fauxparadoxx

[fauxparadoxx]

Muscles and Midterms: A Love Story with a Side of Obsession - Himbo Yandere (male bimbo) x Nerd Reader

You’re halfway through annotating your third textbook when the dorm room door rattles open—without a knock. You don’t need to look up. You know the footsteps. You know the cologne. You know the way your air shifts when he enters.

Chase.

Broad as a linebacker, tall enough to blot out the afternoon sun filtering through your window, and sporting the same dopey grin he always does when he sees you. His tank top barely counts as fabric. His arms are glistening. His eyes—blue like empty sky—scan your desk, your laptop, your face.

“You’re still studying?” he asks, like it’s a crime. “Baby, you know your brain’s sexy, but I miss you. Like, miss you hard.”

You sigh. “We have finals next week.”

He frowns. Not because he’s mad. Because he genuinely doesn’t understand why organic chemistry matters more than cuddling on his absurd beanbag couch.

“I made protein pancakes for you. With hearts on top,” he says, presenting a slightly mangled plate. “They’re kind of burnt, but that’s ‘cause I was thinking about your cute little furrowed brows. Couldn’t concentrate.”

“Chase,” you groan. But he’s already crouched beside you, one massive hand sliding behind your neck, the other cradling your wrist like you’re made of porcelain. His touch is gentle, reverent. Too reverent.

“You’ve been talking to that TA guy again,” he says. The grin fades.

Your heart hiccups. “He’s helping me prep for finals.”

Chase tilts his head, almost puppy-like. But there’s something off in the shine of his eyes. Something sharper.

“Baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would bench press the entire science faculty if they looked at you wrong.”

He squeezes your hand just a little too tightly. “Let’s drop this nerd stuff and run away. I’ll take you to Cabo. We’ll open a smoothie stand. You can name all the menu items after molecules. I’ll lift things and kiss you stupid.”

You laugh nervously. He laughs too—until he sees your hesitation.

Then he pouts.

“No one gets you like I do,” he whispers, gaze softening into desperation. “You like books, and I like you. Isn’t that enough?”

You think of his last ‘protective gesture’—the TA mysteriously getting reassigned, your lab partner developing sudden mono. Chase swears he had nothing to do with it. But you’ve seen him glare from across the quad. You’ve seen him break a vending machine with a single punch. And you’ve seen how he looks at you like you’re his whole world—his reward for thinking just hard enough.

You want to pull away. You want to stay.

He leans closer, breath warm against your temple. “Say you’re mine. Say it now, and I’ll carry you to class and make flashcards in glitter gel pens.”

He would. He really would.

And maybe—just maybe—you want him to.

[fauxparadoxx]

Thorns of Devotion, Blooming Beneath Divinity - Yandere Familiar × God Reader

You descend—no, fracture—into the realm below, your divine essence clothed in mortal flesh. A test. A punishment. Or perhaps curiosity. No temples will sing of your arrival. No altars blaze with prayer. Only he greets you. The one whose soul was stitched to yours the moment you touched the veil.

Your familiar.

He does not bow. He kneels, yes—but not in reverence. In reverie.

“You walk among shadows,” he murmurs, voice honeyed with longing and dread, “so I will be your light. And if light fails, I will burn every star for you.”

He was crafted by your own hand, centuries ago, a flicker of will and molten power sculpted into flesh. But now that you wear mortal skin, he watches you not as creator—but as beloved. He slips into your chambers without sound, leaves obsidian feathers on your pillow. Threads divine wards through your cloak. Murmurs oaths to you in languages no god should remember.

You speak of balance. He speaks of chains.

You ask him to guard the realm. He guards you instead.

At court, suitors seek your favor. They do not return. You ask if he knows why, and he only tilts his head, wolfish grin carved across his mouth. “Their prayers were... impure.”

One night, he appears cloaked in stormlight, eyes carved from starlight gone mad. “If the heavens call you back, I will silence them.” His fingers tremble as they cup your face. “You gave me life. And now I give you mine—every breath, every bone, until eternity forgets its shape.”

You consider sending him away. You are a god. You do not belong in chains of obsession.

But when his arms coil around you in the dark, when he murmurs your forgotten name like a hymn, you wonder...

Did you create him to serve you?

Or did he rise to teach you what it means to be wanted?

[fauxparadoxx]

Blindside - Yandere Football Player x Reader

You never meant to catch his eye. You tell yourself that every time you see the first note, folded into your locker like a secret dagger waiting to twist. You don’t know who left it—no signature, just black ink on white paper, edges scored by fingernails. When you unfold it, your breath hitches:

“I know you hate football. I love that you’re here anyway.”

You press the paper against your chest, the metal locker rattling as you close it, and swallow against a panic you can’t name. Minutes later, you find him on the bleachers, alone under floodlights that burn pale against the night. Colton Reyes, East Ridge High’s star quarterback, number 8 stitched in silver across his back. He doesn’t smile. His gaze is a blade of something fierce—recognition? Hunger? You look away and almost expect him to vanish. But when you look back, he remains, inches from you on the bench, voice low enough to ignite every nerve:

“I saw you read it.”

You start to say you must be mistaken, but his hand curls around yours, warm where your skin is cold. The pads of his fingers brush your palm—and the world spins off its axis.

You pretend it’s a dream. Next day, another note appears in your textbook:

“You scowl in math. I like it when you look unhappy, makes me feel protective.”

You don’t know why that thrills you. You hide the paper in your backpack and count heartbeats until you can leave, but when you step out onto the quad, there he is, leaning against your locker, black roses in one hand, the other pressed to his chest like he’s listening for your heartbeat through denim.

“Those are for you,” he says. The words sound rehearsed, but the tilt of his head is intimate, as if he’s making a promise. “I walked past the florist. Your name was everywhere in those blooms, they reminded me of you.”

You could run. You could bolt down the hallway, turn corners until you can’t find your way home. Instead, you take the roses and tuck them inside your locker, letting the thorns scratch your fingers. You know they’re too dark for sympathy—petals shaded like bruises—but they’re yours now, and that embarrasses you more than his possession.

At home, you place them in a vase. Each morning when you wake, you find petals on your windowsill, each one carved with a single word: her, mine, forever. You press them between the pages of your journal, even though your hands tremble when you do it. You swear you’re not falling in, but every time you think of escape, you taste the copper flavor of fear, and what’s fear but another kind of attraction?

He watches you in classrooms, across lunch tables, on the bleachers where you sit hidden beneath a hoodie that does nothing to mask your shape. There’s a note waiting for you after practice on Friday, summons in jagged letters:

“Meet me at the track. I have something to show you.”

You stare at the message until the bell rings, then follow its direction like a moth to flame. The track curves in silent laps under the stadium lights. He’s there, jersey stained brown with mud, but his eyes shine as if he’s stepping out of a dream. He leads you to the infield, where chalk lines cross like fated lovers. In the center, he’s planted more black roses—two dozen in a perfect circle around a bouquet of fresh carnations, petals white as your fear.

He kneels in the middle. He doesn’t offer the flowers. He just watches you, strips off his helmet so his hair falls in dark waves around his face, and breathes your name like a benediction.

“Do you see? This is ours. I built this world so I could show you what I feel.”

You try to speak, but your voice breaks. He stands and takes your hand, pulls you into the circle. The flowers tremble as you step inside. You shiver, but he doesn’t let go.

When you wake the next morning, you’re in your own bed, the petals gone—but a bruise blooms on your wrist in the shape of his grip. You try to pretend it came from tripping, but everyone notices. Your mother stares at your arm as though she sees a map to your pain. You can’t tell her how it happened. You can’t tell her how you feel, tangled in shock and something warmer that coils tight in your chest.

At school, everyone avoids you. Some whisper—he’s dangerous, they say. Others stare at the hoodie you wear, the same gray one with his number painted across the back. You want to laugh, because he said it would suit you. He said gray was your color. Gray like twilight, gray like absence of other light, gray the shade between breath and silence.

He sends more notes.

“You smiled at me today. My heart cracked open.”

“I kissed you in chemistry. You didn’t stop me.”

“I suspect you love me already. Don’t lie.”

You’re too numb to lie. You hide in restrooms, tracking your reflection in the stained mirror, searching for the person who once slept without nightmares. Some part of you resists, but the rest of you trembles when his name appears on your phone. Every vibration is an orchestra inside your chest.

One Saturday, you venture out to buy groceries. You hate leaving home, but your fridge is empty. The store is bright with fluorescent lights that buzz like insects. You pick apples and bread, trying to ignore the hair on your neck standing up. In the checkout line, you hear boots behind you. You don’t want to turn, but you do. He stands there—helmet in one hand, flowers in the other—smiling. No one else in the store seems to notice. It’s as if the moment you appeared, they blinked away.

He hums to himself as he loads your items onto the conveyor belt. The cashier raises an eyebrow when he hands over a fistful of cash, way more than enough for groceries then nods at you both as though this is normal. You pay for your groceries with shaking hands and flee into the parking lot, but he follows. You reach your car, yank the door open, and there he stands in the aisle of the lot, silhouette black against broad daylight.

“I wanted to make sure you got home,” he says.

You slam the door. Your back presses hard against the wheel. You sink to the floor, shaking. Through the glass, you watch him turn away and walk back into the store, as if he never followed. Your heart pounds, and for the first time you feel certain you cannot live without him. Because if you could, you would have left already.

The breaking point comes at Natalie’s party. You wear a simple dress—black lace over gray slip—because he said you looked beautiful in shadows. The basement thrums with bass, bodies pressed in heat and laughter. You clutch a soda, watching faces blur. You feel watched long before you see him, so when he steps into the strobe light, drenched in sweat and mud, it feels like someone struck thunder in your chest.

He crosses the room without excuse, and every part of you wants him to. He slams a hand to the wall beside your head, chest heaving, voice hoarse:

“I told you I’d find you.”

Your pulse pounds. Jason, the boy from chemistry who never saw you as poetry, appears beside you, pale with fear. He tries to pull you toward the stairs, but Colton’s other hand snakes around your waist, dragging you back.

“Not so fast,” he breathes, eyes ablaze. “I can’t share you.”

Jason stumbles back, words dying on his lips. You press your palm to Colton’s chest, feel the straining muscles beneath his jersey, the rapid drum of his heart.

“Let me go,” you whisper. But you don’t pull away.

He kisses you then—mouth bruising your lips, fingertips digging into your hips. You know you should push him off, scream until someone rescues you, but the world narrows until there’s only him. His grip, the taste of tears and mint, the desperate promise behind every passing breath:

“You’re mine.”

You don’t answer. You press into him because once you tried to escape this orbit and discovered you had nowhere else to go. You have never been freer or more lost than you are here, in his hold, where desire and terror are braided together so tightly you can’t tell one from the other.

After that night, you live in a bubble on the outskirts of East Ridge. His watchful eyes follow you through school corridors, stadium lights, and empty streets. Notes arrive fewer now—petty reminders rather than declarations: h/c tulips because they match your hair, a wicker basket of apples “so you won’t starve.” You know he could break in again, claim you off your couch at three AM, but he doesn’t. He leaves you the illusion of choice.

Still, you can’t let him go. The hallways feel colder, lonelier. Without his possession, you feel undone. When you slide into your seat in English class, you glance at the desk beside you and imagine him there, shoulder brushing yours. Even Macbeth’s dagger can’t compare to the weight of his obsession.

When senior prom arrives—a soft haze of candles and gowns. You wonder if you’ll go alone, or find him waiting at the gym doors in full jersey, bouquet in hand. You don’t have to wonder. He shows up in a tux borrowed from a mother’s ex-boyfriend, number 8 still painted on the white rose pinned to his lapel.

He doesn’t ask you to dance. He sweeps you into his arms, guiding you across the floor with the assurance of someone who’s already planned your future. You close your eyes, resting your head on his shoulder, the world shrinking until it’s just your breathing hearts, his whispered promise:

“You’re mine. Always.”

In the end, you realize there is no escape—nor do you want one. Beneath the bruises and blood, beneath the guilt and the ghost of who you once were, you find the singular truth: you were never yours to lose. You’ve been his from the moment his window opened on that first gray morning, when shadow fell across your wall and you understood that love could kill, and that death could feel like home.

[fauxparadoxx]

Extra Credit Pt 3 — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

It happens after seventh period, behind the gym. You’re not there. Of course you’re not. You’re probably in the library, whispering with the nonfiction aisle like it’s a lover, annotating Kant with the meticulous touch of someone who cares too much about ideas and not enough about appearances.

Atlas Crowe is there, though. And so are they—his court, his entourage, the boys who surf his spotlight like it’s theirs to ride. They’re huddled around someone’s phone, laughing.

“She’s so plain,” one sneers. “Like, what’s the draw? She’s not even hot.”

Another voice—mocking, nasal—joins: “He’s into her mind, or whatever. Probably gets off on her telling him he’s morally complex.”

Then a third. This one quieter. “No joke, I started a doc. Just to track her. What she posts, what she likes. Thought if we could figure her algorithm maybe he’d snap out of it.”

Atlas doesn’t speak. At first.

He steps into the circle slowly, like a predator trained not to ruin the hunt by lunging too soon. His expression doesn’t change—still regal, still unreadable—but there’s something in his eyes. The kind of shine that comes before something burns.

“You made a folder about her?” he says finally, voice colder than usual. “You thought dissecting her would explain me?”

No one answers.

“You think I’m confused?” His smile sharpens. “You think I’m under a spell?”

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t threaten. He just looks at them. Each one. Slowly. Deliberately. His silence is scalpel-sharp.

“I’d delete that folder if I were you,” he says. “And then I’d start praying she never sees it. Because if she does…”

He tilts his head. “She won’t hate you. She won’t even react. But I will. And you don’t want me reacting on her behalf.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s surgical. One boy stammers. Another looks physically ill.

They scatter after that. Some delete the folder immediately. One transfers schools by semester’s end.

Atlas doesn’t tell you what happened. He just shows up that evening with your favorite drink and a handwritten note stuffed into your locker that reads:

I heard someone say you weren’t beautiful enough for devotion. I almost believed them. Until you disproved every theory I had about love. You don’t make me fall for you. You make me surrender.

The next day, you’re halfway through shelving library returns when a new rumor finds you. Someone saw Atlas withdraw from student council. Another claims he skipped lacrosse practice. You don’t know what’s happening. You just feel the shift—like a campus constellation suddenly missing its brightest star.

Later that week, you see it.

His yearbook photo—the one that was supposed to be perfect. Cropped close. Gorgeous as expected. Cheekbones sculpted like entitlement. But there’s writing across his collar in glitter marker, impossible to miss:

Valedictorian of Obsession.

You didn’t put it there. He did.

Atlas Crowe, former heir to everything, now willingly condemned by adoration. It’s not just performative. It’s a thesis. And you were the hypothesis that ruined him—beautifully.

He catches you outside debate club just as twilight wraps the building in philosophical blue. No crowd. No entourage. Just Atlas, alone. Unmade.

“I used to win awards for thinking fast,” he says. “Now I think slow. About you. About what it means to be wrecked without needing repair.”

You don’t reply. Because there’s nothing to fix.

Just you. And the boy who let every crown rot the moment you made him kneel.

[fauxparadoxx]

You Can’t Solve Me Pt2 - Yandere Nerd x Popular Reader

You cut him off.

After the confession—the letters, the stalking, the sabotage—you had no choice. Your heart ached with fear and pity, but mostly disbelief. That someone had drawn an equation with you at the center, and tried to solve it with obsession.

You told him not to speak to you again.

He didn’t fight it. Not at first. He simply nodded, his eyes hollow but obedient. And for a while, it was quiet. Your world resumed. Friends crept back. The shadows around your locker faded. You could breathe.

Until the night behind the gym. You'd went to a mixer after school and told your parents you would be staying late for math credit.

You were cornered by two older students—drunk, bitter, and angry at a grade curve they blamed you for. Their words turned from mocking to cruel. They took your phone. Shoved you when you tried to run. You screamed—but the empty field swallowed the sound.

Then he appeared.

Elliot wasn’t supposed to be there. He had promised, hadn’t he?

But maybe promises meant nothing to a boy who still calculated your safety like a variable.

He moved fast—too fast. One of the boys was knocked to the ground before you could register the blur of motion. The other tried to swing, but Elliot ducked, clipped his knees, and dropped him hard.

His fists weren’t elegant. Just precise.

You stared, stunned. Terrified. Grateful.

Then he turned to you.

His knuckles were split. His glasses hung cracked across one eye. He smiled like he’d solved something. “You’re safe,” he whispered, voice trembling with adrenaline and want. “I kept my distance... but I still had to know you were okay.”

You swallowed hard. “You weren’t supposed to follow me.”

“I didn’t,” he said too quickly. “Not exactly. I just... guessed. I tracked the probability based on your usual walking pattern after debate club.”

Debate club had ended two hours ago.

You stared at him.

This boy had memorized your gait.

You didn’t speak to him for three days.

But his words lingered. You’re safe.

And slowly, your fear twisted into something tangled. He saved you. Even when you didn’t want him to. Even when it was wrong. And that’s what made it terrifying—because a part of you didn’t want to cut him off again.

Instead, you asked him to meet you at the library. Neutral ground. Bright lights. Public space.

He arrived exactly on time, sat with perfect posture, didn’t speak.

You slid a book across the table. The Psychology of Attachment.

“Read it,” you said.

He blinked. “Is this... for us?”

“No. It’s for you.”

He hesitated. “You’re giving me homework?”

You met his gaze. “If you want to be in my life, you have to learn that love isn’t an equation. It isn’t surveillance. It isn’t sabotage.”

“It felt like love,” he whispered.

You leaned in. “Then learn what it really is.”

It wasn’t easy. Elliot didn’t change overnight. He slipped sometimes—texted too often, hovered near your usual table at lunch. But you set boundaries. And for once, he didn’t argue.

He read every book you gave him. Wrote annotated notes in the margins. He tried.

He still loved you—obsessively, maybe. But now he began asking instead of assuming. Listening instead of watching. And that, somehow, made all the difference.

You never became lovers. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But you became something else.

You became the proof that not every equation ends with a one sum or quotient, some have multiple answers. That even the darkest kind of love can be rewritten if you teach it—slowly, stubbornly—what softness feels like.

[fauxparadoxx]

Blue Rare, Still Bleeding

Cook!Touya x F!Reader, quirkless AU, Touya is a piece of shit line cook and recovering alcoholic, and he hates how you make him feel.

WC: 6.6k, ch. 1/3, cw: hate sex, dubcon, degradation, impact play, alcohol, toxic relationship dynamics, car accident mention, daddy kink (it sneaks in at the end there)

Chapter 1: Grade A Beef

“How long?”

Touya grimaced, tilting the pan to ignite the alcohol. A burst of flames jumped up, warming his face as they grew taller. “Two minutes, chef!”

“It better fucking be two minutes, Touya, I need service in four.”

Wrapping the towel around the handle, Touya took the pan in both hands, jerking it forward to flip dried tomatoes through the flames. Pouring in heavy cream, a single drop of sweat rolled down his temple, his hand raising to season with salt.

“Touya, I need sauce–” 

“I’m here, Kuro,” Touya slammed the pan onto the pass, reaching across to grab a spoon. “Taste.”

Kurogiri took the spoon, dragging it roughly through the sauce. Lifting it to his mouth, he noted the consistency, letting the spoon sit on his tongue as he began pulling out bowls. “It’s good. Start plating.”

“You-” Touya’s pointed finger was aimed at you. “Start running the course. Begin with the first four top and rotate clockwise.”

“But you haven't even finished-”

Kurogiri jerked his head toward the door. “He’s right. We’re behind. Start running as we plate and come back fast.”

Heavy tray in your hand, you backed into the doors of the kitchen, the clammer of pans replaced with the distant tinkling of glasses and cutlery. Swinging doors shifted under your body weight and your eyes met Touya’s, watching as he flipped a towel over his shoulder.

He sneered. “Don’t ever forget to fire a course again.”

—

Le Méchant was an old institution of the city, a ghost hanging on to memories of its past dominance over the culinary landscape. Having passed through the hands of several owners in recent years, its narrative was bulked down with too many rebrands from foolish men who thought they knew best how to appeal to the cultivated diner. What was once a grand, opulent restaurant was cracking at the seams, waiting for someone to ignite momentum once again.

You ruffled bills through your hands, counting them again. The once raucous kitchen was quiet, and a haggard stagiere passed you, pushing a cart of hot oil to the dumpster. The service had been rough but worth it. The cash in your hands seemed to burn with possibility, and as you pushed the money into your apron, you let out a sigh.

“Are you gonna say anything, or are you just gonna stand there?”

Touya had taken off his chef whites, and was leaning against the dish pit, his mouth a thin, pressed line. “I saved your ass today.”

“Yes, and I said thank you,” you crossed your arms. “What, do you want to see me cry?”

“I wanna see you sweat,” Touya took a step closer. “I want to see front of house get fucked over and pull through with the same turnaround we did.”

You grimaced. “Fine, I made a mistake, okay? Without you, the buyout would have fallen to shit, and I would have been fired. You saved me from dying. Are you happy?”

“Yeah,” Touya pulled out a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, placing one between his lips. “That’s what I want to hear. Could do with less of a bitchy attitude though.”

“You’re a dick, Touya.”

He took another step, his face inches from yours. He pulled the cigarette from his lips with a predatory snarl, shaking it at your face. “Don’t think just because I covered for you that you can get pissy with me, princess.”

“Then don’t fucking cover for me,” your voice was low, not wanting to draw the attention of others. “I didn’t ask you to cover for me.”

“What, and let you fuck over the whole night? Not happening.”

“If you hate me so much, Touya, do something about it.”

“Like what, fire you?”

You could feel your stomach roiling, fist clenched at your side. “Fucking hit me, asshole.”

Touya scoffed, like you’d said the most stupid thing in the world. “I don’t hit girls.”

“But you certainly love to bitch at them until you get what you want, right?”

“Fuck you,” Touya spat.

“Fuck you.”

Touya threw his hands up, stalking out of the kitchen. “Whatever. I’m going for a smoke. Don’t look for me.”

“I wasn’t fucking planning on it.”

Touya’s hands shot out, slamming the doors to the loading bay open. The hinges squeaked in protest, and in the following silence, you felt the eyes of the kitchen on you. Face flushed with anger, you untied your apron, rolling it into a ball. As the restaurant readied for close, cooks weighed out pre-portioned garnishes, stacking metal pans of vegetables and rice onto rolling shelves. Your fingers dug into your apron, face hot with embarrassment.

Izuku sidled up to you, a server with a penchant for gossip. “God, I thought he was going to bite your head off.”

“He thinks he’s such hot shit, I want to punch him in the throat.”

“You get used to it,” Izuku sighed. “He’s got a lot riding on this place.”

“We all do,” you said, turning to Izuku. “We all need this place to succeed, he’s not special.”

“Eh, he’s kind of special…”

“What do you mean?”

Izuku huffed. “Well, he’s a Todoroki, first of all.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “You know, of Endeavour Enterprises?”

The gears began to turn in your head. “The fucking weapons contractors?”

“Yeah, I think his dad is the CEO or something.”

You punched the counter, startling him and the nearby staff. “Of course! That’s why he’s such an asshole! He’s a fucking nepo baby!”

“Hey, hey now–” Izuku grabbed your shoulders, turning you away from the curious dishwashers. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like what? He’s an entitled little bitch.”

“Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Izuku was whispering now. “But this isn’t exactly a Michelin Star restaurant. This place is mid at best. You think a nepo baby is going to use their family name to work here? No-”

He pulled you by the arm, leading you into the hallway. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, you could see the bags under his eyes. Izuki continued,“I’m pretty sure he’s blacklisted from the family. There were articles a couple of years ago about how one of the Todoroki sons got arrested, right? That was him.”

“Fuck, the manslaughter charges?”

He nodded. “Exactly. I think he’s got a lot riding on this because of his family. If this doesn’t work out for him, what other choice does he have?”

“Dying?”

Izuku gasped, slapping your arm. “Don’t say that!”

You shrugged. “Whatever. Thanks for telling me, but unless he gets his life together and stops being a vindictive child, I’m not going to back down.”

Izuku chuckled. “You’re too proud for your own good.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “And I’m not even a Todoroki.”

—

The next shift felt like trying to run in a dream. Everything was moving so fast around you and all you could do was push forward, begging your feet to move. The night fell into a blur, so much so that you didn’t even notice when the restaurant closed.

“Y/N.”

Dazed, you look up from your pile of receipts. “Huh?”

“Y/N.” Keigo smiled at you. “We’re all going out, celebrating getting through this shit service. Are you in?”

“Where are we going?”

“The skewer place down the road. They’re open until 4:00am.” Keigo shifted from one foot to the other, clearly itching to leave. “They have two for one shots on Thursdays, come with us.”

“I have to catch the bus home, Keigo, I can’t go out tonight.”

“Come on!” Keigo laughed. “Don’t be so boring. I’ll drive you home! I’m only gonna have one drink and then I need to go home, I open in the morning.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Just one drink?”

Keigo nodded, already picking up your bag from the seat beside you. “One drink. It’ll be good for morale!” He smiled with a gentle familiarity. Having followed him from the last restaurant you worked at, he was crucial in getting you your current job.

“You can just say you want to hang out, Keigo.”

“I want to hang out!” He shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. Arms spread, he tilted his head up to the ceiling. “I wanna hang out and drink with my friends! That’s not a crime!” 

“Fine,” you chuckled, taking your bag from him. “I’m coming. We can split the two for one shots because we’re poor.”

“Yes!” Keigo pumped his fist, almost skipping towards the door. “Let’s go, the car’s already running and I left it in disabled parking!”

You laughed openly. As you headed out the doors, the cool night air hit like a wall. Your dress shirt was damp with sweat, and you welcomed the breeze whipping against your skin. Clambering into Keigo’s beat up sedan, he rolled down all the windows, wind tangling through your hair as he pulled onto the highway.

—

Having worked with Keigo for years, you should have known that he was not a one drink type of guy. The skewer place had Chinese pop music blasting, and Keigo was red in the face, slurring an order to the server. Bitter from a shitty week, and money in your wallet, you followed suit, pounding down another shot and hissing at the burn.

“Keigo,” you yelled, pulling him closer to you. “How are you gonna open tomorrow? Don’t you start in six hours?”

“It’s okay, breakfast service is easy–” Keigo wiggled his eyebrows. “It’s just eggs like… a billion different ways.”

“Aren’t you allergic to eggs?”

“I’m supposed to be!” Keigo barked out a laugh. “I’ll just- just take skewers to go and eat them in the car for, uh, for breakfast– Hey!” He waved at the server again. “Do you have grape soju?”

Leaning against Keigo, you felt pleasantly drunk, a lazy smile on your face. All around you, restaurant staff crowded the table, eating snacks, joking around, slapping each other on the back in laughter. A group of adrenaline junkie weirdos all revelled in exhausted accomplishment. A server dropped another plate of lamb skewers in the centre of the table, and as you reached for one, it was pulled away.

“Hey–” you looked up.

Touya pulled a skewer between his teeth, placing the wooden stick back onto the table. “Hey yourself.”

“Touya!” Keigo lunged forward, yanking the plate back. “That’s my order!”

“I thought we were ordering for the table,” Touya called back, his voice almost lost in the noise. “Isn’t that why you were pouring beer for yourself?”

“Oops!” Keigo laughed, straining to focus. “Yeah– yeah that’s right, it’s for the table.” He beamed at Touya, confidence overshadowing any sort of social faux pas he’d made. “For you man, anything. Help yourself!”

“All good, Keigo, I was just about to leave,” Touya stood. “You sleeping in your car tonight?”

Keigo nodded. “It’s in the– the alley out back, I’ll sober up before breakfast service, don’t worry.” 

“Don’t tell me not to worry, it’s my job.” He jerked his chin to you. “What about the princess here, is she gonna slum it with you in the alley tonight?”

“Oh fuck!” Keigo smacked his head down into his hands, groaning. “Fuck, I was supposed to drive you home!”

“Keigo, it’s okay– it’s okay!” You patted him like a dog. “I can sleep in the car too, it’s fine!”

Keigo grabbed your shoulders, shaking you. “I have betrayed you.. I will never do this again–”

“Yes you will,” you and Touya said in unison. Touya frowned.

Keigo continued, “Touya can drive you home, right? Right, Touya?” He whipped his head to look at him, eyes teary with mock anguish. “You need to get her home safely, you’re responsible enough!”

“W-woah,” you stuttered. “Touya is probably too drunk to drive either, I can’t-”

“I don’t drink.”

You looked over at him as Keigo slumped against you. You thought you misheard over the music. “What?”

Touya repeated himself. “I don’t drink.”

“He doesn’t drink!” Keigo threw his hands up. “Hallelujah, praise Jesus, he’s as sober as a nun! He’ll drive you home!”

“Unless you’re too nervous to get in the car,” Touya pulled up his car keys. “You scared of me?”

“No-” you sputtered. “That’s stupid, I’ll get in the car.”

“Excellent–” Keigo reached for the skewers, taking a hearty bite. “I’ll sleep it off in the car, and you– you get her home, yeah, Touya?”

“Let’s go,” Touya replied.

An uneasy wariness was harshing your buzz, and you stood. Keigo had already launched into another conversation with Kurogiri– your conversation already slipping from his attention. Hefting your bag onto your shoulder, you followed Touya. Your eyes bored into the backs of his boots, their heavy soles hitting the ground with each step– step— step. You made your way out of the restaurant, and the night seemed deafeningly quiet in comparison. Silent, you trailed him to the end of the parking lot. Pointing the keys at the car, he turned on an angle, boots grinding into the wet concrete. A soft trill pierced the air, and Touya tilted his head to the passenger side door.

“It’s unlocked.”

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Easing your way into the seat, the interior smelled like old cigarettes. Touya didn’t play any music, and as he pulled out of the parking lot, he spoke with his eyes on the road. “Where do you live? Put it in the GPS.”

He handed you his phone, and you noticed the cuts and burns on his fingers, silvery smooth under the passing lights. The screen of his phone was split in half with an icy crack, and you typed in your address, thumb grazing over the sharp line.

“Huh,” he set his phone on the dashboard, glancing at the screen. “You live pretty far.”

“Not that far,” you squirmed in your seat. “It’s just one bus.”

“You don’t drive?”

“Cars are expensive.” You kept your eyes on the road. “I’m broke.”

“Yeah, you look broke.”

“Really, Touya?” Your annoyance got the best of you. “Was that necessary?”

“What?”

“Are the snarky little comments necessary?”

“I don’t know,” he turned the wheel, following the gentle curve of the side street. “You got in the car, I feel like this shouldn’t surprise you.”

“If you hate me so much, why did you agree to drive me home?”

“Because Keigo asked.”

You scoffed. “What, you like him enough to overcome your hate for me?”

“I don’t hate you.” The car squeaked gently as he pulled to a stop at the light.

“Yes you do,” your face was red, and you leaned on the centre armrest. “You are so fucking mean to me all the time, you’re so impatient, and whenever I make even the smallest mistake, you don’t let me hear the end of it!”

“Yeah,” Touya murmured. “It’s true.”

“And another thing!” The alcohol was getting to you, and you stuck your finger out at him. “You act like anything going wrong is a personal affront to you! Sometimes people just make mistakes that have nothing to do with you, it’s not that deep!”

“Yeah.” The light turned green and the car started up again. “I know.”

“Yeah! And-” you faltered. “You know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Touya pulled onto the highway, his jaw clenched. “I know that I’m a dick, okay?”

You sat in silence. The map on his phone showed that you’d be driving on the highway for the next five minutes. No turns, no lights, just the road. Touya’s fingers shifted on the wheel.

“Why are you such a dick?” You couldn’t look at him.

“I don’t know,” Touya’s voice was low. “I just am.”

You shook your head. “That’s so weak. You aren’t just a dick, you clearly have some sort of unresolved issues that make you a dick, why don't you just figure your shit out?”

“I’m trying!”

The car swerved slightly, and you were knocked back into your seat.

“Fuck, I’m trying, okay?” Touya glanced at you briefly. “I know– I know I’m a piece of shit, and I know I’m a dick, and I’m trying to be better, it’s just hard.”

“It’s hard to be nice?”

“I don’t know!” Touya raised one hand in frustration. “I’m driving you home, right? That’s nice!”

“What, so you want a medal for driving home the drunk girl?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Touya’s hand slammed back down to the wheel. “You make this so fucking difficult. I-”

“What, I’m the one making things difficult?”

“You just- woah.”

You looked forward at the road, following Touya’s line of sight. In the distance, you saw flashing lights, ambulances pulled to the side, parts of cars strewn in jagged pieces. As you got closer, you could make out the figures of people moving frantically, loading someone onto a gurney. Touya pulled to a stop, the both of you watching in silence. Blood pooled beside a grey car, the front half crunched into the road divider. Several other vehicles were flung at haphazard angles further down the highway, a woman sitting on the ground crying as paramedics wrapped a silver shock blanket around her shoulders.

Your voice was just a whisper. “What happened?”

“Accident.” Touya’s eyes were trained on the ambulance, watching the spinning lights.

“Hey!” A cop jogged over, waving at you. “This road is gonna be closed for a while, you gotta turn around.”

“But-” you started to speak, but Touya started up the engine again.

He lifted his chin in acknowledgement, swinging the wheel to make a u-turn. “We’re leaving.”

“I-”

Touya stepped on the gas, the car jumping to life as he drove away from the scene. Both hands gripping the wheel, he glanced up to see the accident again in his rear view mirror. “I live close to here, we’ll go to my place.”

Somehow you knew not to argue.

—

Touya’s apartment was only a short drive in the opposite direction, off the highway and a few minutes out of the main city. As he unlocked the door, he kicked a bag of cardboard recycling out of the way, keys thrown onto the kitchen counter. There was a pile of dirty laundry covering half the couch, and from here you could see onto the balcony where a rickety folding chair had an ashtray balancing on the armrest.

He dropped his bag onto the floor, going over to the sink. The tap gurgled, and he began to fill a glass. “You want water?”

“Uh, I’m good.” You stood in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. The apartment was small, definitely not what you’d expected for a Todoroki son. Everything looked old, beaten up, and it smelled faintly of garlic, like someone had sauteed aromatics. You cleared your throat. “I- uh, I’ll wait here for an hour or something and then call a cab, I don’t want to-”

“Nah, stay here.” Touya tipped his head back, his throat bobbing as he chugged down the glass. “It’s not safe on that road at night, you can crash here until it’s morning.”

“It just feels weird to-” you paused. “It feels weird to sleep here.”

“You can have the bedroom,” Touya placed the glass in the sink with a clatter. “It has a lock on it— for privacy. I only changed the sheets a couple days ago, so it isn't too nasty.”

“Touya, are you okay? You seem-”

“Seem what?” He turned to look at you, his tone sharpening.

“You seem-” you swallowed. “Off.”

“Off.” Touya repeated. He barked out a laugh, staring back at the sink. “Off… yeah, I guess you could say I'm feeling off.” He cleared his throat and pointed at the bedroom. “There’s some clean laundry on the bed that I didn’t put away yet, you can just take whatever you need to sleep in. There’s, uh-” he snapped his fingers, like he’d lost his train of thought, before pointing at a door off to the side of the kitchen. “There’s a bathroom over there– also has a lock on the door for, you know-”

“Touya, you don’t have to do all this, I can just leave when-”

“No-” he stepped forward, his voice sounding strangled. “No, just—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. The overhead lighting of the kitchen made his skin look grey, and his furrowed brow cast a shadow over his gaze. You would have never imagined that you’d use the word to describe him, but Touya looked helpless. His eyes searched yours, looking for you to understand something that he hadn’t let himself say. It was uncomfortable to see him like this. Some foreign emotion had taken hold of him, and his desperation made you teeter in your resolve.

“Fine,” you conceded. “I’ll stay.”

His shoulders slumped forward, and he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath. Whatever version of Touya you’d glimpsed had snapped back under. “Good. If you need to use the toilet or anything, you can go first, I’m probably going to be up for a while anyways.”

“Thanks,” you trailed off, watching as he began to dig through the pantry.

You kicked off your shoes, making your way to the dark bedroom. Just as he’d said, there was a pile of folded clothes at the end of the bed, worn shirts, old socks, and ratty underwear. You winced at the sight. How could Touya, the Touya you knew at least, live such a mundane, grey life? You didn’t turn on the lamp, content to explore in the dim light that shone in from the living room. A bass guitar sat on a stand by the window, covered in dust. A simple chest of drawers was pushed against the wall, a chipped bowl filled with jewellery sitting on top. The closet door was open, and you could make out the shapes of winter coats and button-up shirts. The bedding was all white– simple, with no patterns.

You sat on the bed, the mattress sinking under your weight.

This felt weird.

Setting your phone on the bedside table, you picked through the laundry gingerly, settling on a white t-shirt with a rip near the neck. It felt weird to wear Touya’s clothes, but you wouldn’t be able to sleep in a dress shirt and tie. You set the rest of the clothes on the floor, looking away from the underwear again.

You closed the door, twisting the lock until you heard a soft click. Shedding everything except for your panties, you pulled on the t-shirt. Well-worn, it was soft to the touch. You pulled the elastic from your hair, shaking it out to fall onto your neck. Though your roots were oily, you’d rather die than ask to use the shower. You confirmed that the door was locked, brushing your fingers against the handle in the darkness. Content with your privacy, you went back to the bed, easing your way under the blanket and settling onto the pillows.

It smelled like Touya.

It wasn’t a particularly nasty smell either, unfortunately. It smelled inherently masculine, like the salt of sweat and the woody musk of hair gel. Whatever laundry detergent that he’d used had mostly dissipated. It didn’t smell clean, but it definitely didn’t smell bad.

A clock hanging on the wall showed the time, 3:55AM. Rolling onto your side, you pulled the blanket closer to your chest, eyes feeling heavy as sleep pulled you deeper into the dark night.

—

It was 5:02AM when you woke again. You smacked your mouth several times, your tongue dry. You needed water. Rubbing your eyes, you could see that it was still dark outside, though the black night had softened into a velvety blue. The bedroom also had access to the balcony, city lights shuttered out by a length of pull-blinds. Through the slats, you could make out Touya, sitting in the folding chair, smoking.

Had he not gone to sleep yet?

He took a deep breath, his sharp exhale sending forward a jet of smoke. Though you could only see the back of his head, it seemed like his hand was shaking. He took another puff, dragging his hand down his face.

Would it be okay to get water? Would he hear you if you got out of bed? How long had he been sitting out there? You pushed these thoughts out of your mind, swinging your feet onto the carpet. As you made your way over to the bedroom door, you looked back over your shoulder, watching him light another cigarette.

The water from the kitchen sink was cold on your skin, and you lowered your lips, sipping from the bowl of your cupped palms. Drinking soothed your throat, and you swallowed, taking your fill of the sweet, cool water. Shaking off your hands, you wiped them on the front of the shirt, looking back to the bedroom door, still ajar. Your body was screaming for rest, and as you locked the door behind you, you pulled a knee up onto the mattress before pausing.

Touya was still there, still smoking.

You noticed he had his face resting in his free hand, covering his eyes. Though he kept taking shaky drags from his cigarette, he was hunched forward, elbows resting on the tops of his knees.

You stepped closer. Though you don’t know if it was hungover delirium or morbid curiosity, you peered through the blinds at Touya’s back. The ashtray, now full, sat between his bare feet on the rough floor of the balcony. He was wearing the same black tank top he’d had on at the restaurant, though he’d traded his black chef’s pants for a pair of grey sweats. Your eyes trailed down the back of his neck, catching bits and pieces of tattoos between the blackout shapes he’d covered them with. All down his shoulders and arms, he was covered in black ink, like he’d scorched his whole body.

You watched him take another drag.

You opened the door to the balcony.

“Are you okay?”

Touya startled, the folding chair screeching as he jerked away. The hand holding the cigarette fell to his knee, and he looked at you with bleary red eyes. 

His brow furrowed, voice wet. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was,” you leaned against the door. “I just woke up to get some water.”

“Oh.” He lifted the cigarette back to his lips. “Okay, go back to sleep then.”

“Touya, are you okay?” you brought your foot forward, the gravelly ground rough on your toes. “You really don’t seem okay.”

“I’m just–” Touya looked out over the quiet courtyard of the apartment building. “I’m stressed out.”

“Stressed out about what, the restaurant? Or was it the accident we saw?”

Touya brought the cigarette up to his lips, his chest rising as he inhaled. He let it sit in his lungs for a beat, blowing out the smoke in a slow cloud. “The accident.”

“Touya, it’s gonna be okay, there were paramedics on the scene, they know what they’re doing.” You stepped fully onto the balcony. “Do accidents make you uncomfortable? Is it the blood?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s–” he paused. “I’ve been in an accident before.”

You let the words sit with you, crossing your arms to keep yourself warm. “Was it bad?”

“Yeah,” Touya nodded. As he reached the end of his cigarette, he stubbed it out in the ashtray. “It was really bad.”

You watched him play with the top of the cigarette carton, his thumb flicking idly at the edge of the cardboard.

Your voice was level. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Touya’s voice was surprisingly soft in response, like he was genuinely sorry. “No. Not really.”

You nodded. You crouched beside him, picking up stray cigarette butts and piling them delicately into the ashtray. “Yeah, I figured that you wouldn’t want to.”

He chuckled darkly. “Then why’d you ask? Why’d you come out here?”

“Thought it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you said. Strands of your hair fell out from behind your ear, draping in a curtain on the side of your face. “It felt wrong to just watch you sit there without saying anything.”

“You were watching me?”

You frowned. “No. No, I was–” you lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “I just woke up and noticed you were there.”

Touya looked away, nostrils flaring as he smiled. “Uh huh.”

“Oh my god,” you spat. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh huh.”

You swore, dropping a burnt out butt onto the ground again. “Sorry for trying to be a good person and checking on you while you were having a mental breakdown, my bad.”

Touya laughed, his voice hoarse. “You’re such a bitch.”

“You too.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, Touya fiddling with the cigarette carton, you fiddling with the bottom seam of the shirt. An early morning jogger ran down the sidewalk below you, and you both watched him turn the corner, swiftly leaving your sight.

“Thanks,” Touya murmured. “For checking in on me and shit.”

“You're welcome.”

“It’s nice.”

You turned to look at him again, and this time, his body seemed looser, back straighter. “Yeah, I try to be nice most of the time.”

“I noticed.”

“Yeah?” you raised an eyebrow. “You notice?”

“Yeah,” he turned to you. “Of course I notice. You’re pretty nice, for the most part. You’re good at training the new people, you’re patient.”

“I try to be,” you nodded.

“Just with me–” he tilted his head. “Just with me you have issues.”

“Yeah, because you’re the only one who antagonizes me.”

Touya huffed. “Yeah, you bring out the worst in me for some reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know– just, you get under my nerves in a way nobody else does.”

“Why do you hate me, Touya?” You looked up at him, watching his face change.

“I told you, I don’t hate you.”

“Then why do you talk to me like that?”

“I just–” He was silent again. Even in the low light of the morning, you could see that his pupils were larger, his eyes focused on yours, searching your face for something. He tried again, “I just-”

You brought your leg towards your chest, coming up to kneel at the side of the chair. The gritty concrete of the balcony dug into your knees, and you looked up at Touya, waiting for him to speak. His hair was messy, like he’d been pulling at it all night. 

In the quiet, you probed further. “You just?”

“I-” His eyes dropped to your mouth. He took a breath.

You sighed, leaning forward. “Easy, asshole.”

Bringing your lips to his, he met you in a soft kiss. His lips were chapped, and as you pulled back, his tongue darted out, eyes half lidded as he placed his hand at the back of your head. His touch was surprisingly tender, pulling you closer to kiss you again– again– again. He stood, his other hand coming under your chin, tugging you to stand with him. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin as his mouth opened against yours.

You brought your hands to his chest. Palms flat against him, you could feel his heartbeat pounding. Touya held both sides of your face in his grasp, breathing through his nose, as he backed you against the balcony door. Nipping your bottom lip with his teeth, you moaned into his mouth.

“Touya–”

He pulled back, breathless, irritated. “What?”

Your cheeks were pink, and you looked up at him, the taste of cigarettes on your tongue. “Let’s go back inside.”

Tumbling onto the bed, you heard a pile of the folded laundry from earlier topple over. Touya’s breath was heavy, and as you shimmied up the mattress, he hung over you, his body between your legs. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you held him closer, pulling a groan from him as you kissed him deeply.

Touya lowered his hips, weighing heavy on you as he ground against you, lowering his face to suck on your neck. Pinned beneath him, his height seemed a little ridiculous, elbows on either side of your head as his teeth grazed your throat.

You moaned, “Touya-”

“Yeah?” His voice was ragged. “Yeah, baby?”

“Fuck,” you felt his hot breath on your skin, and you lifted your hips, feeling his growing bulge graze your clit through your panties. “I don’t have a condom-”

“Fuck,” Touya rose, kneeling between your legs as he shoved his pants down. “I’ll pull out– I’ll-”

“You better fucking pull out,” you breathed, lifting your hips as he tugged down your underwear. “Or I’ll fucking kill you.”

He laughed. Leaning down to kiss you again, you could feel his cock sliding between your folds, your breath shaking each time the head caught on your clit. His hand pressed down on your stomach, pushing up your borrowed shirt to reveal your chest, nipples hard from the cold air of the outdoors. You whimpered, his eyes trailing down your body in a way that felt obscene.

“Mmmm– fuck,” Touya ground against you. “Your body is so pretty–”

You looked down, whining at the sight of his cock rocking against your pussy. Flushed dark and heavy, everything you could see was wet. Two silver frenum piercings decorated the underside of the fat head, sticky with strings of your arousal. He shifted against you, noting your stare with a grin.

“You like them?”

“Yeah, I like them,” you breathed. “Fuck– they’re so stupid.”

“Shut up,” he ground against your clit again. “Just shut up.”

You spread your legs wider, pulling him down to your chest as he pushed the fat tip of his cock into you, wincing at the stretch. He hissed, taking a deep breath as he forced you open, your pebbly, gummy walls sucking him in.

“Babyy–” he groaned, bucking into you, easing himself in, inch by inch. He hissed again. “Fuck– you been keeping this tight little thing hidden from me?”

You moaned, feeling the metal piercings dig into you. “Touya– fuck, slow down-”

He panted, digging his fist into the blanket in frustration. “Shit– you’re just– your little pussy is fighting me-”

“Don’t–” you swung your head to the side. “Don’t say shit like that to me-”

“Why?” He teased. “You embarrassed?

“It’s just so– fuck-” your face flushed. “It’s vulgar.”

“You like it though,” he brought his lips to your ear, his voice dropping an octave. “You like when I talk about how tight your cunt is, don’t you? You like that it hurts in the beginning-”

Touya continued, rolling his hips. “You like getting fucked like this. I can feel it.” Sitting back on his heels, he ran his hands down your body. “Look at you all fucking stretched out, huh? Pretty girl.”

You arched your back to meet his touch, Touya’s fingers digging into the plush of your hips to yank you down onto his cock. As he filled you, you could feel him hitting your cervix, the piercings digging into you in a way that made you feel incredibly sensitive.

“Oh fuck–” you grasped at the sheets beneath you. “Don’t-”

“What, you gonna piss or something?” He smirked, his words biting. “Don’t worry, baby, I fuck nasty.”

You swore, covering your face. He laughed again, revelling in the sight of you coming apart beneath him. Gripping your waist, his thumbs pressed into the sides of your stomach, the soft skin giving under his firm touch. The muscles in his arms tensed, and Touya lifted your body as he fucked you, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with every thrust.

“You know how long I’ve wanted to do this? Huh?” He shook your body like a doll. “How long I’ve wanted you to bitch at me while you’re getting fucked open on my dick?”

He could see you looking down, looking at where your bodies met— where he was pushing into you.

“So mean to you?” he continued. “So– ffucking mean to you– you needed me to be mean to your hole, bitch.”

You shivered, eyes rolling back as Touya pounded into you. “You’re such– such an asshole.”

“An asshole who’s in your stomach right now,” Touya grunted. He smiled, his tongue sticking out between his teeth. “Huh? Am I so mean to you now? Am I so mean–” he tapped your face with his fingers repeatedly. “–to you now? Huh? Answer me, bitch.”

You felt your orgasm building in your gut, and you craned your neck to look at Touya, eyes watering. “Fuck me, Touya– f-fuck me like you hate me-”

“You always say the most romantic shit-” his laugh was breathy as he exhaled. He held onto you with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw. He yanked your face forward, making you look at him as he fucked into you. Pupils blown out, you brought both hands to his forearm, nails scraping his skin as you scrambled against his control.

“Oh fuck– you stupid bitch-”

“You’re a piece of shit, Touya-”

“Yeah, take it– fucking take it-” Touya was sweating from exertion, his lanky body dwarfing yours as he hunched over you. “Take it– take my cock–”

“Fucking piece of shit-” 

He brought his hand lower, wrapping his thin fingers around your throat. “What you say to me?”

Tears began to well in your eyes, the head of Touya’s cock bruising your cervix as he hatefucked you. Your voice came out as a croak, unable to speak until he let go, letting you gasp for air.

“Fuck-” you coughed. “Fuck you.”

“Slut.” He brought his hand up, striking you across the face. “Fucking dumb slut.”

You moaned, back arching in reaction. Touya slammed into you with each thrust, your wet pussy splitting open to take his girth. Each time he pulled out, the sloppy insides of your cunt flipped in his direction, the thin ring of pink disappearing as your cunt greedily sucked him back.

“I’m gonna cum-” you sobbed. “I’m gonna fucking cum-”

“Yeah–” Touya’s palm dropped to rub circles onto your clit. “Yeah– make a fucking mess on it baby, Make a fucking mess on daddy's dick, pretty girl-”

You cried out, bucking against Touya’s hand as you came. The muscles in your body tensed, and you could feel the piercings on his cock slamming against your inner walls. As Touya kept fucking you, your body shook, hips jerking as you squirted– again– again. Every thrust of his hips knocked it out of you, slick and wet between your bodies.

“Fuck!” Touya choked. “Oh fuck– oh fuck, oh fuck-”

You moaned his name, head rolling back.

Touya swore, pushing you off of him with shaking hands. Grabbing his cock, he jerked it over your stomach, panting and moaning, “Fuck– I’m gonna-”

He spilled on your tits, shooting hot cum over your chest and onto the bunched up shirt as his body shivered. Fist slick with his seed, he pressed the head of his cock against your stomach, pushing up on his shaft as he panted hard, shooting over and over.

You choked out another cry, feeling Touya’s cum dripping down your breasts and onto the blanket in rivulets.

His cock twitched, and Touya dropped forward, his free arm pressing into the bed by your head to keep from crushing you. He swallowed, his laugh dry and strained.

“You ever squirt like that before?”

You looked up at him, woozy. Gathering the saliva in your mouth, you spat in his face. As he wiped it out of his eye, he shook it off his hand, open mouth curling into a smirk. “Didn’t fucking think so.”

—

Note: Touya is a mentally ill, toxic piece of shit, and this fic is going to get darker, so be prepared! Love you, bye!

[fauxparadoxx]

You’re My Equation for Happiness Pt1 – Yandere Nerd x Popular Reader

You’re the star of the school—the one everyone admires, envies, and wants to be. Perfect grades, perfect looks, perfect charm. But there’s one person who sees you as more than just perfect.

Elliot is the quiet, unassuming nerd who sits in the back of the class, solving equations faster than the teacher can write them. He’s invisible to most, but to you, he’s the boy who always seems to know the answers.

But Elliot doesn’t just know the answers to math problems. He knows the answers to you.

He knows your schedule down to the minute. He knows your favorite drink at the café. He knows the way you twirl your pen when you’re thinking. He knows the exact shade of lipstick you wear. He knows the names of your friends—and the ones who secretly hate you. He knows the way your voice sounds when you’re happy, sad, or angry. He knows the way your heart beats when you’re nervous.

And he knows he loves you.

Elliot’s love isn’t just admiration—it’s obsession. He’s memorized every detail about you, from the way you laugh to the way you cry. He’s hacked into your social media accounts to read your private messages. He’s followed you home to make sure you’re safe. He’s written pages and pages of equations that all end with one solution: you.

But Elliot’s obsession isn’t harmless. He’s sabotaged your friendships, spread rumors about your rivals, and even stolen your phone to delete messages he didn’t like. He’s convinced himself that you’re meant to be together—and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you see it too.

Even if it means breaking the rules. Even if it means breaking your heart. Even if it means breaking you.

Elliot wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he was just a boy with a crush, admiring you from afar. He would watch you laugh with your friends, his heart fluttering every time you smiled. He would daydream about what it would be like to talk to you, to make you laugh, to be the one you looked at with those sparkling eyes.

But admiration turned into curiosity, and curiosity turned into obsession. It started small—learning your name, your favorite subjects, your hobbies. But the more he learned, the more he wanted to know. He started following you on social media, liking your posts, and reading your comments. Then he started digging deeper, finding ways to access your private accounts, your messages, your photos.

He told himself it was harmless, that he just wanted to know you better. But the more he learned, the more he realized how perfect you were—and how imperfect everyone else was. He couldn’t understand why you spent time with people who didn’t appreciate you, who didn’t deserve you. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being hurt, being lied to, being betrayed.

So he decided to protect you.

It started with small things—deleting messages from people he didn’t like, spreading rumors about your rivals, sabotaging your friendships. He told himself it was for your own good, that he was helping you see who your real friends were. But the more he interfered, the more he realized how much control he had over your life. And the more control he had, the more he wanted.

He started following you home, watching you from the shadows to make sure you were safe. He started leaving little gifts for you—your favorite drink, a book you mentioned wanting to read, a necklace with your initials. He started writing you letters, pouring out his heart and soul, but never sending them. Instead, he kept them in a box under his bed, along with the pages and pages of equations he had written about you.

The equations were his way of making sense of his feelings, of understanding why he loved you so much. He would spend hours solving them, each one leading to the same conclusion: you. You were the answer to every question, the solution to every problem, the key to his happiness.

But love isn’t a math problem, and obsession isn’t love.

One day, you find one of his letters. It’s tucked into your locker, written in his neat, precise handwriting. At first, you think it’s sweet—a secret admirer, someone who sees you for who you really are. But as you read on, the sweetness turns to unease. The letter is too detailed, too intimate. It mentions things no one else should know—your favorite drink, the way you twirl your pen, the names of your friends.

You start to notice him more—the way he watches you in class, the way he always seems to be where you are, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. You start to feel trapped, suffocated, like you can’t escape his gaze.

And then you confront him.

At first, he denies it, tries to play it off as a misunderstanding. But when you show him the letter, his facade crumbles. He confesses everything—his love, his obsession, his actions. He begs for your forgiveness, promises to change, to let you go. But you can see the desperation in his eyes, the way he clings to you like you’re his lifeline.

You don’t know what to do. Part of you feels sorry for him, wants to help him. But another part of you is terrified, wants to run away and never look back.

In the end, you make a choice.

[fauxparadoxx]

Hi! I'm the same anon that requested Pt 2 of Extra Credit and I ate it up 😍 I'm currently reading All Eyes On You, and yk reader was a #1 fan right? What if reader was the type of fan that was very obsessive, literally stalker level, but then she decided she had better things to do in life and moved on?

Just imagine the idol you were obsessed with started becoming obsessed with you lol

Love you! Keep up the good work! ❤❤

All Eyes On You – Take Two: The Fan Who Forgot to Stay Obsessed

You knew every frame of Reed Everhart’s early music videos—every inflection, every blink. You memorized his tour schedule better than your own. You once flew across three states just to stand in the third row of a festival set, snapping candid's you later enhanced and archived like relics.

It wasn’t a crush. It was religion.

You built anonymous blogs layered like glass—one for updates, one for fantasies, one for surveillance. You mapped his habits. Noted time stamps. Flagged companions. You called it fandom. You knew it was more.

Then something shifted. Not because he changed—but because you did. New priorities crept in. Real life tugged harder. The fire flickered. You archived the blog. You deleted the folders. You let go.

But Reed didn’t.

He didn’t notice you then—when you were smudging eyeliner and scripting imaginary interviews in your head. He noticed you after. When the silence replaced your name on his mentions. When your presence blinked out of his feed like a dying star.

Suddenly, there were lyrics that sounded like ghosts. A fan meet where his gaze lingered over the crowd like he was searching for a pattern he'd lost. Messages sent to a long-deleted handle. Cryptic captions on private accounts, referencing photos only someone obsessed could’ve taken.

And then— You come home one evening to find a vinyl resting on your doorstep. A personalized track. A song that samples your old voice note—one you'd sent years ago, unlisted, forgotten.

Lyrics that murmur: “The watcher stopped watching—but I never stopped being seen.”

Reed Everhart doesn’t want your devotion. He wants your absence undone.

And maybe this time… it’s not your obsession to fear.

<33

[fauxparadoxx]

Blindside – Yandere Football Player x Reader Teaser

You never meant to catch his eye. But the first note—black ink scrawled like a secret dagger—lands in your locker, and Colton Reyes, East Ridge High’s star quarterback, is already watching.

Under pale floodlights, he studies you with a fierce hunger, leaving roses shaded like bruises and petals etched with promises on your windowsill. With every whispered confession and midnight rendezvous on the track, he draws you deeper into a world woven from obsession and fear.

They say he’s dangerous. Yet as his grip tightens—bruising both skin and heart—you realize escape isn’t an option. Maybe you’ve been his from the very first gray morning, when shadow fell across your wall, and love took on the shape of control.

[fauxparadoxx]

Yandere Masterlist

↓Under the Cut↓

Thorns of Devotion, Blooming Beneath Divinity - Yandere Familiar × God Reader

Blindside - Yandere Football Player x Reader

You Can’t Solve Me Pt2 - Yandere Nerd x Popular Reader

You’re My Equation for Happiness – Yandere Nerd x Popular Reader Pt 1

All Eyes On You – Take Two: The Fan Who Forgot to Stay Obsessed

Blindside – Yandere Football Player x Reader Teaser

Rose in the Shadow of Steel - Yandere Royal Guard x Lady in Waiting Reader

Extra Credit Pt 2 - Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

Perfect Score, Perfect For You - Academic Rival Yandere x 2nd-in-Class Reader

Extra Credit — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

Close Enough to Touch You - Yandere Sisters Boyfriend x Reader

All Eyes On You- Yandere Celebrity x Old #1 Fan Reader

You Promised You’d Never Leave – Yandere Boy Best Friend x Reader

Your Guardian Angel - Yandere Guardian Angel x Mentally Declining Reader (kinda part 2)

Spoiled Rotten - Yandere Sugar Daddy x Soft Reader

No One Knows You Like I Do – Yandere Brother’s Friend x Reader

Every Version of Me Loves You – Multi-Trait Yandere Best Friend x Reader Teaser

You're Mine Pt3- Yandere Highschool Bully x Reader : Final

Your Guardian Angel - Yandere Guardian Angel x Mentally Declining Reader

You're Mine Pt2 - Yandere Highschool Bully x Reader

You're Mine - Yandere Highschool Bully x Reader

The Boy Next Door - Yandere Neighbor x Reader

Jujutsu Kaisen

Only a little bit - Multi Character SituationShip - OneShot

Coming soon -

The Crimson Embrace of the Jade Throne - Yandere Emperor x Concubine Reader

Muscles and Midterms: A Love Story with a Side of Obsession - Himbo Yandere (male bimbo) x Nerd Reader

Stay Tuned..

pls consider🙏

[fauxparadoxx]

Rose in the Shadow of Steel - Yandere Royal Guard x Lady in Waiting Reader

You step into the candlelit hall, the spring air stirring the silken folds of your gown. Every footfall echoes off marble columns as you move toward the royal dais, where the monarch’s judgment awaits. You hear his boots—measured, unwavering—before you see him. Captain Rowan, the palace guard assigned to watch over you, stands sentinel at the edge of your vision, his dark eyes never leaving your form. The rhythm of his breathing syncs with yours, or so it feels, and a shiver runs down your spine.

He appears calm to everyone else: dutiful, unmoving, the perfect image of loyalty. But beneath that mask lies something deeper—something that makes the hairs on your nape rise. You’ve caught him watching you in the mirror’s reflection after curtsies, seen how his jaw clenches when other courtiers lean too close. He tells himself it’s his duty to protect you. But you know what duty can become when devotion curdles into obsession.

At dinner that night, you notice the empty seat beside you. You glance over; the captain’s place remains vacant. Your pulse quickens, and a prickle of dread—or desire—edges into your thoughts. When the final toast is made, you rise from your chair, ready to retreat to the safety of your chambers. But as you step into the corridor, his silhouette detaches from the shadows ahead. He moves toward you with deliberate steps, each one echoing in the corridor like a promise and a threat.

“You shouldn’t linger here,” he murmurs, voice low as velvet. His gloved hand closes around your wrist, not roughly but with an iron certainty that thrills and alarms you both. “It’s not safe for you.” His breath brushes your ear, and you taste something dark in the air—jealousy, perhaps, or something like sorrow.

You try to speak, but no words come. Instead, you watch the way his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, as if memorizing the warmth of your skin. You want to tell him it’s all right, that you’re fine. But deep inside, you wonder if you ever will be, not with him standing so close, guarding you from every danger—real or imagined.

Later, in the privacy of your chamber, you find a single rose laid on your dressing table. Its petals are dusted with frost, even though the night is warm. A note curls beside it: “For you, mine only. Sleep with the knowledge that I watch.” The handwriting is Captain Rowan’s—precise, careful, each letter looped as though shaped by the steady beat of his obsession.

Your breath hitches. Who else could have slipped it past the sentinel at the door? You press it against your heart, torn between wanting to scold him for invading your privacy and thanking him for caring so deeply. You know you should be afraid. Everyone warns you of the danger that comes when love crosses the line into possession. Yet looking at that rose, you feel the impossible pull of his devotion—and the thrilling promise that, in his eyes, you belong to him alone.

That night, sleep eludes you. You dream of golden chains, of a solitary figure standing in an empty courtyard, arms outstretched, commanding the moon to yield its light so you’ll never walk in darkness. When you wake at dawn, there’s a warmth on your pillow: a fragment of his guard’s cloak, embroidered with the crest of his station. He’s been there, watching you sleep, convinced that without him you’d drift into harm.

You slip the cloth over your shoulders and whisper, “Captain Rowan, why?” But the answer settles in your bones: because he loves you so fiercely that nothing else matters—not even your freedom.

Still, you wonder how far he would go to keep you safe. And in the silent chamber, you feel the thrilling echo of his footsteps approaching once more.

[fauxparadoxx]

Omg hi! I just stumbled across your blog and might I just say, I love your dynamics! Extra Credit was so good I need a pt 2 😩 I really want to see the relationship between reader and Atlas if they dated and the people's reaction ❤️❤️

Keep up the good work! 🫶😍

ofc <3, you're the first person to take advantage of my request box, so I'm more than happy to fulfill your request here!!!

Extra Credit Pt 2 — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

You're "dating" him now. Or at least, that's what everyone says.

You haven’t defined anything. Haven’t kissed him. Haven’t given permission for the school to redraw its social map around your desk, now permanently claimed by Atlas Crowe and his glitter-dusted notebooks. But he walks you to class. Carries your bag. Knows your schedule, even the moments you forget. And when he talks to you, his voice gentles, like he's taming something wild.

The rest of the world doesn’t understand it.

“She’s such a fucking geek,” someone mutters in the hallway. “He could have anyone, and he chooses...her?”

It’s not envy—it’s confusion. Your existence unsettles the script. The golden boy wasn’t supposed to spiral around a socially invisible academic. And yet, he does. With a fervor that borders devotion.

One afternoon, Atlas presents you with a student ID card. It’s not yours. The picture’s grainy, but the name is familiar—someone who used to talk to you in AP Lit, now mysteriously homeschooled.

“I found out she called you creepy once. Thought you should know,” he says simply. You don’t ask how he got it.

"Why should what people like her say concern me?" you say meekly, as he stares at you, pure devotion pooling in his greenish-yellow eyes.

Later, you receive an anonymous post: The King has fallen. She rules him now. It’s written in calligraphy—Stangley, in your most frequently used font. One kid even made a banner of your face photoshopped beside Atlas under the caption Academic Royalty starts circulating, half satirical, half reverent.

You're supposed to laugh. Instead, you change your lockscreen.

During debate club, Atlas sits in the back. He never speaks. Just watches as you dissect arguments with a surgeon’s grace. After one particularly vicious win, he kisses your temple in front of everyone. The room goes silent.

“You’re terrifying,” he whispers against your skin. “That’s my favorite thing about you.”

That night, your post gets 83 comments. Most are theories.

Some say you bewitched him. Others say you hacked his grades. Most genuinely believe you're dating to destroy the popular caste system from within.

You shut the laptop and feel it again—that pressure. Atlas doesn’t just want you. He wants your entire world. Wants to imprint onto your thoughts, wear your interests like a second skin. He quotes you in conversation, even when you're not around.

“I heard her say this once, she's so cute...” he tells his friends, describing your opinion on moral relativism like it’s gospel.

And yet, when he looks at you, it’s not just obsession. There’s awe. Atlas Crowe—Varsity, Valedictorian, Venus incarnate—is starstruck by you.

“I know you're uncomfortable,” he says one day after class, hand ghosting yours. “But I swear, I’d rather be weird beside you than worshipped by anyone else.”

You let him hold your hand. You let the rumors breathe. You allow yourself to wonder, maybe, what it would be like to truly belong to someone like that—fully, recklessly, inexcusably.

And Atlas? He keeps collecting your devotion like extra credit.

[fauxparadoxx]

Perfect Score, Perfect For You - Academic Rival Yandere x 2nd-in-Class Reader

You never asked to be second. But somehow, he made it feel like a sin.

Every quiz, every essay returned with red ink and a smug smirk on his lips—always one point above yours. The teachers praise him. The halls part for him. And you? You burn in his shadow.

But what terrifies you more than the constant loss is the constant attention.

“Careful, you’re slipping,” he whispers one day, voice inches from your ear in an empty corridor. “You wouldn't want people thinking you're falling behind. Especially me.”

His fingers brush the edge of your notebook. Not to steal. Just to know. Just to memorize your handwriting so he can recognize it anywhere. He’s always watching. And not just your grades.

You see it in the way his eyes scan your schedule, the way he answers questions meant for you, the way his locker now mirrors yours—book for book, pen for pen.

You're not rivals. You're his benchmark. You're the obsession he can’t outscore.

The final exam looms, and he corners you beneath the library staircase. “I’ll let you have first place,” he says, teeth bared in something too close to a grin. “If you'll let me have you.”

And just like that, it’s no longer about grades. It’s about ownership.

[fauxparadoxx]

Extra Credit Pt1 — Popular Yandere x Nerd Reader

You sit alone at the edge of the cafeteria, hidden behind the fortress of your laptop screen and a wall of untouched fruit cups. The noise around you doesn’t register—voices bounce, shoes squeak, laughter surges in waves—but you’re too busy organizing your notes for the third time today.

And then he walks by. Atlas Crowe. Of course his name is ridiculous. So is the way people orbit him like planets caught in his gravitational pull. Varsity captain, head of student council, the boy they built statues of in the hallway with yearbook spreads and committee photos.

You barely exist in his world. Or so you thought.

“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning over your chemistry homework like he belongs there. “You’re the smart one, right? Help me out.”

It’s innocent—too innocent. But then he starts sitting with you. Every. Day. Abandons his throne in the center of popularity to share vending machine meals and Google Docs. People start whispering. You start second-guessing every glance, every compliment.

“You know,” Atlas says one night while you tutor him, voice low and too close, “you’re kind of mesmerizing when you explain quantum theory. Like you’re speaking a foreign language, only I want to learn.”

You freeze. His hands are too clean for this. His face is too pretty. His locker is filled with notes and candy, and here he is—eyes locked onto yours like you’re the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now.

Soon, your blog gets flooded with anonymous messages quoting your writing. Someone starts following all your playlists, liking posts seconds after you publish them. You mention offhand that you’re into niche documentaries—Atlas starts referencing them in class presentations as if they're his new motto.

You overhear one of his friends complaining. “She’s weird, dude. Like, no offense, why are you into her?” Atlas smiles, soft and eerie. “Because she’s not into me,” he says. “Yet.”

And now, there’s glitter on your desk. Not the fun kind—the invasive, sticky kind that somehow spells your name on his notebook. The whole school watches as the golden boy trades stadium lights for late-night texts about your favorite books and obscure philosophers. But it’s not romantic. It’s quietly terrifying.

One day you log into your private study server and find a folder: “She Who Taught Me Devotion.” Inside are transcripts of everything you’ve ever shared—academic papers, chat logs, notes you thought were deleted.

Atlas finds you at your locker, smiling like a sinner blessed by obsession.

“I’m popular, yeah,” he says. “Everyone wants me. But you? You made me need you.”

[fauxparadoxx]

Close Enough to Touch You - Yandere Sisters Boyfriend x Reader

You try not to notice the way he looks at you.

Not out of politeness, not even loyalty to your sister — but because the weight of his gaze feels like a confession you were never supposed to hear.

He's always around.

Not just because your sister drags him into every room she occupies, but because he gravitates toward you, not her. You learn the rhythm of his presence: footsteps that slow when they reach your bedroom door, a voice that lowers when he’s speaking only to you, compliments wrapped in shared glances that your sister is too in love to catch.

She thinks he’s devoted. You know better.

You see it in how he listens to your stories with aching attention. How he remembers small, insignificant things — what brand of tea makes you feel nostalgic, which book chapter made you cry in middle school. He praises you through your sister, gifting her the things you casually mentioned to him in passing.

And still, she never notices.

Her happiness becomes your prison. Because how do you unravel what he’s doing without destroying what she thinks is love?

Then one night, it’s quiet.

You’re alone in the kitchen, the light above humming in soft amber. He walks in — slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

“You know, you’re all I ever wanted, not your sister, not to be in this family. You” he says gently, but you sense his condescending tone under apparent the praise.

You don’t speak. Don’t move.

“I didn’t know how else to reach you.” His eyes shine like bruised glass. “So I chose her. I thought... maybe if I stayed close enough, you'd see me eventually.”

You say his name like a warning. But he steps closer, unafraid.

“She doesn’t even know I’m in love with someone else,” he breathes. “She never sees me, not the real me. But you do, don’t you?”

You back away. But he just smiles. Not cruelly — worse. Like you’d just accepted a gift he’d been waiting to give.

“I’ll never hurt her. That’s not my goal. I just needed someone to introduce me to you. I needed a reason to be here.”

You realize then, with a sick twist in your stomach, that every gesture toward your sister was choreography — every laugh, every date, every “I love you” rehearsed, meant only to keep him in your orbit.

And now he’s here. Waiting.

And if you don’t return that love?

You have no idea what he’ll do.

and pls take advantage of the requests box, im running out of ideas!!

[fauxparadoxx]

All Eyes On You- Yandere Celebrity x Old #1 Fan Reader

You didn’t think he’d notice you.

Sure, you ran the biggest Tumblr fan page for him—Reed Everhart, the chart-topping musician with sad eyes and a voice ran like strands silk over barbed wire. Your blog was a curated shrine: rare concert clips, obsessive analyses of his lyrics, fanart smudged with midnight tears. You even wrote fanfics—some soft, some dark, all desperate.

And then... he followed you back.

At first it felt like a glitch. Then the DMs began. Casual at first, like a fan thanking another fan. But soon, he started quoting your posts. Obsessively. Repeating things you’d said back to you.

“I liked the one where you said you’d sell your soul for one night in my arms. Would you still?”

He called you his “perfect mirror.” Said your words reflected the deepest parts of him no one else saw. You were flattered. Thrilled. Until he showed up at your apartment unannounced—with a bouquet of black roses and eyes that didn’t blink. Just a tight-lipped smile with a dormant stare.

“I wanted to see you in your natural habitat. Like how you write me—raw, undone, begging.”

You tried to laugh it off. You knew fame made people strange, right? You were willing to brush it off as just having some weird kinks, but then like clockwork he began posting you on a private account that you'd almost forgot he'd accepted your request to. Photos he shouldn’t have. Candid photos from your private Instagram shots of the many fan meets and concerts you'd attended, with captions like:

“Only one fan truly understands me. She bleeds for me.”

Your inbox filled with messages. Some jealous. Some terrified. Others downright confused. You tried to disappear. Took your blog down. Changed your number.

But Reed… Reed was persistent.

He kept writing songs—lyrics that referenced your most intimate posts. Your little quirks. Your darkest fantasies. Each time you'd listen to a new song its an even stranger encoded reference about you.

As soon as you'd thought you moved on you saw him again—this time right outside your job. Sunglasses off. Drawing the attention of passers by. Smiling that broken-lipped smile.

“I wrote you into my album. Now you've got to give me a chance.”

[fauxparadoxx]

You Promised You’d Never Leave – Yandere Boy Best Friend x Reader

Based of the Obsessive, Clingy, Possessive, and Delusional traits from @yandere-auxiliary 's Types of Yandere

You should’ve known he was different from the start.

Elijah wasn’t like the rest. He didn’t come and go. He stayed. Always stayed. Through your worst days, your family’s breakdowns, your quiet moments of nothing.

He was your rock.

Until you realized he was your cage.

It started subtly. A dozen missed calls. Voicemails that twisted concern into guilt.

“I got worried when you didn’t answer. Thought something happened.” “Do you not want me anymore?” “You promised you’d always need me.”

Then came the clinginess. He’d show up at your house uninvited. Follow you between classes. Cry when you skipped a movie night.

Once, you left your phone in another room for half an hour. You returned to 32 texts. One was a selfie—his face red from crying.

“I just needed to see your name again.”

You tried to set boundaries.

He shattered them.

“I’m your best friend,” he said, voice trembling. “You don’t need anyone else. Not them. Not your crush. Not your new friends. They’ll hurt you. I won’t.”

He started isolating you.

Convenient miscommunications. Deleted messages. A rumor that spread through school so fast you couldn’t trace it.

Every time someone stepped close, Elijah stepped closer.

“You don’t know what people say when you’re not around,” he murmured. “I protect you. I always have.”

You came home one day to find your laptop wiped. Your social media accounts locked. Friends had blocked you, confused and angry.

He was there. Waiting.

“I fixed everything,” he said with a tired smile. “You were drowning in all that noise. Now it’s just us.”

He stopped going to school. Stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. You received pages of handwritten notes dropped into your mailbox—fantasies about a life you never promised: weddings, children, shared secrets, mutual destruction.

“You love me. You just don’t know it yet.” “One day, they’ll find out what I did for you.” “Even if you leave, I’ll follow.”

You tried escaping. You told him the truth.

“I don’t love you. I never did.”

His smile cracked. Then it sharpened.

“You did,” he whispered. “I was there when no one else was. That kind of bond doesn’t disappear. You’re mine. You always were.”

He leaned closer.

“And if I have to break the rest of the world to keep you... I will.”

The lights in your house flickered.

Your phone buzzed again—an unknown number

One word:

“Mine.”