She/Her and a Darling with Yandere tendencies :p
Just yearning for a male yandere bf who I know I will never have :(
My main fanfic acc @yourlittlegoblin and witchy sideblog @yourwitchygoblin
i love love love when you come crying to me. tell me all about your problems, okay? let me take care of you. i promise you'll be safe with me and only me.
Wanna block them and have them pretend to be someone else. To have them slowly insert themselves into every part of my life. They know that I hate them, but theyre someone new now! So it should be okay, right? Even if it's not, they know how to handle me.
Sex is okay but have you ever just wanted to watch the sunset with me? Hold my hand? Point out each star? Ramble to me? Get nervous when you think you’re talking too much just for me to reassure you I love it when you talk.
I love being told or given hints that I'm being stalked. You went out of your way just to find out everything about me without my knowledge? It's like you want me to keep you all to myself ^^
i don’t believe in distance. you breathe, and i feel it. you ache, and i taste it. there’s no space between us. only the trembling thread that binds every pulse, every thought, every ghost of you to me. you could be oceans away, buried beneath a thousand skies, and still i’d know the rhythm of your lungs as if they were my own. you exist inside me, haunting the marrow, humming in the quiet. even silence carries your name, and every heartbeat is just another way of saying we were never apart.
I love it. Tell me how you’ll hurt me and bruise me then softly whisper how I did so well during everything. I need that so badly. Even if it’s the other way around, I don’t care.
I. Just. Want. A. MAN.
Not a boyfriend. Not a fling. A man whose eyes go black when he looks at me. A man who notices the way I stir my coffee, the way I tuck my hair behind my ear, the way I breathe. Someone who memorizes me down to my bones, who wants to know me so hard it hurts.
I want a man who loses sleep thinking about me. Who presses his palms against the walls because he can’t stand not touching me. Who keeps a note of my perfume on his wrist just to smell me when I’m not there.
I don’t want love. I want obsession.
I don’t want flowers. I want him trembling when I’m near.
The classroom always buzzed before English began—voices ricocheting off the walls, jokes tossed across the room like paper planes, and desks creaking as students leaned back, lounging as if time owed them something. The teacher hadn’t arrived yet, but the air already smelled of highlighters, old textbooks, and the faint tang of pencil shavings.
He was at the center of it all, like always. Broad-shouldered, sun-warmed, the boy who could turn a casual smile into a chorus of laughter. Friends orbited him, draped across desks, tossing him questions he never fully answered. His words carried weight because they didn’t have to mean much. People listened anyway.
But then there was you.
Not his, not theirs, not anyone’s, really. You weren’t buzzing with the chatter, weren’t tugged into the silly gravity of the crowd. Instead, you were passing out highlighters to two girls who had been giggling at his desk a moment ago. You leaned forward, indifferent, explaining quietly what a metaphor was supposed to do, pointing out where the lines on the page hid meaning. While they blinked at you, more confused than not, you tapped the desk with casual precision, moving on like it was nothing.
He should’ve been amused. Instead, something tugged inside him, sharp and unwelcome.
Later, when you sat at the far edge of the room beside some boy he didn’t even know, his laughter came stilted. Every time your head tilted toward that stranger—even if it was just to share a book, even if your mouth barely moved—his pulse flared. He hated it. Hated that the boy’s shoulder was close enough to yours to touch if either of you shifted an inch.
And then, worse still—those days when you sat alone. Bent over your notes, pen tapping rhythm against paper, face unreadable. The empty desk beside you was unbearable, a glaring vacancy he wanted to fill.
He found himself caught in the cruel little pattern of it: anger when you weren’t alone, frustration when you were. The days blurred together, marked not by football practice or the noise of his friends, but by where you sat. By what you touched. By how close he could be without anyone noticing he wasn’t laughing at the right jokes anymore.
Sometimes, he rehearsed. How he might lean down and say something to you. Anything. A question about the assignment, a borrowed pen, some excuse just to hear your voice aimed at him. But his friends pulled him back every time, their chatter loud, their hands tugging at his arm, their endless demands always cutting the moment short.
So he watched.
He watched as if the act itself would etch you into him, as if his gaze could drag you closer, hold you in a way his hands never dared.
Now, in the quiet of his room, the noise of the world muted, he held the letter. The paper was folded neatly, almost reverently, his handwriting pressed into its surface with a force that nearly tore the page. He’d written your name at the top. Just your name, and then all the words he couldn’t say aloud—words that pulsed with hunger, with longing, with a devotion that had been gnawing at him from the inside out.
He stared at it for a long time, thumb grazing the crease.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d give it to you.
But tonight, the letter stayed pressed against his chest, as if he needed to feel its weight just to breathe.
Give me a man who watches me, learns my scars, memorizes my habits. A man who will lay down every piece of himself at my feet. Not love — worship. Not care — devotion.
Everything he is is mine to ache for. His devotion, his hunger, his ruin. I want to feel the way he watches me, like he’s memorizing my every breath just to destroy himself worshipping me~
The ones who plead with you as you hide behind a locked bathroom door, begging for you to please let them back in. The ones that make you your favourite foods over and over until they can cook it perfectly, hiding all the burnt mistakes inside the bins. The ones who come home every day with gifts in and because they missed you so much during their eight-hour shift.
The ones who hold you so sweetly every night, hoping one day you'll aclimitise enough or become so touch starved that you eventually reciprocate their hugs. Maybe one day those hugs can evolve into more, into bare skin against bed sheets and breathlessness, but for now you allowing yourself to be held is a luxury they hold deeply against their hearts every night. Its progress from at first, when you first woke up in a home that wasn't yours, kept in a guest room until you were settled enough to move into the master bedroom.
Everything was taken at your pace, he is patient, and he wanted so hard to prove how patient he can be, thinking of you, knowing just how much he cares for you than perhaps you can stop being so terrified of him. Don't you know, sweet thing, that he would sooner burn off his own hands than ever lay them on you in anger? That he'd sooner cut off his tongue and feed it to himself before yelling at you or calling you something he would never dare say before his mother? How mother raised him right after all, raised him to be gentle and kind, he could never disgrace her memory and how hard she worked for his sake to ever harm you. He begs you to understand that no matter what you do, he would never dare to hurt you. He sits you down one night and makes a promise on his mother's well-kept grave that if he ever were to lay a finger on you in violence, then he will unlock the door and allow you to leave him. Because by the lord, he already doesn't deserve your sweetness in his life, and if he can't be grateful for you, he will not allow himself to have you. That was the first night you slept soundly beside him.
And he tries, you have to understand how hard he's trying for you, he doesn't expect you to be grateful. In fact, he expects you to hate him, to curse his name out and fight back like a cornered dog. He doesn't deserve any better than that treatment from you; he knows full well what a selfish, irredeemable man he is. How you were all set to live a beautiful life, but he stole you away from your rightful future because he could not stand that that future could never include him, as he wants to be included. Not as your friend, co-worker, or a stranger on the bus, he could never accept that role from the fates. So instead, he stole your fate from you.
You had so much promise, didn't you? So much potential? All that means nothing now as you lie down beside him on the couch, watching an old DVD copy of your favourite childhood film, the bright colours clouding together from behind your stifled tears.
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