#Behavioral manipulation

[dollgrunge]

like what am I even for

[rphazarika]

Mobile Phones and Children: The Hidden Dangers of Digital Addiction and Data Manipulation

Explore how smartphone use and exposure to emotionally charged content can impact children's mental health, leading to anxiety and depression. Learn about the role of AI algorithms and get tips for fostering healthier digital habits for our kids.

In today’s digital world, mobile phones are more than just tools—they have become an integral part of everyday life, especially for children and adolescents. While these devices offer numerous benefits, such as entertainment, education and social connectivity, there is a darker side to their pervasive presence. Beyond visible impacts like mobile phone addiction, there is an unseen influence from…

[artemis-melody]

from 📌

[noirscript]

Lavender and Powder

Pairing: Yandere!Farmer x City Girl!Reader Description: Isaiah, a farmer with a quiet intensity, becomes an unsettling presence in your life after a chance encounter. What starts as neighborly kindness spirals into a chilling tale of control and obsession, leaving you trapped in a nightmare you never saw coming. Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Obsession | Emotional Coercion | Stalking | Non-consensual Confinement | Forced Domesticity | Dubious Consent | Threats | Intimidation | Mild Physical Violence | Implied Babytrapping Note: I tried to make the reader bratty in the drafts but it doesn't feel right T^T I don't know if the anon who requested this is still lurking here or not, but enjoy! Also, join the taglist by clicking this link! (My interview ended few minutes ago. My brain is toasted af. T^T)

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% off

You’d only been in town for five days, and already you were part of the scenery at Gracie’s Diner.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. You didn’t mind the grease that clung to your skin, the clatter of dishes, or the sting in your legs after double shifts. What mattered was that you were earning your keep—paying your bills, fixing up the wreck of a farmhouse your mother left behind, and doing it all without help.

You weren’t here to be rescued.

“You sure you’re not overworking yourself, sweetheart?” Gracie asked as you refilled the sugar jars. She was a woman who wore her sarcasm and worry with the same ease as her eyeliner.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile, rolling your sleeves up higher. “Gotta pay for a new water heater somehow. Thing practically screamed when I tried to shower this morning.”

“Thought your neighbor offered to help with all that?”

You stiffened.

You remembered him well. Isaiah. The farmer with shoulders like barn doors and calloused hands that looked like they could crush rock. He came to welcome you on your first day with a crate of eggs and a bashful smile. In return, you gave him a plate of spaghetti you made that night, more out of politeness than interest.

You hadn't realized the way his eyes lingered as you handed him that plate.

That in his mind, that gesture sealed a bond deeper than you’d ever intended.

“I told him I had it under control,” you said simply.

Gracie gave you a look. “I know you city girls are all about that independence. Just be careful. Some men ‘round here get ideas.”

You laughed softly. “I can take care of myself.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Your shifts were long. The tips were modest. And the farmhouse was stubborn in its disrepair. But you were managing.

Until your truck died.

You were halfway down the lonely road toward your house after closing the diner when the engine sputtered and gave out. No signal. No cars. Nothing but the humming of bugs and the distant rustle of trees.

You grabbed your backpack and kicked the tire, muttering curses.

Then headlights pierced the dark.

Isaiah pulled up beside you, leaned out the window with a smile that looked just a bit too pleased.

“Well, now. Looks like you need a hand.”

You blinked. “Yeah… my truck just—stopped. No warning. Can I get a lift home?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Was just headin’ back from drinks with the boys.”

You got in.

The silence stretched as you talked. You were tired, but adrenaline kept you going. You talked about the renovations, your job at the diner, your plans to eventually turn the farmhouse into something self-sustaining. You didn’t notice the silence behind the wheel. Not really.

“I just think women shouldn’t have to rely on anyone,” you said, stretching. “It’s freeing, you know? To build something yourself.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel.

You didn't notice.

But he did.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Three days later, the farmhouse was broken into.

You came home after your shift and found everything ransacked. Nothing stolen—just destruction. Dishes shattered. Curtains torn. Couch cushions ripped open like animals had clawed them apart. Your knees gave out. You screamed.

Isaiah arrived before the sheriff.

“Jesus,” he said, crouching beside you. “You alright? You’re shaking.”

“I—yeah—I think—” You gasped. “They didn’t take anything. Just trashed it.”

“No way you’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Door’s broken. You’re vulnerable.”

“I’ll go to a motel—”

“They’re all booked for the rodeo this week,” he interrupted gently. “Look, I’ve got a guest room. Just for a night or two.”

You didn’t want to. But your nerves were shot, and there was nowhere else to go.

“Just a night,” you agreed, voice hollow.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah’s house was too perfect.

Pristine. Polished floors. Dishes stacked in neat rows. A faint floral scent lingered—lavender, maybe.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean. I’ll get the bed ready,” he said, walking away with your overnight bag like it already belonged there.

You spotted a mug on the counter with your name on it. Painted in soft pastel blue.

“You… had this?”

He smiled. “Felt right. Made it when I heard you took the old place.”

You tried to joke. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He smiled wider.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You tried to offer him money the next morning, after breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Homemade biscuits. Too good.

“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly. “Just help out around the house, alright? You’re already doing so much.”

So you did. You swept. Cleaned. Cooked dinner once or twice. Anything to repay him for the roof over your head while you called contractors and scraped together the funds for repairs.

But the contractors never called back.

Your calls went unanswered.

The mechanic said your truck was totaled.

You didn’t realize someone else had made sure of that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

It was a week later when you heard Isaiah on the phone.

The kettle had just started to scream when his voice reached you from down the hall, muffled but distinct. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—not really—but something in his tone made your body freeze.

“…No, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Sweet thing still thinks this is charity.”

A low chuckle.

“I’ve been teaching her… slowly. She’s adjusting.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower.

“Not yet. But soon.”

You stood there for a second too long. Long enough for the kettle to whistle sharply, loud enough to cover the sound of the ceramic mug slipping from your hands and smashing against the floor.

The tea scalded your bare feet. You barely felt it.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his voice stopped mid-sentence. The sudden silence on his end was deafening.

You moved.

Bolted.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your legs carried you on instinct, slipping on the wet floor, catching yourself against the wall, fingers fumbling for balance. The hallway felt longer than usual. Your vision tunneled, the walls squeezing closer with every second.

You reached the back door.

Unlatched.

Unlocked.

Hope surged in your chest so violently it made you gasp.

You wrenched it open.

Cool air hit your face, the smell of soil and pine and freedom burning in your lungs. You were halfway out—one foot in the grass, fingers scraping the edge of the doorway—

And then a hand, large and brutal, slammed the door shut.

With you halfway through it.

You screamed.

The edge of the frame cracked against your ribs as Isaiah yanked you backward, one arm wrapping tight across your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, clawed at his skin, but he held you firm—an immovable wall of muscle and determination.

“I knew you’d run,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear. His voice had lost the syrupy sweetness he wore like a mask. Now it was raw, cracked, and furious. “Ungrateful little thing.”

He turned, carrying you effortlessly despite your thrashing.

“I’ve done everything for you. Gave you safety. Gave you warmth. A home.”

He slammed the door behind you both with his boot, the echo like a gunshot.

You fought harder.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” he snarled, dragging you past the kitchen. “Let you feel like you chose this. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”

He didn’t take you to the guest room.

He took you down the hall, past the door you’d never seen open. The one that was always locked.

He kicked it in.

And there it was.

The cradle. A handmade wooden crib, nestled in the center of a room painted in soft yellows and sage green. The mobile above it spun slowly, creaking on its hinges, casting distorted shadows across the walls.

Everything smelled like baby powder and lavender and something far too clean.

Your stomach turned.

“No—no, let me go—!”

“You’re mine,” Isaiah hissed, slamming the door shut behind you. He twisted the lock before pressing you against it, pinning you there with the full weight of his body. “You fed me that day. You smiled. You looked at me like I mattered. What the hell did you think that meant, huh?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It was just dinner—it didn’t mean anything—”

“It meant everything,” he growled, gripping your chin so hard it ached. “It was a promise. A bond. You gave yourself to me when you fed me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered as his hand dropped to your hip, then your wrist, guiding you toward the crib with terrifying tenderness.

“You’ll see. You don’t need that diner. You don’t need money or dreams or whatever garbage you believe in. You need me. You need this.”

He pressed your palm flat against the cradle’s wooden edge.

“You need to understand your place, wife.”

You sobbed, body trembling, but there was no more strength left to fight.

His voice dipped lower, reverent and sickeningly soft.

“…And maybe it’s time you give me what I’ve waited for.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[creature-wizard]

When criticizing religion that promotes or claims some form of bigotry as a central belief, it's very important to remember that people who don't want to believe in god but want to be bigots will find new ways to frame and justify their bigotry.

For example, "women are more likely to be possessed by demons" easily turns into "women are more prone to mental illness that compromises their judgment."

"The gods decreed that these people would be our servants forever" easily turns into "these people never evolved intelligence like we did, and they need us to guide them and tell them what to do."

"You'll go to Hell if you do that!" easily turns into "This is what's destroying society! You're betraying everything your ancestors worked hard to create!"

"They worship evil gods! We have to convert them to our good and pure religion!" easily turns into "their culture is primitive and barbaric! We have to free them from these backward beliefs!"

Basically, remember that what you're criticizing is selfish, fearful, and manipulative behavior, which can and will emerge in any context; and that atheism is not a quick fix for systemic issues and deep-seated prejudices.

[goatgoesmbe]

cw: soap is delulu, manipulative behavior, slight nsfw

Roommate!Soap who's pissed about the fact that you, his beloved Bonnie, never seem to get jealous— while he himself, could be a bit.. possessive— it just doesn't feel like it's fair.

While you didn't even know you were dating him (he never confessed or anything, and you thought all those dates were just fun lil hangouts)

Also.. when he first moved in, Soap did say to you that he's gay (just so he could watch you being comfortable changing with him in your room, so you'd leave the bathroom unlocked when you shower— and he could just.. walk in and admire the view, with the excuse of taking some stuff)

..but he forgor he ever said that, you didn't though-

A/N: Idk, have this idea for a whileeeee. And i wanted to write it but- 🧍 so yea im just gonna throw this here.. it'd be future me problem

[insufferabledaughter]

Gone girl - Gillian Flynn

[robinspinknest]

[hoosurdaddy]

Nest.

Pairing: Joe Goldberg x reader x Love Quinn.

ummary: You’ve been in their home for weeks now. Maybe months. Time’s slippery when you’re kept warm, fed, worshipped. You should feel like a pet. Like a prisoner. But all you feel is wanted. Needed. Maybe even… loved.

Warnings: NSFW (explicit sex), obsession, unhealthy dynamics, possessive/controlling behavior, manipulation, dubcon-adjacent (reader is drugged lightly for “relaxation”), voyeurism, dom/sub undertones, pet names, praise kink, mild biting, dark romance themes.

You have been warned.

Not taking requests.

⸻

The sheets smell like vanilla, linen, and Love’s skin.

You stretch slowly, the silk blindfold still warm against your eyelids. There’s a buzz in your limbs—not quite sedation, not quite arousal. Something between. Something intentional. You know the tea Love gave you an hour ago had something in it. You’re past questioning it. You always feel good afterward. Calm. Soft. Docile.

Joe’s voice cuts through the haze, low and careful.

“You look perfect like this.”

You hear the click of a camera. Not a phone. A real camera. The kind he used back when he said he “wanted to capture the truth of things.”

“You’re taking pictures?” your voice is hoarse, half-curious, half-sleepy.

“You’re art, baby,” Love whispers from the foot of the bed. “We can’t keep you all to ourselves and not at least look when you’re not here.”

You feel a kiss on your knee. Then your thigh. Then teeth.

Your breath hitches.

Love climbs up between your legs like a predator, hands sliding up your sides, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. She’s naked. You can feel her heat against your leg.

“She’s wet already,” Love purrs to Joe. “Just from hearing your voice.”

There’s the sound of something being set down. The camera. Then the rustle of clothing. Joe’s taking his shirt off. You know the sounds now. You know the feel of him when he presses against you—sharp hipbones, calloused hands, thick and patient where it counts.

“Of course she is,” Joe says, now closer, breath hot against your ear. “She knows she belongs to us.”

The words make your thighs press together involuntarily. Love pushes them apart again, chuckling. “Uh-uh, sweetheart. No hiding from us.”

They don’t ask for permission anymore. But somehow, you never feel forced. It’s like they’ve trained you—slowly, lovingly, breaking you down until this became your sanctuary.

Joe’s hands slide beneath your back, lifting you slightly so he can kiss along your collarbone. His voice is gentle. Too gentle for how rough he can be.

“You’re our pretty little pet, aren’t you?”

You nod.

Even blindfolded, you can feel their smiles.

Love licks a long, slow stripe from your navel to your chest. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

Joe’s fingers wrap around your throat—not to choke, just to hold. “Good girl.”

You feel Love’s fingers first. Then her mouth. Joe keeps whispering—dirty things, loving things, terrifying things. You lose track of where one of them ends and the other begins. You’re breathless, aching, unraveling under four hands, two mouths, one obsession.

They don’t stop until you beg.

Even then, they keep going just a little longer. Just to hear you cry.

[vultursvolans]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄: OCT 3RD

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yandere!dottore x assistant!fem reader

— ♤ 𝐜𝐰: obsessive yandere behaviour, emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation, stalking, build up to smut is longish sorry, reader is gullible, dubcon, no preparation, pussy slapping (once), he calls you sweetheart, pet, pup, unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, power imbalance, biting, 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It started with curiosity.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice as you confidently sat in his office, explaining why you would be perfect for the job, or perhaps the way you held onto the belief that he was a good person. But once Dottore saw how much you lit up when he offered you a position on the spot, he knew right then he needed to keep you close. 

This new revelation almost terrified him. 

Your voice was so innocent, clinging to him like honeysuckle, and that warmth behind your smile—it was too pure, too untainted. It had to be locked away before the world could tarnish it.

If you had paid attention, you would’ve noticed how his gaze lingered a little too long when you spoke; how his questions would dive deeper the more you got to know him.

You were ignorant of how much Dottore had deeply ingrained himself into every facet of your life, playing the role of the emotionally distant boss who eventually found comfort in your company. He saw that flicker of trust in your eyes and allowed you to believe you were the only person who could see the real him: the man behind the mask who bled his heart and soul to you when nobody else was looking.

Everything was calculated. Subtle. You had become his latest obsession—a sweet, little experiment where the only result he deemed acceptable would be having you wrapped around his finger. So he made sure he was the first you turned to when things went wrong, planting seeds of doubts about everyone you knew. 

“Forgive me but your friends don’t seem to understand you.”

At first, you dismissed his comments but over time his critiques took root. You saw flaws in people that seemingly weren’t there before which made you wonder if it was truly only Dottore who had your best interest at heart. Gradually, you began to rely on him as your only confidant. Your rock. But it didn’t stop at just your relationships. Dottore had inserted himself into your daily routine, providing solutions for problems you hadn’t realised he created. After minor inconveniences and projects falling through, he was always there to pick up the pieces.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

And every time he did, you felt more indebted to him.

Dottore strung you along for years, feeding you enough affection to have you tethered with him while subtly isolating you from others. And when he finally made you his girlfriend, it was less a declaration of love and more of a confirmation of his control over you.

But you didn’t need to know that. 

You are his precious masterpiece, sculpted into the ideal partner, no longer the person you once were but a reflection of his twisted desires. 

When calling him “Doctor” transitioned from a professional title to something you moaned whenever he plowed you with his cock, it was difficult for him not to start touching himself at random hours of the day. 

Fortunately for him, he could simply just find you while you were working and suddenly, there was something hard pressed against your ass! It always satisfied him a great deal knowing how willing you were to please him, no matter the time of day.  

Sometimes he pitied you for never catching on so the first time you went astray, he was somewhat glad that his little darling wasn’t so dense.

“Dottore, I’m finding it difficult to get through to you. I feel suffocated. I’m worried about us.”

He glanced up from his notebook, almost affectionately, “You’re overthinking it, my dear.”

“I think we need some time apart," your words tasted bitter. "I just… need to clear my head. I’m sorry,” you felt guilty for even suggesting it.

“Time apart?” he repeated with a false frown, dropping his book to look at you wholly. “For how long?’

“I’m not sure.”

A tense silence hung between you, and you tried to steady your breath.

“Darling, you’re not making any sense,” he blinked.

“It makes sense to me,” you protested, “I wasn’t asking.”

Truth be told, he was more amused than angered. Although, he wondered what it was that finally provoked your sudden notion. Sure, disagreements were more frequent but it had been so long since this all began. He thought his tactics would be something you were used to by now. Perhaps you were starting to see everything for what it truly was.

Perhaps not.

Your voice was trembling but you were firm in your resolve. Dottore liked that you thought you had a choice, so he entertained you by letting the last of his smile fade from his lips, eyes narrowing in your direction. 

“So a break, then? If you think that will benefit us, I understand. But I’m not a mind reader. If something bothers you, you have to tell me, okay?”

His words seemed to melt some of your worries away so you couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Could you really doubt someone so patient, so willing to give you space when you needed it? 

“Really?”

“Of course," the lie effortlessly slipped between his teeth, "I respect your boundaries."

You nodded as you squeezed his hand and before you could turn away, his grip tightened. “Before you go, let me remind you that I love you, so very much.” 

And without warning, he kissed you. It was lingering, with no remorse, disguised as a parting gift—as if to say he knew you’d be back.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you said, feeling conflicted. 

“Doing what?” He questioned.

Dottore knew exactly what he was doing. 

———

Weeks had passed but your time away from him was restless. Days felt semi-wakeful and what emerged was not clarity but the creeping sense that the world was conspiring against you.

It was like your life had taken an irreparable turn. Work became a constant setback, and friends you thought you had made you feel isolated and adrift. Even your home, which once felt cozy and safe, was starting to feel clinical and cold. 

And who would be the one to orchestrate your misery other than the Doctor himself? That vendor who suddenly couldn’t get your orders right? A bribe from Dottore. The neighbours who started fighting at all hours? A couple he had manipulated into conflict. Even your small office, a place that once made you feel so productive, now felt claustrophobic and stifling thanks to subtle changes he made while you were away.

Each of these inconveniences wore you down, making you long for the comfort and stability that only Dottore had ever provided. 

So when you received a short and carefully worded letter from him, asking how you were, you felt a surge of relief. You didn’t hesitate to see him that very evening, desperate to talk in person.

Before you knew it, you were falling right into his hands.

On your feet, you headed straight to the entrance of his lab and stared at the door before you gave a knock.

“Come in,” he said from inside.

The moment you saw him, he greeted you with that charming smile, and suddenly all the frustration from the past weeks melted away. You rushed into his arms, burying your face into his chest, “I missed you.”

He held you close, stroking the back of your head with practiced gentleness, “Ah! You’re finally back. I can’t say I’ve been happy without you.” 

If he was beaming out of satisfaction, you were blind to it. You were too distracted by the need to hear him say it back, to say that he missed you. But instead of the words you longed to hear, he merely held you tighter.

Looking up at him, your eyes searched for reassurance, “Did you miss me?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss on your forehead, “Of course.”

“Everything’s been so hard,” tears began to well up, “I can’t believe I distanced myself when I needed you the most.” 

He was always enthralled whenever he was right.

“Let’s not dwell on that, shall we? I’m here now so don’t fret.”

His words felt like a balm to your wounded soul and you clutched onto his coat as if he might vanish if you let go. You could not refuse him and he wouldn’t allow that option to exist. Dottore watched you, elated with himself, “Come,” he said, taking your hand towards his familiar private quarters, “I have something for you.” 

After closing the door behind him, his gaze remained on you, “I was hoping you would see me sooner rather than later,” he started, guiding you to the couch where the two of you sat. “We have much to catch up on.”

Dottore wore his grief convincingly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate crystal necklace that flickered like ice in the light, “I don’t want to lose you again.” Your heart skipped a beat as he put it on for you, the weight of it cold against your skin. When you relaxed your guard, he leaned in and whispered in your ear, “I can’t lose you. I won’t.” 

You thanked him for the gift but felt him craning your head to the side.

“It’s ice quartz," he purred, "For the pure love I have for you. For the healing that I hope it brings to your troubled heart. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, a thoughtful stillness, and without another word, he kissed the exposed skin of your neck as if you beckoned him to. 

His lips were impossible to resist, each kiss slowly claiming you as he trailed his way to your mouth. You allowed your hands to explore his hair, messing up the neatness that once was.

Dottore wasted no time, the moment his lips met yours, you felt his hungry tongue and how it tasted of false apologies and something sickeningly sweet. He kissed you like he was starved—like he'd wanted his mouth on yours for weeks.

"Do you still—" he lightly pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, "—feel suffocated?"

Yes, you wanted to say. But for an entirely different reason now. This type of suffocation made your head spin and left something tingling between your legs.

"No," you finally answered against him. A string of saliva connected the small space between your lips. You relaxed under him and he took it as a chance to shuffle himself between your thighs.

"Hmm, I'm glad," he smirked before forcing another kiss out of you. Between gasps for air, his impatient hands found the hem of your blouse, unbuttoning it as he pushed you on your back. You pulled him down with you because you refused to part from the sinful way his lips collided with yours.

Piece by piece, layers of clothes began to disappear until you were left with nothing except the necklace he had given you. 

Spread out like this, you were ravishing, like a fine piece of art and the sight of you went straight to his cock. It throbbed in his slacks and you could hear his breathing growing uneven. At that moment, he could’ve taken you like an animal but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Mmh!” you moaned in surprise as he cupped your breast, fondling your sensitive nipples and practically anywhere else that was available to him. He was so precise in everything he did, it was no wonder he was in his profession. 

The time you spent apart had left you already aching for him so when he dipped his fingers between your quivering thighs, he felt your arousal. You were hot and puffy and embarrassingly wet.

Dottore began to toy with your clit and it pulsed under the pads of his fingers. You moaned instantly. But he was excruciatingly light with his touch which only made you desperate for more friction. You whined and even though the sound of it made his heart beat quickly, his face was unreadable.

“Patience,” he urged. Dottore waited for you for weeks and you had the nerve to whine? At the very least you could have made up for the time you robbed from him. 

You intended to listen. You really did! But when his fingers teased the entrance of your hole, your body acted before you could think and suddenly, your hips rolled towards him. He had barely even touched you before he stopped. 

Tsk, you heard from him, clearly disappointed by your lack of control.

Instead of continuing, he gave your pussy a sudden slap which left you whimpering. 

“Why—!” You trembled, feeling its stinging aftermath.

Why?

Simply put, he decided he wasn’t going to bother with what you wanted. 

In exchange for running away from him, he would show you that not everything was served on a silver platter. Seeing you go from distressed to dependent on him only excited him more. No one riles him up in the way that you do so he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer. 

“Stay like this,” there was something deranged about the smile that appeared on his face. The clinical white glow of his quarters dulled his pale skin yet his teeth glistened through his lips. You felt a chill and it wasn't because of the cold air.

He pulled away and you were immediately drawn to the tight bulge pressing against his pants. Dottore noticed. He knew you were watching.

"Now open your legs for me," he said, breaking you out of your daze. You shifted pathetically under him so it was ultimately his large hand, splayed across your thigh that held you in place. You saw his erection twitch when his eyes fell on your hole, drenched for him and all.

After quickly undoing his trousers, he pushed his throbbing length inside you in one, deep stroke. Your hands curled into the cushions and you were prepared to scream—

"Perfect," he breathed. You didn't need proper preparation. He knew your body better than you did.  

Your voice was lodged in your throat as his girth stretched you apart and Dottore couldn’t help throwing his head back, curses falling from his lips at how well you hugged him. You were so beautiful like this. He couldn’t wait to fuck you back into obedience. It was your fault for being this way, really. You were just so malleable, so easy.

“Ah, look at you. So wet already, my little pup. Did you miss me that much?” 

“Yes, I did. Yes, I did, Doctor!” you whimpered, and he began thrusting as if rewarding you for your response. His hips slammed mercilessly into yours at an unexpected pace, and you couldn’t even think about any of your frustrations anymore. Each time he slid in and out was like erasing all the concerns you had before this. 

“Dottore,” he corrected you. “You call me by my name today.” There was a slight strain in his voice as he fucked you but that was better than what was going on with you. With each thrust bucking into your sweet spot, you could hardly talk. 

The coat on his back ruffled behind him with each erratic movement. It was almost humiliating how he remained entirely clothed as he rammed into you. Your bare skin was on display yet not so much as a zipper and his disheveled hair was out of place for him.

Maybe he was too eager, you thought. Or maybe it was because he wouldn’t strip himself for the likes of you. Not when he was trying to remind you that being with him was a luxury. What he needed to etch into your subconscious was: 

You could get whatever you want as long as you stay and listen. 

Huffing at the sensation of being balls deep inside your pussy, he held you with a bruising grip on your waist, fucking you in a way that had you drooling. You were trying to remember a time when he wasn’t the one making you happy or giving you pleasure—but you couldn’t. Because it didn’t exist. 

“Dott…ore,” you called breathlessly, your voice mixing with the sound of your necklace clinking against your chest. He knew you very well, you had more to say than just the spilling of his name. He could see it in your damn eyes. 

Lowering himself to your neck, he rutted you even further into the couch, “What is it, my dear?” He asked, biting into you, feeling his hot and heavy breath fanning your skin. You yelped as his teeth clenched, knowing there was going to be a mark later. 

“I… love… you…” The words came out in a broken whisper, the sincerity of your confession made his cock twitch inside of you, precum already painting the insides of your hole. 

His tongue began to trace a slow and deliberate path from your neck to your ear, keeping his relentless rhythm as he did. “Is that right?” There was a cruel edge to his voice when he spoke. And you nodded back at him, feebly. Truthfully. 

“Then act like it,” he hissed, grip tightening as he thrusted sharply.

You shuddered underneath him—out of fear or pleasure, you weren’t sure but you knew you didn’t want it to end. You pulled him closer, winding your hands around his neck while he was deep inside you. “I’m— sorry!” you moaned, an apology slipping out in a haze. 

He almost growled at the sensation of you trembling around him, his crimson eyes searing into you, “No, it’s not your fault. I should have paid better attention to you.”

Another lie but exactly what you needed to hear to keep you going.

Lewd squelching sounds filled the room as he reduced you to a filthy mess. Even in your years of being with him, you had never seen him so untamed. Your juices were getting all over his trousers and if you knew any better, you would've seen how he got off on that.

You had almost forgotten where you were, though, at that point, you didn’t care about whether anybody else in the building heard. He fucked you hard and desperately, whatever he needed to do to keep his darling at bay, and you shamelessly cried out his name over and again. It was adorable.

“Dottore… I’m close—! Fuck. Fuck!” You swallowed your words as he pounded you. 

"Dirty mouth," he grunted, "Who taught you how to speak like that?"

He hovered above you, so close you could almost feel his hair tickling your face. "Nobody," you moaned quietly this time, feeling ashamed.

Every veiny inch of him was inside you and the more you felt of it, the less you thought. You just wanted to snap, to cum on him while he drove into you.

“Oh my, you're getting tighter,” he cooed, his voice deceptively gentle as he neared his own release. “Feeling good, sweetheart? Finish with me then…” 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, his pace became rougher, like a repeated reminder of who he was to you and his hand traveled to your jaw, tipping your head to meet his gaze. Amid your bodies thrashing, he could barely keep up with his own voice,

“No one will ever love you like me

or care about you like me

or fuck you like me. Do you understand, pet?” 

“Yes—! Yes, I do,” you panted as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips further into your sloppy cunt. In your lust-clouded daze, you were too weak to register the weight of his words. His sultry voice did a great job at masking the fact that he meant every single thing he said. 

Dottore’s face twisted into a more sadistic smile, letting his thoughts get the best of him. He relished in how little and helpless you sounded, how utterly pliant you were to his will. Everything felt right again and you were back to where he had woven you. With a final, brutal snap of his hips, he spilled his seed inside you, locking himself against you. 

You arched your back as your orgasm crashed simultaneously—you moaned collectively, and your walls pulsed around his cock like you were milking every drop he’s got. His hips stuttered, not giving a damn about the way your nails bit into his skin. Instead, he slammed his lips onto yours, devouring you in a messy, filthy kiss—a perfect match for the way he had just fucked you senseless.

Still panting, he clutched the side of your face, only gentler now. His thumb stroked your cheek as if savouring the moment of seeing you act the way you should.

“I love you,” he hummed, the words slipped from his lips like it was so natural to him. "I love you."

Of course, he loved you. Everything he has done for you was for himself. Everything has been catered to him. 

His sweat-speckled forehead shimmered in the dim light and as you looked up at him, your heart softened. The weight of him on top of you and the comfort in his embrace made you forget everything, lulling you into a peaceful state. 

You sighed, feeling a bit foolish for even creating a wall between you. In front of you, he seemed so fragile, like you were the only thing holding him together. How could you have thought he was anything but honest with you all along?

Now, everything felt perfect—perfect in a way that left no room for anything else. 

No room for doubt or escape.

a/n: imagine at the end of this you think it's over and suddenly his segments walk in

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

dividers by @/astrumaur

[dollgrunge]

Tumblr my beloved

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

Afton'd Reader AU my beloved,, clingy obsessed possessive boys my beloved,,,, i really should draw this Mentally Unwell Trio more often, its very fun skldfhsdkjfdh

[artemis-melody]

[noirscript]

the good wife

Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader Description: You don’t remember marrying Malcolm, but he remembers every version of you—and each time you try to leave, he brings you back. To be a good wife, he says, all you need to do is stay. Warning/s: Yandere | Gaslighting | Memory Manipulation | Captivity | Non-consensual Surveillance | Emotional Abuse | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Horror Note/s: Heya! For those who have purchased Dark Roast so far, I'll be sending a better version once it's available. I can't provide the exact time, but in the future. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar | Taglist

The morning felt like any other—ordinary and mundane. You had kissed him goodbye like you always did, the scent of his cologne lingering long after the door clicked shut. His touch stayed too, warm and possessive as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye, pausing there just a moment too long.

“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.

He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”

You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.

You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.

Except… it hadn’t.

You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”

That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.

It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.

You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.

The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.

And when the drawer opened, you froze.

Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.

But the same eyes.

Your eyes.

They were all you.

Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.

Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.

Him.

Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.

A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.

And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.

Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.

The screen flickered. Static.

And when it played, you saw a familiar face.

You.

You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.

Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.

His.

“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”

The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.

“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”

He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.

“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”

The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.

Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.

You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—

Knock knock.

A soft, deliberate sound.

You froze.

Another knock. Louder. Measured.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.

“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”

He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

“You never clean in here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.

“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”

You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.

He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You always open the drawer eventually.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.

“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”

You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.

“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl

[wisecura]

'Hate' Is A Strong Word

Izuku Midoriya x f!reader 5k

summary: for some reason, you've never liked Izuku Midoriya. call it bad vibes, a deep seated irritation, or just plain off-putting, you two just never connected. and even now as pro heroes you haven't uttered a single word to each other since high school. yet, you find yourself badly injured at his doorstep.

warnings: might be repetitive, gaslighting, manipulation, non-canon, dark fic, some blood, belittling, confinement, please don't read if you are sensitive to bad things happening to reader,

an: I haven't kept up with this fandom much but I still enjoy it. i've been busy with work and school. sadly, not fully proofread, but thank you for reading

You never quite took to Izuku Midoriya, even from the start. 

There was something about him. A nagging feeling that buzzed in the back of your mind whenever he was near.

He was the kind of guy everyone liked—or at least, no one dared to openly dislike. Shy, awkward, but undeniably kind, Izuku was the sort who'd go out of his way to help a stranger. Always pushing for justice, always the hero in waiting, the kind of well-rounded individual you'd expect to be universally admired. 

And yet, something about him set off alarms in your gut from the very first day you met. It was your first year in high school, you'd arrived at UA high, thrilled to be accepted into the hero course.

This is when you saw him.

He'd been introducing himself to other classmates, nothing different from the norm. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when they caught yours. The way he shyly moved over to greet you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to interrogate question you on your quirk, and from your understanding he kept tabs on everyone. It could've been the way his eyes seemed to trail you when you evaded his conversation, feeling odd at the line of questioning. You had no idea why every instinct tell you to keep your distance.

You did attempt friendship in those early years, especially when you noticed how easily he drew people in. Once all was settled in, he seemed to be a magnet, attracting the class in with his friendliness. Maybe that initial encounter had been a fluke? You thought that just maybe you were being overly dramatic—after all, Izuku was the epitome of harmlessness, always eager to lend a hand. No one else seemed to have an issue with him, even with his more...odd habits.

But despite your efforts, you just couldn't shake it off. Those creepy vibes you got. So you chalked it up to not meshing well. But you always watched from a distance, and continued your years making friends and overall enjoying the coursework.

Years passed, and both of you rose through the ranks to become pro heroes. 

Izuku, now known universally as Deku, consistently ranked in the top five—a celebrity in the world of pro heroes. Meanwhile, you held a respectable nineteenth place, not one for popularity races, and never quite as concerned with fame as you were with making tangible changes in the world. Not that he wasn't doing his part-

Deku was a household name, his exploits and acts of heroism the stuff of daily newsfeeds. The latest articles highlighted not just his achievements but his physical transformation too—he was now a striking 6’1", his features having matured into what many would consider handsome, listing out other measurements you hadn’t bothered to read about.

Yet, reading about him, seeing his photos splashed across the media, always stirred an inexplicable twist in your stomach. You had no logical reason to feel this way, yet the discomfort was undeniable. You still didn't like the dude.

Your interactions had been minimal since high school, limited to brief exchanges during professional gatherings. You weren’t friends, not really. But he was always friends of a friend with you. It was always weird to hear about him, and you tried to never ask-to never listen in when your friends talked about him.

And, now, as you scrolled through your phone, one hand pressed against your bleeding side, the irony of the situation didn't escape you.

This part of town was supposed to be safe, but here you were. Far from home and in trouble, late at night.

You needed to find somewhere to go—someone to plug this shit up. Your manager had recently updated your contacts with a list of “reliable partners” for emergencies—pretty handy timing, considering the mess you were in now. All listed with safe houses should you need it—your managers words echoing in the back of your mind: 'you'd better not be seen by anyone from the public'.

You had been on a secret mission, something big, something not everyone could handle. But your quirk was a perfect fit—or so you thought until things went south.

The leader of the crime ring turned out to be a lot tougher than the brief said, and instead of nabbing him quietly, you got roughed up pretty bad.

Glancing at your phone, the recommended safe locations popped up. And just your luck—it had to be him.

You frowned at the screen—thumb brushing down the refresh button desperately, but no other options seemed to be loading. There had to be someone else, but why wasn’t the stupid app showing anything?

Of course. Of-fucking-course. Whatever, beggars can’t be choosers, right?

Better not to bleed out on the pavement. You were sure your manager would kill you if this wound up in the newspapers.

Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the pain, straightening up as best you could. You tried to walk confidently into the lobby of a ridiculously upscale apartment building. It was way fancier than necessary, making you feel all the more out of place.

You barely reached the counter when the man behind it did a double-take. “Miss—““—I’m here to see Izuku Midoriya, please,” you cut him off before he could delve into questions you had no energy to answer.

He looked surprised for a moment, then turned his back to you to make the call. You could hear his hushed tones, and an even softer voice through the other end of the intercom. You couldn't make out what they were saying—maybe it was the blood loss affecting your concentration.

“Top floor, Miss—““—Thanks.” You turn away quickly, unable to keep a slight wobble from your steps. You hadn’t meant to be rude. You just really needed to sit down. 

You were a vision of resilience and grace as you press the elevator button, smearing the elevator door button in your own blood. The ride up feels like a century, each ding reminding you of the ticking clock against your injuries. You had time to turn back. To not face whatever was beyond the elevator doors. Did he open his home as a safe location often? What were you thinking—this was Deku—of course he did—

As the doors finally open, you're met with the minimalist, yet luxurious hallway leading to the penthouse suite—his suite.

It's been years since you've last even spoke to Izuku Midoriya, and now, under these circumstances, you're about to see him again.

Funny how fate plays its cruel games, huh?

Stepping out, you hesitate for just a moment before your survival instincts push you forward. Your fist meets the door, the knock more feeble than you intended. It's only a matter of seconds before the door swings open, revealing Izuku Midoriya in person.

He's taller, broader, and his eyes—those damn eyes—haven't changed a bit. He's definitely lost that baby face, his features much more defined, almost handsome. The sight of him makes your heart race for reasons you can't even begin to pin down before that deep voice reaches your ears.

"Shit, you look like hell," wide eyed, he blurts out. "What happened?"

You try to muster a smile, but all you manage is a grimace. "Got into a bit of trouble. Mind if I come in? Kinda bleeding out here," you quip, half-joking, but entirely serious.

He doesn't hesitate, grabbing your arm, gently but firmly, as he helps you inside. "Of course, come in. What are friends for?" he says, though you both know the term 'friends' might be a stretch, you sure as hell weren't gonna comment on it now.

Oddly enough, he doesn't press you for more details, instead guiding you to the sofa. "Let me look at that wound," he says, already moving to fetch a first aid kit and a towel. You feel somewhat guilty at your thoughts as you watch him, his movements efficient and practiced. What if you bled out onto his couch? And now that'll be the first thing on his mind when he sees it? what're you even thinking?

How often has he done this? You mind briefly flashes back to a news report you'd seen recently, of him saving a group of people from a hostage situation turned deadly. And despite your reservations about him, you can't help but feel a reluctant admiration stirring within you. That and this. He really wasn't a bad dude. Maybe a bit awkward, but who wasn't?

You raise your shirt slightly, exposing the expanse of your stomach, an audible sigh from him before his hands find their way to clean the area, surprisingly gentle.

It's a strange intimacy, one you make damn sure to ignore. In other situations you may have blushed, leading with a 'buy me drinks first' joke but you really didn't want to add to the moment.

"Do I want to ask how the other guy looks?" Izuku teases lightly, a break from his jaw tensing, a small smile playing on his lips. Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—bitter but genuine.

"Yeah, I may have gotten the short end here," you reply, meeting his gaze. There’s a warmth there that wasn’t present in your school days, a maturity that seems to fit him well. It annoys you, seeing how much he's grown into himself, into the hero everyone expected him to be. Was it jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it.

Sitting there, letting Izuku tend to your wounds, you can’t help but feel a twist in your stomach that’s not from the injury. It’s from the sheer absurdity of the situation—seeking help from someone you’ve always distrusted, yet here he is, proving to be the hero he always aimed to be. Not asking for anything in return, always helpful, always willing.

And, yes, that bugged the shit out of you. You were wrong.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" His eyes flick back over to you, stilling your breath. He lets out another sigh, unwrapping the bandage from his kit.

"The Gokudo Group, right?" You look away, refusing to meet his heavy gaze. He didn't seem entirely happy with the direction of the conversation—

"How do you know about that?" The question sounded silly the second it left your mouth. A top pro hero knowing about a mission so close to his residence? It'd be stranger if he hadn't heard about it. He lets out another soft chuckle, and you feel yourself blush at the way it seemed to lick up your spine.

"Let's call it a guess." As he finishes bandaging your wound, his touch lingers a moment on your side, reminding you of his closeness.

"You should rest," he suggests, his voice soft, almost nonchalant. He seems to see no issue with the idea. A man. A woman. Alone in a pent house sweet. "Stay here tonight. It's late, and you're not in any condition to go anywhere."

You want to protest, to assert your independence, but the room tilts slightly as you try to sit up straighter, his grip tightening on your waist as you let out a small painful whimper. He doesn’t seem too put off by the idea of you staying, and realistically, blood loss was indeed a bitch.

"I guess...I don't have much choice," the words tasting sour on your tongue. For a fleeting moment, Izuku's seems like he wants to say something, fighting with his inner voice, before settling on something else.

"...Of course, you're always welcome here," he assures you, his tone dripping with a sincerity that feels too thick, too heavy. He stands, pressing a button on the wall to adjust the blinds, casting the room into a dim glow. He stands illuminated in a warm glow by the lamp in the corner. Your heart continues its gymnastics, flipping in ways you can't fucking believe.

"Let me get you some water, maybe something for the pain." As he disappears into the kitchen, you try to relax against the plush cushions of his sofa, feeling much more guilty at the thoughts you'd had not even thirty minute prior. This wasn't how you imagined your evening would end, and his kindness seemed to eat away at you by the second.

Your gaze drifts around the neatly kept space, landing on small, personal touches that seem innocuously domestic. Photographs of smiling faces, trophies from his hero work, books on strategy and quirk development. It's all so…Midoriya.

When he returns, he hands you a glass of water and a pill, his smile reassuring. "This will help with the pain," he says, and you take the small tablet from him, your fingers brushing against his, the contact somewhat nerve-wracking.

"Thanks," you whisper, downing the medicine without a second thought. He watched you closely for a second, another thought on the tip of his tongue before he decides to just sit down next to you. Not close enough to warrant a side glance, but close enough that you can smell his smooth cologne, a soothing fragrance that lingers in the back of your throat. A smell that was distinct, unforgettable.

"You know," hesitating, "...I always...hoped we'd get a chance to catch up," his voice a soft murmur blending into the backdrop of the city's faint sounds filtering through the window. You would've sworn he hadn't said anything if it wasn't for your good hearing. "...I've followed your career, you know. You're doing amazing things."

His words sound like a compliment, but you can't help but think: just how closely has he been watching me? The tension in the room was so fucking awkward....

And the comment was innocent enough, so you push the feeling aside, chalking it up to paranoia. He's being nice. He's being nice.

You literally have no reason to doubt him.

Whatever. You can't shake that nag, you're fighting with yourself just to lean into the small comfort he provided, but that itch keeps coming back the more he talks. Just keep your distance, like always, and make your exit in the morning before he wakes up. Maybe send a fruit basket when you get back home as a parting 'thank you' gift.

"Yeah, well, we've both been busy, I guess," He watches you a moment, his expression unreadable before offering a gentle smile. You let out a small yawn, scooting further into the couch. Further away from his spreading legs, hoping to convey your sleepiness.

"Very busy," he agrees, as he stands to grab a blanket from a nearby closet. Thankful for the space, you breath a sigh of relief. You jump when he comes back, yet his voice is gentle, and his movements are tender, almost loving, as he drapes the blanket over you.

You notice his hands tremble slightly—a nervous energy you remember all too well from your high school days. He's nervous. And it sets you on edge even more, despite the fact that he couldn't be more welcoming to you in this moment—a pillar of comfort and support. The blanket he brought was so fuzzy and warm. Your favorite color too.

"Looks like we finally get that catch-up session, huh?" he chuckles easily. You half-expected him to retreat to his room once you were settled, but here he was, still the same Midoriya, despite looking so incredibly different. Never fully catching that hint. You manage a weary smile, feeling the weight of your eyelids, barely still able to converse.

"Yeah, it's been a while. Life as a pro hero doesn't exactly leave much free time for reunions," Izuku nods enthusiastically, sliding a bit closer to you on the sofa until you can feel the warmth radiating from his leg just inches away. You subtly scoot away, maintaining a polite distance, his eyes wide, as he enthusiastically regals your most recent mission.

"That rescue mission form last week was just spectacular, the way you dove right in, you were just perfect, and those people you saved--" He stops himself, realizing he was about to go into a whirlwind. He lets out a nervous laugh, "Sorry,"

But you give him the best smile you can muster up with the gaping wound in your side. And subtly, almost unconsciously, his leg inches even closer to yours, again. You try to dismiss it, reminding yourself of how he always a little closer with his friends—maybe this is just another subconscious thing he did?

"Thanks, Midoriya. You’ve not done too badly yourself," you reply, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of humor. "Top five, right? I always knew you’d shoot up."

He absorbs your compliment, his face lighting up from the small bit of praise you've given him. His gaze narrows in, almost studying you, as if he’s trying to memorize your every expression.

When he speaks again, there's a hint of shyness in his voice, a subtle clinginess that feels slightly misplaced. "You know, I always thought maybe we’d end up working together, you know? Side by side." His voice dips a bit at the end, his eyes are earnest, almost pleading, as they search yours for a reaction.

"That’s...a....nice thought," deliberately avoiding his gaze, though the idea of being this close to him in any capacity would be too much, too soon.

Izuku’s expression momentarily falters, resembling a dejected puppy, and he quickly tries to mask his disappointment, shifting his demeanor to regain some of his earlier lightness. “But hey, we’re here now, right? Maybe it’s fate or something,” he jokes weakly, forcing another lighthearted laugh.

The word 'fate' hangs between you, heavy and foreboding. “Maybe,” you echo, not quite sharing in his forced cheer. The conversation pauses, leaving you acutely aware of the rapid beating of your own heart in the silence that follows.

"Yeah–heh–it’s been quite the journey," he admits, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "But....enough about me. Tell me about you. How have things been...really?"

You shift under the blanket, feeling a bit unnerved by his continued presence. Why didn't he just go to bed? You hadn't even talked much about him in the first place. Was he fishing for something?

"Busy, eventful, and endlessly tiring," you answer truthfully, hoping your frankness might send a subtle hint, topping it off with another yawn.

He nods, mouth quirking up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I can imagine. It must be hard, always being on the move—never able to find time for yourself, never able to catch up. Always the playing the 'hero'."

The way he says 'hero'—with a trace of something like displeasure—makes you pause, almost surprised. "...Well, someone's gotta do it, right?"

"Right, right," Izuku agrees, though his voice trails off, leaving a lingering question in the air. He seems to gather his thoughts, his eyes meeting yours.

"You know, I've always wondered..." his tone shifts slightly, becoming more contemplative, "why we never got along better. I mean, we were always in the same circles, kind of."

You feel a slight tightening in your chest as the topic veers dangerously close to the unease you've always felt around him. "Yeah, I guess we just had different…interests," you hedge, trying to keep the conversation light and steer away from deeper waters that you’d prefer not to navigate.

How exactly could you explain to him that you found him incredibly fucking creepy until now? And even now.....

Izuku's response is slow, thoughtful. "Maybe,"

He concedes, his tone reflecting a tinge of dissatisfaction, voice more probing and less subtle than you've ever heard it before. "But I've always respected you, you know? Always thought highly of your abilities."

"Thanks, Midoriya. That means a lot," you reply, not sure how to respond, not used to the praises from someone like him.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... I've always wanted to be...closer. To understand you better. I felt like we never really got the chance."

His words hang in the air, and you're hit by the raw honesty in his voice—an honesty that's bordering on confrontation or confession—you aren't sure. You scramble for a diplomatic response, your mind racing. You didn't want to upset him here, but you sure as hell weren't looking to become best buds.

"Midoriya, it’s not that we didn't get a chance. We just...didn’t.....vibe that way. It happens."

"But why?" His frustration is more evident this time, his voice tense, losing that more playful tone. "I’ve seen how you are with others—laughing, sharing. I just don't get why I never got that side of you."

"It’s nothing personal, Midoriya. I’ve always been more introverted....Maybe our timing was just....off or something."

But he just can't seem to let this go. He's always liked you, but you've always seemed to avoid him. He's never been able to figure it out.

"...I mean, it's not like I haven't tried, right?" he starts again, his tone becoming harsher, a drastic shift from his usual soft charisma. His fingers tap rhythmically against his knee, a clear sign of his restlessness. "I always asked about you, you know. Whenever I ran into someone who knew you, I made sure to find out how you were doing." The revelation sends a chill down your spine.

This could have been sweet—checking in on a friend—but his words sound creepier, like he was stalking you or something, and his intense gaze makes you recoil slightly.

"I just...I've always liked you. A lot, actually," he continues, his tone bordering on accusatory. "And I don't think you ever noticed. Or maybe you did and just didn't care."

"That’s…that's a lot to take in," you respond cautiously, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Yeah, well, it's been a lot for me too, watching from the sidelines. Always the hero everyone loves, except for the one person I actually wanted to impress," his voice rising slightly with frustration.

He continues rambling, each sentence more unsettling than the last. "I've kept tabs on you. I know it might sound weird, but I had to know. I thought if I knew more about what you liked, what you did, maybe I could find a way to be part of that." His confession sends a cold shiver down your spine.

"Isn't that just ridiculous?" he laughs, the sound hollow—bitter, filling the increasingly claustrophobic room. His eyes become distant and slightly frantic. He couldn’t stop himself.

"Midoriya, I think you’re reading too much into this—” you start, trying to defuse the tension, but he cuts you off. "No, I don't think so. I think you've always known how I felt. And you used it against me. Kept me at arm's length on purpose," he accuses, his voice turning harsh.

Witnessing Izuku transform from the awkward, 'lovable' hero you once knew into this intense, confirmed everything that nagged in the back of your head before. An anger issue? Ego problems?

"Everyone else always sees the best in me. Why couldn’t you? What made you so different?" he demands, his voice laden with a toxic mix of longing and bitterness. Finding yourself speechless, the situation spirals beyond your control. "Midoriya, please, this isn’t healthy. We should—”

"Healthy?" scoffing. "What do you know about healthy? You've barely even looked at me all these years. And now, you show up only when you need something? That's a bit contradictory, don't you think?"

The realization that you are alone with him, caught in this escalating situation, keeps you mind spiraling into a semi state of panic. Your sense heighted—fight or flight.

"You know, it's always been more than just platonic for me," his gaze cutting through the dimly lit room, locking onto you with an unsettling earnestness. He too close, too close, "I've cared about you in ways I probably shouldn't have. And I've waited...waited for you to see that."

"Midoriya, maybe we can talk about this tomorrow? It's been a long day, and I really think I should head home and rest," you suggest, reaching for your phone to call an Uber.

"You said you'd stay the night," he reminds you, snatching the phone quickly from your hands. "Are you really going to go back on your word now? After I've opened my home to you, treated your wounds?"

Caught off guard by his overt pushiness and blatant aggression, you stammer, "Hey—Midoriya, I didn't mean—"

"No, you never mean to, do you?" he cuts in, his tone increasingly harsh. "You come here, into my home, ask for my help, reject my friendship—once again, and now you want to leave just like that? It’s always the same with you. You take what you need and then you're gone."

"That's not fair, Midoriya. I appreciate everything you've done tonight, but I'm really not feeling well, and this conversation is a lot to process," you explain, trying to maintain your composure under his scrutinizing gaze.

Izuku's tone shifts, blending accusation with a hint of hurt, his face morphing into that lovable sad expression he wore on occasion. Much like a kicked puppy. "That isn't right. I thought you were a good person. I'm just trying to understand your problem with me. What's wrong with that?"

You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself amidst the emotional whirlwind he's creating. "Midoriya, trying to understand each other isn't the problem," you begin cautiously, "but the way you're going about it—it's overwhelming. It feels like you're not just asking for understanding—you're demanding a specific response from me, one that I'm not prepared to give."

His brow furrows, and his stance becomes defensive. "So, you're saying I'm overwhelming you? I'm some evil guy? Me? A top pro hero? After all these years of keeping my distance, the moment I try to be honest about my feelings, I'm suddenly too much?"

"No, that's not what I mean, Midoriya—please—"

Izuku’s question slices through the tense air, unexpected and jarring. “Do you have a boyfriend?” His tone holds an edge of possessiveness that makes you uneasy. The query, seemingly out of nowhere, is clearly aimed at gauging your 'availability'—challenging it.

“No, but that’s not the point,” but Izuku scoots in closer, his larger frame hovering over your laid back one. Yes, he was much bigger than he was in high school. And yes his broad shoulders stood out 3 inches past your own. You couldn't stop your panicked breathing, the situation too unbelievable.

As Izuku inches closer, his large frame overshadows you, physically cornering you against the back of the sofa. The space feels oppressively small, his presence suffocating. His voice carries a chilling mix of sweetness and venom that you've never heard before, unsettlingly different from the hero you thought you knew.

“So, let’s get this straight....again.,” you avoid his gaze, near impossible from how close he is, “You’ve never had time for me, always brushed off my attempts to be close, and now here you are, in my home, accepting my help after all these years. And you think you can just leave after that, like nothing happened?”

You feel a bit embarrassed when he puts it like that.

“Izuku, I just came here because I needed help, I never meant to—”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? You needed help, and I was convenient for you,” he cuts you off, his voice soft but laced with a sharp edge. “Isn’t it funny how after all these years of avoiding me, suddenly I’m the one you run to when you’re vulnerable? Does that seem fair to you?”

“I’ve always cared about you, more than you know,” his voice lowering to a whisper. “I’ve watched you from afar, always hoping you’d look back. But you didn’t. And now here you are, finally seeing me, but only because you need something. Don’t you owe it to me to stay? After everything?”

His question hangs heavily in the air, charged with expectations you never consented to. Flustered and trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, you start to respond. “I-I’m sorry, Midoriya—”“—Izuku. Please, after all this time, don't you think you could call me by my first name? It’s like you’re still trying to keep me at arm’s length, even now,” The hurt very clear in his voice.

As you struggle to find the right words, trying to navigate the complex emotional minefield he specifically laid out, his next action catches you completely off guard. Without waiting for your consent, he suddenly shoots up, his arms scooping you up in a princess-style carry, far too easily, but expected from a bulky pro hero. The suddenness leaves you flabbergasted and flushing bright red.

"I-Izuku," you stammer, your voice tinged with shock and a hint of protest. "Ah, much better," he responds with a pleased smile. The smile he gives you is something else—wide and triumphant, as he carries you to another room.

The large room he brings you into is softly lit, the bed neatly made. You noticed a vanity on the side wall, feminine products lining the small shelf—eerily similar to the products you have in your cabinet at home. The room was set to your exact style, items you had at home—in your online wish list—were all here.

He sets you down gently on the bed, and the reality of the situation sinks in deeper. He observes you for a moment, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if amused by your discomfort. As if he's observing a cute puppy, learning to walk on its own.

"Time for bed. I'll be back tomorrow." He turns to leave, and you reach out for him. "Izuku, wait—" voice laden with a plea for some semblance of normalcy—some answer to the questions you refused to voice, the room you were actively refusing to acknowledge.

"What's wrong?" he interjects with a grin, his tone cooing, demeaning, belittling. "You’re not going to ask me to tuck you in or stay the night, are you?" You could hear the underlying challenge. The jest sent to provoke something from you. "No, that’s not—I just think we need to talk about tonight," You're voice stead, yet you're on the brink of tears, the fear creeping up the back of your neck. A pro hero, a pro hero, he's a pro hero—

Izuku's face hardens at your words, his posture stiffening as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Talk? We’ve been talking all night. You said you wanted rest right?" he retorts defensively. "You’re safe here, aren’t you? I’m taking care of you, after all. What’s there to complain about?"

You know something isn’t right, but his aggressive pushback and the veiled mockery in his tone make you second-guess your instincts to speak up.

"Yeah, I...Thank you...Izuku," you find yourself saying, the words heavy on your tongue. The unease churns in your stomach, but the mean look in his eyes silences the protests forming in your mind. You lie back on the bed, covering yourself quickly, still in your street attire.

Izuku nods, seemingly satisfied with your subdued response. "See? That’s better. Just relax, I’ve got everything under control," he says, his tone soothing yet laced with a possessiveness that doesn’t escape you.

As he turns off the light and exits the room, leaving you in the dim glow of the nightlight, you're left to grapple with the unsettling blend of guilt and apprehension, too nervous now to challenge the dynamic he’s forcefully set.

Would you be allowed to leave tomorrow?

come home

[terrorbeauty]