.
"Who's your client?"
"That's confidential."
Of course it is.
"What about V? What's his deal?"
"The mongrel works for the council, their little alley cat that drags in information and people."
"So this...council wants me alive?"
He snorts.
"The council doesn't give a damn about you. They just hate my client, so of course, they're going to take any chance to oppose them."
You sit with this information, a headache forming from the absurdity of it all. What the fuck was your life turning into?
"Now then, if that's all your questions, I believe it's time for you to start begging."
He stands up, crossing over to you. He grabs your elbow, spinning you so your back is to his chest. His talons press on your collarbone, sharp points threatening soft skin.
"I'm not begging you for anything!"
"Oh, it's not me you'll be begging to," he chuckles darkly.
You yelp as he slashes your chest, hot blood welling and dripping down. Just then, something crashes onto the floor you're on, misshapen wings with too many joints and a mash of feathers and leathery skin flapping furiously. The figure they're attached to is familiar and alien all at once, messy, black hair drooping in his eyes. V.
"You'll be begging that thing," Nat says.
He shoves you forward, carving lines into your upper arm as he lets you go. You smack into V's chest, hands grabbing at his shirt. He freezes, muscles coiled. The air around him is freezing cold, instantly chilling you to the bone. You slowly look up find him staring at you, irises completely gone. His eyes track the blood trickling from your wounds, tongue licking his teeth. You suddenly remember that he practically threatened to eat you the first time he met you.
"Have fun with that!" Nat calls in a sing song voice.
You don't even register what Nat said, too busy feeling ice sluice through your veins. V dips his head down, tongue catching the very end of one the slashes. He shudders, moaning. His tongue presses harder, more insistently, lapping up your blood. His arms wrap around your waist, lifting you up to his mouth. You struggle, but he's too strong, too far gone.
"V! V! Stop!"
He doesn't hear you, busy trying to suck more blood from your wounds. He lowers you to the floor, wings caging you in. He rips your blouse off, tearing it like paper, then your bra. He stares down at you, drool dripping from his mouth, tinged with red. His hands find your breasts, pulling and twisting at them until your back arches. He nips at your ribs, sucking and biting down your torso. His teeth find your lower belly, drawing your flesh into his mouth. Panic spears through you.
"Wait, wait, wait, V!"
The scream that tears out of you when he bites down is unlike any you've ever screamed before, full of raw terror and pain. You sob, pulling at his hair, your legs flailing, anything to get him off of you. He jerks his head back, strands of—of flesh pulling like melted cheese and tearing as his teeth chomp down. The moan he lets out is sinful, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted. You watch in horror as he chews and swallows, spilling drool across your belly.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, blood soaking the waistband of your skirt and panties, trickling to the floor. He reverently runs his tongue over the wound, hands holding your hips as you try to buck him off. You punch him in the face, and he hisses, horrible, too long arms erupting from his back to pin your wrists to the ground.
"Stay still," he growls, voice both young and old, feminine and masculine, a layered, discordant sound.
"Let me go! Let go of me!"
You struggle violently, kneeing him in the side. His wings come down and pin your ankles, forcing his body between your thighs. He goes for your belly again, opening his mouth wide, sharp teeth glinting with saliva and blood.
"NO! No, please! Please!" you sob.
Crunch!
V stops, hand grasping at his chest, where the head of a spear has suddenly appeared. Blood splatters onto you, muddy and dark. He coughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. And then, slowly, slow as molasses, he lets go of you, his whole body turning to face whoever is behind him. The air bites at your skin, your breath visible, your teeth beginning to chatter.
You run. You don't look back, you don't hesitate, you don't even stop to wonder if V is alright. You run like a bat out of hell, throwing yourself down concrete stairs. Each step sends throbs of pain through you, leaving behind a trail of blood. You careen around turns, even take a tumble on one set of stairs, but you run, all the way down, all the way back to your apartment. You crawl through your shattered window, your skirt catching and tearing on jagged glass.
You hobble to the bathroom, a wail leaving your mouth at the sight in the mirror. You tear through your cabinet, pulling out gauze and bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. You scream through your teeth when the antiseptic touches your torn flesh, do it anyway because you have to. You wrap yourself in layers of gauze and bandages, then hurl yourself to your closet.
You rip out a travel bag, throwing clothes and toiletries in it, your important papers, your E, all the money V has given you. You're getting the fuck out of here. You're getting on a greyhound bus and picking a random city and never, ever coming back. Fuck this place and fuck V. You're done. You're fucking done.
You splash water on your face, trying to wake yourself up. Last night's hotel bed was awful, like sleeping on concrete. In fact, concrete would have been more comfortable. You dry your face off, bemoaning your reflection. You have bags under your eyes, and there's a flighty air about you, one that screams 'woman running from abusive husband'. You toss the hand towel onto the counter, leaving the bathroom.
Your stuff is already packed, ready to go. You've been traveling for a month, hopping from bus to bus, making your way across the country. As far as you can fucking get from him. You brush your hand across your belly, grimacing. Like the bruises around your throat, the bite mark healed fast and left no scar, not even a divot. There are two faint scars on your upper arms, still healing.
You do one last check to make sure you have everything, then smooth down your wrinkled blouse, trying to look as though you aren't a woman on the run. You need breakfast before you leave, and you intend to take full advantage of the continental breakfast the hotel claims to serve. You leave your hotel room, locking the door with the key. You shove it into your jeans' pocket, and walk to the elevator, dodging a mom and her gaggle of kids.
The elevator smells like rotten eggs for some reason, and you're really glad to get off of it at the first floor. You're taking the stairs when you go back up. The breakfast area only has a few people milling about, it being six o' clock in the morning. You load up a plate with your favorite food, then sit down to shovel it into your mouth. Your bus leaves at six thirty so you need to leave soon.
You haven't seen any sign of V or Nat or anyone trying to kill you in the last month. You were so cautious at first, looking twice at every shadow and sleeping fully dressed in case you needed to run, but now that you're several states away, you don't think it really matters. You've gotten on and off so many buses, trekking such a long and complicated line across the country that you're sure that anyone looking for you is going to have a hell of a time tracking you down.
The thought of V makes your chest tighten, and your belly throb with phantom pain. God, how could you be so stupid as to get involved with him? You should have just left it as protector and protectee, let him do his damn job, but noooo, you just had to let your pussy make decisions. You had been alone for years, and you threw yourself at the first man to look your way? Absolutely fucking pathetic.
You don't miss him, not after he fucking took a bite of you, but you keep looking for him, expecting him to just appear out of thin air like he always does, blinking his eyes slow at you and leaning down to give you a sweet kiss. You open the curtains, looking through the glass and seeing nothing but buildings or parking lots or dead summer grass. You pull out a piece of clothing he bought and turn around to show off how it looks on you and there's no one behind you.
You've never felt this way about someone before, never gotten close enough that you know how to read every minute expression on their face. You'd never gotten the chance, always too busy working your ass off. You hated that you knew things about him. Things that probably only you knew. Ignorance was bliss, and you really wanted that bliss. Some part of you misses that shitty apartment, the dull mundanity of going to work every day, coming home and fending off Mrs. Summers questions. At least you had a life. At least it was your life, not the one your parents had planned out for you.
Now, you had nothing but the things in your bag and the clothes on your back. Nothing to your name but a few hundred dollars. This would probably be your last bus ride before you had to stop and get a job to get more money. You guess that whatever town you landed in would be your new home for the foreseeable future. Fantastic.
You finish off your food and head back upstairs, taking the stairs this time. They smell like cigarette smoke and only a little of rotten egg. You unlock your hotel room and walk in, heading straight for your bag. You lean down to pick it up, your hands freezing on the straps. There, in the corner of your eye, is someone sitting on the bed. Someone wearing motorcycle boots and black jeans.
You rear back, throat constricting. He looks the same as always, cigarette hanging from his lip. Smoke lazily curls in the air, filling your lungs with the scent. He takes one last drag from it and stands, crushing it out on the desk. He doesn't say anything, just watches you with those pale grey eyes.
"You—" you swallow, wet your lips, try again. "You followed me."
"I did."
"Why?"
"You ran away."
"Why!?"
He tilts his head.
"You're still in danger."
"That's not—why are you here!?"
He considers for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk.
"You ran away. I followed. After I killed Nat and all the others."
"I don't want to see your fucking face! GO AWAY!" you scream, hurling a coffee pod at him.
It bounces off his brow, landing on the desk. He doesn't react at all.
"We're dating," he says, as if that means anything at all.
"What—What the fuck!? What the fuck does that have to do with anything!? You fucking bit me! You ate a piece of me!"
His eyes flick down to your belly.
"I couldn't help it. It's just my nature."
"Yeah? Well, your nature fucking sucks, and I don't want it anywhere near me!"
His nails scrape against the desk, his fingers clawing.
"I won't leave."
You throw a paper cup at him, another coffee pod, the whole pot. It smashes against his face, leaving cuts that weep muddy colored blood. He plucks a piece of glass free from his cheek, flicking it away.
"What is wrong with you!? Leave me alone! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!"
"No."
You lunge for him, clawing at his face, punching him, kicking him, yanking his hair out. He lets you, just stands there and takes it, expression completely blank. His blank face enrages you more, so you punch him right in the nose, hearing a deep crunch. Blood trickles from his nostrils, and he just wipes it away. He lets you throw him to the floor, lets you straddle him, lets you punch him and punch him and punch him until your knuckles are bloody and your chest heaves.
"Leave me alone," you whisper.
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek.
"No."
"You—You fucking suck."
He slips his hand behind your head and pulls you down to kiss you. You slap his chest, biting down hard on his lip. His other hand traces down your side, slips underneath your shirt. He slides his tongue into your mouth at your gasp and licks your tongue, tasting you. You push at his chest, finally just turning your head away. He chases you, catching the corner of your lip, gently tugging on it.
"Y/N."
He pulls you back and kisses you again, unbuttoning your jeans and lifting your hips to yank them down. You grab for them, but he shoves his hand into your panties and curls his fingers into you, thumb rubbing rough circles into your clit. You moan, hips bucking into his hand. He works you until you come on his fingers, kissing you like he's starving. He lets you pull away from the kiss once your shudders subside.
"Y/N, Y/N," he says, repeating your name like a prayer. "I missed you."
He unzips his jeans, lets his cock spring free and then he's plunging into your warmth, his hips arching into you. He moans lowly and yanks you back down to kiss you desperately, rolling his hips in a slow, soft rhythm. His hand moves to the small of your back, pressing you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. Despite your earlier protests, you're now lifting your hips in time to his thrusts, moaning as he fills you over and over. The temperature dips a little, chilling your warmed skin, but not enough to actually make you cold.
V is keeping himself contained for the most part, more focused on kissing you senseless than fucking you. There's something soft about this display, something vulnerable. Like he really did miss you and is rememorizing your warmth and the feel of your skin against his. Like he spent every day thinking of tangling his limbs with you again. You pull away with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting you and him. His pale eyes are half lidded, tongue darting out to lick his lips and then his teeth.
"Y/N."
"St—Stop saying my name."
"Y/N."
"V."
"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N," he chants, punctuating every repetition with a thrust of his hips.
You slap your hand over his mouth, but his eyes seem to say it too, full of his obsession for you. His hand leaves the small of your back to find your clit, rubbing and twisting. The pleasure coils in your belly, tighter and tighter. You whine at a particularly rough tug, your hips bucking. His other hand cups your cheek, bringing you back down to stare directly into your eyes. The close proximity makes your cheeks flush. You let go of his mouth, pushing at his chest.
"Don't," he says, almost begging.
"Quit staring at me so intently."
"No."
You jerk as he thrusts a little harder, faster, his cock twitching inside you. He's close, and so are you.
"I waited," he murmurs.
Your brows furrow in confusion.
"I waited for as long as I could before I came after you."
"Do you think that makes it better? You're still a sicko."
"Your sicko."
"Shut up."
You shudder, clamping down as him as you orgasm. He moans, muscles spasming as he comes as well, filling you full with hot cum. His thrusts slow, then stop, hilting his cock inside you. You breathe deeply, your body tingling with aftershocks. Shame hits you after, then anger. How dare he appear in front of you and make you feel so weak and spineless?
"I hate you," you snarl.
"You don't."
"I wish that pink haired bastard had killed you."
"You don't," he stresses.
You grip the collar of his leather jacket.
"What is it about me?"
He blinks.
"Mine."
You flinch, like he slapped you.
"What do you mean yours? You can't just claim someone like property."
"Mine. Forever."
You stare into his eyes, a sense of helplessness creeping over you. A feeling deep in your bones tells you that you won't ever get away from him, that he'll chase you down to the ends of the earth and kill anyone who gets in his way. That he means exactly what he says.
"You're insane."
His eyes narrow the slightest amount, an acknowledgment to your words. What can of worms have you opened? Is this going to be your life now? Tied to a freak of nature who was so sure that you were his and that was just the way it was going to be? Where was your choice in the matter? Where was your say? You lean back, hands releasing his jacket. Your gaze moves to the wall behind the bed. This is a nightmare, right? It has to be. A really long, vivid nightmare.
These guys treated this place like it was some type of club. they would loiter around the library like it was territory they were slowly calming. and they didn’t look easy to get rid of. they would laugh like hyenas and fog the air with the smoke of tobacco. the poor regulars can’t even read or study anymore.
and as a student assistant, it was your job to handle these types of situations—student to student.
sadly, each attempt to get them to at least move somewhere else, it all ended in a flunk. they either laughed in your face or ignored you entirely.
on top of that, that guy that helped you with the books was here again. and it wasn’t even raining like last time. each time you were on the clock he seemed to be there, standing in the corner of the room. people obviously found him unsettling, but he wasn’t that much of a bother. but for some reason, you always felt his stare on the back of your neck. weird.
you felt that unsettling stare beating on you head again when you—once again—attempted to talk to those boys. it wasn’t helping. and once again you returned to the library, defeated.
rumors started to spread about that group of boys. they spoke about how they got into a fight with only one student, and they all ended up bruised almost beyond recognition.
that only meant one thing.
you found him again, smoking behind a corner with a patch on his cheek.
You cleared your throat. he shot a glare at your direction. when his saw it was you, he turned away. “what is it.” his face was suddenly flushing red. he silently cursed to himself. that was way too embarrassing to let you see.
You smiled nervously. “was it you that got rid of those guys ?”
“yeah, so what ?” he removed his cigarette from his lips.
“you’re a savior. I didn’t think those guys would leave any time soon. You’re pretty tough.” you shrugged, your smile growing more sincere. “I mean, 3 guys at once. that’s impressive.”
he clicked his tongue, his permanent scowl settling in deeper. “hah, that was nothin’,” he smirked. but his voice was fading into a soft mumble. “go away. don’t thank me for something so dumb.” ahh…his heart was racing again, and it was rushing up to his head…
oh, he couldn’t wait to hear your praise again. he got rid of them for you after all. and he would get rid of the whole school if it meant he could hear all the sweet praises you had for him…dogs do like praise after all.
Hello. I hope I am not disturbing you. I wonder if you are getting requests, would you write to the Supernatural yandere as husband or lover, for Archangels Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel? The reader can be either an angel or a human or a witch.
EVERYONE APPLAUD ME! I FINALLY GOT THE MOTIVATION TO WORK ON SOME OF MY REQUESTS. Also this gave me so many ideas for stories, oneshots, and more hcs. So be on the look out for more archangel writing. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this. Happy reading 💙
Yandere archangels hcs
Yandere Gabriel
Gabriel is a soft, possessive, and protective yandere.
He will never hurt you unlike some of his brothers. You're his sweetheart
Yes, all of his pet names for you are sweet/candy themed
Gabriel first met you when you were aiding the boys in a hunt against the trickster. Yes, you met him when everyone thought he was the trickster.
But eventually you all learned who he truly was and that he wasn't all that bad.
He tried to woo you the human way. But it was taking longer than he would have liked. So, snatchy snatchy time.
You are so sweet and addicting. You become his new addiction. And you won't rot his teeth, just his heart and brain 💙
Gabriel is very paranoid about you being a mortal and the constant ending of the world. So be ready for him to be very very over protective.
To the point you're not allowed out without him anymore.
But why would you wanna leave when he can make and give you everything.
There is no point in leaving. Nothing good is out there. So its not a big deal that he has kidnapped-I mean transferred you to a saver home with no way of leaving without him?
Now, you being an ex-hunter you're gonna try to escape him but remember, he is an archangel. He has power.
So no matter how much you know about the hunting world or how much the boys have taught you, there is no way you can escape him. For now.
Gabriel was smart enough to take away anything that could hurt him or you.
But you have everything else you could want.
Gabriel has a sweet tooth as we know. And since you're his sweet addiction. Expect a lot and I mean a lot of kisses and touching from him.
"Oh Baby cakes!!" He yelled out for you. But you didn't dare move. You are not in the mood for his touches. So you hide. Gabriel starts to get paranoid. He knows you can't escape, but what if the Winchesters got in. "Sugar?" He lets out a nervous chuckle, "Where ya hiding honey?" Gabriel starts to look in any nook and cranie. You squeeze deeper into the back of the laundry cabinet. 'If he finds me I'm gonna sock him in the face.' You thought, you seriously weren't in the mood for his crap. "Buttercup? You may think this is fun but its not!" Gabriel sounded like he was in a panic. And he was getting closer. "Okay, ok. When he opens the cabinet you're gonna speed out. And maybe you'll find the front door open? Hopefully" you thought to yourself. The floor creek with Gabriel's weight. He was right in front of your spot. "We're just playing hide in seak right? Yeah...we are." He said mostly to himself. "If I find you I get a prize!" He said as he leaned to open the sink cabinet. You were quickly yanked into his arms. Too quick for you to escape. "Found you." He said,kissing you madly.
Yandere Lucifer
Lucifer learned about you when he was in the cage with Sam. You being one of the boys girlfriend gave him the ability to learn about you. And eventually fall in love
He has escaped multiple times just to take you.
But Team Free Will always kicks his ass.
Lucifer is a cocky, possessive and angry Yandere.
He will punish you physically and mentally but he prefers to do it mentally for whatever his reasons.
Lucifer is trying to help train you to show your 'love' for him with punishments and rewards.
If you're curious your rewards tend to be a hell of a lot more affections from Luci or your silly little human things you miss.
He at first hated you, you, a stupid putrid human, made him fall for you. You made the king of hell for for you!
So he takes his anger out on whoever is in the cage with him. Untill he escapes again and has a master plan to take over heaven. And take you as well.
But it falls, so why not destroy the world instead, and maybe his little human will sacrifice herself to him.
And you do, much to everyone's dismay. But its worth saving the world right?
So now here you are, trapped in hell with Lucifer. He loves it.
Hell has a queen now
And if anyone in hell has a problem with then they're gonna get disintegrated.
Lucifer made you a nice little area for you to be his little wife. But if you are being bad then enjoy your personal cage.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" You cried out and shrunk further into your little ball. "You should have thought about that before!" He screamed in rage, kicking your best friend's decapitated head like a soccer ball. "Lucifer, I'm sorry! I love you, I truly do. Just please stop!". He squat down to your size, "After all I do for you, tell me you hate me? Should I just kill anyone else you love?! So its just me!". You lunged at him holding on to him in a hug, "Please please don't. I'm sorry. I do love you! So-so much, just please don't. I'll be good" Tears more started to pour out of your eyes and land on Lucifer's shirt. He held on to you in a crushing hug. He couldn't decide whether to continue punishing you or throw you a bone. And honestly, you voluntary hugging him made his vessel skip a beat. "No more fighting?" He questioned. "No more fighting! Just don't hurt anybody else please. I'll be good" you held on tighter. "You love me with all of your tiny being?" You paused for a slight second, "I love you with every fiber in my being". You felt like throwing up when you said that, causing you to cry harder. "Come on baby." He stood up with you in his arms carrying you back to your 'home'. "My sweet queen." You looked up at him, "oh, my dad, you're so adorable." Lucifer gave you a smug smile and forced a kiss. "The things I would do for you
Yandere Michael
I didn't have any ideas for John!Michael but if I do and make hcs I will tag you! Enjoy
Michael first heard of once he chose Adam to be your vessel. Adam has had a major (kinda scary) crush on you ever since he met you all those years ago with his brothers. And he kept tabs on you.
When Michael figured out that he should just use Adam instead he learned anything that would be leverage to convince him to be his vessel.
And you happened to be the giant leverage.
It worked, but they were still put in the cage.
So as years went on Adam became crazy over you and Michael began to as well.
Eventually once they got out it was time to take you.
So they did.
Now they will be forceful and more physical than Gabriel. But its cause they love you and deserve to take the love they want from you.
"Let me go! You have no right to do this!" You screamed at Michael or Adam, whoever the hell was talking. You started to pound against the door, "Thats where you're wrong Y/N. Adam has been wanting this for years. As have I.". Michael (you gathered), yanked you away from the door then carried you on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You kicked and squirmed but he wouldn't let go, so you fought harder but all you received was a huff and thrown around a bit more. Once you two reached your destination, the bedroom, Michael quickly tossed you on the bed, climbing on top of you. He snatched your wrists in his hand then immediately cuffed them to the bed. After you realized what had just happened you start to panic and freeze in place. "I think we deserve something for dealing with you and your tantrum." His hands crept under your shirt, caressing your skin, "don't we Adam " You noticed his expression and presence changed, Adam was in control now. Adam lifted up your shirt and gave you a shit eating grin. "Yes, yes we do." Then you were pulled into a rough and forceful kiss. You heard a loud rip and notice Adam had ripped your shirt. And all you could do is lay there and cry.
I hope you all enjoyed this and if you did please like, repost and or follow me!
He was like a rabid dog without a leash. wild and untamed and always getting into some dilemma. its not really his fault though. he was always treated as this dangerous beast where you couldn't even look him in the eye without a hostile glare back. and all these annoying wannabe tough guys looking to see if the rumor of the 'mad dog" was true, just to end up with a broken cheek.
he was used to it at this point. a constant cycle of bark, bite, fight.
he stuck out in crowds, with not only his wide shoulders or his intimidating height, but with his reputation alone. his calloused knuckles and his bandaged face told stories of many fights and unhealed scars.
he knew that with a personality and looks like his, he would never experience something as stupid as love or friendship. that was for weak, sappy guys. and weak was the last word to describe him.
then...how can a weak and sappy thing feel so good ? it was just for a moment, but something bloomed inside his heart when he met you. it felt wrong. he wasn't supposed to feel that way.
it was raining, so all students had to stay inside for this break period. he couldn't even go out for a smoke break. and the closest place to his designated spot was the library, a place you worked at as an assistant.
the door flung open with a loud bang. everybody turned their heads in unison before cowering at the sight of his patch-faced scowl, sticking their noses back into whatever book they were reading.
you sat in the corner of the room, sorting out misplace books. you swear, people never give the time to put books where they belong. and sadly, you had a problem. the final book you needed to sort out this shelf was tucked on a shelf which you couldn't reach. who's bright idea was that !?
so here you were, standing on your toes like a idiot in trying to reach the final book. then, a tall, hooded man passed by you, and "tall" was just more than enough for you to call him over. "Um, excuse me," the man stopped walking, then he turned his head, and beneath the shadows casted by his hood, there was a deep frown.
"What ?" he snarled.
You hesitated for just a moment by his sudden, sharp reply. "You're pretty tall, so can you please pass me that book with the red cover ?" You pointed to a book on the highest shelf.
hah. it was comical. you're really asking a guy like him ? do you live under a rock ? he cracked a sarcastic smile at the though. even so, he grabbed the book for you without a reply.
"Ah, thank you." You said simply, nodding with a small smile.
his mind froze. the world seemed to stop for what felt like hours, but it was only a three second interaction. when you flashed him a smile a bunch of foreign and strange feelings clouded his heart. it felt like a pat on the head, but you just...thanked him..? why ? nobody was supposed to show affection for him, even if it was a simple thank you. you even smiled ! he just did a small, stupid favor for you...damnit. what the hell was that ?
and then you walked back to your seat, sorting out the final row of books.
he clutched at his heart which was beating way to fast. he looked at you with an intense glare that looked full of frustration, but his burning face said otherwise.
note: second post...i didn't expect to get anything more that 20 likes on my first
AVIDITY [BL] || Yandere!Male Characters X Isekai!M!Reader
Avidity : The quality of being extremely eager or interested
One late night, you drift off after binge-reading your favorite horror manga—only to wake up in another world. To your horror, you’ve been reincarnated as a minor side character who was originally killed off by the main protagonist. Determined to survive, you hatch a cunning plan: avoid the protagonist, dodge every love interest, and fade into the background as a forgettable extra. But fate has other plans. One by one, they start noticing you—and your quiet rebellion only makes you more irresistible.
Ch. 09 ; Coffe Questionary
Chapter 10
I got a new co-author to help me with this story :D
There were three knocks on your dorm door that woke you up instantly. The knocking was gentle but firm, and you didn't need to check the time to know who it was.
"M/N, breakfast is ready."
Isaac's calm voice rang out from behind your door.
It had become a familiar routine by now — Isaac waking you at exactly 7AM each weekday precisely.
You groaned softly, still half-buried in blankets that smelled faintly of the lavender laundry detergent he'd bought for the dorm. Your body protested the movement, muscles still sore from yesterday, but the promise of food pulled you upright.
You sat up slowly, rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and swung your legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold beneath your bare feet until you slipped into the fluffy bunny slippers Isaac had gifted you — it was still ridiculous but it felt like the most comfortable thing your feet had ever touched.
You shuffled toward the door, your hair mess, your shirt wrinkled, and stepped out into the main living area.
The smell hit you immediately.
Warm, sweet, bursting with the unmistakable scent of fresh blueberries.
Your stomach growled audibly as you inhaled in the aroma . ‘I could get used to this every morning’, you thought, watching as Isaac moved around the kitchen with ease.
He was pulling a fresh batch of what seemed to be muffins out of the oven, the tray balanced carefully in his oven-mitted hands.
Isaac was wearing a tight minion apron wrapped around his torso. It should have made you laugh. But instead, your gaze snagged on the way the apron cinched at his waist, emphasizing the lean lines of his body beneath the fabric.
‘Damn’, you thought, catching yourself. ‘He's got a nice waist.’
You ripped your gaze away quickly, heat crawling up the back of your neck, and made your way to your usual seat at the dining table. The chair creaked softly as you sat down.
"Good morning, Isaac," you said, your voice still rough with sleep.
Isaac turned toward you, his grey eyes soft in the morning light streaming through the windows. "Good morning, M/N." Isaac turned from the counter, a plate in his hands. He walked over and set it in front of you, "I have baked blueberry breakfast muffins for breakfast this morning. I hope you enjoy them."
You stared at the muffins. They looked perfect — Your stomach growled again.
"Ah, that looks nice!" you said, already reaching for one. "Thanks."
Isaac watched you take a muffin, his expression unreadable but somehow warm. He sat down across from you with his own plate, cradling a cup of tea in his hands, and the morning light caught his face just right.
You bit into the muffin. It was warm, bursting with sweet and tart blueberry, the crumb tender and buttery.
"You've outdone yourself," you mumbled through a mouthful of muffin.
Isaac's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "I'm glad you approve, M/N."
You took another bite, and another, and tried not to think about the way his waist looked in that apron.
You closed your eyes and sighed.
’Yeah’, you thought. ‘I could definitely get used to this.’
"I was thinking about your offer," Isaac said, setting his own plate down across from you and taking a seat. His grey eyes met yours across the table, "To spend quality time together at the cafe today. From last night."
"Ah, yeah!" You swallowed your bite of muffin, reaching for your glass of water. "When are you free?"
Isaac's lips curved into a small smile. "I cleared my scheduled meetings for today. I'm available when we're both done with our classes."
"Alright, cool!" You paused, your hand hovering over your water glass. A small knot of guilt twisted in your stomach. "You didn't have to clear out your meetings, though." You nervously put your hand behind your neck, rubbing at the skin there.
Isaac blinked, his expression softening. "I wanted to."
"Well, that's nice of you." You looked down at your muffin, at the way the blueberries bled into the crumb. "I just hope you don't have to catch up with more work later on."
Isaac was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "I already am dealing with a lot of work." He paused, and you looked up to find his eyes fixed on you, "But I'm looking forward to spending time with you either way."
Your chest tightened. You looked away first, reaching for your muffin again just to have something to do with your hands.
"Okay," you said softly. "Me too."
Isaac nodded once, then picked up his own muffin and took a bite. The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the morning light growing brighter through the windows.
You continued to go through classes until it was finally over, the hours blurring together in a haze.
But throughout the day, your mind kept drifting back to the library. To the green-haired male with the fogged glasses that kept noting down things every glance at took at you.
He began to stand out more ever since you'd noticed him.
No matter what class you were in, no matter which hallway you walked through, you always had a familiar sense whenever you looked at him — like you knew him from somewhere, but you couldn't place a finger onto what it was that made him look so familiar.
The way he held himself. The way his dark green eyes seemed to linger on you a moment too long before darting away. The way his glasses caught the light, obscuring his expression.
It was starting to unsettle you.
Your final class for the day came to an end. The professor's voice faded into the background as students began packing up, chairs scraping against the floor, bags being zipped shut.
You made sure to wave goodbye to Naoko, who was already halfway out the door, her ponytail swinging behind her.
"See you tomorrow!" you called.
She waved without turning around and disappeared into the crowd.
You turned back to Azure, who was carefully packing his things — his notebook, his switch, his iPad . You reached over and picked up his stuffed raccoon toy from where it sat on the corner of his desk, holding it up to the light.
"Ever thought of giving this critter a name?" you asked, turning the toy over in your hands.
Azure looked up, his cheeks flushing pink. "O-Oh! U-uhm.. I, er, was th-thinking S-Stripes?"
You shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips. "It's up to you. Stripes is a cool name, though."
Azure finished zipping his bag and stood up, falling into step beside you as you headed for the door. "W-well, it-it's also you- your, er, choice."
You blinked at him. "Eh? It's not like it's mine!"
"I- I thought may- maybe…" Azure swallowed hard, his eyes darting away. "We cou-could share him?"
You smirked, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice. "Like, as parents?" You watched his face turn an even deeper shade of red and chuckled. "Chill, I'm easy."
Azure made a small sound — something between a squeak and a laugh — and nodded, his face now the color of a ripe tomato. "Gah! If… if yo- you want.."
You chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his curls. "Sure, that'd be fun."
Azure's shoulders relaxed, a shy smile spreading across his face. He looked up at you through his bangs, his dark eyes soft.
You reached the door and stepped into the hallway, you tucked Stripes under your arm and glanced down at him. "I'll walk you and drop you off to your dorm, yeah?"
Azure nodded, his smile still in place, and the two of you started down the corridor together.
You and Azure continued to chat as you walked him through the winding hallways. He talked about a new game he'd started playing on his switch. You nodded along, asking questions, making jokes, watching the way his nervous energy seemed to settle whenever you laughed.
You quietly took note of how Azure seemed more relaxed around you compared to the first time you met him. His shoulders weren't as hunched. His gaze didn't dart around anxiously. And his stuttering had lessened — not gone entirely, but softer.
You felt proud.
But every now and then, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle up.
Your stomach began to slightly churn in discomfort, a low-grade unease that coiled in your gut.
You tried to hide it — but something was wrong. You could feel it.
You felt like there was somebody watching you. Another pair of eyes on you, tracking your movements, following your every step.
You turned back for what seemed like the umpteenth time — and yet there was no one there.
But the feeling didn't go away.
By the time you realized it, you had made it to Azure's dorm. The building was quieter here, tucked away from the main campus.
You stopped at the door, and Azure turned to face you, his bright blue eyes soft.
Azure took the raccoon plushie from your arms, his hand lingering a little more than necessary. His fingers brushed against yours.
"I-I Ho-hope you stay ov-over one day," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled back, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. "No worries, Princess. I wouldn't want to miss out on that."
You blew him a playful kiss and waved him off as you turned and walked away.
Behind you, Azure stood frozen for a moment, his face flushed, his hands clutching Stripes to his chest. Then he ducked inside his dorm, the door clicking shut behind him.
You walked down the path, your hands in your pockets, your mind already drifting to the cafe later with Isaac.
The sun was warm on your face, the breeze gentle through your hair. For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
But the hairs on the back of your neck were still prickling.
"Oh, good afternoon. You must be M/N, right?"
You flinched at the sudden voice appearing beside you.
Your shoulders tensed, and you turned to look at the person behind you, already bracing yourself for another awkward encounter with another classmate who wanted to mock you about your past.
To your shock, it was Ito Makoto.
Your brain short-circuited for a moment, scrambling to place him.
The glasses. The outside braces. The long bangs that seemed to cover half his face like a curtain. You knew him — not personally, but from the manga!
Makoto was the final male lead of the manga. The journalist of the campus, the head editor of the campus news, the sharp-tongued know-it-all who looked down on everyone around him.
You remembered being part of the fan speculations on Reddit about how Makoto could have been involved with Takara's death. The theories had been wild, unsubstantiated, but they'd stuck with you. Ever since his character was introduced, you'd had high suspicions of him.
And now here he was. Standing beside you in the hallway, business card already in hand, looking at you like you were a story he couldn't wait to dissect.
Your eyes flicked over his face, taking in the details the manga panels had never quite captured. His glasses were thick, slightly smudged, and they magnified his eyes in a way that made him look perpetually surprised. The braces glinted when he smiled — which he was doing now, a thin, practiced curl of his lips. And his bangs were longer than you'd expected, falling across his forehead and shadowing one of his eyes.
His whole look screamed nerd. You already didn't like him.
And you weren't going to waste your time kissing his ass.
"Well," Makoto said, adjusting his glasses with a flourish, "my name is Makoto Ito, and I major in journalism."
You stared at him. "Okay..?"
"Ah, pardon my rudeness." He gave a small bow — more of a head tilt, really, like he was humoring you rather than showing genuine respect. "I wanted to ask you to help me out with a little school project of mine. You see, as an aspiring journalist, I wanted to work to make my own article — to possibly publish — and I would be delighted if you were up for an interview!"
You raised an eyebrow. "An interview? About what?"
Makoto's smile widened, and there was something sharp in it, something calculating. "I am currently studying the way reputation modifies the other students' perception of a singular person." He gestured vaguely at the students milling around you, the ones who still whispered when you passed.
"And considering your… less than ideal reputation, I wanted to confirm for myself if the voices that flutter around the students' mouths are indeed truthful or just fruitless gossip."
You crossed your arms. "Well, why should I?"
"Ah, I'm glad you asked that." Makoto stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
"You see, after that dramatic spectacle you put at the library, information such as the ones I have would be very valuable for your pretty little head." He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"You know, I could actually just interview little mister perfect — the one that the rumors say you follow around like a little puppy? But I figured, why not ask the supposed dog? Even if recently I feel the roles have been somewhat reversed."
Your jaw tightened. ‘Little mister perfect? The supposed dog? Is he calling ME a dog? Roles reversed??’
He knew about Wren. Of course he did. Everyone knew about Wren.
"Well," Makoto said, glancing at his watch with exaggerated impatience, "I have to go now. Not everyone has enough free time to follow strangers around." He pressed a business card into your hand, "Think about my words."
You looked down at the card.
Makoto Ito, Head Editor, Campus Chronicle. His office number, his phone number, his email. All printed in crisp black ink.
"That's my business card," he said, already turning away. "Don't lose it. I won't give you another." He glanced back at you over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "If you ever feel… adamant about sharing your situation, just come to my office. Or call me. Or text me. It's all written there. I'm sure you can read without a problem." He smiled — thin and sharp.
“Well, farewell. I certainly do hope we can meet again. Possibly in my office."
And then he walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, his long coat flaring behind him like a cape.
You stood there, frozen, staring after him.
Your brow furrowed.
He was as weird as you thought he'd be. Weirder, maybe.
You looked down at the business card in your hand, then back up at the empty hallway where Makoto had disappeared.
"Creep," you muttered, shoving the card into your pocket.
You'd throw it away later. Probably.
Maybe.
You finally made it to your dorm, the familiar hallway stretching out behind you as the door clicked shut.
You used your student ID to open the door with a swift swipe, the lock beeping softly as you stepped inside.
"Isaac?" you called out as you walked in, kicking off your shoes by the door.
You heard a faint sound of paper rustling and pen clicking. You followed the noise into the living room, and there Isaac was, seated on the couch with his back to you.
He seemed to be deep into paperwork, his shoulders hunched, his head bent low over the coffee table. A bouquet of roses was set on the side of the table, their deep red petals slightly wilting at the edges, pressed between huge stacks of paper that threatened to topple over.
You slowly walked your way behind him, your footsteps soft against the floor. "Isaac?"
Isaac didn't even look up. His pen scratched across the page, his handwriting neat but rushed, and his other hand was already reaching for the next form. He was too busy scribbling down on papers to acknowledge your presence.
You noticed his eyebags — darker than usual, beneath his grey eyes that spoke of late nights and early mornings.
His cornrows were slightly disheveled, a few strands escaping the careful styling he usually maintained. Even his posture seemed off, his spine curved in a way that suggested he'd been sitting here for hours without moving.
"M/N," he said, his voice distracted, almost apologetic. "I'm truly sorry. Would it be possible to extend our time to go out?" He paused, finally glancing up at you over his shoulder. His eyes were tired, but they still held that warmth you'd come to recognize.
"I.. I am currently occupied with work at the moment. Afterwards, I have to go to an interview with the head news editor. He's been pestering me about the school newspaper budget increases."
You gave him a sympathetic smile, your chest tightening at the exhaustion etched into his face. "Oh, Isaac. I don't mind if we extend the time. I'm also fine if we postpone the hangout."
Isaac shook his head, his jaw set with determination. "No, M/N. I really look forward to going out with you." He turned back to his papers, his pen already moving again. "I'll try to finish this up and go to the interview at the newspaper office. Afterwards, we can finally go." His voice softened. "I'm sorry."
You watched him for a moment, "Well.. alright." You hesitated, then asked, "Who are you being interviewed by?"
Isaac didn't look up. "Ito Makoto."
Your blood ran cold.
The business card in your pocket seemed to burn against your thigh.
You swallowed hard, forcing your expression to remain neutral. "Oh," you said, your voice carefully light. "I've heard of him. He's... persistent, from what I've gathered."
Isaac hummed in agreement, still not looking up. "That's one way to put it. He's been requesting this interview for days. I finally caved." He signed another form and set it aside. "But it shouldn't take long, then we can go. These roses were supposed to be a gift, please act surprised when I give you them.”
You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Okay. I'll be in my room. Just let me know when you're ready."
Isaac murmured an acknowledgment, already lost in his paperwork again. You turned and walked toward your room, your mind racing.
Makoto Ito. The journalist. The suspect. The man who had practically cornered you in the hallway and offered you an interview. And now he was interviewing Isaac!
You closed your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, pressing your palm to your forehead.
’What am I supposed to do now?’
You already felt bad that Isaac had to deal with a workload of stress. The papers were piled high on the coffee table, spilling onto the floor.
Considering he was the student council president, he had to juggle so many things all at once — meetings, budgets, complaints, events, the endless stream of responsibilities that came with leading an entire campus.
And yet, despite all of that, he always made the time to make meals for you. To clean your room. To wake you up in the mornings with three precise knocks at exactly 7AM. To remind you to shower when you got too lost in your own head.
He had done so much for you. More than you deserved, probably.
And now Makoto Ito was going to sink his claws into him. Isaac was tired. Isaac was stressed. Isaac didn't need to deal with someone like that right now.
‘I should go to the interview’, you thought, your jaw tightening. ‘To distract Makoto so he wouldn't bother Isaac.’
It wasn't a perfect plan. It probably wasn't even a good plan. Makoto had already approached you once, had already offered you an interview. Walking into his office willingly felt like stepping into a trap you could see but couldn't avoid.
But Isaac had made you breakfast every morning. Isaac had cleaned your room. Isaac had held your hand on the couch and told you that you didn't have to face anything alone.
You sighed as you began to think, mapping out the route in your head. The newspaper office. You'd seen it on the campus map once, tucked away on the second floor, near the journalism department. It wasn't far. It was about ten-minute walk, or maybe less?
You gently opened your bedroom door, easing it open just enough to slip through. The hinges didn't creak — thank god — and you padded quietly across the living room. Isaac was still hunched over his paperwork, his back still turned to you.
You held your breath as you passed behind him, reaching for the front door, your fingers curling around the handle.
Isaac didn't look up.
You slipped out of the dorm and closed the door behind you with a soft click, your heart pounding in your chest.
You leaned against the door for a moment, pressing your palm to your chest, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat.
‘What am I doing?’ you thought.
But your feet were already moving, carrying you down the hallway, toward the stairs and to the newspaper office and whatever awaited you there.
You hesitated as you looked over the glass doors, your breath fogging the surface just slightly.
Through the tinted glass, you could see Makoto sitting at his desk, his head bent over some papers, his long bangs falling across his face.
The office was small but cluttered — stacks of newspapers, filing cabinets, a bulletin board covered in pinned notes and photographs. The sign above the door read Newspapers Office in bold letters.
‘Here goes nothing.’
You slid open the glass doors, the frame rattling slightly in its track.
A small bell chimed overhead and Makoto's head snapped up.
His eyes lit up behind those fogged glasses. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"Oh," he said, setting down his pen and folding his hands on the desk, "look at who has finally shown his face here."
"Yeah, yeah." You stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind you. "I'm here."
"Ah, I knew my charm was too irresistible for you." Makoto leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. "Although I have to say, you had me doubting. I almost wanted to put a juicy piece of meat just outside the door, but it seems Wren's dog has come here willingly — like a puppy!"
Your eye twitched. "…What?"
"Anyway!" Makoto clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and sudden. "Let's get started, shall we? Please, have a seat!"
You glanced at the chair across from his desk. "Alright.." You sat down, and to your surprise, the seat was comfortable despite its appearance. The cushion still had some spring to it.
"This is only a formality," Makoto said, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a fresh page. His pen hovered over the paper. "Please, your name and last name, if you may."
"M/N L/N."
Makoto wrote it down quickly. Then he looked up at you, his eyes gleaming. "Now, the first question. What do you think about the rumors surrounding your situation?"
You shifted in your seat. "I think they're obnoxious. It's practically my reputation here." You paused, choosing your next words carefully. "I've gotten help for my behavior, and I want people to know I've truly changed."
Makoto tilted his head, his pen tapping against the notebook. "What do you feel about them?"
"Well, I just feel nothing but negative about them."
"I see, I see." He nodded, his expression almost sympathetic, though you knew better than to trust it. "That's understandable, yes. How about you tell me when those rumors started?"
"Uhm, ever since.. I began to act out over Wren?" You hated how uncertain your voice sounded, how the name still made your chest tighten.
Makoto hummed, scribbling something down. "Would you prefer if those rumors stopped, even though... wouldn't you say they can be quite convenient in certain situations?"
You frowned. "I'd prefer if they stopped. I don't think they'd ever be convenient in any situation. Rumors can ruin lives."
Makoto's pen paused. For just a moment, something flickered across his face — surprise, maybe, or respect. Then it was gone, replaced by that same knowing smile.
"I understand." He set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Let's wrap it up for now. I would love to keep chatting with you, however my time is limited, and my schedule is filled to the brim." He reached for a stack of papers beside him, shuffling them absently. "I'll let you know if I need anything else from you."
You straightened in your seat. "Your side of the deal."
Makoto's smile widened. "Ah, don't tell me you really thought I forgot about it?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his folded hands. "Now, just come a little closer, 'sweety.'"
"What the—"
"Someone is asking questions." Makoto's voice dropped, losing its theatrical lilt. "Questions regarding you and your life. And oddly specific ones at that." He paused, letting the words sink in.
"I don't know what their deal is, nor will I tell you who they are. But just so you know..." His eyes met yours, sharp and serious. "Someone is looking out for you." He leaned back again, the seriousness melting away. "I'll be extra careful if I were you. But that's just my opinion. Do whatever you will with this information."
Your throat felt dry. "Well, okay?"
Makoto picked up his pen again, already turning back to his papers. "I hope I'll see you again soon. Contrary to what you might think, I quite enjoyed our talk." He glanced up at you from behind his glasses, a hint of something genuine in his expression. "You could say I had quite fun with it."
You stood up, your legs feeling unsteady. The bell chimed as you slid the door open, but you didn't look back. You just walked out into the hallway, your heart pounding, Makoto's words echoing in your head.
‘Someone is looking out for you.
What did that mean?.
“Someone is asking questions. Questions regarding you and your life. Oddly specific ones.”
Was someone out there to get you? Could it be Luka? He had the motive. He'd already grabbed you once. Who's to say he wouldn't do worse?
It definitely could be Luka.
Or was it Wren? The thought made your stomach turn. Wren. Wren, who had never seemed dangerous in the manga — not really, not until you started looking closer.
You slowly began to sweat even more, your palms clammy against the fabric of your pants. Your heart was picking up speed, that familiar flutter in your chest that signaled the beginning of something ugly.
‘Crap’, you thought, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. ‘I can't have another panic attack here!. Not in the middle of the hallway.’
You began to pick up your pace, your footsteps echoing against the floor
“Well’, you thought, your mind racing, ‘I did my part now. I hope Makoto doesn't stop by at my dorm for Isaac.’
The thought of Makoto sitting across from Isaac, asking him pointed questions, digging into his life the way he'd dug into yours — it made your blood run hot.
Isaac was already exhausted. Isaac was already drowning in paperwork and responsibilities. He didn't need some smug journalist adding to his burdens.
You reached the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, your hand sliding along the railing. The dorm wasn't far now. Just a few more turns, a few more hallways, and you'd be back.
Someone is looking out for you, Makoto had said.
Maybe it was Isaac. Maybe that's who Makoto had been talking about — Isaac.
Or maybe it was someone else entirely. Someone you hadn't even considered.
You shoved the thought aside and kept walking. The business card in your pocket crinkled with every step.
You'd given Makoto what he wanted — an interview, a few words he could twist and rearrange to fit whatever narrative he was building.
In return, you'd gotten a warning.
Whether it was worth it... you didn't know yet.
You reached your dorm door and paused, your hand hovering over the handle. Through the door, you could hear the faint sound of paper shuffling — Isaac, still working.
You took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
Isaac looked up from his paperwork, "M/N? Where did you go?"
You forced a smile. "Just went for a walk. Needed some air."
Isaac studied your face for a moment, his gaze lingering on the sweat on your brow, the tension in your jaw. But he didn't push. He just nodded and turned back to his papers.
"The interview should be quick," he said. "Then we can go."
You stood there for a moment, watching him work, the lie already forming on your tongue.
Isaac didn't need to know any of that. Isaac needed to rest.
"Actually," you said, your voice carefully casual, "I don't think Makoto would be free for the interview with you."
Isaac's pen paused. He looked up at you, his grey eyes curious, a small furrow forming between his brows. "What do you mean?"
You leaned against the wall, crossing your arms to hide the way your hands were still trembling.
"On my way to my walk, I saw him.. interviewing someone else." The lie came out smoother than you expected, "It looked pretty involved. Considering his schedule is packed, he might not have time for another interview today."
Isaac blinked, processing this. His shoulders sank slightly — relief, maybe, or just exhaustion catching up with him. "I see," he said slowly. "He didn't mention any scheduling conflicts when we spoke."
You shrugged, pushing off from the wall and walking toward the couch. "Maybe it was last minute. You know how journalists are — they chase the story." You sat down on the opposite end of the couch, pulling your legs up beneath you. "So… when you're done with your paperwork, we can go!"
After a while, Isaac nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Okay," he said, turning back to his papers. "I just have a few more forms to review.."
"Take your time," you said, your voice soft. "I'm not going anywhere."
Isaac's pen scratched across the paper, and the room fell into comfortable silence. You leaned your head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling, and let yourself breathe.
The lie sat heavy in your chest, but you didn't regret it. Isaac deserved one evening without stress.
And if Makoto showed up at your dorm anyway, well... you'd deal with that when it happened.
You closed your eyes and waited.
"M/N?"
You slowly opened your eyes to see Isaac standing over you, his figure slightly blurred from sleep.
In his hands, he held the same bouquet of roses that had been sitting on the coffee table — the deep red petals slightly wilted, but somehow still beautiful in the fading light.
"I'm ready to go out," he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "Here is my surprise gift to you."
You rubbed your eyes, a sleepy smile spreading across your face as you took the bouquet from him. "Ah, wow! Thank you, Isaac. These are lovely!"
Isaac couldn't help but smile —a real smile that reached his eyes and softened the exhaustion etched into his features.
"Of course, M/N."
You slowly got up from the couch, careful not to crush the roses, and stretched your arms above your head. Your joints popped softly, it seems you'd fallen asleep sitting up. "Let's get going, shall we?"
"Okay."
"Soo," you said, tucking the bouquet under one arm and grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch, "I had this certain cafe in mind. It's not far from the campus. It has a strong 5-star reputation, and I'm hoping you'll like it."
You thought back to the manga panels you'd studied so intently, all those late nights doomscrolling memorizing the layout of the world you'd never expected to inhabit.
There were plenty of places to go outside the campus — cafes, bookstores, small parks — all conveniently close at once. It was like the perfect location to be in, designed for maximum convenience and minimum travel time.
Isaac nodded, reaching for his own jacket hanging by the door. "If you are referring to the Kat Cafe, I am quite familiar with the location."
"Ah. Yeah!" You grinned, slipping your arms into your jacket. "And you are?"
Isaac paused, his hand on the door handle. He looked back at you. "I tend to go out for a stroll sometimes," he said, "when things get too caught up in my head." His voice dropped, softer now. "I like to say the tranquility of nature eases me."
You watched him for a moment, "That sounds nice," you said quietly. "Maybe you can show me your favorite spots sometime."
Isaac's smile returned, small but genuine. "I would like that."
He pulled open the door, and the two of you stepped out into the hallway together.
You and Isaac continued to walk until you both reached the main college entrance.
Everything felt almost peaceful. Your conversation had been easy — It was mainly just Isaac asking about your classes and you asking about his student council duties, nothing else.
Then a sudden voice called out.
"M/NN!"
Oh dear God.
You closed your eyes, bracing yourself with a large, exhausted exhale that seemed to drain the air from your lungs.
Doesn't he have something better to do? You held back an eye roll — which you'd noticed was becoming a bad habit, all due to Takao and his endless ability to test your patience — and felt your shoulders tense.
You quickly grabbed Isaac on the arm, your fingers wrapping around his sleeve. "Let's go." You tried to swiftly run out before somebody could stop you.
It was too late.
Arms wrapped around you from behind — the touch made your skin crawl.
A head rested on your shoulder, cheek pressing against the curve of your neck, and you could feel the smile radiating off him without even having to look.
"M/NN," Wren murmured, his breath warm against your ear, "where ya heading?"
He seemed to get bolder with every interaction.
The first day, he'd just waved. Then he'd grabbed your hand. Then he'd shown up at your dorm with a basket of snacks, then at the library, then at the infirmary, then at the gym — which he became a manager of your volleyball team.
And now here he was, hovering over you, acting as if he had every right to touch you.
"Greetings, Wren." Isaac spoke from beside you, his voice was calm but you could feel the subtle tension in his arm beneath your fingers.
Wren lifted his head just enough to acknowledge him, his yellow eyes flicking to Isaac's face. "Hey." He gave him a short nod, then turned back to you.
"Wren." You weakly whispered back, the name tasting like poison in your mouth. You turned your head slightly, trying to put some distance between your face and his. "I'm just going out with Isaac."
Wren's eyes lit up, "Oh?" His smile widened, "I'd love to join in with you guys, if you don't mind!"
"Actu—"
Isaac cut you off, he spoke to Wren with the same tone he probably used during student council meetings which felt pretty formal and professional, "We're actually doing a private hangout right now for just the two of us." His grey eyes met Wren's. "M/N can catch up with you another time."
The words hung in the air between the three of you.
Wren's smile flickered — just for a moment— before he smoothed it back into place.
Wren's arms loosened around you. He pulled back just enough to look at Isaac.
Then he smiled softly. "Oh.. uhm, alright. Another time then."
His gaze dropped to the bouquet of roses in your arms, nestled against your chest. His smile softened into something almost wistful. "Those look beautiful!" he said. "Are they yours?"
You forced a smile, "Yeah," you said, your voice coming out lighter than you felt. "Isaac gave them to me."
Wren hummed as his gaze traveled from the roses to Isaac, then back to you, lingering on the way your hand was still resting on Isaac's sleeve.
"That's... so nice," Wren said, the word stretching slightly, as if it cost him something to say it. "Isaac has good taste! So good, it’s amazing! I love that! Great!”
Isaac inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, Wren."
The three of you stood there for a moment.
Wren's hands dropped to his sides. He was no longer touching you, but you could still feel the phantom warmth of his arms around your shoulders.
"Well," Wren said, stepping back, his smile settling into something more controlled. "I won't keep you two any longer. Have fun on your... “private hangout”."
He said the words lightly, but there was an edge beneath them, adding more emphasis to ‘private hangout’.
"We will," Isaac said with certainty.
Wren's eyes met yours one last time. "See you around, M/N."
You nodded in response.
Wren turned and walked away, his figure growing smaller as he headed back toward the campus dorms. You watched him go, your chest tight, your hand still clutching Isaac's sleeve.
Isaac didn't move. He just stood beside you patiently waiting.
After a long moment, you let out a breath. "Let's go," you said quietly.
Isaac nodded. "Okay."
You walked through the main entrance together, the campus gates closing behind you, ‘I need to set boundaries with Wren.”
After a few minutes of walking, Isaac spoke up.
"I may not pick up on most social cues," he said slowly, "but I could sense tension just now." He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a small, almost proud smile tugging at his lips. "Kudos to me."
You chuckled, "It's good that you're picking up on a few things," you said, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. "Bravo."
You let go of Isaac's arm, your fingers sliding off the fabric of his sleeve. "Thanks for that," you added, quieter this time.
Isaac shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "I don't think I need to be thanked," he said. "I understand your need to distance yourself from Wren." He paused, his steps slowing for just a moment. "Although," he continued, his voice thoughtful, "I shouldn't have said 'next time.'" His jaw tightened. "It would only bring his hopes up."
You looked at him — Isaac, who had been so awkward and formal when you first met him, was learning. He was beginning to adapt.
And he was doing it for you.
"You're getting good at this," you said softly.
Isaac glanced at you, his grey eyes questioning.
"The whole social cues thing, I mean!" you clarified. "You're getting good at it."
He was quiet for a moment, processing.
Then he nodded, a small, satisfied smile returning to his face. "I have a good teacher."
You didn't know what to say to that, so you just kept walking, the roses still clutched in your hand.
"Here we are," Isaac slowly muttered.
You stared at the building right in front of you. Kat Cafe.
Through the windows, you could see cozy booths, small round tables, and a long counter lined with pastries behind glass.
The scent of coffee and fresh bread drifted out through the open door, it was alluring almost.
You trailed after Isaac, who opened the door for you with a slight bow. You gave him a smile as you entered, and he followed after you.
Inside, the cafe was even cozier than it had appeared from the street.
"What are ya planning on ordering?" you asked, glancing at the menu board behind the counter. The options ranged from simple coffee to lattes to luxurious pastries.
Isaac hummed, his grey eyes scanning the menu with thoughtful consideration. "I'm not particularly picky," he said. "I'd prefer something mild and small portioned." He paused, then added, "Nothing too sweet."
"Honestly, I eat anything!" You walked over to a nearby two-seat table nestled against the window, the perfect spot for people-watching.
Isaac followed, pulling out your chair for you before settling into his own across the table.
"I suppose that only makes it better for us to be roommates," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I cook, and you eat."
You laughed, leaning back in your chair. "A perfect match for dormmates, don't you think?"
Isaac's smile widened. "I do think that," he said softly. "Yes."
A waitress made her way toward your table, a small tablet clutched in her hands.
"Good evening!" she said, her voice bright and welcoming. "My name is Kat, and I will be your waitress for today. What can I get you two?" She turned to Isaac with a smile. "Starting with you?"
"Good evening," Isaac said, his posture straightening slightly. "I would like to see the Minion special menu."
You blinked in surprise, your head tilting. ‘There's a Minion special?’
"Certainly, sir." The waitress reached across the table and flipped the menu book to a certain page, revealing a spread of yellow-themed items. "Here are our Minion specials for today," she explained, pointing to each item as she spoke. "There is also a discount for two people!" Her eyes darted between you and Isaac, her smile widening.
Isaac nodded as he scanned the menu, his grey eyes moving slowly across the options.
His expression was concentrated. "I would like a latte with 3D Minion foam art," he said, "alongside the Minion-themed cheesecake, please." He looked away from your eyes, almost shy, his gaze dropping to the tablecloth.
The waitress typed into her tablet, unfazed. "Certainly! And how about you?" She turned to you.
"Uh, I'd... like the same as well." You smiled at her, then turned to look at Isaac, your eyebrow raised.
The waitress nodded, tapping a few more times on her screen. "Alright, please wait patiently until your table number is called out! You may pick your orders from the counter. Thank you so much for coming here!"
You nodded in response, and the waitress bustled away to attend to another table.
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. "Huh! I didn't know there was a Minions special. No wonder you picked this spot."
Isaac's fingers fidgeted with the edge of the menu, a rare tell. "You would think it's quite silly and childish, right?"
"Nono!" You shook your head, your voice earnest. "I was just surprised to see that your infatuation with Minions runs deeper than I thought." You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. "It's cute, though."
Isaac's grey eyes met yours. "Cute..?" He said the word like it was foreign. His brow furrowed slightly, and confusion flickered across his face.
You felt your cheeks warm. "Yeah, you know," you said, waving your hand vaguely, "adorbs. Endearing. It's nice that you have things you're genuinely excited about! Shows that there’s more to you than a student council president!”
Isaac was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, a small smile returning to his lips. "I see," he said. "Then I suppose I am... cute."
You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. "Don't let it go to your head."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"How is college settling for you so far?" Isaac asked.
"Ah, it's going… okay." You shrugged, your fingers tracing the edge of the table. "I mean, I'm having trouble settling in so far, but I've met a few cool people." You looked up at him, a small smile forming. "Like you!"
Isaac's expression softened. He nodded slowly, as if filing away your words in that careful, methodical mind of his. "If we are roommates," he said, "I wouldn't want us to be foes."
"Yeah, that wouldn't end so well." You chuckled.
The memory of your first interaction flashed through your mind.
"Aside from Luka and Wren," you continued, your voice dropping slightly, "everything is overall good. College is a big step for me." You paused, "Didn't think I would make it this far."
Isaac was quiet for a moment. When you looked up, he was watching you with intensely.
"You made it," he said simply. "And you're not alone."
"I know," you said softly. "Thanks to you."
Isaac's lips curved into that small smile — "You don't need to thank me, M/N. That's what roommates do."
The waitress called out a table number in the distance, and the moment shifted. You both turned toward the counter, where two yellow-adorned trays were waiting.
"I think that's us," you said, pushing back your chair.
Isaac stood as well, falling into step beside you as you walked to the counter. His shoulder brushed yours, and you didn't move away.
The Minion specials were ridiculous — the huge minion foam art were grinning up at you, cheesecakes decorated with googly eyes and blue syrup drizzles.
You caught Isaac's eye as you picked up your tray, and for a moment, you both just stood there, holding your minion themed desserts.
"These are insane," you said.
Isaac looked down at his plate, then back at you. "Yes," he agreed. "But they make me happy."
you chuckled as you carried your tray back to your table, with Isaac following behind.
Suddenly, Makoto's voice approached your table.
"Oh my, look at that," he drawled, appearing at the edge of your table as if summoned by some malevolent force.
He tilted his head, his fogged glasses catching the light, and his thin lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If those aren't my two favorite interviewees. What a coincidence it is for us to meet here. We could say it was fate, don't you think?"
You nearly choked on your latte. "What the— Makoto? Are you following me around?"
Makoto pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, his long bangs swaying with the movement. "Oh, goodness no! This is simply a cafe I frequent from time to time." He adjusted his glasses, the metal glinting. "If you had read yesterday's issue of the campus paper, then you would know that. But apparently reading from paper is too much for some people."
"Uh, sure?" You exchanged a glance with Isaac, whose expression had gone carefully neutral. His hand was resting on the table, fingers slightly curled, as if ready to intervene if necessary.
Makoto's gaze flicked between the two of you, taking in the Minion-themed foods. Something flickered across his face — amusement.
"Ah, I wouldn't want to disturb you two further," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Seeing your... delightful... meal." He lingered on the word delightful, drawing it out like he was savoring a private joke. "So I'll quickly move along and sit at another table far from your eyes. Never far from your minds, though."
"Okay.." You watched him take a step back, hoping he'd actually leave.
He paused. "And before I forget, let me just tell you another little thing." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"There has been a switcheroo, it seems. It's not every day you see Wren Upton following M/N L/N around like a jealous ex." His eyes glittered behind his glasses. "I'll keep an eye on him for you two. And perhaps keep him in check if things go south. Consider it a thanks for our early interview, sweetie."
He gave a theatrical little bow and sauntered away, sliding into a table in the corner with his back to you — though you could have sworn you still felt his attention prickling at the back of your neck.
Isaac let out a slow breath. “He makes quite an entrance.”
"That’s way too nice," you muttered, staring at Makoto's silhouette. "He's insufferable."
Isaac studied your face. "You've interviewed with him before?"
You nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Earlier today. Before we left." You paused, then added, "He's the one I lied about. Y’know the person he was interviewing?" Your voice dropped. "It was me."
Isaac was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he reached across the table and rested his hand on yours, "You don't have to explain," he said softly. "Not if you're not ready."
You looked at his hand on yours, at the way his thumb traced a slow circle on your knuckles. The tension in your chest eased a little bit.
"Thanks," you whispered.
Isaac nodded, and the two of you sat there quietly.
"M/N," Isaac said after a while.
You looked at him, pulled from your thoughts about Makoto's lingering presence in the corner. "Yeah?"
His fingers were wrapped around his mug now. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed deeper than usual, like he was working up the courage to say something he'd been holding back for longer than just tonight.
"Last night," he said slowly, "I found myself deep in thought about the question you asked me." He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "What to do if someone isn't what they seem." Another pause, longer this time. Then he lifted his gaze and met yours. "Were you talking about me?"
Your breath caught.
"I—" you started, then stopped. Your mouth felt dry. You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers were picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.
“Isaac isn't who you think he is.”
Takao's words echoed in your head, “He managed to cover up his past quite well, didn't he?”
"I don't know," you said finally, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. You stared at the Minion foam art on your latte, "I had.. a few people in mind."
Isaac didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly, his expression unchanged, like he'd been expecting this.
"I see," he said.
The silence returned, heavier than ever now.
Isaac set down his mug and leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table, his hands clasped together. His grey eyes were earnest, almost desperate in a way you'd never seen before.
"I'm not going to lie to you, M/N," he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "There are things about my past that I'm not proud of. Things I've done that I can't take back." He paused, his jaw tightening, his fingers interlacing so tightly his knuckles went pale. "But I'm not that person anymore. And I would never — never — do anything to hurt you."
You looked at him.. Isaac’s shoulders were tense like he was bracing for rejection.
“Isaac isn't who you think he is.”
Maybe that was true.
Maybe there were things in his past — dark things, violent things, things that would make you see him differently.
But the man sitting across from you now, he felt so safe.
"Okay," you said.
"Thank you for understanding," Isaac said quietly, his hands were now on yours again. His thumb still tracing slow circles on the back of your hand.
"No, of course." You shook your head, squeezing his fingers gently.
"I mean, considering 'my' past, I bet it's way worse than whatever you have done before." You let out a humorless laugh. "Not trying to compare, by the way. Just saying." You paused, looking down at your joined hands on the table.
"I'd never hurt you or any of my loved ones, either. And whatever it is about your past…" You looked up at him, meeting those tired grey eyes. "Please don't feel obligated to answer all my questions. Yeah?"
Isaac slowly nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His fingers tightened around yours slightly.
"My past actions still haunt me to this day," you continued, your voice dropping. "Hell, even people like Makoto are trying to snoop around. Trying to dig up whatever dirt they can find." You glanced toward the corner where Makoto sat, his back to you, his pen still moving across his notebook. "It's like they just see me as a juicy gossip topic. Not an individual with feelings and thoughts of their own. I suppose they see me as a dog more than a human being."
You turned back to Isaac, your chest tight. "So it's good that you've changed yourself. To be completely unrecognizable from whoever you used to be." You paused, swallowing hard. "I wish the same for me as well."
Isaac was quiet for a long moment.
"You will change," Isaac said finally, his voice low but certain. "You already have."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He squeezed your hand. "I've seen it."
You didn't know if you believed him — not completely— but sitting here, holding his hand, it was easier to pretend.
"Thanks, Isaac," you whispered.
He smiled, "You’re welcome, M/N.”
"If you're not busy later on," you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself, "could we watch Despicable Me? Together?"
Isaac blinked at you, his grey eyes widening. His fingers, still intertwined with yours, went still.
"Really..?" His voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Why would you want to watch it?"
"Well." You shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his gaze. "I figured you liked Minions. And I'm pretty sure Despicable Me has Minions in it, so… why not watch it together?" You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him. "So I can understand the things you like. As long as I'm not taking up your time as much as I already am."
"You're not," he said finally. "You’re not taking up my time." He paused, his thumb resuming its slow circles on your knuckles. "I enjoy spending time with you, M/N. Even when we're just sitting in silence."
Your chest tightened. "Really?"
"Yes."
He looked down at your hands, then back at your face, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I would like to watch Despicable Me with you. I haven't seen it in a while."
"Yeah?" You couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. "Perfect. We can watch it tonight after we get back!”
Isaac nodded. "Tonight, then."
You sat there for a moment longer, hands still clasped,
In the corner, Makoto's pen had finally stopped moving. He was watching you both, his expression unreadable behind those fogged glasses. But for once, you didn't care.
You had a movie to look forward to. And a friend to watch it with.
Wren hummed as he continued to brush his hair in front of the vanity, the soft bristles gliding through his copper-brown strands.
The mirror reflected his own face back at him — He examined himself with the same careful attention he gave everything else in his life, turning his head slightly, checking for imperfections.
Behind him, Luka was draped across Wren's bed like a man possessed.
His tall frame was curled around one of Wren's pillows, his face buried in the fabric, his breath coming in shaky, uneven pulls. Luka held it like it was something sacred.
"Wren," Luka bit his lip, his voice muffled against the pillow, "thank you… so, so much for inviting me over to your dorm." He pulled the pillow closer, inhaling deeply, his dark green eyes fluttering shut. "It drives me crazy to be lying on your bed. I feel so, so lucky to just be in your presence."
Wren hummed, setting down his brush and picking up a small bottle of cologne. He spritzed it on his wrists, then his neck, watching his reflection with detached satisfaction.
“I'm glad," he said, his voice light, almost singsong. "You should be."
Luka's grip on the pillow tightened. "I- I can't help it…" He sat up slightly, his dark hair falling across his face, his cheeks flushed a deep, feverish pink. "Everything about you drives me to the edge. Your scent." He breathed in again, shuddering. "Your eyes. Your soft lips." His gaze dropped to Wren's mouth, hungry and reverent. "Your beautiful smile. Your luscious hair… hm~"
He let out a small, breathy sound — a moan — and pressed his face back into the pillow, as if the very act of describing Wren aloud was too much for him to bear.
Wren sighed, his eyes drifting from his own reflection to meet Luka's in the mirror. His expression was calm, almost bored, "Thank you~" he said, drawing out the word. "You know I don't normally do this."
Luka nodded frantically, his dark green eyes wide and worshipful. "I love you, Wren," he breathed, the words tumbling out like a confession. "You mean so, so much to me. Every step you take makes me weak in my legs." He clutched the pillow to his chest, his knuckles white. "I just can't help but worship the very ground you walk on."
Wren smiled, "Awe, thank you," he said, turning back to his reflection. He ran his fingers through his hair, arranging the strands just so, tilting his head to catch the light. "What else?"
Luka's breath hitched, his fingers curling into the fabric of the pillowcase. He pressed his face deeper into the soft cotton, inhaling slowly, as if the scent alone could sustain him.
His dark green eyes fluttered closed, and a low, shaky sigh escaped his lips.
"Everything," he murmured, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Every little thing you do drives me insane. The way you walk. The way you talk. The way you laugh at your own jokes even when no one else is laughing." He lifted his head just enough to look at Wren's reflection in the vanity mirror, his gaze hungry and adoring. "The way you flip your hair. The way you bite your lip."
Wren's brush paused mid-stroke. He tilted his head, examining his reflection from a different angle, then continued brushing. His expression was placid, but there was a faint curve to his lips — the ghost of a smile, self-satisfied.
"The way you say my name," Luka continued, his voice growing more fervent. He sat up on the bed, clutching the pillow to his chest like a lifeline. "The way it sounds when it leaves your lips — soft and sweet, like honey. I replay it in my head at night. Over and over and over and over and over. I can't sleep without hearing it."
Wren set down his brush and turned on the vanity stool, facing Luka fully. His yellow eyes swept over the other boy — "You're very devoted, Lukie~ I love that.” he observed, tilting his head.
"I would die for you," Luka said, the words tumbling out without hesitation. "I would kill for you. I would burn this entire campus to the ground if you asked me to."
Wren's smile widened, just a fraction. "I know," he said softly. "That's why I keep you around."
Luka's breath caught. His eyes glistened — not with tears, exactly, but with something close. Something raw and feverish and completely unhinged.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for seeing me. For choosing me. For letting me be the one to worship you."
Wren stood up from the vanity and walked toward the bed. He stopped in front of Luka, looking down at him with those bright, unreadable eyes.
"Worship me, then," he said, his voice low. "Show me how grateful you are."
Luka shuddered. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to the mattress, his lips brushing against Wren's shoes.
"Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"
Wren watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached down and ran his fingers through Luka's hair, slow and almost gentle.
"Good boy," he murmured.
Luka trembled beneath his touch, utterly undone.
"So," Wren whispered. His fingers were still tangled in Luka's hair, stroking slowly like he was petting a cat. His yellow eyes gleamed in the dim light, fixed on the top of Luka's bowed head. "I heard you did something to M/N today."
Luka's body went rigid beneath his touch. His forehead was still pressed to the mattress, his lips frozen against the toe of Wren's shoe.
"You love me, right?" Wren continued, his voice soft and tender. His fingers curled slightly, tugging at a strand of Luka's dark hair. "You'd tell me everything, wouldn't you?" He paused, letting the words sink in. "Would you? Tell me what you did."
Luka's breath shuddered out of him. He lifted his head just enough to look up at Wren, his dark green eyes wide and glistening, his lips parted. There was fear there — not of Wren, but of disappointing him. Of losing his favor.
"I... I didn't mean to—" Luka's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I just wanted him to stay away from you. He said he wasn't interested anymore, but I didn't believe him. I thought... I thought he was lying."
Wren's expression didn't change. His fingers continued their slow, rhythmic stroking. "What did you do, Luka?"
Luka's eyes dropped to the floor. His hands were shaking. "I grabbed him. By the collar." His voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't hit him or hurt him. I just... I wanted to scare him. To make him understand that you're mine and I’m yours.”
Wren was quiet for a long moment. The only sound in the room was Luka's ragged breathing.
"Mine," Wren repeated, tasting the word. His fingers stilled in Luka's hair. "You think he's a threat to you?"
Luka nodded frantically, his whole body trembling. "He's always been there. Always watching you. Following you. And now he says he's not interested, but I don't believe him. People don't just change like that, Wren. They don't just stop.”
Wren withdrew his hand from Luka's hair and stepped back. Luka's head lifted, his eyes following Wren's movements like a lost puppy tracking its owner.
"I don't like it," Wren said, his voice flat. "Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?"
Luka's heart lurched. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Wren. I'll never—"
"You'll never do it again," Wren finished for him, his voice cold. "Because if you do, I won't be able to protect you. Do you understand? I’ll never talk to you again and I’ll make sure you’ll never see me.”
Luka nodded, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you. Thank you for forgiving me."
Wren's expression softened just slightly. He reached down and cupped Luka's chin, tilting his face up. "I'm not forgiving you, Lukie~" he said softly. "I'm giving you a chance to earn my forgiveness. There's a difference."
Luka's breath caught. "I'll earn it," he said, his voice fierce. "I'll do anything. Anything you ask."
Wren smiled — that perfect, soft, beautiful smile. "I know you will," he said.
He released Luka's chin and turned back to the vanity, picking up his brush again. In the mirror, his reflection gazed back at him.
Luka stayed on the floor, kneeling by the bed, watching Wren with adoring, desperate eyes.
⤷ TW: Dark romance themes, Yandere/obsessive behavior, extreme codependency, stalking, gaslighting/verbal aggression, breaking and entering, and implications of forced confinement. Please read with caution; this is purely fictional and features highly toxic dynamics.
The first thing you notice when someone is completely dependent on you is how heavy their silence feels. For three long years of university, you had been the only person who could calm Adrian down when his stress levels hit a breaking point. You knew how to talk him out of his worst moods, how to clean up his messy apartment when he forgot to eat for days, and exactly how to fix the problems he constantly created for himself.
But you were never the reason he smiled.
Every late night you spent helping him finish his college projects, every time you cooked for him, and every frantic dawn you spent sitting on his couch listening to his rants was dedicated to someone else. Her name was Maya. She was the popular, pristine girl who treated Adrian like a backup plan, only giving him attention when she needed someone to drive her around, pay for her drinks, or boost her ego. Adrian lived in a complete fog of obsession, totally blind to the fact that while he was chasing a girl who despised him, you were quietly breaking your own heart just to keep his life from falling apart.
You loved him with a quiet, heavy weight that you kept hidden behind a flat, calm face. You swallowed your own feelings every single time he leaned his head on your shoulder and complained about how cold Maya was to him. You convinced yourself that being the person he came home to was better than being nothing at all.
But this endless cycle of fixing his life wasn't just a college habit—it was a routine the two of you had been writing since you were kids.
Long before Adrian became this intense, stressed-out guy, you were just kids sharing a wall in a crumbling neighborhood. His family life was loud and chaotic, and your mom worked constantly. To escape, you and Adrian had built a secret hideout in the narrow gap between your houses, hidden behind overgrown bushes and old wooden crates.
The other kids thought Adrian was weird because he was too quiet and stared too long, but to you, he was just the boy who would sit patiently on the grass for hours while you helped him study or untangled the burs from his hair after he climbed a tree. When you were twelve, he scraped his knees badly trying to walk along a high concrete wall just to prove a point to some bullies.
"You're going to get yourself seriously hurt one day, Ade," you had muttered, cleaning the scrape with a wet napkin.
Adrian hadn’t even flinched at the sting. He had just stared at your face. "Doesn't matter," he replied, his voice cracking. "You're here anyway. You always fix it."
"I won't always be here," you said, trying to make him understand.
But Adrian hadn't smiled. His hands had reached out, tightly gripping the edge of your shirt. "You will," he whispered, looking terrifyingly serious for a kid. "You have to. If you leave, I’ll just stop trying."
As you grew up, that bond didn't break; it just turned into an unhealthy reliance. You went to the same university, lived in apartments just a few blocks apart, and you kept stepping in to rescue him from his own chaotic choices.
Then, your quiet presence became a threat to the girl in the light.
Maya never cared about Adrian, but she cared immensely about Ethan. Ethan was a popular track runner on campus, a genuinely nice guy who ignored every single one of Maya's desperate flirts. Maya couldn't understand why he wasn't interested, until a rainy Tuesday afternoon when she hid behind the library bookshelves and overheard Ethan talking to a friend.
"Maya is just loud," Ethan had said, his voice warm. "But Y/N? There’s something so genuine and strong about her. She doesn't scream for attention, but you can tell she's the kind of person who keeps everything together. I’ve been trying to find an excuse to talk to her for weeks. She's fascinating."
The realization that a nobody—a girl who spent her weekends cleaning up Adrian’s messes—had captured the attention of the only guy Maya actually wanted turned her vanity into pure poison. Maya knew how much you secretly cared about Adrian. It took her less than an hour to create a lie to get you out of the picture.
She lured Adrian to the empty courtyard behind the old gym. Before he arrived, she tore the seams of her own shirt, scratched her own arms until they were red, and unclasped a silver bracelet Adrian had saved up to buy her, throwing it against the concrete.
When Adrian walked around the corner and saw her crying, his protective instincts completely took over his brain. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes wide with instant rage.
"It was Y/N," Maya sobbed, hiding her smug grin against his shoulder. "She found out I talked to you yesterday. She cornered me here and screamed at me. She said she’s been living in your pocket for years, and if I don't leave you alone, she’s going to make sure I regret it. Adrian, she’s insane."
The accusation made no sense, but looking at Maya’s scratched arms and his broken gift triggered a blind, furious delusion in his head. He saw the blood on her skin and felt completely betrayed by the one person he trusted completely.
"She won't touch you again," Adrian whispered, his voice turning freezing cold. "I'll handle it."
The kettle was just beginning to whistle on the stove when Adrian’s front door shattered open.
You were sitting on his kitchen counter, waiting for him. You had brought over groceries because you knew he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. When he stormed into the kitchen, the room instantly lost all its warmth. He didn't look tired or stressed; he looked at you with absolute disgust.
Before you could slide off the counter, he crossed the floor and slammed his hand against the wood right beside your knee so hard the mugs in the cupboard rattled.
"Did you touch her?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
You looked at his angry, bloodshot eyes, keeping your face completely expressionless. "Touch who, Adrian?"
"Don't play dumb with me!" he shouted, lunging forward to bunch the collar of your jacket in his fist, pulling your face close to his. "Maya is sitting in the campus clinic right now, shaking because you cornered her like a crazy animal! You actually thought you could lay your hands on her?"
The hostility in his voice felt like a physical blow, but you forced your face to stay flat. "I haven't seen Maya today. I’ve been here, cooking for you."
"She had the broken bracelet, Y/N! Her arms were scratched!" Adrian hissed, his grip tightening on your collar. "She told me everything. She told me how you’ve been secretly obsessing over me, how you think you own a piece of my life just because you help me out. You actually thought you could threaten her because of your disgusting little crush?"
You looked deeply into his eyes, searching for a single glimpse of the childhood friend you had spent your whole life protecting. There was nothing left. He had completely surrendered to a lie, looking at you like you were trash. The cold truth finally settled in: against Maya’s tears, your entire life of loyalty meant absolutely nothing to him.
"Let go of my jacket, Adrian," you said, your voice entirely flat and empty.
He shoved you back against the wall with a look of pure contempt. "I only kept you around because you were useful," he whispered. "But you're actually just pathetic. You’re desperate, and I never want to see your face near my apartment again. Stay away from me, and if you ever look at Maya again, I’ll make sure you regret it. Get out."
You did not cry. You did not try to explain that Maya's scratches were self-inflicted. You simply stood up, picked up your keys, and walked past him, your face a perfect sheet of ice. You walked out into the cold evening air, pulling the door shut behind you, and you didn't look back.
A full month passed.
At first, Adrian convinced himself he was glad you were gone. He had proven his loyalty to Maya. But as the days turned into weeks, his life completely collapsed into rot. His apartment became an unlivable mess of trash and dirty dishes. He kept trying to manage his university schedule and his meals, but he was completely lost.
Without you sitting in the background waiting to catch him when he stumbled, his daily life felt entirely empty. The manic high he used to get from chasing Maya completely vanished. A sickening, cold dread began to claw at his throat as he realized a terrifying truth: his life only worked because your steady, silent presence had been his anchor. You were the floor beneath his feet, and he had thrown you out like garbage.
And then, he saw you with Ethan.
Adrian was sitting in his car across from a small café near campus when he spotted you through the window. You were wearing a soft sweater, a warm mug of tea in your hands. Sitting directly across from you, leaning in with a gentle, caring smile, was Ethan.
Adrian’s breath hitched. He watched, completely paralyzed, as Ethan reached across the table, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. Ethan spoke softly, and for the first time in years, a genuine, beautiful smile broke across your face. You laughed—a soft, light sound that Adrian realized he hadn't heard you make in a very long time.
A sudden, violent wave of agony ripped through Adrian’s chest. It felt as if his lungs were collapsing. He couldn't draw a breath, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard the plastic began to creak.
Why did it hurt like this? His brain screamed in total confusion. Why did his chest feel like it was being ripped apart just seeing you look at another guy, while looking at Maya now felt like staring at nothing?
A dark, toxic jealousy flooded his system. He didn't care about Maya. He didn't care about his pride. He just wanted to sprint into that café, rip Ethan's hands away from your skin, and drag you back to his apartment where nobody else could ever make you smile.
The confusion drove Adrian completely crazy over the next three days. He followed you like a starving animal, staying far behind you in the shadows as Ethan walked you home, brought you coffee in the morning, and slowly taught you how to trust someone again. Every time he saw you lean into Ethan's space, Adrian felt like he was swallowing broken glass.
He couldn't take it anymore. On the fourth night, he caught Maya leaving a convenience store, cornering her in the dark alleyway behind the building. His eyes were wide, the pupils completely blown.
"Tell me what happened behind the gym," Adrian whispered, his voice dangerous as he stepped directly into her path.
"Adrian, leave me alone," Maya laughed nervously, trying to back away. "I already told you. Your little friend Y/N attack me because she's jealous—"
"You're a liar," Adrian interrupted, his fist slamming into the brick wall right next to her face, the sound echoing loudly. His face was pale, his teeth chattering from pure distress. "I saw her with Ethan. Ethan doesn't look at you, Maya. He looks at her. You didn't care about the bracelet. You used me to get rid of her because your ego couldn't handle that he liked her instead of you."
Maya’s jaw dropped. She tried to push past him, her voice rising into an ugly screech. "So what if I did? She’s a nobody, Adrian! She was basically your servant anyway, cleaning your mess like a pathetic, desperate little—"
She never got to finish the sentence. Adrian didn't touch her, but the look that crossed his face was so terrifyingly dark that her throat closed up in pure survival instinct.
"If you ever say her name again," Adrian growled, looking so insane that she froze, "I will ruin your entire life. Get out of my sight."
Maya scrambled away, fleeing into the street.
Adrian stood alone in the dark, the absolute weight of his own horrible behavior crashing down on him. The realization fractured his mind. You had loved him since you were children. You had protected his secrets and given him your entire youth without ever asking for anything in return. And the moment a liar shed a few tears, he had looked at you with disgust and called you pathetic. He had driven away his only comfort.
The guilt didn't turn into normal sadness. It twisted instantly into a heavy, frantic obsession. He couldn't let Ethan touch you again. He couldn't let you leave him behind in the dirt. He had to fix it. He had to drag you back into his life, no matter what it took.
You were standing in the center of your small apartment, pulling a thick knit cardigan over your shoulders. Your purse was resting on the kitchen counter, and you had just checked the clock. Ethan was supposed to pick you up for a movie in less than ten minutes, and for the first time in months, your chest felt light. The stress of dealing with Adrian had finally faded from your mind.
Then, the heavy wood of your front door violently shattered apart.
The lock blew straight off the frame, the door slamming against the wall as Adrian stormed into your living room. He looked completely unhinged. His clothes were soaked through with rain, his hair was messy across his forehead, and his golden eyes were wide, frantic, and bloodshot.
Before you could scream or reach for your phone, Adrian crossed the room in a single stride. He didn't grab your wrists or push you against the wall. Instead, he collapsed hard onto his knees right at your feet.
His large arms wrapped around your thighs with a crushing intensity, locking you in place. He buried his face directly into the soft wool of your cardigan, and a ragged sob ripped out of his throat. He was trembling so violently that your own legs shook.
"Y/N... Y/N, please," Adrian wept, his voice completely broken. He clung to your legs like a man falling off the edge of a cliff. "Please don't push me away. Don't look at me with that blank face. I know the truth. I know she lied. I know what a monster I am."
You stood entirely frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Get your hands off me, Adrian. Ethan is coming."
The name Ethan caused a sharp, animalistic growl to escape his throat. He tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you down slightly until you couldn't move an inch away from him. He lifted his head, his face drenched in rain and tears, his wide eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying fixation.
"No Ethan," Adrian breathed, his voice cracking with a desperate, heavy reverence that made your skin crawl. "No Maya. No one else. I don't care about anyone else on this earth, Y/N. I saw him touch your face and my chest literally started to rip apart. I couldn't breathe. I realized you're the only person who keeps me human."
He reached his trembling hands up, his fingers bunched in the fabric of your cardigan, pressing his face against your palms. He began to kiss your knuckles with a frantic hunger, his tears hot against your skin.
"You loved me," he whispered, his voice dripping with an intense, suffocating sweetness. "You stayed in my room when everyone else ran away. We've been together since we were kids. And I threw you out for a lie. Punish me. Do whatever you want to make it even. I’ll let you do anything, as long as you look at me the way you used to."
He pressed his forehead back against your knees, his fingers locking behind your waist like iron bands, ensuring you couldn't take a single step toward the door. A small, wild smile broke through his tears.
"I'm never letting you walk away again," Adrian whispered into the quiet room, his voice shaking with an intense, terrifying joy. "I’ll lock this door from the inside, I’ll burn his car to the ground, I’ll make sure no other man ever breathes the same air as you. You are my anchor, Y/N. And from this day on, you stay right here where I can keep you entirely to myself."
A/N: Hi everyone! I am so sorry for the radio silence—it’s been almost a whole week since my last update.
To be completely honest, I had a really hard time finishing this chapter because school has been absolutely kicking my back. I've been incredibly busy with academic stuff lately and barely had any time to sit down and write.
Because of that, I also haven't been opening Tumblr as much right now, so if I haven't replied to your comments or asks yet, that is why 🥹 I genuinely try my best to read and reply whenever I find a spare second, and I appreciate your patience so much.
AVIDITY [BL] || Yandere!Male Characters X Isekai!M!Reader
Avidity : The quality of being extremely eager or interested
One late night, you drift off after binge-reading your favorite horror manga—only to wake up in another world. To your horror, you’ve been reincarnated as a minor side character who was originally killed off by the main protagonist. Determined to survive, you hatch a cunning plan: avoid the protagonist, dodge every love interest, and fade into the background as a forgettable extra. But fate has other plans. One by one, they start noticing you—and your quiet rebellion only makes you more irresistible.
Ch. 08 ; The Truce
Ship names made by my creative friendImaginary phantom
MC X Wren= photobomb
MC X Luka= eye2eye
MC X Takao= Lemondrop
MC X Azure= Los(v)er
MC X Isaac= warm soup
MC X Yufei= Summer storm
Chapter 9
You were lost in your thoughts as you waited at the table in the library, your fingers tapping against the wood.
You constantly checked the time on your phone, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness.
3:04. 3:07. 3:12.
As the time grew longer, your stomach felt heavier and heavier, like you'd swallowed stones.
Not so far from you, tucked into a corner near the biographies, you spotted a dark green-haired male. Your eyes narrowed at him in suspicion. He looked quite familiar — but his face was mostly covered by a large stack of books balanced precariously on his table and his fogged glasses that reflected the light in odd angles.
You noticed him staring at you time to time.
Every few minutes, his head would tilt just slightly in your direction, his eyes hidden behind those smudged lenses. Then he'd quickly go back to scribbling something down in a notebook, or that was what you made out of his movements from this distance.
Sure, you'd had stares here and there from people — you were used to that by now — but this was different. This was lingering... And it was starting to get uncomfortable.
You averted your eyes away and onto your spread out books on your desk, except they were only there for show.
You didn't want to look like an awkward loser sitting there and doing nothing for over thirty minutes, so you'd pulled out a few textbooks from the shelf, opened them to random pages, and pretended to read.
You hadn't absorbed a single word.
Now that reminds me, you thought, frowning to yourself as you checked the time again.
3:31PM.
‘Where the hell is he?’ Your scheduled meeting time had been 3PM. Twenty minutes ago. You'd messaged him twice — no response. You'd waited. You were still waiting. And with every passing minute, your nerves wound tighter and tighter.
You crossed your arms and leaned back in your chair, your eyes drifting toward the windows, toward the door, toward anywhere but the dark green-haired stranger still staring at you from across the library.
You continued to be deep in thought, running through possible conversation starters, possible escape routes, possible ways to keep yourself from panicking.
That was when you felt the presence of a looming figure over you.
The air shifted. The light dimmed slightly, blocked by a tall body stepping into your space. You glanced up — and met your eyes with another pair of dark green eyes.
Not the stranger's. Worse.
You widened your eyes, your heart seizing in your chest, and stood up instantly. A nervous smile plastered itself across your face, so wide it almost hurt.
“Luka! There you are, buddy!" You held out your hand for a handshake, your palm slightly sweaty, your fingers trembling just a little.
Luka stared at it. Then at you. His expression was blank, almost bored.
"Oh right.. haha, germs, am I right?" You nervously chuckled, retracting your hand and wiping it on your pants.
Luka continued to stare at you, his brows furrowing slightly. The silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant sound of pages turning somewhere in the stacks.
"Uhm, have a seat?" Your hand presented to the seat across from yours, an offering, a peace treaty.
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Alright.. so have a stand!" You let out a nervous laughter that died almost immediately when Luka's expression didn't change.
"You unblocked me to have a talk," he said, his voice low and even. "So talk."
You swallowed hard, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Yeah, you're so right. I'm no longer interested in Wren. He's all yours."
"Yeah sure."
"I'm not kidding."
Luka's eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. "You've been obsessed with him since we were kids. You made people's lives hell if they so much as looked at him." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, your thighs hitting the edge of the table. "What makes you think I will believe your stupid lie?"
"I'm not lying, Luka." You held his gaze, even though every instinct was screaming at you to look away. "I'm seriously no longer interested in Wren."
"Why?"
"Gee, I don't know?" You ran a hand through your hair, searching for words that wouldn't sound fake.
"I.. got help over time and I realized how tiring it is. My deranged behavior ruined me and I don't want to be like that anymore." Your voice dropped, quieter now. "I know what people think of me and it's been so hard."
"That's easy for you to say, M/N." Luka's jaw tightened. "I was one of your victims."
You flinched — just slightly — but you didn't look away. "And I am super sorry for that, Luka." Your voice was earnest, pleading.
"What can I do to fix this mess?"
Luka frowned, his dark green eyes searching your face for something — a sign that you were mocking him.
Did you seriously think he was that stupid to fall for your lie? His hands clenched at his sides, his fists tightening harder and harder until his knuckles went white.
"Quit the act," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I know this is just one of your strategies to get closer to Wren, isn't it?"
You remained calm, even as your heart pounded against your ribs.
"No, Luka. It isn't. I'm not playing a game." You held your hands up, palms out. "Please, let's just come to civil terms and stop this war between us. There's nothing for you to find if you keep watching me to slip up."
Luka stared at you for a long moment. His anger didn't disappear — but it shifted.
His brow furrowed deeper, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was confused now. Frustrated. He didn't know what to do with someone who wouldn't fight back.
"So uh," you said, your voice small, "are we cool now? Truce?”
Something snapped.
Suddenly, Luka gripped your collar.
His fingers twisted into the fabric of your shirt, yanking you forward until you were inches from his face. His breath was hot against your skin, his dark green eyes blazing with something that wasn't quite anger anymore — something wilder but you couldn't put a name on it.
"You think this is a game?" he hissed.
Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to grab his wrists, "No," you whispered. "I don't think this is a game. I think you're scared!”
Luka froze.
His grip loosened — just slightly enough for you to breathe.
"I'm not scared of you," you continued, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. "I'm scared for you. You've wrapped your entire existence around someone who doesn't even see you. And one day, Luka, he's going to look at someone else — someone who isn't you — and you're going to have nothing left."
The library was silent. The dark green-haired stranger had stopped pretending to write.
Luka's hands fell away. He stepped back, his chest heaving, his eyes wide.
"You don't know anything about me," he said.
"I know enough."
Luka stared at you for one more heartbeat. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps sharp against the floor, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
You stood there for a moment, your heart pounding, your shirt wrinkled where his fingers had been.
Then you sank back into your chair and let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.
You stood there, your legs suddenly felt like jelly as you tried your best to stay upright.
Your knees wobbled beneath you, threatening to buckle, and you gripped the edge of the table so hard your knuckles went white.
Your exhales came out weak and shaky, ragged little gasps that barely seemed to reach your lungs, as if there was something heavy pressing against your chest, blocking your airway.
You felt your hands shaking — not a subtle tremor, but a violent, uncontrollable shudder that rattled up your arms and into your shoulders.
You looked down at your palms and watched them twitch like they belonged to someone else.
Suddenly, your vision wasn't so clear anymore.
The edges of the library blurred, the books on the shelves melting into smudges of color, the sunlight from the windows fragmenting into dizzying patterns.
You didn't know why you felt like this all of a sudden.
Your brain couldn't catch up with your body, it couldn't process what was happening fast enough to stop it.
You weren't exactly harmed — Luka hadn't hit you, hadn't cut you, hadn't left a single mark on your skin. But whatever he had done, whatever that moment of fury and fear had been, it scared the shit out of you.
You didn't know whether or not you had messed up.
Your conversation with Luka replayed in your head on a loop. Had you pushed too far? Had you said the wrong thing? Were you going to die?
The thought slammed into you like a freight train. No, you couldn't die. You were only just adjusting to this new world — this strange, terrifying, beautiful world that wasn't yours but had become yours anyway.
You couldn't die. You refused to die. But what was going to happen now? What was Luka going to do? What if he came back? What if he told Wren? What if—
A loud ringing went on and on in your ear, piercing and relentless, drowning out every other sound.
The library faded away. All you could hear was that noise, that horrible noise, and your own heartbeat pounding faster and faster and faster.
You felt yourself lowering down to your knees.
The movement was slow, almost gentle, like your body was trying to let you down easy.
Your lips were quivering. Sweat began to build at the side of your face, dripping down your temples, mixing with something wet on your cheeks that you didn't recognize at first.
"Oi — are you okay?"
Footsteps. Someone was coming closer, their shoes squeaking against the floor.
"M/N? M/N, can you hear me?"
The voice was distant, like hearing someone call to you from underwater.
You couldn't respond. You couldn't move.
‘I don't want to die’, you thought, the words echoing in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your brain. ‘I don't want to die. Not yet. Please. I don't want to die.’
Hot tears spilled from your eyes — cutting tracks down your cheeks, dripping off your chin onto the carpet below. You hadn't even noticed you were crying. You hadn't noticed a lot of things.
"I don't want to die," you heard yourself say. The words came out broken, barely a whisper. "I don't want to die."
A pair of hands gently gripped your shoulders. "Hey, hey, look at me. You're okay. You're okay."
The voice was familiar. You couldn't place it — you couldn't think, you couldn't breathe .
"Can you hear my voice? Just focus on my voice, okay? Breathe in and out. Like this." The person inhaled slowly, deeply, and you felt the pressure of their hands on your shoulders rise and fall with their chest. "Come on. Try with me."
I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Not yet. Please. I don't want to die.
You tried to breathe. You really did. You gulped air into your lungs, but it felt like swallowing sand. You felt tears streaming out of your eyes, hot and relentless, and you couldn't make them stop.
You felt lightheaded all of a sudden, the room spinning around you, the voice fading in and out like a radio losing signal.
And then, slowly, everything went dark.
You blacked out completely.
Your eyes snapped open in an instant, the world rushing back in a disorienting blur of light and shadow.
You sat up — too fast — and immediately winced in pain as the surroundings spun all around you.
You pressed a hand to your forehead, willing everything to stop moving.
"M-M/N?" Azure's voice cut through the fog, high and trembling.
His eyes widened as he woke up instantly — had he been sleeping beside you? — and scrambled to his feet. "O-oh my go-gosh, M/N! Ca-can yo-you hear, er, m-me?!" He got in front of you and waved his hand back and forth, his fingers blurring with motion.
Your throat felt dry. Like you'd swallowed a mouthful of dust and hadn't had water in days.
Your hands were sweaty, clammy, leaving damp prints on the thin blanket covering your legs. Everything felt sweaty — your face, your neck, the back of your shirt.
‘This mattress feels so scratchy…’
Azure quickly poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand, his hands trembling so badly that water sloshed over the rim.
He carefully handed it to you, guiding your fingers around the glass, and helped you drink it slowly — small sips,, his bright blue eyes never leaving your face.
"A-are you hur-hurt?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Y-you're safe now!"
He set the empty glass down and went to the nearby window, fumbling with the latch before pushing it open. Fresh air rushed in — cool and clean and alive.
You breathed it in. Once. Twice. Your lungs expanded, and for the first time since waking up, you felt like you could think.
"Where.. am I?" you asked, your voice hoarse and unfamiliar.
"Y-you-you're in, er, the infi-infirmary r-right now." Azure returned to your side, hovering like a worried mother hen. "It-it's okay, M-M/N! You're s-safe here."
"How did I get here?" You rubbed your temples, trying to piece together the fragments of memory.
"We-well, Ta-Takao car-carried you here!" Azure's words tumbled out in a rush. "I-I s-saw h-him, er, o-on his wa-way and fo-followed." His lower lip trembled. "I'm- I'm so so-sorry, M/N!"
"Sorry?" You blinked at him, confused. "Why are you sorry?"
Azure's face crumpled. "I sh-should've b-been th-there! I sh-should've come w-with you! I kn-knew L-Luka was d-dangerous and I—" His voice broke, and he pressed his hands over his face, shoulders shaking.
You reached out — slowly and carefully — and rested your hand on his arm. "Azure. It's not your fault."
"But I—"
"It's not your fault," you repeated, firmer this time. "I asked you to wait outside. Remember? I said I needed to talk to him alone."
Azure lowered his hands, his eyes red and glistening. "I sh-should've said no."
"And I would've argued." You attempted a small smile, though it felt weak on your face. "You can't protect me from everything, Azure. Nobody can."
He sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "I c-can try."
"That's very sweet of you." Your hand slipped from his arm and fell back to the cot. "Where's Takao now?"
Azure glanced toward the door. "He, er, he went to g-get the n-nurse. An-and to fi-fill out some p-paperwork." He paused, his brow furrowing. "He l-looked r-really worried, M/N. I've n-never, er, s-seen him like th-that before."
You stared at the ceiling, processing this. Takao? Worried?? About you???
"Can you help me sit up more?" you asked. "I feel like I'm drowning in this cot."
Azure nodded quickly and grabbed a pillow from the adjacent cot, stuffing it behind your back. You leaned into it, grateful for the support, and let out a long, slow breath.
The infirmary was quiet — it was just the two of you.
"I'm sorry I scared you," you said quietly.
"D-don't be-be sorry." Azure pulled a chair close to your cot and sat down, his knees almost touching the mattress. "J-just l-let me er,-he-help you.."
"Hm."
Azure's lips pressed into a thin line. "P-promise m-me."
You looked at him — at his trembling hands, his worried eyes, the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks.
This boy who had been bullied and broken and taught to expect the worst from people. This boy who had still followed Takao to the infirmary because he was worried about you.
"I promise," you said.
Azure nodded, satisfied, and leaned back in his chair. He didn't leave. He just sat there, keeping watch, his hand resting on the edge of your cot like a silent vow.
And for a little while, neither of you spoke.
"Thi-this is prob-probably not the-the best, er, time…" Azure's voice wavered, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He kept his gaze fixed on his lap, cheeks flushing a deep pink that crawled all the way to the tips of his ears.
"But I-i got o-our wii's, er, to-to fall in-inlove in Tomogachi life!"
You blinked at him, the weight in your chest loosening just a fraction.
The infirmary still smelled like antiseptic and clean sheets. Your body still ached with the aftermath of whatever had happened in the library.
But Azure was sitting beside you, holding his switch like it was a fragile treasure.
You smiled —, small but genuine. "Did you? That's great, Princess."
Azure's blush deepened impossibly further. He ducked his head, curls falling over his forehead, and shoved his switch toward you.
On the screen, two pixelated creatures were nuzzling each other under a tiny digital tree. Hearts floated above their heads.
"I-i've been tr-trying for w-weeks," Azure mumbled, peeking at you through his bangs. "Th-they ke-kept f-fighting."
"Sounds familiar."
Azure's head shot up, his eyes wide. Then, slowly, a shy smile spread across his face. "Y-yeah," he said softly. "I gu-guess it d-does."
You looked at the screen again. The pixelated creatures were holding hands now, their little faces pressed together.
"What did you name them?" you asked.
Azure hesitated. His fingers tightened around his switch. "I, er… I n-named one A-Azure."
"And the other?"
He didn't answer. His blush spread down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
A cough caught your attention, cutting through the soft quiet of the infirmary.
You turned your head toward the door, and there stood Takao.
He had his brows furrowed, deep lines etched into his forehead, and his eyes were fixed onto you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
You couldn't tell if he was frustrated, or sad, or stressed — maybe all three at once. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders tense, and his hands hung stiffly at his sides like he didn't quite know what to do with them.
"Takao..?" Your voice came out smaller than you intended.
He didn't respond right away. He just stood there, staring at you, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
Azure glanced between the two of you, his hands still clutching his switch to his chest like a shield.
He could feel the tension thick in the air, pressing down on all of you. Quietly, he slid off his chair.
"I-i'll g-go ch-check on the n-nurse," Azure mumbled, slipping past Takao and out the door. It clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly too-empty room.
And then it was just you and Takao.
He didn't move from the door at first. He just stood there, his dark blue eyes boring into yours, his expression unreadable.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he spoke.
"You scared the shit out of me, you fucking asshole."
You winced, your shoulders hunching. "Uh, sorry."
"What the hell happened?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you say? ‘I had a panic attack because Luka grabbed my collar and I thought I was going to die?’ It sounded ridiculous even in your own head.
Takao pushed off from the door and walked toward you slowly. He stopped at the foot of your cot, his hands gripping the metal railing so hard his knuckles went white.
"I found you on the floor," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. The words came out clipped, like he was forcing them through a clenched jaw.
“You were shaking. And crying. You wouldn't respond to anything I said." He paused, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought — I didn't know what to do."
You looked away, staring at your hands resting in your lap. Your fingers were still slightly pale, the skin cool to the touch. "I'm fine now."
"No, you’re fucking not!”
"I'm getting there."
Takao's grip on the railing tightened. The metal creaked faintly under his palms.
"Don't give me that bullshit. You were on the floor, M/N. You were Unresponsive. Murmuring shit about not wanting to die." His voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, just enough for you to notice.
“What the hell happened?"
You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to lift even though they felt heavy as lead. "Stress. About school. I was studying and I—"
"What kinda stress fucking leads you to murmuring you not wanting to die?" Takao cut you off, his voice sharp. He released the railing and stepped closer, looming over you, his shadow falling across the cot.
"Huh? Is there someone out there? Someone threatening you?"
Your breath caught. You looked up at him, you noticed the way his dark blue eyes seemed to burn with something that looked almost like fear.
"No," you said. "No one's threatening me."
"Then why—"
"It was just a panic attack, Takao." You kept your voice steady, even though your heart was racing. "I get them sometimes. It's not a big deal."
Takao stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face for something. His chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, and you could see him fighting to keep his composure.
"That's not a normal panic attack," he said finally, his voice quieter.
"It was for me."
Takao didn't look convinced. But he didn't push further. He just stood there, hovering over you.
"You should sit down," you said. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm not the one who passed out on a library floor."
"And yet you look worse than I feel."
Takao's eye twitched. But after a moment, he pulled the chair Azure had been sitting in closer to your cot and dropped into it heavily, the legs scraping against the floor. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze still fixed on you.
"Don't do that again," he said.
"Do what?"
"Scare me like that."
You blinked at him, surprised by the bluntness of his words. "I'll try not to."
"You're such an ass," Takao said, his voice flat but lacking real venom. "I fucking hate you."
You rolled your eyes, "Okay, sorry."
"I didn't mean that."
"Mhm." You weren't sure if you believed him, but you didn't have the energy to argue. "So what time is it?"
Takao blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift, then glanced down at his watch. The silver band glinted under the infirmary lights. "It's 5PM."
"Shit." Your body moved before your brain could catch up. You swung your legs over the side of the cot, the thin blanket pooling around your hips, and planted your feet on the cold floor. "I have volleyball practice at 4."
Takao's hand shot out, pressing against your shoulder, pushing you back down before you could stand. "You're not going anymore."
"I can't be late!" You tried to shove his hand away, but he didn't budge. His grip was firm.
"Oi." His voice dropped to something low and serious. "You need to rest, you dumbass. You fainted like an hour ago."
"I need to go." You looked up at him, your eyes wide, pleading. "Yufei and Naoko are waiting for me—"
"Then they can wait longer." Takao's jaw was set, his dark blue eyes hard. "Or they can practice without you for one day. You're not invincible, M/N.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off.
"You passed out. On the floor In the library." His voice cracked again, just a little, just enough to make your chest ache. "Do you understand how fucking terrifying that was? I thought—" He stopped, swallowed, looked away. "Just stay. Please."
The word hung in the air between you.
You stared at him. At the tension in his shoulders, the furrow in his brow, the way his hand was still pressed against your shoulder like he was afraid you'd collapse again if he let go.
"Fine," you said quietly. "But text Yufei for me. Tell him I'm sick."
Takao stared at you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign that you were lying, that you were planning to bolt the second he turned his back.
Then he nodded, pulled out his phone, and started typing.
You leaned back against the pillow, the fight draining out of you, and let yourself breathe.
You checked your phone and immediately winced at the screen. A flood of notifications stared back at you.
Yufei : M/NNNNN WHY AR YOU LATE?????
Yufei: HELLOOOO M/N
Yufei: M/N
Yufei: M/N
Yufei: M/N
Yufei: ARE YOU COMING OR NOT
Yufei: HELLO :(
Yufei: PLS WHERE R U
Yufei: WHEN ARE YOU COMING
Yufei: I MISS YOU PLS DONT LEAVE USSSSS
Yufei: M/NNNN
You scrolled further. And further. He'd sent nearly 80 messages in the span of an hour, each one more desperate than the last.
A few from Naoko were mixed in — but the majority of the chaos was purely Yufei.
Naoko: Hey, M/N. I heard what happened. Please hydrate yourself and rest plenty! 😿
And then you saw them.
Wren: I noticed you weren't at practice today. Are you feeling alright?
Wren: I saved you some water bottles in case you come tomorrow.
Wren: Hope everything is okay, M/N ❤️ I’ll bring you something :)
You stared at the little red heart at his message. Something cold settled in your stomach, chasing away the warmth that Yufei's nonsense had brought.
"That bad?" Takao's voice came from beside you, low and dry.
You turned your phone toward him so he could see the screen. His eyes scanned the messages, his expression shifting from curiosity to mild horror to something that looked almost like sympathy.
"Your friends are insane," he said.
"Yufei isn't usually this bad," you mumbled, though you weren't sure that was true. You'd only known him for a day. Maybe this was just his normal.
"And Wren?" Takao's voice was carefully neutral.
You locked your phone and set it face-down on the cot. "I don't want to talk about Wren."
Takao didn't push. He just nodded, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You should probably text them back," he said after a moment. "Before Yufei pulls up here with a search party."
You groaned, picking your phone back up. "Don't give him ideas."
You tapped onto Yufei's contact and typed something quick, your thumbs moving sluggishly across the screen.
You: Hey, sorry, I'm not feeling well.
The response came in less than three seconds.
Yufei: WHAT?? ARRY YOM OKAY
Yufei: ARE YKUK HFURT?
Yufei: WHE RE SRE YKU
You stared at the messages, deciphering them like a cryptic code. Your head still ached, but you couldn't help the small snort that escaped you.
You: how are you texting in practice?
A pause. Then:
Yufei: IM HIDINGN FROM NSOKO RN
Yufei: SHES CLAKIHGNIUT NMYN NAME WAIT
Yufei: SOS
Takao leaned over, peeking at your screen. His brow furrowed. "Is he having a stroke?"
"No," you said, though you weren't entirely sure. "I think he's just running from Naoko."
Another message came through, slightly more coherent this time.
Yufei: OK IM IN THE BATHROOM NOW
Yufei: ARE YOU OKAY??? DO YOU NEED ME TO COME OVER??? I CAN BRING YOU SOUP. I DONT KNOW HOW TO MAKE SOUP BUT I CAN TRY. OR I CAN BUY SOUP. OR I CAN JUST COME OVER AND NOT BRING SOUP. DO YOU WANT ME TO COME OVER??
You smiled despite yourself. The panic in his texts was almost endearing, it wasn’t something you were used to receiving.
You: I'm fine. Just resting :P Go back to practice before Naoko kills you lmao
Yufei: BUT WHAT IF YOU DIE AND I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN
You: I'm not going to die lol
Yufei: YOU DONT KNOW THAT
Yufei: PROMISE ME YOU WONT DIE
You stared at the screen. Takao was watching you, his expression unreadable.
You: I promise.
Yufei: OK
Yufei: I BELIEVE YOU
Yufei: BUT IF YOU DIE IM GONNA BE SO MAD AT YOU
Yufei: GET BETTER SOON OK??? I MISS YOU ALREADY. PRACTICE IS BORING WITHOUT YOU. YUFEI'S HAMSTRING HELL ISNT THE SAME WITHOUT YOU THERE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT IT
Yufei: OK NAOKO IS COMING I GOTTA GO
Yufei: BYE BEST FRIEND
Yufei: I DECIDED YOURE MY BEST FRIEND NOW BTW
Yufei: NO TAKE BACKS
Yufei: AAAAAAAAAA SHES HITTING ME
You locked your phone and set it down, the warmth in your chest spreading despite everything.
"You're smiling," Takao said.
"Shut up."
He didn't. But he didn't say anything else either. He just sat there, beside you, as the afternoon light faded into evening.
"Thank you, by the way," you said, your voice softer now. The words felt small in the quiet of the infirmary, but you meant them. "I hope I wasn't heavy at all."
Takao grumbled, his gaze fixed on the far wall instead of looking at you. "It didn't matter at the time."
You sighed, letting the silence settle for a moment. "Well, guess I'll just wait here until I get discharged by the nurse."
Takao nodded.
The quiet stretched between you again, but it wasn't uncomfortable anymore. You watched the shadows lengthen across the floor, listened to the distant murmur of the campus outside, and tried not to think about Luka's hands on your collar.
Then Takao moved.
He reached into his jacket pocket — the worn black one with the ripped lining — and pulled out a small bundle of yarn and a crochet hook. The yarn was a deep burgundy color, soft and slightly fuzzy, wrapped carefully around itself to keep from tangling. The hook was plain, silver, nothing special.
You blinked. "What's that?"
Takao's shoulders tensed. He didn't look at you, his dark blue eyes fixed on the yarn in his hands. "Oi, that's none of ya business."
"Well, it's in full display in front of me."
"I.. crochet sometimes." His voice was low, almost defensive, like he was admitting to something shameful rather than a harmless hobby. "To kill time."
You stared at him. At his rough hands, his calloused fingers, at the way he held the hook — carefully, like he'd done this a billion times before.
"Huh," you said. "That's pretty… unexpected of you."
"I know what you're thinking."
"I doubt it."
"You're thinking it's weird."
"No!” You shook your head, your voice quiet. "I'm thinking it's kind of cool, actually.”
Takao's head snapped toward you, surprise flickering across his face before he quickly looked away. His ears were red. You pretended not to notice.
"Just don't tell anyone," he muttered, his fingers already working the yarn into the beginning of a loop. "I have a reputation."
"Yeah," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Wouldn't want people to know you have hobbies that don't involve violence."
"Shut up."
You didn't. But you also didn't say anything else. You just watched his hands move — the hook sliding through the loops, the yarn twisting into neat, even stitches — and let the quiet settle around you both.
"What are you crocheting?" You tilted your head, trying to make sense of the shape forming beneath his fingers. It was still loose andd shapeless, but you could see the beginnings of something taking form.
"A Hyacinth," Takao said without looking up.
"A what?"
"It's a flower, dumbass." His voice was flat, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion, maybe.
"Oh." You watched his hands move — the hook dipping and looping, the burgundy yarn twisting into something that might eventually resemble petals. "Is it the loofa looking one?"
Takao's fingers paused for just a fraction of a second. "I guess, bro. I guess."
You hummed, leaning back against your pillow. The infirmary had grown darker as the afternoon faded, Somewhere outside, you could hear students laughing and shit chatting.
"Where'd you learn how to crochet like that?" you asked.
"Ms. Harper taught me."
"Ah, the librarian?"
"Who else, dumbass?" Takao's eyes flicked up to meet yours for just a moment, a hint of exasperation in his gaze, before dropping back to his work.
You rolled your eyes, "Well, that's nice of her. I don't know any hobbies that I can do."
The words hung in the air between you. You hadn't meant them as a plea, or even as a question — just an observation of something you'd been feeling ever since you woke up in this strange new world. Everyone around you seemed to have something. Yufei had volleyball. Azure had his games. Takao had his crochet, hidden away like a secret weapon.
You had nothing.
"I can teach you."
You blinked. Takao's voice had been low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room. His hands had stilled on the yarn, and he was staring at the half-formed flower in his lap like it had personally offended him.
"Huh?" You straightened up, your heart doing something strange in your chest. "I didn't hear you."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes. You. Did." Takao's jaw tightened, and his ears were definitely red now, visible even in the dim light. "Don't make me say it again."
You stared at him. "Okay," you said softly. "I'd like that."
Takao didn't respond. He just picked up his yarn again, his hook sliding back into the loops, and continued working on his hyacinth like the conversation had never happened.
But you noticed he was sitting a little closer than before. And you didn't move away.
Your phone buzzed with a new notification, the screen lighting up against the dim infirmary air. You glanced down, already half-expecting another frantic message from Yufei or maybe Azure checking in.
"Who is it now?" you muttered, turning the phone toward you.
Takao was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he said, "Is he always like this?"
"No," you said, still staring at your phone. "This is new."
"Huh."
You locked your phone and set it aside, suddenly exhausted in a different way. Isaac meant well. You knew he meant well. But his version of "spicing up" his texting was somehow more exhausting than a normal conversation.
"Your friends are weird," Takao said, picking up his crochet hook again.
"You're one to talk."
"I'm not your friend."
"Could've fooled me."
Takao didn't respond. But he didn't deny it either. He just kept crocheting, his hyacinth slowly taking shape beneath his fingers, the burgundy yarn catching the fading light.
"Isaac and I had a.. strange past, actually." Takao's voice was low, almost a murmur, like he was speaking more to himself than to you.
You raised your brow at him, your attention sharpening. "Really?"
Takao shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Ah, forget it. I don't want to involve you in it."
"Why do you always do this?" You sat up straighter, frustration prickling beneath your skin. "You bring something up, and when I ask you about it, you tell me to brush it off."
"Some words just slip before I can take them back." He wouldn't look at you. His fingers had stilled on the crochet hook, the burgundy yarn hanging loose and forgotten.
"Well, now I'm curious." You leaned forward, ignoring the way your head still throbbed. "Isaac could be a serial killer for all I know, and you could be keeping this from me!"
"Oi!" Takao's head snapped toward you, his dark blue eyes flashing. "It's nothing like that, dumbass!"
"Then what is it like?"
Takao hesitated. The silence stretched between you, filled with something unspoken.
You softened your voice. "Wait, Takao. I won't force you into telling me."
"Nah, it's just.." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping. "I do want to."
"Oh, uh, alright." You settled back against your pillow, giving him space. "Take your time."
Takao stared at the half-formed hyacinth in his hands.
"Would it be surprising," he said finally, "if I told you that Isaac isn't what you think he is?"
Your heart stuttered. "What do you... mean?"
"Everybody doesn't know what he's done." Takao's voice was flat, carefully controlled. "But I remembered. Everything." He paused, his fingers tightening around the crochet hook. "He managed to cover up his past quite well, didn't he?"
"Takao, what are you—"
A knock on the door cut you off.
You both turned.
Wren stood in the doorway, his copper-brown hair catching the dim light from the hallway. He was still wearing his manager's polo, the whistle still hanging around his neck, and his bright yellow eyes were fixed on you with an expression of soft concern.
"M/N," he said, his voice warm and gentle. "Oh my goodness, I hope you're feeling better."
"Wren? What are you—"
"I excused myself early today," Wren said, stepping further into the room. "So I figured you'd be here." He stopped at the foot of your cot, his bright eyes scanning your face, your body, your hands. "How are you feeling?!"
You glanced at Takao, who was still sitting in his chair, his crochet hook frozen mid-stitch. Wren followed your gaze, his smile never wavering.
"Hey," Wren said, his tone light, almost casual. "Could you please leave for a moment?"
Takao's jaw tightened. His dark blue eyes flicked to you. You gave him a small nod. It's fine. I'll be fine.
Takao grumbled something under his breath, shoving his yarn and hook into his jacket pocket. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked toward the door. He paused beside Wren, his shoulder brushing against the other boy's, and shot him a look that could have curdled milk.
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.
Fuck.
It was just you and Wren now.
The infirmary felt smaller somehow, the walls pressing in, the air thicker. Wren walked around to the side of your cot, his footsteps light against the floor, and stood beside you, looking down at your face with that same soft, worried expression.
"M/N," he said, reaching out — fast — and touching your forehead with the back of his hand. His skin was cool against yours, his fingers gentle.
You flinched. The motion was small, barely noticeable, but Wren's hand hovered in the air for a moment before dropping back to his side. He didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just chose not to.
"You're warm," he murmured.
"Wren, you should go."
"M/N, please." He pulled the chair Takao had been sitting in closer to your cot and sat down, his knees almost touching the mattress. "Let me stay with you for a while."
"What about Luk—"
"No." Wren's voice was sharper now, firmer. "I'm not leaving." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. "Do you have any idea how worried sick I was for you? I even left practice early as a manager to check up on you." His bright eyes met yours, and there was something in them you hadn't seen before. "Please. Just let me be here for you. At your lowest."
He reached out and took your hand, lifting it, pressing your palm against his cheek. His skin was warm, smoother than you expected, and his eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, like your touch was something precious.
You didn't pull away. You couldn't.
"Have you seen Luka today?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.
Wren's eyes opened. He blinked, confused by the shift in topic. "Uh... no. Why?" His brow furrowed. "Did something happen?"
You sighed to yourself, your gaze dropping to your hands — to his hands, still wrapped around yours. Wren already knew about Takara's and Luka's rivalry. It wasn't a secret. Everyone knew. And maybe, this was your chance to make things right, to set the record straight! To free yourself from all of this.
"I know that my past with you has been nothing but... weird and uncomfortable," you said slowly, choosing your words with care.
Wren blinked. "Y-Yeah...?"
You took a breath. "Over the break, I decided to get professional help."
The lie tasted strange on your tongue, but it was plausible. People changed. People grew. People went to therapy and worked on themselves and came out the other side different.
Wren's brow furrowed deeper. "...what?"
"Yeah." You nodded, trying to look earnest like you believed what you were saying. "I learned that my actions and life-long obsession with you were unhealthy. And I no longer want to be that person anymore." You pulled your hand back from his cheek, letting it fall to your lap. "I tried telling Luka I wasn't interested in you, but he didn't seem to buy it. So I was thinking maybe you could try to convince him th—"
"You're no longer... interested in me..?" Wren's voice cracked on the last word.
"Yeah!" You nodded, relieved that he seemed to be catching on. "Romantically. Anyway, so could you tell Luka that—"
"How come you're no longer interested in me?!"
You blinked, startled by the sharpness in his voice. "What? Romantically, yeah!"
"Wh-what?" Wren's hands gripped the edge of the cot, his knuckles going white. "What do you mean? You don't love me anymore?"
"Wren—"
"What did I do wrong?" His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, his bright eyes wide and glistening. "Is it how I look? Am I no longer attractive? Did you find someone else?" He was leaning closer, his face inches from yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Is it Takao? Is it Azure? Is it—"
"Woah, woah!" You held up your hands, palms out, trying to create some distance between you and the frantic energy rolling off Wren in waves. "Don't take it personal. You're a great guy. Everybody loves you." The words felt hollow on your tongue, even though they were true. Wren was loved — adored, worshipped, put on a pedestal by practically everyone who crossed his path.
"I just want to make things right. I don't want to torment you anymore."
Wren stared at you. His chest was heaving, his bright eyes wide and wet, and his hands were still gripping the edge of your cot like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
"Torment me?" he repeated, his voice small. "You never tormented me, M/N."
"I followed you everywhere. I scared off anyone who looked at you. I made your life—"
"You made my life interesting." Wren's voice cracked. He reached out again, his fingers brushing against yours, hesitant, almost shy. "Everyone else just... agrees with me. Smiles at me. Says yes to everything I ask. But you..." He swallowed hard. "You saw me. Even when I was pretending to be fine, you saw right through it. You always knew when something was wrong."
You didn't know what to say to that. The words lodged in your throat, thick and heavy.
"I don't want you to change," Wren continued, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I don't want you to stop loving me. I don't care if it's unhealthy or weird or whatever your therapist said. I needyou, M/N. I need you to keep looking at me like I'm the only person in the world."
Your heart was pounding. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. Wren was supposed to be relieved — happy, even — that his obsessive stalker had finally backed off. He was supposed to thank you and walk away and never look back!
Instead, he was sitting here, holding your hand, looking at you like you were the one slipping away.
"Wren," you said softly, "you don't need me. You have Luka. You have your fans. You have—"
"I don't want Luka." The words came out sharp, almost angry, and Wren's eyes widened as if he surprised even himself. He looked down at your intertwined fingers, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I don't want any of them. I want you."
The infirmary was silent. Somewhere outside, the world kept spinning, but in here, time had stopped.
"You should go," you whispered.
Wren shook his head. "No."
"Wren—"
"No." He looked up at you, and there were tears in his eyes now — real ones, glistening on his lashes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. "I'm not leaving you again. I've spent this whole week watching you drift away, and I'm not going to let it happen anymore."
He squeezed your hand.
"I'm going to prove it to you, M/N. I'm going to show you that you don't need to change. That you don't need to push me away." His voice dropped, low and fierce. "And I'm going to start by figuring out what Luka did to you. Because I know he did something. And when I find out..." His jaw tightened. "He's going to wish he never touched you."
Your blood ran cold.
"Wren, don't—"
But he was already standing, already walking toward the door, already pulling out his phone.
"Get some rest," he said, his voice light again, like nothing had happened.
He smiled at you — that perfect, soft, beautiful smile — and walked out the door.
And you were alone.
You sighed as you finally arrived at your dorm, your legs heavy and your body still buzzing with the remnants of the day's chaos.
The hallway was quiet at this hour, most students already settled into their rooms for the evening. You checked the time on your phone — 7:12PM. Hours had passed since the infirmary, since Wren, since everything, but it still felt like the afternoon had barely ended.
You used your ID to swipe open the dorm room door, the familiar click of the lock echoing in the quiet space.
The living room was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner, its warm glow casting long shadows across the floor.
Isaac was there, swinging back and forth on his chair, the old wood creaking softly with each motion. He had a book open in his lap — thick and academic-looking — but his eyes weren't on the pages.
They were fixed on the door, waiting.
When he saw you, his whole body stilled. His shoulders relaxed, his grip on the book loosened, and a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours escaped him in a quiet sigh.
He snapped his head to look at you, his grey eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hands — checking for injuries, for signs of distress, for anything out of place.
Then he let out a sigh of relief. He set the book aside and walked toward you, his footsteps soft against the floor. "M/N, you're here."
"Yeah," you said, kicking off your shoes by the door. "The nurse discharged me."
Isaac's brow furrowed. "Are you okay? I hope you didn't go to volleyball practice right after." He paused, then added, almost sheepishly, "I checked the schedule."
You blinked at him, caught off guard. "I was planning to, but I didn't." You tilted your head. "And you checked the schedule?"
Isaac's expression didn't waver. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're my roommate. I like to know where you are." He paused, his grey eyes softening. "You don't have to tell me what happened. But don't lie about it."
You were quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you. Then, slowly, you spoke. "It all started when I talked to Luka."
Isaac's eyebrows rose, surprise flickering across his usually stoic face. "Luka?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the back of the couch. "Why?"
"To tell him I was done with Wren." You walked over to the couch and sank into the cushions, the familiar fabric soft against your tired body. "I didn't want to deal with the fighting anymore."
Isaac nodded slowly, processing this. "How did he take it?"
"Badly."
"I'm not surprised." Isaac's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Luka doesn't trust anyone." He paused, tilting his head. "But he's not unreasonable. Give him time."
You looked up at him. "You know him?"
"I know of him." Isaac walked around the couch and sat down beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you. "Student council hears things."
"I see."
Isaac glanced at you, his grey eyes searching. "I hope he didn't hurt you, M/N." A pause. "Was that why—"
"No, but..." You sighed, leaning your head back against the couch and staring at the ceiling. The shadows from the lamp flickered across the white paint, dancing in the dim light. "I sort of planted a seed, now that I think about it. It's up to Luka how he'll take it." Your voice dropped. "I'm scared of getting hurt."
Isaac was quiet for a long moment. Then he shifted on the couch, turning to face you more fully. "I remembered what you said to me," he said, his voice soft. "Our first interaction."
You turned your head to look at him. "You do?"
"I have quite the photogenic memory." There was no pride in his voice, just simple fact. "You said quite concerning things. Like a knife-slashing killer being on the loose."
Your face went hot, a flush creeping up your neck. "Oh, uh, yeah."
Isaac's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "That sent alarm bells all over my head. I was so worried a student of this college could potentially be in danger, so I made the choice to make you my dorm mate." He paused, his grey eyes warm. "Now that I think about it, you're the most absurd person I've ever met, M/N."
"Really?" you asked, your voice small.
"Yeah." Isaac nodded. "But you're also an amazing person to have as a friend. I only wished I could be there for you more often, but you come back pretty late." There was no accusation in his tone.
You smiled. "Well, in that case, why don't we go out together?"
Isaac's eyes widened, his stoic composure cracking just slightly. "Really?"
"Yeah." You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest. "I don't have practice tomorrow, so I was thinking we could go out to a nearby cafe."
Isaac blinked, processing this. Then he nodded, his expression smoothing back into something calmer, though the faint flush on his cheeks gave him away. "Oh, I.. that's.. okay, sure." He paused, his grey eyes meeting yours. "As long as you're feeling okay."
You smiled at him, then looked back up at the ceiling. A moment of silence passed between you.
Then you spoke again. "Isaac, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, M/N."
Your fingers picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. The words felt heavy in your mouth, hard to shape, harder to release.
“What do I do if somebody isn't what they turn out to be?" You paused, staring at the ceiling. "What if I think I know them as harmless and nice, but they slowly start to change?"
Isaac turned to look at you, his grey eyes steady and unreadable. "What do you mean, M/N?"
Your thoughts went back to Wren — the way his voice had cracked when you said you didn't love him anymore, the way his fingers had curled around yours like he was afraid you'd disappear, the way his smile had stayed in place even as something darker flickered behind his eyes. That wasn't the Wren from the manga. That wasn't the sweet, innocent victim who needed saving from obsessive love interests.
That was someone else entirely. Someone you didn't recognize.
And then your thoughts drifted further. To Takao's words, spoken in the dim quiet of the infirmary, ‘Would it be surprising if I told you that Isaac isn't what you think he is?’
You looked at Isaac now, sitting beside you on the couch, his posture open and concerned, his expression soft in a way that felt genuine.
He had cleaned your room without being asked. He had made you breakfast. He had texted you with ridiculous fonts and too many emojis because he was trying to learn how to connect with people.
But Takao had said everybody doesn't know what he's done.
"I don't know," you said, the words coming out quieter than you intended. You looked down at your hands, at the loose thread you'd been pulling from the couch cushion. "I guess I've just been thinking a lot lately. About how people show you one version of themselves, but there's always more underneath. Things they don't want you to see."
Isaac held your gaze for a long moment. His expression was neutral, like he was processing your words from every angle before responding.
"People change, M/N," he said finally. "Sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse. And sometimes..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Sometimes they were never who you thought they were to begin with."
Your chest ached.
"But that doesn't mean you were wrong to trust them," Isaac continued, his voice softer now. "It means they were wrong to deceive you."
He looked away, his gaze drifting to the lamp in the corner. "I've known people like that," he said quietly. "People who wear masks and show one face to the world and keep another hidden." His fingers tapped against his knee — a nervous habit you'd never noticed before. "It's not your fault for not seeing through it, because some masks are very, very convincing."
You thought about Wren. About his perfect smile, his gentle voice, the way he could make everyone around him feel like they were the center of the universe. You thought about the look in his eyes today — it had made your blood run cold.
You looked up at him. His grey eyes were soft, but there was something guarded behind them.
"Do you have things you don't want me to see?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Isaac held your gaze. For a moment, the silence between you was heavy, charged with something you couldn't name. Then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing.
"Everyone does," he said simply. "Including you."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to say that you were an open book and you had no secrets.
But that wasn't true, was it? You were hiding the biggest secret of all — that you didn't belong here, that you were wearing someone else's skin, that every day you spent in this world was a day stolen from a life you might never get back.
So instead, you just nodded.
"I know," you said.
Isaac reached over and rested his hand on top of yours. "Whatever you're worried about," he said, his voice low, "you don't have to face it alone. That's what friends are for."
You stared at his hand on yours, the way his thumb was tracing slow circles on your knuckles without him seemingly realizing it.
"Isaac," you said, "if someone you cared about started acting differently and started saying things that worried you — what would you do?"
Isaac was quiet for a long time.
"Talk to them," he said finally. "Before it's too late and the mask becomes permanent." He turned to look at you, his grey eyes serious. "And if they won't listen or won't change..." He paused, his voice dropping. "Then you protect yourself. Even if it means walking away."
You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling into your bones.
"Thank you, Isaac."
He nodded back, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Anytime, M/N."
You stayed like that for a while, his hand on yours.
"Fun fact," Isaac said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence between you. He was still holding your hand, though you weren't sure if he realized it anymore. "Did you know that the longest-living cat, Crème Puff, lived for over 38 years, in part due to a daily diet of coffee?"
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Oh. Wow, that's cool."
Isaac nodded, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Then he pulled out his phone with his other hand, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced ease. You sat there awkwardly, still hyperaware of his hand on yours, unsure whether to pull away or stay perfectly still.
Isaac didn't seem to notice your internal dilemma. He dialed a number, lifted the phone to his ear, and waited.
"Hello, Kiori," he said, his voice shifting into something more formal. "I won't make it to the student council meeting tomorrow."
There was a pause. You could hear the faint murmur of someone speaking on the other end, though you couldn't make out the words.
"Yes," Isaac said. "I have a prior engagement." Another pause. His grey eyes flicked toward you, just for a moment, and something soft passed across his face. "It's personal. I'll review the minutes afterward. Thank you for understanding."
He hung up and slipped his phone back into his pocket, his hand returning to rest on top of yours as if it had never left.
"Prior engagement?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Isaac looked at you. "We're going to a cafe tomorrow," he said. "I don't break my promises."
Your chest tightened.
"It's just coffee, Isaac."
"It's a commitment." He said it like it was obvious. "And I take my commitments seriously. Semi-colon parenthesis.”
AVIDITY [BL] || Yandere!Male Characters X Isekai!M!Reader
Avidity : The quality of being extremely eager or interested
One late night, you drift off after binge-reading your favorite horror manga—only to wake up in another world. To your horror, you’ve been reincarnated as a minor side character who was originally killed off by the main protagonist. Determined to survive, you hatch a cunning plan: avoid the protagonist, dodge every love interest, and fade into the background as a forgettable extra. But fate has other plans. One by one, they start noticing you—and your quiet rebellion only makes you more irresistible.
Ch. 07 ; Volleyball Tryouts
Chapter 8
Ahhh here are the face claims all drawn by me!
It was 3:42PM. The gym was bigger than you expected — far bigger than the cramped panels of the manga had ever conveyed.
Rows of empty bleachers stretched along the walls, and the air smelled faintly of floor wax and sweat.
You couldn't help but inhale a shaky breath.
When was the last time you had tried out for sports? Maybe middle school. Or your younger days, back when your body had felt like your own and the world hadn't yet shrunk to the size of your cheap apartment.
But those days were gone. You'd grown out of your athletic phase, let your muscles soften, let your lungs forget how to push past the burn. You'd shut yourself out of society, buried yourself in the internet and takeout containers until the person in the mirror was a stranger.
Now you were here, standing on a court that felt too big for you, wearing borrowed skin that remembered things you didn't.
You felt like you didn't belong. Like at any moment, someone would tap you on the shoulder and ask what you were doing here, ask why you were pretending to be someone you weren't.
But this was your life now.
Or you thought it was.
Would you ever make it out? Would you ever go back to your real life — your cramped apartment, your dead-end job, your lonely nights scrolling through fan edits of a dead side character? The thought made your stomach churn, but not with longing. Not with homesickness. You hadn't felt homesick once since you'd arrived, and that realization unsettled you more than anything else.
Would you ever get out? And did you even want to?
"M/N, you came! And you're early too."
Naoko appeared beside you, clipboard in hand. Her dark eyes looked pleased as she sent a smile your way, as if proud — like she'd known all along you would show up.
"Yeah," you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. "I made up my mind and decided to go for it."
Naoko's smile widened. "I'm so happy to hear that! Head inside and start stretching. We're going to start pretty soon with drills~!"
She walked away before you could ask what drills, her ponytail swinging behind her as she disappeared into the growing crowd of students gathering near the bleachers.
You sighed to yourself and stepped deeper into the court. The wood creaked beneath your sneakers.
You dropped your bag against the far wall and started stretching — tentatively at first, then with more confidence as your body seemed to remember movements you had never learned. Your hamstrings pulled. Your shoulders rotated smoothly. Your knees bent without complaint.
‘What does that even mean?’ you thought, frowning down at your hands. Takara's hands. Hands that had played this sport before, even if you hadn't.
Suddenly, the gym doors banged open — not a gentle push, but a full-force swing that sent them crashing against the walls.
You flinched, your spine jolting, every nerve in your body firing at once. You'd expected loud noises, sure, but this rattled something deep in your bones.
"I'M SO EXCITED! NEW GUY! YOU'RE THE NEW GUY, RIGHT?!"
You looked toward the wide-open gym door, your eyes searching for the source of the sound, only to see a blur of motion launch toward you.
A figure sprinted across the court, sneakers squeaking against the wood, and then — bounced off the wall. Actually bounced off it, using the smooth surface to pivot mid-air. Then flipped backward, landed on one hand, springboarded off like a human rubber band and crashed into you with the force of a small hurricane.
You stumbled forward, barely catching yourself on the wall, your palms slapping against the cool surface.
An arm locked around your neck — not choking but it was clinging Like a koala.
"I'm Yufei!" the boy announced, his breath warm against your ear. "I'm on the team! Well, I will be again this year. Assuming I don't die during tryouts." He paused, then added, "I almost died last year. Not really. But I was really tired. Hi!"
You turned your head slowly, taking him in.
The boy had messy black hair that stuck up in every direction, bright eyes that seemed to sparkle with their own internal light source, and a grin that took up his whole face.
He was beaming at you like you were the best thing he'd seen all week.
"You're very close to me," you said.
"Yeah!" Yufei didn't move. "I'm a close person! Is that okay? Some people hate it. One guy said I have 'boundary issues.' I don't know what that means. Do you know what that means?"
You gently removed Yufei's arm from your neck. "It means you stand too close to people."
"Oh." Yufei thought about this for half a second. Then he stepped closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. "Is this better?"
He was now inches from your face. You could count his eyelashes if you wanted to.
You stared at him. Yufei stared back, still grinning, utterly unbothered.
"...No."
"Okay!" Yufei bounced back, flipping backward again just because he could, landing on his feet with a flourish. "I'll work on it! Maybe! No promises! Hey, do you want to warm up together? I know a really good stretch. It's my favorite stretch. I named it after myself. Yufei's Hamstring Hell. Want to try?"
You opened your mouth to say no.
"Great! Follow me!" Yufei grabbed your wrist and dragged you across the gym.
You didn't pull away. You told yourself it was because you needed to warm up. It wasn't.
Yufei dropped to the floor by the net and immediately folded himself in half, forehead touching his knees, his spine curved like a question mark. You stood over him, unsure if this was actually a stretch or some kind of ritual.
"You're not stretching," Yufei said, his voice muffled by his shins.
"I'd rather be observing."
"Observing is not stretching! Come on! Down here! Let's go!"
Yufei sat up, grabbed your wrist again, and pulled you down. You landed on the gym floor with significantly less grace than you'd hoped, your tailbone hitting the wood with a dull thud.
"Okay, okay, OKAYYY! NOW! Legs out. Straight. Good! GOOD! Now reach for your toes. But don't just reach — FEEL the stretch. Like really FEEL it. That's what makes it Yufei's Hamstring Hell!"
You reached. Your hamstrings screamed.
"I hate this," you said.
"That means it's working! Now hold it for thirty seconds and think about your life choices!"
"I'm thinking about the choice to come here."
"That's the spirit!"
Yufei held his own stretch, completely folded, face pressed against his knees. But he kept talking, his voice muffled but undeterred, words tumbling out like he was afraid they'd run away if he paused too long.
"So here's the thing," Yufei said, bouncing between stretches — transitioning from a hamstring pull to a quad stretch to something that looked like a yoga pose you'd never seen before.
"Naoko told me about you. She said you used to play in high school and you're really good, but you don't think you're good, and that's called 'imposter syndrome.' I have that too, except I'm actually not good, so maybe it's not imposter syndrome — maybe it's just accuracy."
You paused mid-stretch, one leg extended, your hand hovering over your toes. "You think you're not good?"
"Hell yeah, because I'm fantastic at volleyball!" Yufei puffed out his chest. "I'm the captain, so no one can kick me off." He paused, then added, "I appointed myself last year. No one argued! Heh!”
"You appointed yourself captain?"
"Unanimously! In my own head! That counts!" Yufei grinned, unbothered by your skepticism. "But for real, I'm — how would you say it — energetically inconsistent! Some days I'm amazing. Some days I trip over nothing. Some days I do both in the same play. It keeps everyone on their toes. Including me. Oh, ESPECIALLY me."
He demonstrated by jumping to his feet, spinning in a circle, and dropping back down to the floor in a heap.
"See? Inconsistent. It's a brand."
You found yourself almost smiling — a small tug at the corner of your lips that you couldn't quite suppress. "You're very energetic."
"Yeah! I get that a lot!" Yufei beamed. "'Yufei, you're a lot.' 'Yufei, please lower your voice.' 'Yufei, why are you like this?' The answer is I don't know! I was born this way! My mom says I came out screaming and never stopped!"
He said it like a compliment as if it was the best thing anyone had ever said about him.
"Well," you said, switching to stretch your other leg, "it's certainly a gift. You know how to light up a room you step into."
Yufei's grin softened, just for a moment, into something warmer. "Thanks, new guy."
You two continued to stretch side by side, the squeak of sneakers and distant chatter of other students filling the gym around you. Yufei talked the entire time.
"I transferred here last year. My family moved because my dad got a new job. I didn't want to come at first, but now I love it!" He stretched his arms above his head. "Do you like dumplings? Everyone likes dumplings! If you don't like dumplings, we can't be friends." He paused, then added quickly, "I'm kidding! We can still be friends. But I'll be sad about it!"
“Sure, I like dumplings," you said.
"GOOD. Okay. Crisis averted." Yufei exhaled dramatically. "What's your favorite kind? Mine is pork and cabbage. But also shrimp. But also chive and egg. Actually, I just like all dumplings! I'm not picky. My mom says I'm 'categorically non-selective,' which is a fancy way of saying I'll eat anything." He leaned in conspiratorially. "One time I ate a bug, as a dare! It was crunchy. I DON'T recommend it."
You paused mid-stretch, your hand frozen above your ankle. "You ate a bug?"
"In my defense, I was seven."
"That's... not a defense."
"It's the only one I have!"
Yufei grinned, utterly unapologetic. You only shook your head, but there was a warmth spreading through your chest.
Across the gym, the doors opened wider, and more players started filtering in—some alone, some in small groups, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floors as they made their way toward the court.
A few of them glanced at you as they passed. Whispers followed.
You were slowly getting used to that by now. The stares. The murmurs. It was typical now.
"Ignore them," Yufei said, suddenly serious. His bright eyes had dimmed just a fraction, his grin replaced by something firmer, almost protective. "People talk. They don't know you!”
"You don't know me either," you pointed out, catching another toss and sending it back to him.
"I know enough!" Yufei tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that felt out of place on his normally chaotic face. "I know you showed up. I know you're trying. That's more than most people do!”
You didn't know what to say to that. The words settled somewhere in your chest, warm and unfamiliar.
Yufei's grin returned, bright as ever. "Plus, you did Yufei's Hamstring Hell without crying. That's a green flag in my book of marriage!"
"There were tears," you muttered, reaching for the next toss.
"Those were sweat! I choose to believe they were sweat!"
Naoko walked over to the bleachers with her clipboard, her ponytail swaying as she moved. She started marking names, her pen scratching against the paper, her eyes scanning the growing crowd of players.
Then she glanced up at you and Yufei. Her expression was unreadable at first— before she cracked into a bright smile aimed at the two of you. You frowned a little, suspecting what she meant.
Then she looked at Yufei, who was now using your shoulder as an armrest like you were a piece of furniture.
"Yufei~," Naoko called out, her voice sweet but sharp. "Personal space."
"I'm working on it!" Yufei didn't move.
"Work faster!"
Yufei still didn't move, and you didn't push him off. Something about his weight against your shoulder was grounding, anchoring you to the moment.
Naoko watched for another beat, then sighed and turned back to her clipboard.
Then she clapped her hands—once, sharp and loud—and the gym went quiet.
Everyone turned to look at her.
"Okay. Tryouts! You all know the drills. Pair up for passing. After that, we're going to do all sorts of things—dynamic warm-up, partner ball control, and athletic testing."
Yufei's hand shot up before she even finished speaking. "I call the new guy! Captain's privilege!"
"His name is M/N," Naoko said flatly, not looking up from her clipboard. "And you're not officially captain."
"I'm captain in my heart! That's the only place that matters!" Yufei grabbed your wrist and started dragging you toward a spot near the net. "M/N! Come on!"
You stumbled after him, your feet barely keeping up with his enthusiasm. He stopped near the net and bounced on his heels, holding a volleyball like it was a treasure, cradled against his chest with reverence.
"Okay," Yufei said, his voice suddenly focused. "I'm going to toss to you. You pass back. Easy squeezy lemon peasy! No pressure, alright?" He tossed the ball.
It sailed over your head, arcing high and wide.
"Oops."
You caught it before it hit the ground, your fingers closing around the smooth surface. "You said no pressure."
"I lied!" Yufei bounced back into position, unashamed. "Pressure is good! Pressure makes diamonds! Or whatever the saying is! Try again!"
This time, the toss was better—cleaner, straighter, right into your passing zone. You sent it back to him, the ball flying in a smooth arc, and Yufei caught it with a grin.
Then he did a small victory backflip.
"YOU'RE SO GOOD! I KNEW IT! Naoko said you were good, but I didn't believe her because she says everyone is good and then they're not good, but YOU'RE actually good!" He spun in a circle, still holding the ball. "This is great! We're going to be the best duo! Let's be partners FOREVAAA! People will write fanfiction about us!" He paused. "Probably not. But they should!"
You passed another ball. Then another. Yufei kept talking the entire time, his voice a constant backdrop to the rhythm of the drill.
"Do you have a favorite color? Mine is yellow. But also blue because it's calm. Actually, I like all colors. I'm 'categorically non-selective' about colors too. That's my brand! Non-selective enthusiasm. I should put that on a shirt."
"You should," you said, sending another pass his way.
"Really? You think so?"
"No. But you're going to do it anyway."
Yufei laughed, it was sound that seemed to fill the entire gym and bounce off the walls.
Naoko watched from the bleachers, her pen moving across the clipboard, making notes. Her eyes drifted between pairs, assessing, calculating, filing away information for later.
Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced down at the screen, her expression shifting slightly.
"I'll be right back, you guys!" she called out, stepping off the court. "Please behave~!"
She walked toward the far wall, her back to the players, and checked her phone properly.
New application for Volleyball Team Manager
Applicant: Wren Upton
Status: approved
She stared at the screen for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the display. The gym noise faded behind her, replaced by the quiet hum of her own thoughts. Then, slowly, she put her phone away and walked back to the court, her expression carefully neutral, her smile back in place.
You were mid-pass when the gym doors opened yet again, the familiar creak of the hinges barely registering over the squeak of sneakers and the thump of volleyballs.
You didn't look up at first. People came and went all the time during tryouts; the doors were constantly swinging open as late arrivals trickled in, It wasn't unusual.
Then Yufei stopped moving.
The ball he'd been about to toss hung suspended in his hands. His bright eyes were fixed on the entrance, his grin replaced by something closer to confusion — or concern. "Uh," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Why is he here?"
You looked behind you.
Wren stood at the entrance of the gym, a clipboard in one hand and a whistle around his neck.
He wasn't wearing athletic clothes — no shorts, no sneakers, no t-shirt stained with sweat. Instead, he was dressed in a crisp manager's polo, the same deep navy that Naoko wore, with a name tag pinned to his chest.
His copper-brown hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and his bright yellow eyes scanned the room with an easy confidence that made several players straighten their postures and smile.
A few people waved at him. He waved back, flashing that signature gentle smile that made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room.
Your blood went cold.
"Oh, attention!" Naoko called out, her voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd. "We have a new volunteer manager. Wren will be assisting with drills, hydration, and equipment. Please make him feel welcome!~" She clapped her hands together, her smile bright and professional, but her eyes flickered toward you for just a moment.
Yufei grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into your sleeve. "Did you know about this?" he hissed, his voice low.
"No," you said, the word coming out flat. "I didn't."
"Why would he want to be a manager?" Yufei's brow furrowed, genuinely baffled. "He's like... the MOST popular person on campus. He could do anything. Why laundry? Why water bottles? Why-“
You didn't answer. You were too busy watching Wren walk onto the court.
His steps were unhurried, almost casual, as he moved past the players who called out greetings and offered shy waves. He nodded at each of them, smiled at all the right moments, but his eyes never stopped searching.
They scanned the players, the court, the bleachers, the net — and then they landed on you.
And stayed.
Wren's smile widened, bright and warm, like he'd just found exactly what he'd been looking for. He ran his hand through his already perfect hair — a gesture you'd seen him do a thousand times in the manga, in fan edits, in your own memories — and tilted his head slightly, as if to say, There you are.
You looked away.
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them against your thighs, willing them to still, willing your heart to stop pounding so loudly in your ears. Volleyball was supposed to be safe. Volleyball was supposed to be your escape, your fresh start, your way of building something new that didn't involve Wren or Luka or any of the chaos that followed them.
Now Wren was here. Standing on the court you'd chosen specifically because he wasn't supposed to step foot in it.
"Ah, Wren!" Naoko called out, her voice cheerful. "We're going to have a water break shortly. Would you mind filling up the water bottles for our players?~"
Wren turned toward her, his smile never faltering. "Of course," he said, his voice light and agreeable. "I'd be happy to."
He walked toward the equipment table, his clipboard tucked under his arm, and began gathering the empty water bottles. He moved with easy grace like he'd been doing this for years instead of minutes.
Yufei leaned closer to you, his shoulder pressing against yours. "Now our team is gonna go EXTRA down bad," he muttered.
you didn't say anything back. You just picked up the ball that had rolled to your feet and held it tight, your knuckles white against its smooth surface.
Water break eventually came around, a collective exhale sweeping through the gym as players dropped onto benches, grabbed their bags, and reached for anything that could quench their thirst.
You sat on one of the wooden benches near the wall, your back against the cool surface, and drank from your own water bottle—the one Isaac had reminded you to grab before you left.
The water was lukewarm now, but it didn't matter. It wet your throat and gave your hands something to hold.
Yufei dropped down next to you very close. His shoulder pressed against yours, his thigh bracketed yours, and his head tilted back against the wall like he'd been running marathons instead of passing drills.
"You're NOT moving away???" Yufei observed, his voice filled with mock offense.
"Neither are you," you said, not looking at him.
"I NEVER move away. That's my thing! Proximity without consent." He paused, his eyes widening. "WAITTT!! That sounded bad, man! I mean—I'm just friendly. Verrrryyyyy friendly."
"I noticed that."
"And you don't hate it?" Yufei's voice had dropped, just slightly, losing some of its brightness. He was watching you now, his bright eyes searching your profile.
You looked at Yufei. His messy hair was damp with sweat at the temples, sticking to his forehead in dark curls. His cheeks were flushed pink from exertion, and there was a small scratch on his forearm that he hadn't seemed to notice.
He looked ridiculous and earnest and entirely too close.
Your grin softened. "No," you said. "I don't exactly hate it."
Yufei's breath caught. Just for a second—a tiny hitch in his chest, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. Then he grinned again, wide and bright, and bumped his shoulder against yours. "GOOD. Because I wasn't going to move anyway. This is my spot now! You're stuck with me."
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Wren start walking toward you.
He moved through the gym like water, weaving between players and benches with that effortless grace that made everyone turn their heads.
He was holding a different clipboard now—or maybe the same one, you couldn't tell—and there were a few extra water bottles tucked under his arm.
Yufei bounced to his feet before Wren had taken three steps in your direction, suddenly positioned between you and the approaching manager like a human barricade.
"Hi!" Yufei said, his voice overly bright. "I'm Yufei! I'm the captain!"
Wren stopped a few feet away, his smile polite and pleasant. "It's good to meet you, Captain Yufei." He tilted his head, the picture of friendliness. "I'm the new manager, but you already know that, haha!"
"Cool!" Yufei didn't move. "We have a new manager now. Greaatttt. Love managers." His tone was cheerful, but his stance was solid, his feet planted. "You're not needed right now, though. We're on break."
Wren's smile didn't waver. If anything, it softened, like he found Yufei's hostility amusing rather than off-putting. "Water Break. I was just coming to hand M/N a water bottle."
"M/N's busy," Yufei said, still not moving.
"Yufei," you said quietly.
Yufei glanced back at you. You shook your head slightly—a small movement, barely noticeable, but enough. Yufei's jaw tightened. Then he stepped aside, reluctantly, his shoulder brushing yours as he settled back onto the bench.
Wren walked closer. He stopped a few feet away, maintaining a distance that felt intentional. He held out a water bottle, the plastic crinkling slightly in his grip.
"I'm so happy and surprised that you're here, M/N," Wren said, his voice warm. "I thought volleyball wasn't your interest at all."
You stared at the bottle. Then at Wren's face. His expression was friendly. But you knew better.
"I, uh... already have water," you said, gesturing vaguely at the bottle in your hand.
"Now you have backup water." Wren set the bottle on the bench next to you, close enough that you could feel the coolness radiating from it. "I'm looking forward to watching you play, M/N." He paused, his smile widening. "Good luck."
He walked away without waiting for a response, his footsteps light against the gym floor, already turning to wave at someone else who'd called his name.
Yufei stared after him, his bright eyes narrowed. "I don't like him."
"You just met him," you said, still staring at the water bottle.
"I don't like him," Yufei repeated, his voice flat. There was no playfulness in it now.
You almost laughed—a small huff of air that could have been amusement or exhaustion or both. "Chill out. He's new."
"I'm serious." Yufei sat back down, closer than before, his thigh pressing against yours. "I'm watching him. Captain's duty."
You looked at the water bottle Wren had left. Condensation beaded on its surface, dripping slowly onto the wood of the bench. The plastic was cold.
You didn't touch it. You couldn’t bring yourself to.
"I don't think I should join the volleyball team."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, quiet but final, dropping into the space between you and Yufei like stones into still water.
Yufei spit out his water.
A fine mist sprayed across the bench, across his own shirt and your arm.
You jerked back, barely avoiding the worst of it, and stared at him with wide eyes. "Dude, what the hel—"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE NOT JOINING?!" Yufei's voice cracked on the last word, soaring into a pitch that made several players across the gym turn their heads.
"Yufei, calm down—"
"M/NNN..." Yufei whined, and then he was on his knees. He was actually on his knees right there on the gym floor, his hands clasped together like he was praying at an altar.
His bright eyes were shining, wet at the corners, and you couldn't even tell if they were for show or if genuine tears were actually starting to spill. "We aren't even done with the tryouts yet! How could you say that?!"
His voice echoed off the walls, raw and desperate, and you felt your heart racing.
"I..." you started, but nothing else came out.
Yufei grabbed the hem of your shirt, his fingers twisting into the fabric. "PLEASE! M/N! You're already my favorite person here! I can't stand to lose you!" A tear slipped down his cheek—real or not, you couldn't tell anymore. "Please, please, PLEASE, STAY!" He tugged at your shirt, nearly pulling you off balance. "YOU'RE MY RIDE AND DIE BRO!"
The gym had gone quiet. Players were staring. Naoko was staring, her pen frozen above her clipboard. Even Wren, across the court with his armful of water bottles, had stopped mid-step to watch.
You looked down at Yufei—this dumbass who had declared himself your partner within minutes of meeting you.
He was still holding onto your shirt.
"Get up," you said quietly.
"Not until you say you'll stay!"
"Yufei."
"NO."
You sighed, long and heavy, and reached down to grab him by the collar of his shirt. You hauled him to his feet—he went willingly, stumbling into your space, his face inches from yours.
"I didn't say I was leaving," you said. "I said I didn't think I should join."
Yufei sniffled. "That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
"It IS in my head!" He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still gripping your shirt. "So? Are you staying? Are you trying out? Are you going to be my partner forever and ever and ever?"
You stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks blotchy, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that was almost impressive in its intensity.
"I'll finish tryouts," you said slowly.
Yufei's face brightened.
"And I'll think about it."
"That's NOT a yes!"
"It's not a no either."
Yufei opened his mouth—probably to argue, probably to start crying again, probably to say something ridiculous about fanfiction or marriage—but Naoko's voice cut across the gym before he could.
"BREAK'S OVER! EVERYONE BACK ON THE COURT!"
Yufei didn't move. He just stood there, still holding your shirt, still staring at you with those wet, desperate eyes.
"Let go," you said.
"Promise me you'll stay."
"I promise I'll finish tryouts."
"That's not—"
"Yufei."
He let go. But he didn't step back. His hand dropped to his side, and his shoulder pressed against yours, and he walked with you back onto the court like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let even an inch of space between you.
You didn't pull away.
Across the gym, Wren watched. His smile was still there, but something in his eyes had shifted—sharpened, darkened.
Wren didn't know why he'd done it.
He'd woken up that morning with the word "volleyball" stuck in his head, bouncing around his skull like a pinball. He'd overheard someone say it yesterday at the library. He hadn't thought much of it at the time. Just filed it away, the way he filed away most information that floated past him.
But then he'd lain in bed that night, staring at his phone screen, watching the "seen" notification beneath his message to you. The message you hadn't answered. The message you'd left on read, like so many others over the past few days.
And in the morning, he'd walked to the athletics office and asked to be a manager.
They'd said yes. Because no one said no to Wren.
Except you.
You had said no to his snacks. His kindness. His attention. You had pulled your hand away from his in the hallway. You had run off to the library instead of hanging out with him. You had looked at him like he was a stranger, like all the years of devotion meant nothing, like the fire that had once burned in your eyes had been extinguished overnight.
And Wren couldn't stop thinking about it.
Now he stood at the edge of the gym, clipboard in hand, the whistle hanging cold against his chest. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unforgiving glare.
Players ran drills around him, sweating and shouting, but his eyes were fixed on one person.
You.
You were warming up with some loud, bouncy guy who kept touching you. Grabbing your arm. Hanging off your shoulder. Bumping his hip against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And you didn't pull away.
You let him touch you. Let him crowd into your space. Let him drape himself over you like a blanket, like you belonged to him, like you were his.
But you wouldn't accept a basket of snacks from Wren.
Wren's grip tightened on the clipboard. The wood creaked faintly under his fingers, but he didn't notice. His jaw was set, his smile still in place—the same soft, approachable smile he wore everywhere, every day, like armor.
No one noticed anything was wrong.
No one ever did.
He needed to understand. That was all. He just needed to understand what had changed, what had shifted, what had made you look at him differently. You had been his for so long—his shadow, his reflection, the constant presence that never wavered. He'd taken you for granted, maybe. Assumed you would always be there, waiting in the wings, ready to worship him the way everyone else did.
But now the fire had gone out. And Wren didn't like that at all.
He couldn't help it. As soon as college started, you were slowly but surely drifting away from him. Wren thought you would come back around like you always had. Maybe you were being petty because he hadn't given you much attention lately—a test, a game, a way to make him notice you. He'd been willing to play along at first, to chase you a little, to prove that he cared.
But now it felt like... the fire had gone out. Not dimmed. Not flickering. Extinguished. Like someone had dumped a bucket of water on the flames and walked away without looking back.
Wren didn't like that.
He didn't like watching you laugh with someone else. He didn't like watching you let someone else touch you. He didn't like the way your smile softened when you looked at that loud, bouncy boy—a softness that used to be reserved for Wren and Wren alone.
And now, he would do whatever it took to rekindle the fire.
Whatever it took.
He watched you pass the ball back to the bouncy boy—Yufei, he'd learned his name, though he wished he hadn't—and his smile tightened at the edges. He would figure out what had changed. He would figure out how to fix it. He would figure out how to make you look at him again, the way you used to, with that desperate, devoted hunger that had made him feel like the center of the universe.
Because Wren had never realized how much he needed that hunger until it was gone.
And he would do anything to get it back.
Tryouts ended an hour later. The gym, which had been filled with the sound of squeaking sneakers and pounding volleyballs, slowly fell into an exhausted silence.
Players collapsed onto benches, grabbed their bags, and headed for the doors in small, tired groups.
Naoko gathered everyone at center court, her clipboard held against her chest like a shield.
"Good work today," she announced, her voice carrying across the gym. "I'll post the team roster tomorrow. Those who don't make it—" she glanced at a few players near the back who had struggled through the drills, their shoulders already slumped in defeat, "—can try again next semester. No hard feelings~!"
Yufei's hand shot up immediately, waving like a flag in a storm. "Can I walk M/N back to his dorm?"
Naoko didn't even blink. "You can do whatever you want. I'm not your mother."
"You're not?" Yufei tilted his head, his brow furrowing in exaggerated confusion. "You look like a soon-to-be one! Actually, now that I think about it, you kinda look pregnant—"
Naoko's eye twitched. Her smile remained frozen on her face, but something dangerous flickered behind her eyes. "Go home, Yufei."
You were exhausted—sweaty, sore, and desperate to leave before Wren could corner you.
Your legs ached from the drills, your shoulders burned from the passing exercises, and all you wanted was a cool shower and the silence of your dorm room. You grabbed your bag from the bench, slung it over your shoulder, and started toward the exit, keeping your head down, your pace quick.
Too late.
"M/N!"
The voice cut through the gym like a blade. You froze mid-step, your hand hovering over the door handle.
Wren was walking toward you, clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression open and friendly, that perfect smile firmly in place. His manager's polo was still crisp, still unwrinkled, like he hadn't spent the past two hours running around filling water bottles and chasing down stray volleyballs. His hair hadn't even wilted.
Your chest tightened.
"You played well today," Wren said, stopping a few feet away. His bright yellow eyes scanned your face, looking for something you couldn't name. "I didn't know you were on the team."
"I'm not," you said, your voice flat. "I'm trying out."
"Well, you'll make it!" His smile widened, warm and encouraging. "You were so cute out there."
Your throat went dry.
"I'm so happy we'll see each other around more," Wren continued, tilting his head slightly. "Since I'm a manager now."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. He was here. He would be here every practice, every game, every time you stepped onto this court. Volleyball was no longer safe. Volleyball was no longer yours.
"M/N!"
Yufei appeared out of nowhere, latching onto your arm like a koala. His fingers curled around your bicep, his shoulder pressed against yours, his whole body leaning into you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
"Walk with me!" he announced, already pulling you toward the door. "I'm starving! Let's get food! There's this place off campus that has dumplings the size of my face." He paused. "Well, not my face. Maybe half my face. Actually, let's not measure. Let's just goOO!"
He was already pulling you through the doorway, his grip firm on your arm, his legs moving faster than yours. You stumbled after him, barely managing to keep your balance, your bag bouncing against your back.
You let yourself be pulled.
"See you around," you called over your shoulder, not looking back. The words weren't rude, exactly. But they weren't warm either.
Wren didn't respond. He just stood there, watching you disappear through the doors, his smile still on his face but something dark pooling in his eyes.
"Wren!~" Naoko called out behind him, her voice cheerful. She was already walking toward him, her ponytail swaying.
Wren turned, his expression shifting seamlessly into something bright and approachable. "Hey, Naoko!"
"So, how was your first day as a manager here?" Naoko stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "Did everything go well? I hope they weren't bothering you as much as I expected, considering you're quite popular here."
Wren blinked, his smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. "Oh... no. I mean, I got less attention here than I usually get, but it's fine!" He laughed lightly, waving his hand like it was nothing.
Naoko hummed, her eyes studying his face. "I see. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing you every practice from now on~"
Wren nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. His eyes drifted toward the door where you'd disappeared, his thoughts circling back to the boy who had pulled you away. That loud, bouncy boy who touched you like he had the right to. Who hung off your shoulder like he belonged there. Who looked at you like you were something precious.
"Hey," Wren said, his voice casual, almost offhand. "Do you have any information on that Yufei guy..?"
