#yandere!reader (?)

[joy99x]

Stupid, Emotional, Obsessive

💋Yandere！Kaveh x Reader

Tw!!! Emotional manipulation, obsessive love/yandere behavior, extreme emotional dependency, jealousy, gaslighting, anxiety episodes, self worth issues, implied threats of sh, power imbalance

Kaveh is sitting on the edge of the couch in your shared apartment. Well—not really shared. He never officially moved in, but his toothbrush is here, his books are stacked in the corner, and his jacket still hangs by the door. That’s enough to make it both of yours in his eyes.

The sun had long vanished beneath the edge of the desert, and the sky over Sumeru had deepened to violet. Lanterns flickered along the edges of the bazaar, casting wavering shadows across colorful awnings and tile roofs. Music still played somewhere below, faint strains of a sitar drifting up into the dark, but in your house, silence reigned — heavy, aching, and stretched far too thin.

Kaveh sat alone, elbows resting on a scroll-strewn desk, eyes hollow and red-rimmed, hands shaking where they gripped the edge of the table. A stack of untouched architectural sketches sat beside him, smeared in places where teardrops had fallen.

Your scarf was still draped over the back of the chair. He’d reached for it at least three times in the last hour. Once to smell it. Twice to clutch it like it could summon you back.

You were supposed to be home.

You’d told him that morning — with a soft smile, hand brushing over his sleeve like it meant nothing — “Nilou invited me to see her dance rehearsal. I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back before the sun sets.”

He remembered how you smiled when you spoke her name.

Nilou this. Nilou that.

Nilou’s dancing. Cyno’s jokes. Sethos’ kindness. Tighnari’s intelligence.

You told him he was beautiful often. Even when he cried, especially when he cried. You told him when the sun hit just right, his hair looked like it was made of gold. You tell him he could fall and shatter and you would still be there to pick up the pieces and put him back together.

He believed your words when your hand was on top of his. Hell, you can tell him the sky is fake and he’d believe it.

But now, hours past sunset, you were still with her.

The thought made his chest ache with more than worry. It was jealousy — green and bitter, acidic enough to burn through his lungs. And enough to make him nauseous. His thoughts spiraled: what if you’d stayed on purpose?

You don’t understand what it’s like. The second you smile, he feels lightheaded. You laugh and the air is knocked out from his lungs. When you two lazily lay in bed, legs tangled and your naked chest pressing into his, he wishes he could die right then and there so he would die happy.

But when you stay out too late, come home too late, it feels like he’s been thrown into a void; gasping, drowning in the fear of abandonment he can’t shake of no matter how many times you say “I am not going anywhere, sunshine.”

Because one day you will, you will get sick of his whining and crying and you will leave. He would grovel at your feet when you pack your bags, maybe break some stuff and even pathetically put himself between the door and you to keep you here for just a few seconds more. Like those seconds would be enough to change your mind

And that day, would be his last. He told you that many times.

He stood up too fast and nearly knocked over the inkpot. Pacing. Wracking his mind.

He remembers Alhaitham’s words—“You’re too emotionally dependent. It’s suffocating.”

He hated that he was right.

Should he go to the theatre? Walk straight through the square and demand to see you? But what if you weren’t there? What if you were at her home now, laughing over tea while Kaveh wept alone like a fool?

“No one will make it their life goal to fix you.”

He hated this. Hated how weak he felt. But he hated even more the idea that someone else might get to bask in your presence while he trembled in your absence

When the door creaked open, he swung his head so fast he nearly heard a crack.

You stepped inside, wind-tossed and slightly out of breath, a small smile playing on your lips. “Sorry I’m late,” you said. “We stopped for dessert at a tea stall—”

“With Nilou?” he interrupted sharply.

Your smile faltered.

He was already walking toward you — eyes wide, face stricken. “You were with her this whole time?”

“I told you I would be,” you said gently. “Kaveh, what’s wrong?”

“You said you’d be back before sundown,” he choked out, and just like that, the first tear fell. “You promised. And you were with her for hours—do you even know how long I waited?!” Even though he didn’t want to, he raised his voice at you. You warned him many times you didn’t like it. Yet still, like an unwanted and stupid teenager, he did.

He was brilliant—his designs legendary, his passion unmatched. But now, all that intensity was directed at you, like sunlight through glass, burning everything it touched. Was it devotion or destruction? Mm, who knows?

You tried to step closer, to soothe him, but he pulled away.

“Is she better than me?” he whispered, voice raw and broken. “Is that it? You look at her the way you used to look at me. Every time you say her name, I feel like I’m losing you.”

You paused. Just for a little while.

“Kaveh… You’re so hopeless… Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?” You purred, a little cynical and a little lovely.

“I-I just missed you.”His voice cracked mid-sentence.

He collapsed onto his knees in front of you, burying his face in your robes like a broken thing.

“I thought something happened,” he sobbed. “Or worse—that you realized I’m not enough. That you’d found someone else who wasn’t so… pathetic.” He tried to smile and it came out broken, like it hurt to fake so.

You knelt with him, holding him tight as he shook with grief and insecurity.

“You know I like it when you miss me.” you say, stepping closer, voice low and steady. Your hands roaming through his hair with feather light touches. Slow and deliberate

He gasps, eyes wide and glassy. “You do?”

“Mhm.” You cup his cheek with deliberate slowness, wiping away a tear with your thumb. “But next time, don’t make me feel like I have to comfort you just because you got lonely. I’m starting to think you only keep me around so you have a shoulder to sob on.”

He gasps even louder at that, hands grasping at your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world.

“N-no! I would never! I’m nothing without you�� ı don’t want anyone else,” he breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I just want you. Always.”

You hum, smiling lazily as you drop your hand to his nape, tracing circles and shapes with your nails

“Good boy.”

You feel how he shivers under your touch— like he’s being seen, praised, insulted and known at the same time

Your fingers trail down his throat, lingering at the dip of his collarbone, feeling his heartbeat stutter against your palm.

“But if you ever make me feel like I’m just your emotional support again,” your voice sharpens just enough to make him flinch, “I’ll start wondering if someone else would cry prettier for me.”

He shakes his head wildly, tears spilling anew. “No, no, no, please. I can do better. I can be better. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t look at anyone else. Please, I’m begging you.”

The candlelight flickered between you, fragile and fluttering like his voice.

You kiss the corner of his eye, tasting salt. “Then stay on your knees, sunshine. And don’t forget who you belong to.”

“I won’t,” he promises, breathless. “I swear, I won’t. I’m yours. Forever.”

And he means it—every word, every vow, every shattered syllable. Because even if it breaks him, even if it turns him into something hollow and trembling and utterly yours… he’d rather be broken at your feet than whole anywhere else.

“Then prove it.”

Your lips finds his, your grip on his neck getting tighter. He sobs again, this time with something dangerously close to joy.

[dante-mightdie]

yandere!john this and john disposing of your partner yada yada

but what about yandere!reader who won’t let john’s silly marriage get in her way? it doesn’t matter that they’re secondary school sweethearts and he would lay down his life for her any day of the week

he’s yours, he just can’t see it yet

but once you make him see how awful his wife really is, always nagging him about his job and pestering him to spend more time with her? doesn’t she understand what an important man you are, captain? we need you here. I need you here to mentor me. you’re so smart. you remind me of a teacher I used to have a crush on, captain.

now I know I don’t have to ask if you guys see the vision

[noirscript]

scripted fate

Pairing: Yandere!CEO x Yandere!Reader

Description: Every move led you to Cassian Veltre—but his smirk said it all. You weren’t the only one pulling the strings.

Warning/s: yandere behavior | obsession | stalking | manipulation | gaslighting | possessiveness | non-consensual touching (mild) | power imbalance | psychological control | dubious morality | unhealthy relationships | toxic dynamics

Note: Random one before heading to bed. Enjoy!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him, it was orchestrated down to the second. The coffee shop was crowded, your friends chattering about mundane things as you calculated the perfect angle, the perfect timing. When you stood up, your shoulder brushed against his, and the steaming coffee in his hand tilted—just enough to spill onto his crisp white shirt.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry!" you gasped, reaching for your handkerchief before he could react.

His brows knitted in irritation, lips parting as if to reprimand you, but you were already pressing the soft cloth against his chest, dabbing away the stain with delicate, practiced strokes. Your fingers lingered longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the fabric. Your heartbeat quickened—not out of guilt, but from the thrill of touching him so intimately within minutes of meeting.

He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. "It's fine."

But you didn't stop, not yet. "Please, let me make it up to you," you insisted, tilting your head just right, voice honeyed with remorse and something else—something darker. "I can buy you another coffee?"

He studied you then, his annoyance melting into something more calculative. A smirk ghosted over his lips. "That won’t be necessary." He took your handkerchief from your grasp, fingers grazing yours as he folded it neatly. "But I’ll hold onto this. A little collateral, in case you owe me later."

Oh, he was good.

You returned to your table, heart pounding—not from nerves, but from the thrill of setting things into motion. Your friend Lucas raised an eyebrow, sipping his iced coffee. "That was… convenient."

"What was?" you asked innocently, stirring your drink.

"Come on," Lucas scoffed. "You’re usually so careful. And you just happened to spill coffee on one of the most well-dressed men in this place?" He smirked, leaning back. "Was he your type or something?"

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Your other friend, Mia, giggled. "Well, he was ridiculously handsome. And rich, judging by that watch. I mean, if you’re going to bump into someone, might as well be a catch."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "You do realize he was totally onto you, right? He took your handkerchief like he’s keeping a receipt."

Your lips curled slightly. "Good."

The second time, you hadn’t expected to see him so soon, but you'd hoped. Your friend—a harmless pawn—had invited you to dinner at a high-end restaurant, and you'd chosen a table strategically. Back-to-back with him, close enough that you could hear the soft murmur of his voice. Close enough that he could hear yours.

And so, you spoke just a little louder than usual, laughing at your friend’s jokes, letting your voice drip with sweetness as you addressed Lucas by name. It worked. Halfway through your meal, you felt the weight of his gaze. When you turned your head slightly, you caught the way his fingers tapped against his glass, how his eyes darkened when he noticed the man across from you.

He hadn’t planned on running into you tonight. But now that you were here, now that you were seated so casually with another man, he found himself amused.

And irritated.

Lucas leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You know he’s listening, right? He hasn’t touched his food since we sat down."

You feigned surprise. "Who?"

"The guy from the café. The one you so conveniently ‘bumped into.’" Lucas’s eyes flicked toward the table behind you. "He keeps glancing this way."

You twirled your wine glass between your fingers, suppressing a smile. "Does that bother you?"

Lucas scoffed. "I just don’t like the way he’s looking at you. Feels… possessive. Like he already knows something the rest of us don’t."

Interesting.

His phone buzzed, a reminder of an impending meeting, but he dismissed it. Instead, he swirled the wine in his glass, contemplating. He had wanted to take his time, let things unfold naturally, but seeing you so soon—so radiant, so close yet untouchable—he realized he wanted more control.

So he arranged it. The perfect excuse to bring you into his world, to bind you to him without raising suspicion.

The job posting appeared three days later, an opening for a personal assistant to the CEO. Not a secretary. Not an assistant manager. A position that would place you right next to him at all times.

And, as he'd expected, you applied.

The moment you stepped into his office, he leaned back in his chair, watching you with open amusement. "Imagine my surprise when I saw your name among the applicants."

You feigned innocence, your smile demure. "It’s a wonderful opportunity, Mr. Veltre."

Cassian Veltre.

His lips twitched. "Is it?" He gestured for you to sit, his gaze never leaving yours. "You seem… overqualified for the position."

"And yet, you're interviewing me."

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. "I suppose I am. Tell me, what made you apply?"

You folded your hands neatly on your lap, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence. "I've always admired this company. I think working under someone as accomplished as you would be an invaluable experience."

He hummed, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Flattery? So soon? You’re not even hired yet."

You tilted your head, feigning surprise. "Flattery? I thought I was simply stating a fact."

His expression darkened, intrigued. "I see. And tell me… would you be willing to dedicate yourself fully to this job? It’s demanding. Requires constant presence. Close proximity."

You leaned forward slightly, mirroring his intensity. "I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready for that."

His grip on control tightened, his heartbeat a fraction faster.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

noirscript © 2025

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

[specialgradefckr]

a thought.

satoru gojo doesn't belong to you. he doesn't even belong to himself.

he's a weapon, a tool, a teacher and guardian - he doesn't have time to be yours, even if he wanted to.

but this one could.

he looks good, for having been grown in a test tube for twenty months.

a clone. your very own personal satoru gojo. just for you and no one else.

he's born in the lab, a fully grown adult, and you teach him everything he needs to know about life.

when he's hungry, you feed him.

when he's cold, you hold him.

when he's bored, you entertain him.

when he's sad, you delight him.

for this satoru gojo, the world begins and ends with you.

he's never known life outside the private lab beneath your home. after weeks of good behavior, you let him sleep with you in your room.

he never says no. doesn't know what it is. you've never told him no (granted, his requests are always vague, and you fulfill them however you please), so it doesn't exist in his mind.

so when you teach him how to make you feel good - guide him to his knees, between your legs, holding his face against your cunt - this satoru gojo learns eagerly, with all the unrestrained passion and dedicated of a virgin with his longtime crutch.

the first words you taught him to say were "i love you", after all.

at first, he was sort of like a parrot - repeating after you, confused, hesitant forming words.

but quickly enough, his true nature shone through. even with a limited vocabulary, he would tease - "those are called glasses." "glasses?" "yes - satoru! give them back!" - and his appetite for mischief and self-satisfaction were ever-present.

but even with his nature, there was always nurture to gently adjust him.

you'd leave him alone for hours without explanation, even when he could grasp language enough to understand one. always returning with a treat, with a smile and a kiss.

there was food for him when you were gone, and water. but it's bland, unappetizing stuff. he is satoru, after all. still craving sweets.

you were the only person he's ever interacted with. the only person he ever will.

your presence meant food, companionship, entertainment. your absence meant loneliness, boredom, hunger.

you are everything good in his life. you gave him this life. it's only right that he spends it with you.

it's not that satoru minds, after all. he seems to love eating you out, training session after training session leading him to slide to his knees beside you more often than not. bright blue eyes twinkling up at you while he paws at your waistband.

and you're not a selfish lover, not by any means. once you've conditioned him to only cum when you're present, you're very generous with his orgasms.

it took a while. a specialized device - unremovable cockring - and some porn left around for him to peruse curiously.

but soon enough, you'd caught him, red-faced and stressed, unable to find his release. diligently, over many weeks, you'd taught his body that the only real pleasure was you. your touch, your voice, your love.

this is your satoru gojo. he shouldn't want anything but you. he shouldn't get off to anything but you.

you are his sun and stars, his planet, his gravity holding him to earth, the air he breathes, the life that sustains him, his whole universe.

it's all worth it, to come back to him after an outing. bright-faced and smiling and trembling just a little bit in relief.

when he holds you at night extra tightly, like he's terrified you'll slip out of his arms while he sleeps.

it's intoxicating. euphoric.

you try not to leave too often. but absence makes the heart grow fonder. can't have him taking you for granted.

in fact, that's the only punishment that ever seems to work on him, when he's acting out, and a stern correction doesn't do it.

it's not often, but sometimes he'd whine incessantly about getting his way, as if what he wanted mattered. as if you didn't love him more than anything already. as if you didn't go out of your way to give him everything, including his own life.

maybe he wanted to have sex that day, instead of just masturbating for you. maybe he was getting bored of eating you out for hours. maybe he just wanted to hurry up and cum.

all of these were normal, expected ways for satoru gojo to behave at first. but you'd trained them out of him.

if he was so bored, if he didn't like what you wanted, then he could stay here by himself.

you'd leave discreetly, distracting him with an instruction or an excuse about getting something. and then you'd turn off the breaker so the lights in the basement were out.

and then you'd go. spend hours away from home.

every time you spent a different amount of time away. letting him stew in it. letting him wait for you. wait, and wonder if you were really coming back this time.

it was painful. you didn't create him just to neglect him like this.

but it needs to be done. he had to understand that being without you is utter, abject misery.

this had the side effect of turning him into a clingy menace. which was terribly endearing - he always wanted to have a hand on you, or to sit next to you, or to be touching you somehow.

those beautiful eyes nervously glancing at you every now and then - it's the prettiest thing you've ever seen.

with him clinging to you, of course, you have to adjust his punishments. if a training session isn't going well, you slip something into his next meal.

when he awakens, he's tied up. all alone in a well-lit, padded room.

by the time you open the door, he's teary-eyed, nose red from sniffling, throat sore from screaming. he leans into your fingers in his hair, closing his eyes, shuddering and sighing in utter bliss.

satoru always behaves better after that. you tell him, calmly, what you hope he'll improve on, and he always does. your clever boy.

your perfect boy. your satoru gojo, homemade, hand-raised, yours and yours alone. happy to be yours.

he's improved so much. he really is nearly perfect.

affectionate - almost overbearingly so, but that suits you. he's attentive, so well in tune with your moods. satoru really is so very observant when he wants to be.

he can make you cum in under thirty seconds - there's your quick learner! you feel like a proud teacher, sometimes.

and he loves you. of course he loves you. you make him feel good, you kiss him goodnight, you always make sure he knows exactly how happy he makes you.

he's not unlike a pet who loves you unconditionally and wants to be with you constantly. a particularly clever pet, even, who sometimes gets... ideas.

what you're working on now is a complicated case. satoru's a healthy young man, and he spends all his time with you, who he's attracted to - so he gets erections fairly often.

your conditioning has led him to expect sexual activity... well, relatively frequently. after all, he can't cum on his own. it doesn't help that he always wants to be touching you, next to you, holding you.

the task now is for him to become aroused only when you are aroused. it'll take time - and patience - and lots and lots of punishments. but smaller ones, easier ones.

you're content with this. perfection is a state of mind, after all. there will always be something to improve on.

if you don't have anything to punish him for, satoru might start to think he's perfect. he might realize that you won't stop loving him, for any reason. he might get sloppy.

what if he thinks he can leave?

it's something that keeps you up at night, sometimes. you try not to let it, really. satoru never falls asleep first. you've never seen him sleep at all outside your arms, actually.

you're particularly tired, this night, though.

satoru's been so good lately, so you'd rewarded him with a new, special experience; making food together.

it had been utterly delightful, so domestic and causal, full of laughter and taste-tests and troubled recipe lookups. Is that what being a couple was supposed to be like?

you think you could get used to that.

you try to say something, but your mouth is especially dry. satoru, the darling creature that he is, has water at the ready for you.

the thanks, too, can't come out of your mouth. your vision is darkening...

"sorry," his lovely voice hums distantly, "not sure about the dosage. i know i'm larger than you, so it should be a bit less..."

the words stand out to you. dosage. a bit less.

but very soon, your world goes dark, and all you hear before that is -

"you're never leaving me again."

[bwabys-scenarios]

Kurapika was yours, he knew that.

The two of you were close, and at times he could be very clingy and affectionate. After all, who wouldn’t be when you were so kind and loving towards him?

You treasured Kurapika, being a bit possessive and possessive… okay, maybe more than just a bit.

He needed you, and that made keeping him all to yourself a lot easier.

Pinning him down, stroking his cock while peering down at his flustered state makes you horny. He’s beautiful like this, submissive and needy.

Sometimes he just needs someone to take over, to fully give himself to you.

No one can see him like this, only you. He’s yours…

The hickeys you leave on his neck tell any potential rivals that he’s taken.

[jennzworld]

"You understand... don't you?"

Solivan Brugsmansia x GN!Reader

TW: Sol, stalking (from both Sol and reader), mentions of torture if you squint, somnophilia mentioned, Sol admits to jerking off at the thought of you, Reader admits to planning abduction, NSFW, dark themes (kinda), no pronouns mentioned, making out, dry humping

a/n: I haven't played too much of TKATB, but I get the gist of it, also didn't feel like writing too much smut, that'll be a separate post, also way shorter than I expected

White is you, Green is Sol, Crowe is purple, Pink is Brittney... Everyone except you and Sol get 1-2 lines in a flashback

MINORS DNI ‼️ or do, idc

It was sunny out and you dreaded waking up to another day of hell. You shower, get dressed, eat, and get the fuck out.

Leaving the house, you made sure to take your keys, wallet, and phone, which was actually charged this time..

"I'm not forgetting anything right?"

You look around your apartment, making sure nothing is left or out of place, when your eyes catch the window, or rather, the window lock.

"I've really gotta replace that, I swear I already did... whatever"

You brush it off and leave, making sure to lock the door on the way out. You make your way to Olympieus University, the corrupt college you still manage to attend.

Of course, walking to class, the first person you see is Crowe, your "best friend", but you fucking hate him. Well- not hate, but you really don't like him, romantically at least...

You had your eyes on Sol, the kid at the back who sketches in his book. Solivan Brugsmansia was his name, and he was the hottest fucking guy you've ever met. He stayed to himself, and you've caught him looking at you once or twice.. I mean, yeah you'd catch him, you stared at him lots, shamelessly too.

It wasn't until your art teacher paired you two up for a project that you'd finally have the chance to talk to him! You hurried and made your way to the back, not worried about the stares of the other students who wondered why you were so eager to sit with the weird guy.

Solivan smiles as you sit with him, you look so happy and eager to work with him that it melts his heart...

"Hey Sol, it's me again!"

"Yeah, hey Y/N..."

The both of you chat it up for a bit while starting the project, it was simple. Make portraits of eachother and make sure it looks right, not that serious.

Especially for you.

Little did Sol know, you've been watching him for awhile, and not just in class. It wasn't your fault, he was just so fucking amazing, you wanted to know what his life was like! No harm in that, right?

Wrong.

That's what your mother said to you. It was junior year and you liked this person, so much so that you followed them around a lot, sometimes without their knowledge. It was a habit you tried to desperately grow out of, but you just couldn't. It felt... out of your control.

Sol sits across from you in your apartment, as you both agreed to finish off the project at your place.

Perfect for you, wasn't it?

"Okay, I'm done. I think it looks nice"

"Yay! Lemme see!"

He hands you the paper as his face turns a light shade of pink. He looks away, the sketch was so accurate you wanted to kiss him right then and there. But, as tempting as it was, you held back.

Just like you always did.

"You like that guy?"

"He gives me bad vibes, Y/N"

"Don't involve yourself with him"

"I just don't want you to get hurt"

They all said the same thing.

Did you know something was wrong with him? Yes.

Did you do anything about it? No.

Why? Because you're the same.

"Y/N?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry..."

"Did you uhm... Did you like it?"

"Of course, Sol, I love it!"

You smile and give him a hug, thanking him for the portrait before starting on his. You sketch his face shape carefully, this was the only time you actually had a reason to stare at his face. He was the most beautiful person you've ever laid eyes on, you swear it.

A few hours had passed and the portraits were looooong forgotten.. You had somehow ended up in Sol's lap, grinding down on him while he kissed you feverishly.

Your hands planted on his shoulders, one of his hands on your waist, the other cupping your face as his tongue slides into your mouth. His whimpers and whines hitting your ears doing nothing but making you more aroused and you move your hips down harder, faster.

"Fuck... Y/N you're sooo good to me~"

You can obviously tell how good you are to him, judging by the fucking monster he has in his pants. Showing your appreciation, you lean down toward his neck and bite down, hard.

The pornographic moan he let out was heavenly.

"You're such a f-fucking good boy, a-aren't you Sol~?"

"A-all for you, baby~"

Nearing release, you smash your lips onto his again, going as fast as you possibly can with his assistance. You let out reluctant whines and whimpers as you get closer and closer to tipping..

An eye rolling, back arching, tongue lolling orgasm hits you like a freight train as Sol holds you closer to him, clinging to you like a vice.

"I've been dreaming about this, about us, for so long... and we finally made that happen"

"Really now? Been fuckin your fist to me or something?"

You laugh, only half expecting the answer that comes after.

"If I said yes would you be mad?"

"No, I guess I have secrets too..."

"Like what?"

"I've been stalking you."

You say it so bluntly his eyes widen, as if he hasn't been doing the same thing!

"Well, guess we're on the same page. I've kissed you in your sleep..."

"So you're the reason my fucking window lock is broken!

You smack his chest before smushing his cheeks together

"You owe me 25 dollars!"

He just laughs before rolling you both over on the couch, his green hair falling over his face.

"That's nothing, I've got it"

"Looks like my plan of throwing you in an abandoned warehouse wasn't useless after all."

"Wow, you really beat me to it huh?"

You both end up finishing your projects at 2am... Sol does stay the night and you both surprisingly don't dread the next day.

Tags!

@rado-brisingr @whitneysslut @its-atsui-bitch

I only tagged adults, I'm not tagging minors, but idc if you read. Just make sure to like it.

[nellielsss]

｡･ﾟﾟ･ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴇ!

╰┈➤ I can't wait to try him... ✮✮✮

Summary: Just a little songfic inspired by The Boy is Mine by Ariana Grande. I figured it was about time that the tables were turned & the reader got to make a mess! However will these boys react? Includes: Toji Fushiguro, Satoru Gojo, Kento Nanami x Yandere!reader CW: murder, weapons, derogatory/degrading language (reader is severely flawed), allusions to sex

☆○o 𝙏𝙤𝙟𝙞 𝙁𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙤 ༶•┈┈⛧┈♛

╰┈➤ It's no secret that your man was a man of charm and persuasion. Although his demeanor was considerably unapproachable and intimidating, he still knew his way around a conversation (he had to if he wanted to haggle the local vendors). It's also no secret that he was an adonis. A wide, tapered back that extended outwards to a pair of broad shoulders, biceps bigger than your head, and a face that could make Narcissus himself do a double-take, he was practically walking sex! Not to mention those 9 inches he was packing!

It's not like it was his fault that his body was so built; those muscles were a result of his years of working out! If he wanted to make as much money from his missions as possible, he'd need his strength to be at its peak. It also wasn't his fault that god blessed him with a perfect face with perfect skin (save for the scar) & a perfect bone structure.

If two + two = four, each two standing for the aforementioned attributes, then four meant that there was a lot of unwanted attention thrown his way. Men, women, non-binary folk and everyone in between threw a couple of flirty glances and compliments his way every now and then. It seemed like he raised the pheromones of the places he was in: bars, the grocery store; hell, even on the street there would be a couple of people trying to pick him up!

"Baby, don't even pay 'em a penny of your time," he muttered into your ear after a girl tried to get his number at a bar. "They don't compare to you; not even a little. Fuck would I do without this ass, eh?" he asked with a grin, making you smile a little. "Atta girl." If he wasn't so reserved and committed to his gal, you, then he would've eaten that shit up. But he made a vow to be more responsible and stay loyal to you, and he'd kill himself before he broke that vow. He even bought you a promise ring, for fuck's sake (he also had an engagement ring in mind for when the time was right)! So, to any sane person, things should've been peachy keen...

... if you were sane, that is.

Toji knew all about your mental state. He knew that you had a few issues, but he didn't care; he wasn't a fucking hypocrite for crying out loud. He had a few screws loose himself, so he didn't bat an eye when you told him about how many you had loose. The two of you made an excellent couple anyways, and he wasn't stupid enough to throw away a good thing. So, he brushed over it and decided to move on with life.

If only he knew how many friends he'd lose along the way.

The most recent "departure" was the one friend he'd made in high school (before he was forced to drop out by his family). One of the only female friends he'd made during his life, she was the tomboy-type who had no trouble making friends with guys. She was a total delinquent; she even rocked the long skirt and the mask back in high school, and she also dropped out of high school after he did for setting fires behind the school. Leather jackets, piercings, the whole nine yards. She was like a walking Mötley Crüe song.

But even walking rock-and-roll songs could catch feelings. Unluckily for her, it was high time that she kicked the bucket and made way for you. The only person who deserved Toji's attention was you. You were the one who kept him warm every night; you were the one who took his dick like no other; you were the one with the promise ring on your finger, not that bitch.

Killing her was quite simple. Although she was tough as nails, you were the one who actually had experience with killing people. All you had to do was sneak into her place at night and stab her. Then, you'd write a flimsy little note and make it seem like she fled the country; it was quite plausible for a chick like her.

┆ . "Hello? Who's there?" the chick's voice asked when she heard a few thumps in the other room. She was in the kitchen drinking a beer and listening to the radio (could she not afford a TV? how sad). She had a plate of Korean fried chicken on the counter as well, and the only light illuminating the area was the flimsy lightbulb above her head.

Her head immediately snapped in the direction of the noise she'd heard, and she grabbed a switchblade from the linoleum countertop. She took a few steps forward, the sound of the radio being drowned out by her heartbeat.

Another noise from the opposite direction, this time to her left. "Alright, who the fuck's fuckin' with me? I swear, Toji, if that's you-"

"Don't even say his fucking name, whore." She felt something grab her neck from behind, effectively choking her. The hand then pressed a nerve that stopped her from moving, rendering her frozen in place. She recognized that voice, but she couldn't believe it; was that girl seriously in her home...? She turned her eyes to the best of her ability, trying to catch a glimpse to confirm her suspicions. Her eyes widened when she realized who it was, being met by Toji's girlfriend's pretty face which was now marred by a look of sheer venom and malice.

"P-please, can't we talk this out?-"

"It's too late to beg. You shouldn't have come back into his life; you shouldn't have even met him to begin with." The last thing she saw before she felt something stab her was a sick, twisted grin on her face, widening as the knife sunk further and further into her tattooed skin.

The knife left her side and then sunk back into her neck. A snap was the last thing she heard before her eyes went shut.

It definitely wasn't the last thing you heard, though; the knife sunk back into her neck again, then again, and again, and again, again, again, again, again, all the way until her neck practically ripped in two.

The plan to make a smooth escape was a little behind schedule considering all the blood splatters that needed cleaning on the linoleum flooring, but it was nothing a little bleach couldn't fix.

"Toji did tell me I looked good in red once," you sighed, dragging some blood down your face with a lovesick grin as the finishing touch.

You could rival Elizabeth Bathory with the amount of blood that was on you and the black sweater you chose to wear for the killing. Ah, it's not like that sweater was anything too important or sentimental to you; you always made sure not to wear anything nice when murdering a target of yours.

"Toji, Toji, Toji Toji Tojiiiii," you hummed to yourself, taking your gloves off and throwing them aside. You decided to put on a new pair of disposable gloves in order to clean the crime scene, considering how soaked the others were with the amount of blood that was in them. Making the mess an even bigger mess wasn't on your agenda for the night.

"The boy is mine... I can't wait to try him... let's get intertwined... the stars they've aligned," you hummed to yourself, "the boy... is... mine!"

Just as you'd started to get into the swing of things and dance around the kitchen of your victim, cleaning up the mess in your own sick & twisted way, that little fantasy of yours was broken by the sound of the door opening. Your head snapped in the direction of the sound, your blood running cold at the thought of being caught in such a predicament. You reached out to grab a nearby knife, already making a plan in your head. You'd killed a few other people who walked in on your murders, so it really wasn't anything new to you.

But those people weren't your boyfriend.

"Yoohoo, anybody home?" He asked in that deliciously deep & sarcastic voice of his. "I thought I oughta bring you that shirt you asked for. Y'know, the ACDC one?-"

When he turned his head to the side and saw you, his girlfriend, cleaning up a spilled pool of blood that belonged to his friend, he also froze. The two of you stared at one another, each completely bewildered by the other. Here was his sweet, amazing, practically angelic girlfriend all covered in blood & standing over his now dead friend's body. And at the same time, here was your boyfriend standing in the doorway, looking at you as you cleaned up a particularly messy crime scene.

Oh, right, your boyfriend just walked in on you in the middle of your crime scene.

He was a witness to his friend's murder, as well as your own crimes.

"No... it's- it's..." you stuttered, tears welling up as you backed away from the dead body as if that'd make it any better for you.

One step, two steps, three steps of your boyfriend's boots echoed throughout the kitchen as he walked closer to you.

"D-Don't look at me, don't... don't look at me, Toji! You can't see me like this! I'm a monster-" as your eyes were closed out of fear and shame, you felt two fingers grip your chin surprisingly gently. You opened your eyes slowly, your boyfriend forcing you to look at him.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmured with a soothing undercurrent of love. "Geez, look at you... you're all covered in this sticky, disgusting blood. That's no look for a pretty girl like you, is it?"

You stayed silent, and he cocked his head to the side, almost amused by how shy you were being in this scenario. "Fine. If you wanna stay silent, then that's fine with me. But do you really think you oughta be embarrassed right now? Like I'd judge ya for anything... Do you remember when we first met, and I told you that I'd never, ever judge you in any circumstances? I'm a man who stays true to my word, (Y/N). Even if you were covered in the blood of four different people, my love for you's never gonna waver."

You looked at him with more confusion than anything. Was he being serious right now? Weren't you a monster for killing one of his friends? "I'm confused..." you finally started, "are you not... disgusted with me? Aren't I a monster? I just- I just killed one of your friends!" you exclaimed.

Toji's eyebrows merely raised in amusement. "I'm a man who stays true to my word, (Y/N)," he said once more. "I ain't goin' back on it, baby. Besides, it's not like I was friends with anyone other than Shiu to begin with--and he's my manager! She was pissin' me off anyway. She had the audacity to challenge me to a drinking contest and then decided to puke all over the new pants you bought me."

Your eye twitched when he brought up that knowledge.

"Doesn't she know that alcohol doesn't affect a big guy like me?" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head out of amusement. "You did me a favor getting her off my back."

"So, you're really okay with what I did?" you asked once more. Toji shook his head and cupped your cheek gently with his calloused fingers.

"Do I gotta repeat myself thrice?"

"N-No, you don't gotta..." you trailed off.

"Good." He stood up, offering you a hand to help you up as well. "Y'know, I really didn't expect you to be such a little psychopath. I mean, you're all cute n' shit with your little mini skirts and your heels that I still don't know how you walk in. If I'd known you looked so hot covered in other people's blood, I would've taken you along with me on my missions."

You blushed profusely at all his little words and praises, and he cooed (again, out of amusement). "Look at you, all shy over a couple compliments thrown your way. You really are just a sweet thing underneath all that blood, aren't you?"

"Stop it, stop it!" You whined, swatting his hand away when he pinched your cheek.

In response, he put his hands up and chuckled again. "Whatever my girl wants, my girl gets. Now, would you like some help with cleaning this mess up, or would you rather I just bend you over this counter n' eat you out?"

You looked at him again, yet again out of confusion and bewilderment. "You wanna have sex with me... when I'm covered in blood, and in my own crime scene?" You asked, shrinking away from his touch.

"'Course I do; you look fuckin' sexy baby. Shit gets my dick hard seeing you so protective over me... I oughta reward you for havin' my back, anyway."

He reached out again, only for you to shrink away even further from his touch, making him click his tongue and sigh. "I think I'll pass," you muttered, throwing him a side-eye as well.

"The fuck are you side-eyeing me for? You're the one who killed a girl."

*°:⋆ₓₒ 𝙎𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪 𝙂𝙤𝙟𝙤 ˱ 𓈒 𓈊 ┈ 𓈒 ˲

╰┈➤ Satoru Gojo was nothing short of a dreamboat, and you knew what you were getting into when you said "yes" to the first date. From the moment he picked you up wearing a crisp light blue button-up, slacks, and his silver-blue porsche, you knew he was gonna be one silver-tongued prince charming.

Not only was he sweet on the first date, but he was also sweet on the second, third, fourth--hell, even on your second anniversary, when he asked you to move in with him in his penthouse located in the heart of Ginza, you swore your knees buckled from underneath you and not because of the blue gown that he'd bought you after seeing it on your computer screen all those nights ago.

He was like a sweet saccharine fantasy, a delicious daydream which you never wanted to wake up from. His soft, snow-white hair; his incredibly vibrant blue eyes which seemed to have specks of every color in the galaxy and then some with flecks of purple, cerulean, indigo, and even a milky way here and there; his towering stature and lean muscles--god, you could go on and on about how dreamy he was! And the sex? Good god, he was a man who knew how to put it down.

The sweet little nicknames he had for you only furthered your infatuation for him: "hey there, sweet cheeks," was one rather childish one that he reserved for you.

"Lookin' good, princess," was probably the most fitting one that he had for you. It was his way of reminding you of how good he'd always treat you, how he'd always put you first above all else. After all, he used that name when he bought you a diamond tennis bracelet for your half-birthday.

While most people would've been worried that he was love-bombing you, you knew deep down that you had absolutely nothing to worry about!

Even his best friend, Suguru Geto, said as such at one of the many parties he threw.

After one of Satoru's weird little groupies made a snide remark about how he gave that treatment to anyone who would open their legs for him, he pulled you aside with one tattooed hand (he has tats IMO) and helped you lighten your mood. "Don't even listen to that chick, (Y/N), you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I haven't seen him look at anyone like that since, well, ever if I'm being honest--and I've known the man since grade school," the sorcerer said.

"You really think so?" You asked, a light smile gracing your features.

"I've been his best friend since we've both become sorcerers, (Y/N). I've seen him go through everything, even that phase when he decided to wear his hair like a Backstreet Boy for a day." now that was a joke that really brought that light back to your face.

"Okay, okay, I don't think I need that image in my head," you replied, waving your hands in front of you. He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder.

"Trust me, you don't. Now go find your boyfriend before he throws a fit; you know how he gets."

You had nothing to worry about when it came to your relationship--even his vigilant best friend thought so. But that lack of worry only extended to your boyfriend, not the countless groupies that threw themselves at him.

How many had you killed by now? 6? 7? Eh, you lost count by the time it reached double digits.

┆ . At one of his many parties that he threw on his yacht in the harbor, yet another groupie decided to take a chance on the already-taken sorcerer/heir of the Gojo clan, none other than your boyfriend of 3 and a half years, Satoru. By then, you'd disregarded who any of the groupies were, only knowing them by hair color (if they dyed it some stupid color like pink or purple) or did something obscene to your boyfriend.

But that night at his summer party, a purple-haired groupie took it way too far: when you were returning from the bar with Satoru's favorite drink in hand, you saw her accidentally "trip" and fall into your boyfriend's lap. The hand holding your drink-of-choice was gripping your glass so tightly that it shattered in your hand, but the blaring music was loud enough to hide it.

"Whoopsie!" the girl said with fake-sincerity, giggling as she looked at her friends who obviously put her up to this shit.

Satoru, being the amazing boyfriend he was, pushed the girl off of his lap and looked rather annoyed at what she'd done: "hands off the merchandise! This seat's already taken."

The girl threw her hands up and gave him a fake apology, obviously not serious about it: "sorryyy, I tripped on my heels! You know how these things are."

But your brain didn't register it; it merely registered the sounds of the blood rushing through your body and your heartbeat's thumping. Your breathing quickened, and everything in your world was reduced to that stupid bitch and her stupid giggles and her stupid hair color.

Who the fuck does she think she is? She's not the one who's already been living with Satoru for over a year now. Her fake nails, her fake hair--she probably doesn't even want Satoru and instead wants some notoriety for being his groupie.

She shouldn't get to live; stupid whores like her shouldn't be alive to begin with.

She needs to know her place. I wonder how fast I can throw this drink at her head? Maybe it'll kill her if I'm hard enough-

"Yo, (Y/N)!" Satoru's voice said once he saw you a few feet away. "C'mere princess; I got this seat nice and ready for ya!" he said with a grin, patting his lap. You happily obliged, bounding over like a little puppy who was called by their owner for a tasty treat.

"Isn't she the cutest thing?" Shoko Ieiri asked her friend who nodded in agreement.

"Sato, baby, here's the drink you asked for," you said, your voice dripping with adoration like the sweetest ambrosia from the Garden of Eden. "Mine... spilled, sadly, but I can just get another one."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted that stupid whore trotting off down a hallway, headed to a bathroom by herself. An idea formed inside of your head, and your eyes narrowed and zeroed in on her fake purple hair.

"(Y/N), baby, look at me! This is my party!" Satoru protested, suddenly bringing your attention back to him with a cute little pout on his face.

"You don't mind if I go and use the ladies room? I'll be back before you know it," you asked with the subtlest croon you could muster up without bordering on corny.

"But, baby-"

"It's an emergency. You know how us girls get," you said with a smile, making Satoru relent reluctantly.

"Fine, fine... go on ahead, but don't get too distracted on your way there. Your boyfriend wants some attention," he muttered, placing a small kiss on your neck before letting you go. You gave him a small kiss on the forehead and carded through his snow-like hair, getting right up off his lap and going in the same direction as that groupie.

Your Christian Dior heels tapped on the hardwood floors of the yacht, taking you down one of the hallways that seemed to go on for forever. Coincidentally, this was also the same hallway that led to your spare room; the one you used whenever you were mad at Satoru for whatever reason and felt like sleeping in another bed. You made sure to step as quietly as possible so as to not alert the girl of your presence; however, she made hers known by the sound of her shrill laughter coming from the bathroom.

"The boy is mine... I can't wait to try him," she sang, clearly oblivious of the fear and rage coursing through your body. Was she seriously singing that fucking song right now, acting as if Satoru wasn't in a committed relationship?? Oh, she needed to be reminded of her place.

Like a soundless sabertooth, you stalked up to the door and opened it, acting as though you were merely freshening up in the bathroom. You took your lip gloss out of the bag that your boyfriend bought you on one of your many outings, swiping it over your lips.

"Oh, you're Satoru's girlfriend, right?" the chick asked once she recognized you. She pointed an acrylic at you, drawing your attention. "Hey, don't ignore me! It's not like you're anything special anyway."

"What do you mean?" you asked, deciding to provoke the beast yourself.

"Satoru swipes through relationships like it's nobody's business!"

"Groupies don't count as relationships."

"Just you wait. He's gonna abandon you for someone way hotter and way less annoying than you. I mean, I don't even know what the fuck he sees in you!" she exclaimed. "You're a 3 at best."

The chick continued to ramble on and on about how Satoru could do way better than you, and it was high time that she shut the fuck up already.

You grabbed the martini glass she was holding, wrenching it easily out of her hands, and you broke it on the marble countertop. You then took the sharp, pointy end and drew a deep, jagged cut on her neck with it, the tendons practically ripping in half with the intensity of your cut. She grabbed her neck and put two hands over the gash, gasping and breathing for air, only to have her hands cut by the glass. You stabbed her over and over again, screaming at her to "SHUT UP!" and "DIE ALREADY!!" You pushed her onto the ground and mounted her hips, driving the broken glass further in until her head disconnected from her body.

By the time you were finished with her dead body, she was practically unrecognizable. One of her eyes was open (the other was stabbed out), her head was severed, and the tendons in her neck were exposed. You didn't mean to get so carried away, but you let it happen anyway.

With a swipe to the eyebrow, you let out a "whew," only to realize that you had this huge mess to clean up. It's not every day that you manage to sever a head, after all.

"Nothing a little bleach can't deal with."

You took out the trusty bottle of bleach that you hid underneath the counter (in case of emergencies) and started unscrewing the cap. Just as you did that, though, you heard Satoru's whiny voice from behind the door calling out for you. "(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Normally, you would've entertained him, but right now you were standing over a dead body, your party dress covered in blood with a bottle of bleach in one of your hands and a broken glass in the other. If he were to see you right now, everything you've worked for would've been for nothing. All those dead bodies thrown into dumpsters, all those weapons that you kept hidden--it would've amounted to absolutely nothing! Your perfect life with your perfect boyfriend and your perfect friends would all go to shit, all because you couldn't control yourself around a fucking groupie with too many bad dyejobs for her own good.

"(Y/N), I'm coming in!" he said once more. He managed to yank the door open with his bare hands, and he couldn't have prepared himself for the sight in front of him.

There you were, his pretty little princess, standing over the dead body of one of his partygoers. His six eyes took in everything almost immediately: he noted the bottle of bleach, the sheer amount of blood that was on you, and just how mangled that corpse was. You looked down at the floor and you shut your eyes as tight as you possibly could, desperately hoping that it wasn't him, that it wasn't your amazing boyfriend who did nothing wrong.

"I-I'm sorry, I made a mess," you mumbled, tears flowing down your face and mixing with the metallic blood. He stayed longer than you thought was necessary, and you just braced for the inevitable look of disgust followed by the demand that you leave.

His footsteps echoed on the marble flooring and he crouched down to your level, taking his glasses off and looking at you.

"Just- I'll just get out of your hair after I clean this up-"

"Don't bother, princess. I'll just have one of my maids clean it up. A spoiled little thing like you shouldn't have to inhale all the bleach smell," he said with a chuckle. "My princess shouldn't even have to lift a finger in the first place."

You stopped looking at the floor, your head craning up slowly and looking at your boyfriend out of sheer confusion. "I don't- I don't understand..."

"What's not to understand?" he asked with a cocked head. "My girl's not gonna hold a single mop, not while she's with me."

"But... I just killed someone... aren't you afraid of me? Aren't you disgusted?"

He shrugged, his blue eyes remaining on you. "You think I'm gonna break up with you over some meaningless groupie? Don't be ridiculous, sweet cheeks. Now, if you'd somehow managed to kill someone like Shoko or Suguru, then I'd have a problem, although I am quite impressed that you managed to cut her head off with a martini glass... C'mon, let's get you out of these clothes and into something nicer. We can't have my guests wondering why my date's all red and sticky, hmmm?"

You said nothing, instead following his lead as he snuck you into another room. He slipped your ruined party dress off, then he turned on the faucet and grabbed a hand towel, washing off all the blood that was on your face and your body.

"I still just can't believe that you'd accept this. Aren't you scared of me?" You asked once more, finally speaking up as he washed the blood off your soft skin.

"Hell nah, baby. You forget you're dating the strongest guy in all the land," he said with a sly wink. "Plus, I think it's cute; you're all protective over me. Who would've known that you had bark and bite?"

"You're such a freak, Satoru," you said with comically narrowed eyes. "I bet you find that shit hot, you narcissist."

Satoru merely laughed and shook his head. "You know me too well."

*:..｡o○ 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙉𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙞 ∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐒

╰┈➤ If there was one thing you hated more than anything, it was the widely accepted fact that having a work wife was considered the norm, especially in an office where people spent a good 9 hours a day typing away at their computers and drinking for another extra hour afterwards. Kento Nanami was the exception to the latter, though. You knew you were a lucky girl when your sweet, sweet boyfriend Kento told you on the third date that he was a homebody, and how he'd much rather just lie in bed with his lover than go out for drinks.

"I'm not really the extroverted type, if I'm being honest," the deliciously handsome blonde man said after taking a sip of his wine. "I'd much rather spend the night watching a movie or making dinner for my loved ones. I'm actually quite the cook, if you'd be interested in trying out some of my dishes. I don't even know why I decided to try out dating in the first place; it actually makes me quite nervous."

"I would love to try some of those meals out, but I think that we should try out some of your recipes later. It sounds like a fun date idea regardless! Maybe you could even teach me how to make those amazing meals? Perhaps the ones that you hold close to your heart? And, honestly, I'm not the going out type either. It took me so much to hype myself up for this date, but I'm glad I'm on it."

Kento smiled when you found the idea rather fun. He knew you'd be a great match for him, especially since he loved to make others smile by filling up their bellies with his own creations (double entendre?)

"But you? Nervous? Seriously? You've been nothing but kind to me, suave even. You're punctual, and you held the chair out for me to sit in. You're just my kinda guy, Kento. Those other tinder matches ain't got nothing on you."

He blushed at the usage of his first name, but he couldn't say he didn't like it. A naïveté towards norms, he presumed, but a naïveté he could appreciate.

Yeah, he knew you were a keeper.

You also quickly learned early on just how tight-knitted his schedule was, but what he lacked in time spent with you he made up for with romance and courting. He'd frequently send you flowers to your workplace and to your home; he took you to the finest restaurants and even the opera; and he made sure to text you regularly. The seven months you'd spent with him were some of the best of your life, and you prayed to god that you wouldn't fuck it up in any way. You were both dating for marriage, and he couldn't have found a better future wife.

Well, that's what he thought, at least. He didn't exactly know about your jealous tendencies, the tendencies that made you buy so many cleaning supplies and bottles of bleach, you started to receive discounts for the shit. The local utility store employees even thought you were a maid, given by the amount of disposable gloves that you went through.

"I should hire you as a maid someday, when I can actually pay for one at least," said the cashier of the home improvement store that you frequented (if you couldn't tell, he was low-key making a pass at you).

"A maid? I'm not-" you quickly stopped when you realized that this would give you a possible coverup and alibi if you needed one.

"I'm confused... aren't you a cleaning lady?" He asked once more.

"Oh, yeah! I totally just forgot all about my job!" You exclaimed, passing it off with a laugh and a smile. "I'm sorry, but I'm not taking any more clients. I'll let you know when I am, though," you followed up with a wink.

Oh, how suave you were. You'd always been an expert at lying, and now was no different. In fact, with the amount of bodies you'd racked up, one could say you were the best liar in all of Japan.

And no, not in terms of sexual partners; you were a killer. A killer by textbook definitions, at least.

It's not like you wanted to kill all these girls! It's just that, with the amount of people that so obviously flocked to your boyfriend of seven months, you'd have to make sure that he wasn't getting any ideas.

It started out with the local call-girl that hollered at him when the two of you were walking home from a date. "Hey, suga! You ever thought about spending time with all this?" She hollered from the other side of the road. Nanami kept his cool and ignored her, passing her off as no more than a streetwalker trying to scam him for all his worth.

You made sure she was forgotten about, though; her body was found cut into pieces a few nights later by the garbage people.

Next came that stupidly innocent bakery worker (get the ref?). "Come again soon!" She called out to Kento after he bought a few pastries for the two of you. You came back a few nights later, and you wiped that innocent look off her face and replaced it with a wide cut on either sides of her mouth, along with a giant slash along her torso.

Soon it was girl #3, then #4, #5, and #6. By the time you hit your first anniversary, it was up to 11 people in total. You knew that your man was a desired man, but god, could people really not keep their hands and words to themselves?

#12 seemed to cause quite the nuisance for you, though. It just so happened that Kento had a "work-wife," or at least according to Miss Work-Wife herself when you met her at an office holiday party. After spending so much time together, your sweet Kento brought you to the party, intending to show you off to all of his jealous colleagues who couldn't keep a partner, even if they tried. He intended to have you on his arm, a subtle act of pride and showing off. He always kept to himself, so why not spice things up a little bit? It was his time to be selfish.

He seemed to have two women on his arm, though: you and the stupid work-wife who just couldn't stop butting into every single situation.

"Oh, so you're Kenny's girl? I didn't know that he liked the girly type; I always thought he'd be into the straight-laced, conservative type. But to each their own, I guess!" she remarked.

Oh how much you hated backhanded compliments. Could people really not understand just how bad they were at covering that shit up? She might as well have called you a brainless bimbo who wore heels that were too high to save her own life. As if she wasn't wearing a face full of fucking makeup, you thought to yourself. Glowy foundation is still foundation, regardless of how "low coverage" it was. And those clumpy ass eyelashes--why the fuck would your man associate with such lowly looking wenches? If he were to talk to women, the least he could do was talk to the nice looking ones. At least then you'd have something cute to carve into.

You'd made a vow to stop killing every woman you see, it wasn't fair to kill all of Kento's friends! He hadn't even given you a reason to doubt him. He was still the same suave gentleman from the very first date. It wasn't like those Reddit AITA posts where the men gradually started putting in less and less effort. If you were a sane person, that would be your train of thought.

But you're not sane--whoever said you were? You're crazy, and that's just a part of you. At least Ken had a loving girlfriend to come home to at the end of the night, even if you needed antipsychotics.

So, when you invited the chick over for drinks one late night, you made sure to do it with a certain plan in mind.

You were going to stab that stupid smile off her face, then dump her somewhere inconspicuous.

┆ . It was laughably easy for you to kill her. You swapped out the white carpet in your apartment for a black one that absorbed all the colors that flew into it, and brought out the spare furniture that you'd been meaning to get rid of a while ago. You even covered the walls with spare wall art that was also gonna go into the trash.

"It's so lovely of you to have me over for drinks, (Y/N)! I knew that from the moment I met you, the two of us were going to be friends," she said, stupidly oblivious to what was about to happen to her.

"Oh, well, I try to be as active in Kento's life as possible, and that includes making friends with his friends as well," you said smoothly, lying through your teeth. She wasn't his friend; he didn't even have her number saved. You grabbed a martini glass from your mini-bar and poured her a dirty martini, making extra sure that the poison didn't look too out of place. You even added pineapple juice to hide the slightly white film in the liquid, mixing it up with your drink mixer. "Y'know, I have a thing for mixology. Care to try one of my new concoctions?" You asked, handing her the glass.

"Would I?" she asked excitedly, taking the glass from you. She took a sip and let out an "ahh," looking satisfied with the drink.

"You like it?"

"Oh, you bet I do. I've always had a thing for pineapple juice."

About 10 minutes in, and she only barely started showing signs of fatigue, much to your fucking dismay. Whoever said that this poison was a fast acting agent must've gotten it on Canal St. "Gosh, I'm a little tired. Do you mind if I lie down?" she asked, already lying down on the couch.

"By all means, go ahead," you smiled, though deep down you wanted to peel her grimy face off your pillows with a potato peeler.

She yawned, stretching her hands above her head, only to have them fall back down on her torso and go to her heart. "My c-chest hurts a little," she laughed. "I've always had a problem with... heartburn. It's a genetic thing."

You took a sip of your own martini, already sick and tired of playing the long game. "It's not heartburn you stupid bitch; I poisoned your fucking drink." The obvious change of voice caught her heavily off guard, and she looked at you with bewilderment. "God, I am so sick and tired of hearing you yap, yap and yap about my boyfriend. Don't you know that one day, we're gonna get married? We don't need suck-ups like you to soak up all the attention."

"Wha- what do you mean?" she slurred, freaking out as she felt her chest tightening. "You put poison in my drink?! Are you... crazy?!"

"I am; I even take meds for it," you said nonchalantly, splashing around the martini in your cup. "Here, try some of mine, see if you like it better," you said cruelly, splashing the alcohol in her face and making her eyes burn. "You really should be wary of the people whose homes you walk into; you never know what exactly to expect with strangers. Especially if you're trying to steal their boyfriends."

"I-I'm not trying to-"

"Girl, please, I've poisoned you, I think it's time we cut the bullshit and the niceties, yeah? I've never been one to be nice anyway, at least not behind closed doors." You got up off the chair, walking to the nearby dresser and pulling out a knife. "When I first saw you, I knew I'd have to kill you eventually. Kento's a nice guy, and he shouldn't have whores like you around him. You're all just a bunch of fucking flies, do y'know that?" You asked, wiping the blade of your knife with a cloth. She could no longer speak, her face turning purple as she fumbled off the couch, crawling towards the door. "Don't even bother with that," you sneered, kicking her down and away from the door. She meekly crawled away, only to have her hair pulled back forcefully by you.

"Have you ever had someone try to steal your boyfriend before? Lemme tell you: it's not a fun feeling. The idea that people would be so dumb as to lay their paws on what's yours... I know my Kento's a dreamboat, but there are other eligible bachelors to choose from in this city. Unluckily for you, you picked the wrong one, because that boy is mine."

You grabbed her and hauled her over to where you had a tarp laid out in the kitchen, and you brought the knife to her neck. "Take a long, last look at this filet mignon, because it's what's gonna be the last thing you fucking see." You then cut it across her throat, hard enough to almost rip her head off of her spine. "Maybe in your next life, you won't be such a whore."

She fumbled about, her hands going to her neck, only for you to grab the knife and stab her brain, effectively killing her. "Poison was taking too long, anyway," you muttered.

The murder was quite clean and it went pretty smoothly, although you'd wished it was the poison instead.

"I'll make sure to give it a one star," you muttered, holding the poison.

You stood up, reaching out for a nearby smock to wipe your hands clean of the blood. You thought you were in the clear, your twelfth kill under your leather belt, only for a voice behind you to disturb the serenity: "love? Are you home? I wanted to surprise you-"

You stopped in your tracks, frozen like a deer in headlights. It didn't take a genius, much less his girlfriend of over a year to realize who it was behind you.

Were you really that idiotic? Did you forget to lock the door?

You looked in the reflection of the kitchen window, seeing Kento's puzzled expression on his face. He was even holding pink roses in one of his arms and had chocolates in the other.

"Ken... I didn't mean for you to- you shouldn't have to see this mess-"

You stopped for a second, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. You turned around, nothing but fear written on your typically calm and gorgeous features. "I didn't mean for you to see me like this," you said, your voice cracking slightly.

"I could guess that," he remarked, his voice as soft as ever. He knew that you were quite fragile in this moment, so he was careful to walk closer to you and wrap his strong arms around your frame once he got to his destination.

You stood there in silence, not knowing what to do or say when he hugged you. Wasn't he... afraid? Wasn't he disgusted by you having killed one of his coworkers?

"I meant to surprise you tonight with dinner. I brought you some takeaway from your favorite place, and I even bought you roses."

You looked down at the bouquet of pink roses that were freshly picked and bought from the local florist. Some of the blood on your hands dripped onto a petal, staining it a hauntingly beautiful color, somehow making this whole situation more romantic.

You'd only ever hurt people, so why was this situation so comforting?

"Thank you, Kento... I appreciate it," you muttered, still reeling from the realization that Kento glossed over the fact that you were the person responsible for all those murders in the newspapers. You wondered if he knew that all this time, his wonderful, graceful girlfriend was the one killing and maiming random girls. He took you to the sink and washed all the blood off your hands with some bleach, then scrubbed the bleach clean with a lavender-scented hand soap.

"Careful now, we wouldn't wanna stain your dress, would we? Not when you're already date night ready," he remarked, his deep voice a soothing balm to your ears.

You simply nodded, going along with whatever he said. After washing them off clean, he wrapped up the tarp and made extra sure not to spill any of the bodily fluids anywhere, putting it in a spare closet nearby. You stood there, watching as your boyfriend cleaned up your crime scene in your apartment. You watched his features, and you couldn't tell if he was upset or not.

He guided you back to the dining table where the bag of food was. He set out plates and cutlery for the two of you, not letting you lift a single finger. Once the two of you sat down, he started eating in silence when he saw you looking at him.

"(Y/N), don't let it go cold. Eat up," he instructed softly.

You obliged, picking up your fork and eating the red meat hesitantly. Red meat, how poetic.

"Kento," you started, putting your fork down and looking up at the blonde man. "We're gonna have to talk about it eventually."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. Just... not over red meat, okay?"

You simply nodded, going back to your food. You ate more comfortably, the knowledge that you no longer had the secret hidden making you rest easier now. Perhaps he did know already, and he just didn't wanna make you any more worried than you already were by bringing it up. Perhaps he was put off by it, but he was willing to gloss over it and act like it didn't matter. Whatever the reason might've been, you could rest easy knowing that your boyfriend wasn't going anywhere.

"Work was quite eventful today. They handed out promotions, and I was one of the lucky few who got one." He looked up at you after swallowing his food, carefully watching your expression and making sure you were alright.

"That's great news, Kento, I'm happy for you." He smiled softly at your acquiescence, happy to finally change the topic.

Blood always seemed to scared him.

I hope this was good enough... 👅

© ʙʀᴜɴᴇᴛᴛᴇ-ʙɪᴛᴄʜ77 on tumblr - get your own shit bitches | ca. 6/10/2024

[elsecrytt]

Kinktober Day 5

Prostate Massage | Blindfold | Cages

Pairing: Satoru Gojo X Reader

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, yandere/controlling behavior, drugging, captivity, panic attack

He’s missing again.

This is more surprising than one might think – Gojo, for all his whimsical tendencies, doesn’t typically slack on exorcizing curses.

It’s why they think he’s just going off the grid for a bit to take care of some other business – goodness knows he drags in enough sorcerer children to the school.

But it’s been a while, and no one’s heard from him.

If he had meant to defect, he would surely have done it when Suguru Geto was still alive. So this must be another fit of arrogance, running off and doing whatever he pleased. It was annoying, but who could stop him? He was, after all, the strongest sorcerer in the world.

Certainly, no one was expecting to find Satoru Gojo in a cage inside your basement.

You’re not a sorcerer, after all. No one Satoru knew or had ever known would even know your name, much less where you live and that Satoru was with you.

You don’t even bother visiting him for the first few days. There’d be no point. He’d try to convince you this was a bad idea (it probably was) and to let him go (you absolutely could not, not under any circumstances). He probably wouldn’t lie – you never thought him to be the type, even if his life were truly on the line – but nothing he said would be of any use to you.

He’d already said enough when under the influence of those helpful substances you slipped him. You’d gone through a few before you found one that made him pliable enough to repeat the words you needed.

A binding vow. One that would keep him here, and keep him tame, for as long as you wanted.

Oh, you’re sure he was terribly confused for those first few days. Wondering what kind of curse or curse technique had him trapped in there. Poor baby was probably bored to death, too, if anything you knew about him was correct.

But it would take a while to get to him, to get him to the place he needed to be. And you had all the time you needed.

After all, good things come to those who wait.

You open the door, a thrill in your heart at the thought of just how excited Satoru Gojo is going to be to see you.

The worst part is, you’re right.

Satoru’s been stuck in here for three days now. He is, frankly, bored. Worse than bored. He’s sort of going insane.

It’s not like he needs to use the restroom, or even eat. Sorcerers – anyone who could use reverse curse technique, really – had ways to suspend bodily functions and stuff like that, for use on long missions, in extreme environments, or domains with weird effects.

So, no. He’s not hungry, or thirsty, he doesn’t need to use the restroom. That’ll catch up with him eventually, of course, but it’s not a problem right now.

The problem right now is that someone was powerful enough to trap him in here, had some weird power that stopped him from escaping, but they just. Left him.

All. Alone. In the dark. Even with the six eyes, it was dark in here. He can tell where the door is, but the light level is far beneath what a normal human could see. There’s almost no sound. No cursed energy at all. Nothing interesting in the room to stare at, nothing moving.

It was a weird, surreal sort of experience, for about ten minutes. Hard to tell even how much time was passing. Just the sound of his breath and the thoughts knocking around in his head. He didn’t get time like this often, didn’t just sit down and think. It cleared his head in a strange way – no more migraines, no more constant analyses from his six eyes, no more reverse curse technique constantly healing his brain.

Like taking off a weight he hadn’t noticed was there to begin with. He felt lighter, so many physical demands suddenly lifted from his body. A breath of fresh air.

Fresh air got old pretty fast, when most of his thoughts kept coalescing on Why can’t I use my curse technique and What the hell is going on? At first, there was even fear, too – he wasn’t totally crazy – but after that?

This is just boring. He’s never been so bored in his entire life. His brain feels like it’s rattling in his skull, waiting to drop out the next time he tilts his head. Satoru is about ready to start banging it against the bars just to have something to listen to.

So when you open the door, light suddenly flooding in from a crack (it’s bright enough to make him wince, with his eyes), Satoru Gojo is entirely focused on you, in an instant. Taking in every single detail about your body, your voice, your cursed energy and cadence.

It’s amazing, how much you can learn when you pay attention.

He learns that you’re not a sorcerer. That he’s not kept here by any curse technique or tool – rather, it’s by a binding vow. One that only you can release. You’d drugged him through his infinity using a knockout gas and gotten his half-conscious self to repeat specific words to make the vow.

He learns you think you’re doing this to help him, save him.

“I just don’t think you’re that strong. I mean, it was easy enough for me to get you like this, right? And I’m not a sorcerer at all.”

His eyes are fixed on you like shattered sapphires. You’re insane – you must be – but it isn’t every day some insane person manages to get one over on him.

Maybe the reason you were able to get this far with him was because you were so crazy.

“For your whole life, you’ve had to be strong.” Your eyes soften; he can discern your features on a microscopic level, the tiny flecks of warmth and concern, “But you aren’t. And you don’t have to try anymore. I’ll protect you.”

Something weird twists in his guts.

There’s lots of kinds of crazy in Jujutsu sorcerer. He’s no stranger to it. But this kind of crazy? He’s never seen it before.

Love is the most twisted curse of them all.

And that is what you tell him, that you love him. You continue by telling him all sorts of funny things – that you’re taking care of him now, getting him back on track, this is for his own good, yada yada.

It’s definitely crazy person speak, but it’s new and refreshing that it’s directed towards him. And maybe because it’s so novel and fun, he goes ahead and sits back and enjoys it.

Like, he tries to tell you he’s important. People to protect, students to teach, all that stuff. You just dismiss him, tell him he’s weak, tell him he doesn’t know what’s best for him. He wasn’t meant for sorcery – his life will be better, now.

(Somewhere in the back of his head, he realizes with a belated horror, that this is what he sounds like to other people.)

 It’s funny, though, it is. He laughs at you (you smile, though, because you’re delusional like that, even if you can tell he’s mocking you), at the thought that he could be meant for anything but sorcery.

And hey, it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be. Anywhere he can be. He’ll give it a try.

Although it’s not so much a try as endure the very carefully calculated daily plans you lay out for him. You’ve got a lot of free time – probably some work-from-home position – and a lot of money, too.

(Great taste in body wash also. Amber and honeysuckle or something. He’ll have to remember it when he gets out of here.)

The room he’s in is special in that it’s painted a gentle off-white color, and sparsely decorated. His little cage is large enough to fit him just sitting down, tall as he is, and it’s large enough for a cot in the corner. It’s kind of cozy, he’ll admit, in a camping kind of way.

When you send him to bed – yes, like an actual child – he finds out the cot is a lot softer than he’d expected, some kind of memory foam he’s never tried. The sheets are extra cooling, the pillow feels like a dream, the room is pitch black and chilly. It only takes him a few minutes of moody contemplation to start drifting off after he lays down.

Sleep training, you’d called it. Satoru’s pretty sure he’d be offended if he actually knew what it was.

“You have your healing powers, sure,” (when he’d interrupted you to tell you it was reverse curse technique you’d paused and waited out his explanation like a champ), “But there’s no substitute for a good eight hours of sleep, Satoru.”

Your voice is stern and laden with something he can’t quite get, but it doesn’t matter anyways. He’ll be out soon.

It’s interesting, lying down inside the cage. This room is so small. It’s all fitted just for him, perfectly sized to leave neither empty space nor squeeze him too tight. His world is reduced to this cage and the things you choose to put in it.

He’s quick to complain about the boredom, but you don’t mind his whining. You actually hook up several game consoles to a small TV set carefully placed at head height for him, sitting up, with controllers you hand him through the bars.

“I’ll have to limit your screen time – it’s not good for your eyes. It’s probably even worse for the six eyes. So I’ve got a collection of books here, and an e-reader, so you can get anything you want. Oh! I’ve also brought some puzzles.”

Yaaawwwn. You don’t even flinch at his exaggerated expression of boredom, promising instead to find more complex puzzles online to entertain him. Rubik’s cubes, jigsaws – these things bored him. He put everything together right away.

You find a puzzle made in braille, one that has to be put together by touch. Brain teasers that required out-of-the-box thinking… you’d even brought him a jigsaw puzzle with a mixed up image printed on it, one that couldn’t be put together by the visuals at all. He had to hand it to you, that was neat.

There’s almost an amusement in watching how diligent you are about finding things to entertain him with. The video games, the books, the puzzles, some TV, too. He’s half worried that you stole his collection of movies, but it turns out you just have some streaming services. It’s fun enough to kill time. Human Earthworm 4 really was garbage.

You laugh when he tells you so. Your defense of the dumb movie is that it was half-parody (you are correct), and he tells you with a sniff that you have no taste, and you laugh, and his stomach feels funny.

Clearly the isolation is getting to him, if you feel like decent company.

He takes meals with you, too, and you’re particular about them. No more mochi for breakfast and dinner, no more coffee at all actually – “It’ll interfere with your rest,” – instead, you make him eat ‘real food’.

Complete, home-cooked, admittedly delicious meals. They’re all way more palatable than most things he eats, all foods he likes, he ends up liking… at first he didn’t want to try, but you’d dangled so many sweet looking deserts over his head – specially made mochi, fresh souffles and macarons, carefully crafted crystal candies.

Ugh, you know way too much about him. And you look so pleased with yourself, too. He wonders if you make them yourself – so he asks, and watches your face blush lightly, watches you smile, eyes softening as you look at him in that way he doesn’t get.

Isolation. It’s getting to him. Definitely.

“And of course, I’ll be here to allow you socialization time. We could play games together, or if you want, we could read the same books? Or just talk, if you like. I’m not letting you out, but I’d be happy to hear about your life from before, your likes and dislikes. You can make requests, too!”

Normally he’d be all like “No way, creepy kidnapper,” seriously. But to be honest, he’s kind of looking forward to a chance to pick your brain.

You seem all too happy to oblige. Delighted that he’s taking an interest in you, which is kinda cute and pathetic, since it’s totally not what’s happening. He just wants to know how the hell you got to be so fucking weird.

“I think love makes us all a little crazy, don’t you? As for why I love you, Satoru… well. I couldn’t pick only one reason. Suffice to say, I’m really happy to be talking to you now. It probably sounds weird to you, but being around you just these past few days has been awesome for me. Being around you just brings me so much joy. I want to make it good for you, too!”

Yeah, to be honest, it’s really weird how accommodating you are. You let him out for bathroom breaks at regular intervals – he’s still not sure why you put him in the cage at all –

“Oh, the cage? That’s for your benefit, not mine. Obviously this room is locked. But I think you… it’s difficult to explain. But your awareness of the space around you is warped somehow. I constantly see you nap in awkward places, sit or lean in positions that would stress your body out, zone out from your surroundings. I think it’s important to reset your senses.”

It’s creepy at this point. Or it would be, if it hadn’t blown wayyy past that part.

He likes that you don’t press him much. You just confess your love and go on about your day. No expectations, no freak outs. You’re crazy but you’re obviously not so crazy you think he loves you back. You just think you’re trying to do the right thing by him, which is like, really sweet, in a super weird and demented way.

Satoru had already decided that he doesn’t want to go after you once he gets out of here. You’re not malevolent, even if some distant part of his mind knows that people are dying while he’s chilling out in here.

No, you’re just lonely, and you’ve somehow attached yourself to him with this completely delusional idea that you understand him on a deeper level, and you wanted to protect him. Wasn’t that sweet? The cutest thing?

He can’t really bring himself to be mad at you. Not when you’re probably the only person on earth who’s ever thought this about him, who tried to do something about it. And it’s a damn good try, he’ll give you that.

The cage really isn’t that small. It’s comfortable in here, actually, it’s nice. It’s simple and easy in a way that would be boring if you didn’t give him company, entertainment, meals. The bed is so easy to fall asleep in, he has more energy waking up, he’s happier,

He gets where you’re coming from. You’re still totally insane, of course, but he sees the idea behind it. It’s not the space that he’s in. It’s what’s happening in that space.

It’s his time. And you seem to have so many ways to occupy it.

He starts thinking about you more and more. It gets weirder. He runs into you fresh out of the shower, no clothes on, watches the blush on your face and feels himself –

No. No, no no. It’s not a big deal. It’s whatever. He knew you were crushing on him. You’d made absolutely no secret of your feelings, and he knows the attraction is there, he can tell.

So maybe he sneaks in a hand job or two during these lonely nights. Purely for fun. It’s your fault for not stimulating him enough!

Are you watching on camera? That’s what all the stalkers do. You’re totally a stalker, you know way too much about him. You have all his skincare, shampoo, and conditioner in the bathroom.

You’re totally watching him. He licks his lips while he jerks himself. If he listens hard enough he can hear your breath in the other room.

(Turns out you’re all the way down the hall, but he’s got the six eyes, not the six ears.)

He could put on a show for you, even. His dick gets harder at the thought. He wonders if you’ve thought about this. If you watch him in the cage touching himself. If you want to be in here with him. In the room, or in the cage.

Would you want to touch? The thought absolutely tickles him, has him twitching in his hands, licking his lips. Would you want him so badly? You’re so dedicated, so diligent about his welfare. He could just imagine your pretty lips opening right up, how hot and wet your mouth would be, how those eyes of yours would look at him, always so full of care and affection.

Your hair looks soft, silky even – what would it feel like in his hands? Are you so crazy for him you’d let him fuck your face, or would you guide him through it, like you guide him through everything?

A pulse, another pulse, throbbing in his fist. Your hands would be smaller, softer. What would they feel like on his bare skin? He’s gotten more skin-to-skin contact these paste few weeks than the past ten years. What would you feel like on him? How would you touch him, where?

How would you look at him? He thinks of your face – of your eyes when you smile at him – he feels a squeeze –

When he cums, he does it with an exaggerated moan, head tilted back, lips wide and open. Spurting all over his hand as he makes a little blissful sigh.

He looks up, where he imagines a camera might be, eyes half-lidded. Smirk fighting to tear his lips as he closes them around his fingers, licking them clean.

Maybe you weren’t watching, but that doesn’t stop him. Not from giving you looks the next day.

There’s something in his chest. Wobbling around. Something knocked loose. He finds himself waiting for you to visit, impatient between meals. Demanding. You give, and give of course, but you never give any indication that you’ve seen what he did.

Actually… that was probably his way out.

He tries to proposition you, of course. Lays it on thick. But you hesitate to accept. You blush, and he thinks cute, he thinks he’s got you, but you act like you’re too good for him or something, like you’re not sure if you really want to be with him.

Like you’re too good to be seduced by him? When you fucking kidnapped him in the first place? You don’t want to come in here in the cage you put him in?

It makes him acidic. The rattling in his chest feels like the rattling in his head, only, his tolerance has gotten so much lower.

It’s not long before he snaps at you.

“What?” He says cruelly, words escaping him without his will, “You didn’t think I liked you or anything, did you?”

There’s something mean in his voice, something awful that curdles in his chest. He brandishes it like a sword. Swinging at you, carving sorrow over your features.

“You fucking kidnapped me.” The words come as a surprise even to him, but it was true, wasn’t it? “I’m not here willingly. You’re keeping me here against me will, you’re not helping me. Did you think I’d forget?”

(He can’t even convince himself of that lie. He knows he’d forgotten.)

You look at him, something strange in your eye.

“…If you want to leave, then leave.” You say, and he feels it, like the click of a lock, the crunch of a shackle. How the Binding Vow unwinds in an instant. “I’m not going to drag you back. It’s pointless to keep you here if you hate it so much.”

He tells himself he darted straight out. He didn’t hesitate for a single moment.

But he can’t tell himself that he didn’t look back. That would be too blatant a lie.

He tries not to think about the look on your face, empty and indifferent. He tries not to think about how it felt like a knife to his chest.

And just like that, he’s back. And –

“Gojo? About time you showed up. There’s several special grades waiting for you to exorcise. Where the hell were you? Okkotsu has barely been able to help out your other students.”

His students. His precious students, the ones who needed him, the ones he was preparing to take over the Jujutsu world –

God, the world is so big, isn’t it? It feels so vast and massive now, like he’s suddenly stepped into the shadow of a terrible monolith, blocking out the sun. It doesn’t feel like the first daylight he’s seen in weeks. This light is blinding, like a shadow convalesced.

“Gojo, do you hear me? I’m sending Ichiji over with the car.”

And there’s a sinking feeling in his chest, dragging him down in a way he normally doesn’t feel. This isn’t something that bothers him. For the life of him, he can’t figure out why.

He likes fighting. He likes sorcery, and he’s good at it. Exorcizing curses, beating curse-users to shit. It’s fun. He’s so strong that it’s not a risk anymore, just something to do with his overpowered abilities, and that’s cool. He’s not afraid, not in any universe.

So why does the voice asking him when he’s going to go kill these curses fill him with a sudden, inexplicable nausea?

Why does the thought of having to do this again, all over again, always on repeat, have the pit of his stomach burning? Like there’s a pressure on his shoulders that he knows he can’t relieve.

Satoru knows he has to do this. He’s the only one who can. Other sorcerers are weak – many of them would die. For some of these special grades, it’s him or nothing, with the lives of regular civilians on the line.

Each thought sends his stomach churning. He has to. He has to. He has to do it he has to go he has to he can’t avoid it. Today and tomorrow and the next day, too, over and over and over again.

The sky – it’s so big. So massively big, so wide and yawning, he feels like he’s falling into it. His head is pounding, information flooding back through his senses. One special grade, two, three or four – he has to teleport to them, exorcise them. He has to teach his students. He has to report to the elders. He has to – he has to – there’s so much, so much to do –

The six eyes are screaming at him, the sky is screaming, light burning into his retinas it’s too bright. Too fucking bright out here.

His legs carry him to a nearby wall. He’s leaning against it, now, breaths coming heavy and labored.

And then, it comes. He’d only been half expecting it – part of him still probably thought he was invincible, untouchable.

And he’s right. Nothing is touching him. It just feels like his skin is crawling for no reason. Pins and needles, electric adrenaline racing through every last nerve fiber in his body.

He’s simultaneously too strong and feverishly weak, collapsing against the wall. Gravity feels like it’s pulling harder, off balance, only it shouldn’t be. He should be fine, he should be able to move his limbs however he wants, they shouldn’t feel gangly and overresponsive and desperately twitchy.

His heart shouldn’t be trying to beat itself out of his chest. His lungs shouldn’t feel like they’re on fire. He shouldn’t have alarm bells going off his head, his limbs burning hot with too much energy and not enough.

Between ragged breaths he catches a faint, familiar scent, warm like sunlight –

“Satoru?”

It’s – it’s – it’s you, you’re back, and something awful in his chest jumps with irrational delight, a weight shifting on his shoulders, almost lifted. He tries to control his racing pulse, stammer through your name –

A mind, indifferent gaze meets his eyes. It freezes him in place. All his anxiety swinging on a precipice.

“Is something wrong?” A voice that betrays no emotion, no affection, no hidden longing. No I missed you, or I’m happy to see you, or I hope you weren’t lonely while I was gone.

He’s going insane, he must be going insane, but with all the adrenaline shooting through him, limbs trembling, he’s barely able to keep himself upright against the wall.

“Don’t – don’t you – ” Insane, insane, he knows he’s delirious while he’s saying this, why is he saying it, but his body is acting on his behalf, mind paralyzed with fright, “Don’t you want me?”

How could he sound so – needy? So forlorn? You’d fucking kidnapped him, he should be afraid, he should be angry, if anything.

(Maybe that was his fault from the beginning. He’d never really been quick to anger. Never been one to fear others, either. Deep down, the only thing that had ever hurt him was being left behind.)

Even the six eyes cannot discern your tone, “I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me. I tried to make things work with you. You didn’t want it.”

He didn’t, of course he didn’t, you were keeping him fucking captive. He knows this, the information is there in his mind, but his body won’t stop shaking. The sky is too big, the street is too broad, too many bodies, too much cursed energy, every object in every direction overwhelming his senses.

It feels like a migraine. It feels like his legs are about to give out under him, no solid earth to be found. Too big it’s too big he wants to go –

“Unless… you want to come back?”

Satoru knows he doesn’t. He knows the answer is no. He knows that you fucked him up, that this is a consequence of your captivity directly, that he should be able to overcome this if he just bears with it –

I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me. I tried.

“Please,” His voice says without his permission, “I want…” To go home. Take me back. Don’t leave me.

Relief floods the entirety of his quaking form as soon as you smile.

“Of course, Satoru,” Your eyes soften, and against all rationality, he feels like he’s made the right choice, “Take my hand. Let’s go home.”

He’s messed up, this is messed up. He’s better than this! He isn’t stupid, he knows what you’re doing! He has the six eyes, for fuck’s sake, he’s the strongest sorcerer in the world!

You’re not strong, Satoru. You only think you are, and I understand why. The whole world has been telling you this forever. But you aren’t, and that’s okay. I’ll protect you.

He doesn’t have to be the strongest sorcerer. Not if he doesn’t want to. He can go back where it’s dark and comfortable and warm, and he can be Satoru Gojo, your cherished pet.

He looks at you, six eyes blinding him, headache burning though his skull. He thinks of how close and soft and safe that place was. How you stayed with him for hours and hours on end. He never had to be alone.

Nothing has ever felt as right as your hand clasped with his own.

[zeyris-daydreams]

Nocturne to The Consecrated - 15.6k longfic

Yandere!reader x (whatever this is)!Sunday

This idea was piling in my mind for weeks now, but it is finally done. Reader displays some concerning tendencies, all the while we get to watch. I’m not sure what to label Sunday in this, yandere is too harsh but he’s NOT normal. That aside, special thanks to Adam, my musically talented friend, who lent me his expertise for orchestral accuracy in this.

Warnings; stalking, manipulation, sort of abuse of power if you squint.

[ao3] [music used for this fic]

“He was never supposed to know you existed. You kept your distance, content with watching from the edges, learning his movements, his habits—his power. But Sunday has always understood the weight of unseen things. And when he calls you forward, it is not with accusation, nor with anger. It is with amusement. With interest. Because the moment you stepped into his world, you were already playing by his rules.”

The paper was a white, dove colour, shade of the freshest feathers plucked, long before they had a chance to stain with the unruly ground - stark contrast to the blood red seal at the front of the envelope, throwing off the harmony of the already too thick sheet.

It weighed heavy in your sweaty palm, breathing shortened as you stared at the object, pondering the reality of the situation - or lack thereof. The envelope bore a shade similar to the halovian’s feathers, and as himself, the stamp was perfectly pressed. Not a spillage of wax outside of the shape it held, formed into the innermost layers of a tree. A symbol you’ve grown used to seeing already, and you could imagine his gloved hands pressing the form into the wax.

Sitting on top of the beige sofa in the comfort of your own apartment didn’t fix the restless feeling of unease in your gut. Lack of emotional control in your own safespace, lack of control over the situation - things unfamiliar. You didn’t want to know them.

The wax felt smooth beneath your fingertips when you grabbed it instinctually, like all the other times when you've taken the courtesy of receiving the mail from the Oak Family in the comfort of your office.

Your fingers lingered on the envelope for a moment too long, as though the act of unraveling it would change something irreparably.

Index finger easily pried the edge of the wax up, before you remembered to keep it intact. It is a symbol of the Oak Family, and a symbol of a perfect person. Then again why would something like this matter to a deadman? It was nothing but bad news to be addressed by him directly, feeling akin to a freshly penned death sentence.

Your position and expertise was nothing but a candle’s flick to a sun’s roar, guaranteeing you no recognition in this field. To be sent paperology so personally was below your tasks.

You could gently peel it off to hold onto it like with everything related, but perfection didn’t matter in this situation. This time, this single time, you ripped it off in haste. If— If there would be another chance like this, you’d preserve the wax. To ruin such a shapely sigil would be unsightly, you knew he’d most certainly dislike it.

A strange bile rose in your throat when the paper protested, holding onto its shape despite your harsh tug on the front, and the edge of the envelope tore in the sudden action. It didn’t matter.

Your heart felt like a rock upon water, its beat sending a steady rhythm down your fingertips.

The envelope gave you one last mocking frown before it was unveiled, and the pristine white sheet was taken out from the inside. Empty and purposeless exterior fell to the ground as you held the beating heart of the problem, fingers digging into it like into your last meal, and you pulled the organ apart, exposing its secrets to all eyes that may be watching—

All colour and blood drained from your face. Your fingers shaking against the thing that felt all too thick and all too glassy, like blood ready to spill from your fingers. With a flutter of paper the temperature dropped, the chill settling on your skin as though the air had anticipated with you. Eyes drifted down towards where the signature would be laid, at the end of the correspondence. So down it was almost passable, and despite the dimmed light in your apartment, you saw it well.

“Sunday, the head of the Oak Family”

The ink felt bold, as if it had been pressed with force into the writing - precision remained, as many of the items he wrote before. It bled into the thick sheet, still in your retina despite your frantic glance around the space of your dull living room.

As fast as that happened, your eyes shot back to the culprit, and you scanned it. Once - skimming, the letters blurring as if they smudged under the weight of your gaze.

Second - drawing out the key words, ones which escaped your grasp, like a mouse from the claws of a cat.

Only the third time did the message register, painting in your mind as you analysed each stroke, lips moving along to each syllable.

”—Esteemed member of the Nightingale Family. It is my utmost pleasure to invite you to a private soirée following the Assembly of the families this Friday,“

The dryness in your mouth only intensified. It was Wednesday.

”where the evening shall continue with further contemplations in a more intimate setting. Please arrive promptly at the close of the performance, for the evening promises to unfold in unexpected ways.”

The penmanship was what you knew already, having collected countless letters and signatures with the same strokes before. The same quill, the same ink. The same hand.

As a member of the Nightingale Family you were more than aware of the tradition; each year Family representatives gathered around a table to discuss the future of the land of festivities together - more to uphold an idea than to have any political discourse.

That, and apparent parties they partook in for the duration of the day.

”Should you accept, you may find the atmosphere illuminating and serene—

Though I suspect it will be, for you, anything but.”

Your gaze felt pinned to the sheet. That is all it said, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that the wording left much to be considered.

Hand tightened against the paper and the fabric bent like a neck to jaws, the thick saliva in your mouth finally swallowed.

—

The residence was quiet, spare for the echo of footsteps you took. Hum of conversation and murmurs of others long died - never to be witnessed by your ears. Maybe you had come too late - an idea proven by the eerily empty room you stood in.

Perhaps they have slipped unnoticed, long gone to leave you to your reckoning - and perhaps if you knew it was the plan, you too would’ve slipped into the shadows as always.

Now though, you were alone, with light above too bright for the liking of your eyes.

The realisation weighed like a boulder, each breath becoming heavier as you looked around. The walls were washed over with a dull shade of blue, akin to a vast ocean in which you could easily get lost in, where all land was too far to be seen.

As though the room wished to retain nothing but stretching emptiness - your body felt lightweight.

You had come, expecting the soirée, the event—you had come wishing to slip unnoticed at a time opportune. But now the space seems cavernous, the shadows stretching long, looming above your frame. Mocking, laughing at the predicament.

The butler that had taken your coat has long vanished, and yet the feeling of eyes on you was unmistakable.

A sharp note cut through the quiet.

Your body turned rigid. Another note joined it, narrow, and they danced in your ear in a tango from the very far left, tempting you to join their flow. Their threads pulled your limbs out of the space, forward and down the corridor.

You knew the tune immediately, and just as instantaneously you wish you didn’t. You have heard the piece before - when he played the piano like this during the private event, then again you couldn’t be sure if that was more than once; being too preoccupied with the pianist each and every time.

Sunday was at the piano when you had found him, seated with utmost perfect posture, his back to you. Skillfully his hands glided across the keys akin to a painter mastering their craft. The melody building and twisting, every note deliberate. The way he played it - precise, restrained, as though there was something beneath the rhythm being held back. It gripped you in an unmistakable way.

He spared you not a glance. He didn’t acknowledge you. For a moment, you’d be hopeful enough to believe he hasn’t taken notice of you at all.

The sound arches as you observe him, rolling down a steady slope-

But then, as the melody faded into silence before the next part of the composition you’ve already grown to anticipate, the fugue, he glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes of gold met yours.

”Ah,” he mused, as though he only realised your presence. “You’ve arrived.”

Nothing in the halovian’s tone sounded unusual, nothing to suggest he had been expecting you, here, alone. Yet the faintest rise of the edges of his lips - a knowing smile.

For a moment you opened your trembling lips, trying to apologise for intruding, but your throat felt tight. It was of no significance to Sunday, as he turned back to the piano. His gloved hands returned their dance upon the keys. The silence between notes stretched out however, purposeful and nearly deliberate.

”Do you recognise it?” He asked suddenly, voice so soft it blended with the sharp tune of the music, smudging with each passing second.

Your chest tightened, throat burning. Of course you recognised it, how could you not? The obvious answer doesn’t find the escape through your teeth, clenched together.

And so you said nothing, and he too didn’t press. The melody shifted, the last keys being played, and the tune grew softer, before a sense of almost pleasant silence followed. As though the aroma of the tune remained in the air, lingering thickly like smoke.

Not for long.

As if nothing happened, he raised to his full height, facing you as he smoothed down the sleeves of his suit. Perfect. Preened.

”I’m sorry for the absence of company,” his voice cut the momentary reprieve, words so casual they felt nearly calculated. Restrained, and deliberate, a perfect chord resolving a dissonant phrase. “But I thought it might be better this way. Simpler.”

Simpler. The word twisted in your mind, an apple rotting as soon as it began its descent from grace. It felt sour on your tongue.

You wanted to leave, now. The urge clawed at you, sharp and insistent, a cat scratching at the window to take run. Something in the way he watched you, though, his head tilted slightly. Sunday waited for something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a reaction possibly.

”You’re quiet,” his tone was conversational, light. Sunday stepped closer, and it took every single fiber of your will to keep yourself grounded, not retreat. “But then, you always were.”

The calm in which he said it, the purposeful use of ‘always’. A fact, not a guess, something he knew as well as the fact that the sky is blue. And that the candles are meant to burn.

Before you processed his words and had a chance to decide on a reaction, he tilted his head slightly, arm gesturing towards the hall beyond.

“Come,” he says. “I’d like to show you something.”

The words carried a tune of softness, but they weren’t a request.

You hesitated, but something in his posture and unblinking, unrelenting gaze forced you to move. The weight of his tone made it impossible to refuse.

Sunday waited just enough for you to take a step, and he then turned, beginning the walk. Each move was precise, soft yet measured - certain against the floor. Despite the tightness of your mind and your flesh, you followed him.

You tried to focus on the sound of your own footsteps to drown out the sense of anxiety that muffled your rational sense, the floor feeling as though it dipped beneath your shoes. Like sand, wanting to swallow you whole.

The walls, despite the lights, felt long, decorated with your moving shadow, one that laughed cruelly at the predicament of the ‘real’ you. The silence stretched similarly to each darkened spot on the walls, mocking, staring over you.

When he finally stopped, you nearly stumbled, heart racing when you realised that you’ve reached a room. For a change, you didn’t recognise it, an unknown pathway of the forest you always bravely threaded. The doors were closed, surface carved with an intricate design you again didn’t find familiar - regardless of the dim light.

A sense of sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach, threatening to burn through the layers of the already sensitive flesh.

Sunday turned to you, his face unrecognisable. For a moment the halovian merely watched, gaze steady as it was when he played Bach’s melody, and you felt its weight sit heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down like a sinner’s record.

”Go ahead,” his voice was smooth, hand gently pulling on the handle to reveal the interior to you.

”After you.”

—

The light shone from above you in a distinct halo, and you looked towards your ticket once more. The edge dipped in gold, reflecting the beam from the chandelier in an almost blinding manner. Yet your walk persisted, following the usher into an entrance tucked away from the common guests.

Upright posts traced the way forward, the most elaborate pathway towards the grand doors at the end. The surroundings around the venue felt spacious, creamy white walls and intricate decor of the walls, the pillars which supported a far too high of a ceiling. Crown mouldings above were nothing but detailed, white and free and pure and untouched.

As you walked you wondered what sort of person could reach and clean it from possible cobwebs. Fingers absentmindedly moved over the repertoire of the concert, the surface glassy and smooth against your skin. A measure to ground yourself, a futile one. You chose to focus on the feeling of your formal wear against your body, and the discomfort of your shoes against the heels of your feet.

The usher led you towards a gradually darkening hallway, where you and the grand doors could bid each other another greeting and farewell. With a smile akin to paint on porcelain, the usher opened the doors, letting you walk through, as the manners demanded.

The grand concert hall beyond was one you’ve witnessed already, the main stage in front of you, the seats empty still. As a person of precision, you were always present before most other guests; a privilege you weren’t truly aware of.

Behind you the usher waited for you to take in the scenery, automatic, still as a robot. Your eyes lingered at the seats before the stage, the balconies in front of you. As of now, your perspective was laid from the spot behind the stage, elevated.

An important point indeed.

The chandelier was elaborate, shards and crystals hanging from it, the water hardened upon branches of a tree from the frost - hanging and anticipating warmth of spring. A cruel irony when the tree looked best in the cold. The light from it was sharp, separating in thousands stars and halos in your vision - starbursts and rays of shine.

Your thoughts drifted to the balconies, eyes following sluggishly. The hall was well lit for now, illuminating each empty seat, highlighting absence of presence. Unknowingly the corners of your mouth moved up, in a smirk you had a hard time keeping down. Soon enough everything would be filled with life, but for now it was yours to enjoy.

The orchestra situated in front of the stage was an intriguing concept. Not one for you, no. While the stalls in front of the musicians provided an auditory experience out of this world, it wasn’t that aspect that drew you to observe. From your perspective it was no effort to lay your eyes upon the guests who chose seats with such little proximity.

From that point the melody surely seemed multifaceted, filled with layers that threatened to spill from the nearly full cup, overflowing to the edges - held only by its surface tension. The listener must have been able to feel the steady drumming of the liquid underneath their fingertips. Each blow of flute - painfully separate from the essence of the violin. All notes and tunes flowing in a river to fill the senses, yet not mixing, like oil to water.

To witness it must’ve been extraordinary. The melody diverging into few, solely due to how easy each sound could be separated from the rest had they paid attention. Not that you’d know - price wasn’t an issue. Had you deemed fit, you would’ve graced the stalls - which were closest to the stage on the ground level - with your presence.

The guests at the front must’ve thought themselves to be connoisseurs, wishing for an up-close view, as though it made a difference due to the balanced acoustics and the view of the performance.

But you weren’t one to enjoy cacophonous melodies.

The true performance wasn’t in the eye of the guest; not in the eye of the conductor, and definitely not in the wooden or metal hearts of instruments. The true performance was the event, the observation of all that unravels - and in that light, you were the spectator.

The usher took a step to lead you to your seat - once you were done admiring the view of the unmoving hall, that is. You were led towards the designated choir spot - empty during this performance, and the other person left.

Formal dress felt comfortable once you wore it often, and you found yourself feeling as easy as in any pair of clothes, spare for the bite of your shoes. The coat on your arm was slowly put onto the arm rest of the seat, before you walked forward to the barrier-like structure between the seats and the stage.

It bore ornamental mouldings at the top, extending forward to you, and you could rest your elbows on it. Leaning against it you took in an inhale.

You opened the plan of the orchestra in your hand, pretending to yourself, and anyone that can be watching, that you paid any mind to the compositions listed.

“Beethoven” You mouthed.

Beethoven - Egmont Overture, then Symphony no. 7,3rd movement.

Bach - Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Beethoven, Symphony no.3, 2nd movement.

The repertoire at the back went over the musicians at play today, but any technicalities caused you to shut the paper soon after. It was of no significance, in the end, the music was not what you judged.

Someone could call it recklessness or inelegance, but you weren’t one to dwell. The performance tonight was a special show indeed - an appearance of a prominent figure; a man who was to take the leadership over the Oak Family. That itself gave you more power, it was after all an exclusive performance which only family members could join. And - as many as there were - not all afforded the ticket. A delight for not many eyes was what you were in for, disregarding the parts of this that went unspoken.

You thought yourself to be above such political matters, and so you had no care in that aspect; then again you were always like this.

The emptiness of the hall was enjoyed by you for about half an hour, where you gazed and thought absentmindedly, before it began to steadily fill. With the grace and normalcy of a cat you moved back from the barrier, sitting in your designated place.

The guests arrived from entrances slowly, filling in the balconies and the boxes along. Perhaps you were lucky enough to visit this unusual hall, none wished to share your space.

For a moment you considered whether this was due to you, or due to the spot. Not that you’d ever complain of solitude. It was enough to see with your very sharp eyes how people gathered in pairs and groups, little doves and robins flocking together to pick at the seeds dispersed. Only prey stuck together. The three-course meal of this orchestra seemed to have been tailored to you.

Your stomach fluttered at the thought.

—

The people all took their places in an orderly manner, like ants to honey - all drew in by the sweet promise of melodies and sounds cleansing their mortal mind. Seats near you remained nearly empty due to their unconventional placement, much to your pleasure. With your legs crossed subtly, you watched the musicians tune their instruments. And the audience fell into one, long quiet note of nothing - respectful to the craft.

Your face slowly moved once the whispers began; far away; but you saw it. People in balconies leaned towards each other to speak quietly, their tone a hushed sound, like dust in the otherwise clean air. It was evident their thoughts were ignited by a spark, and soon enough the person came into view.

It was time for the conductor to enter - and he did, with grace unseen by the mortal squarol previously, from the far entrance, walking towards the stage.

All the whispers stopped, hung in the air like a promise.

As he stepped his figure grew clearer, and given your unique position in the seats behind the stage, you saw the man from that much more unique standing. Dark suit tailored by the night, elongated at the back - plain and simple, yet elegant all the same.

A halovian - you realised.

The apparent new heir to the Oak Family. Your fingers laid upon your knees so you could lean in to focus better, and you looked with bated breath.

He walked onto the stage with no slip up, measured and precise. Once atop, he turned his back to you, and acknowledged the audience. Sunday - that was his name, that was what you remember from all the gossip you have overheard. In arrogance you ignored the thought which appeared in your mind; no, you were not aloof, nor were you dismissive. Why should you care who pulls the strings this time?

However, the impact was undeniable. You were in this hall many times, and not once has this man played. In fact, you never heard of his protege before. Your eyes followed each move with judgement, and found not a thread to latch onto, rather, you were left with an impression.

An impression of skill, as Sunday graced the audience as though he did it thousand times over before, the anxiety of performance not read from his body either. And as the halovian turned back to the musicians before him, his face remained equally as neutral as his body language.

Your upper tooth caught against the dry skin of your bottom lip, a strange cotton filled your mind. The concertmaster readied her bow, straightening instantaneously, as though she hadn't sat properly previously.

The chandelier above the stage illuminated his halo, which reflected in rays and beams that made your eyes squint, an ache to the very back of your skull. It was a cruel mockery of fate, the astigmatism you were bestowed got in the way of truly analysing this new figure.

From what you saw, his silver hair gave a sheen of iridescence as the light fell upon it, draped over his shoulders. Despite the odd sensitivity to light separating from all that emitted it, your vision was as sharp as always.

Beneath the glow of his halo you saw a pair of golden eyes - as you assumed. The sharp features of his face like paint upon canvas, crafted and catered to by someone already mastered. You saw it all despite the proximity, the stage was quite the distance in front after all, and nothing around seemed to matter, spare for the main course. As everything around grew dark, the focus was on the musicians.

In spite of that, only the man seemed to have been graced; seemingly bestowed upon heavens with sunlight breaking through the clouds of the weather, highlighted as starkly as snow during summer. (Snowflakes could not dream of reflecting this sort of shine)

A strange feeling in your throat rose, and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, unlike all times otherwise.

An angel. He must have been an angel. His gaze swept over the orchestra - subtly and unhurriedly, with certainty which seemed preordained. You felt ringing in your ears, and he raised his baton, the musicians nearly under a spell. With no further dragging or prolonging, sharp noise of strings cut through the air, building slightly to cascade in a slope. A bold and decided melody, it was much more than just that.

A statement of bravery, a statement of honour. Your tongue moved against your lip. Sound bold and foreboding and-

The musicians pulled and moved their hearts of instrument, but all you focused on was the movement. He welcomed other sections to join in the dance, a heavy feeling in your lungs. This was no mere performance of skill.

Involuntarily you leaned forward, hands at the barrier separating you from the space in front. For the first time in months your brain stopped sending signals, and you looked to the conductor empty minded.

It felt akin to a hypnosis, you stared thoughtlessly as the tunes changed. Each time his demeanour fit the melody - but it was pushed to the back of your mind. You were no longer trying to gauge reactions of the crowd, no - your eyes were glued with amber to his grace. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to break through it, the soft flutter of feathers in your skull pushing against the boundaries of mortality.

—

The music carved a space in your chest. When he moved, the orchestra moved, and so did the air, and so did your mind. And he conducted the performance with something- something else.

The baton altered the law of reality itself, and with the last note’s death came the end. And before he even had a chance to turn around properly you rose from your seat, hands joining together for a moment temporary. You inhaled deeply. This you have never done - you have never graced people with your approval. You stood for none and clapped for none.

Yet your heart decided for you, movement so quick you couldn’t register your logical will behind it. The sound of your clapping gave way for others joining in, the sound filling the hall shortly after.

Sunday bowed to none. And he didn’t bow now either, turning away from where your gaze could see him. He surveyed the room not with air of appreciation, and as the applause echoed into its death, his gaze swept over the audience.

Not with politeness, but quiet authority— as though the evening had never been about music at all.

The guests took their time to come down from the grandiose, and he watched like a hawk as they slowly left, trailing through the exit in monotony.

You couldn’t budge. Your feet were planted, and it took minutes for the room to empty once more. Sunday finally turned his gaze to the puppets he guided, and gave them but a nod of approval. But then he looked up, eyes meeting yours for only a second.

Throat tightened on an instinct, and before anything else he averted his gaze—you were another soul in a crowded cemetery, abandoned by your saviour.

It was time to go, but your feet moved on their own only when the musicians were left behind by Sunday. He headed for the exit, and you headed for your own, grabbing your coat and walking back in haste. With your chest burning, you stepped fast, nearly stumbling over your feet before you forced yourself into grace. Through the dimly lit corridor, up to the doors which you swung open hurriedly.

Most parts of this hall had their own entrances, and you walked fast, to catch even a glimpse of him in the entrance hall where all the exits connected-

Sunday was at an advantage, as he could swiftly make his way out through the grander entryway; you felt blessed to even witness him truly leaving the building, moments after your entry.

Your feet carried you to the centre of the entrance hall, and you stared at the doors for moments, long after he had left.

A sweet aftertaste lingered in your mouth, and you licked your teeth.

—

It was innocent - initially. You had to see him once more.

The first purposeful encounter wasn’t hard to navigate, and to satiate your curiosity, you decided to grace the event with your presence. A week and a half since his debut and final performance in one, came his ascension.

And he looked brilliant as he did all these days ago, white suit, perfectly ironed. His wings were preened as always, nearly translucent at their ends; only this time his halo didn’t reflect the light right at your eyes, allowing you that much more comfort.

Your side leaned against the pillar, the shadow of it like a comforting blanket for a person with fever. The side of your head pressed into the carved stone soon after, and you averted your gaze from Sunday.

It wasn’t worth mentioning what kinds of people gathered here, family representatives and the executives, and then the other four heads of each organisation - showy and loud about their presence, begging for a gaze as divine as sweet.

Not you, no. Refined as you were, you knew what to do despite your elevated rank. Amongst your kind - the aristocrats - you were still quite low, a piece of wood right near the ground, hardly necessary for the ladder to function. You knew that, and in spite of it, you were still important enough to enter seamlessly.

There had been no issue with signing onto the guest list.

The room was dimly lit despite how spacious it was, quite intimate for family’s standard; with tens of guests, yes, yet still smaller than life itself. That was proven by the scarce decor of the tables, only drinks served - when speech was delivered, no one was to consume food.

It wasn’t the food you craved, nor the appraisal that the other representatives seemed to strive for - you knew they didn’t care about the speech. They didn’t care about Sunday and his rank, merely what he had to offer.

They were here to show everyone that they were here, to make a statement with their insignificant presence, demanding approval. Not you.

You were here with purpose, and you’d fulfill it. You weren’t like them; you weren’t here for favour from singing Sunday praises, and you weren’t there to scrutinise the new family head. Different — that’s what you were, and you weren’t here as a Nightingale Family member. You were here as you.

Your brow rose, and you straightened upon hearing the chatter come to and end - and then a soft clink. Decisive voice cut through the air, in a mere clearing of his throat.

It was time. Your head whipped sideways as you leaned aside from behind the shadowed pillar, watching Sunday at the very end of the room. That marked the first time you heard him speak, for a smaller audience at that, but you were here.

“On behalf of the Oak Family, I’d like to extend my gratitude to those who took time out of their day to come. Alas, on my own behalf as well.”

He held a glass in his hand idly, somewhat elevated before the guests. You watched carefully, unnoticed and concealed, subtle like needle amongst hay.

Like a cat flattening into the ground when it was observing a bird.

”It is a rare privilege to stand in front of you today—not simply as an individual, but as a representative of what we all wish to achieve. Today we not only celebrate an appointment, but a shared vision and a shared wish; one that binds us, not separates us.”

Sunday spoke boldly, against all you expected. From the distance you could take in vague hints of his demeanour. Your eyes narrowed softly.

In his gold irises there was calculation, and in his words - a sense of certainty. He had no need for reading off anything, as a person of his stature should. You turned to face the pillar, fingers on the cold stone as you ran your finger down the engravings on it.

You remained concealed, despite the tilt of your head allowing for vision of the saint to shine through. “It is not our personal ambitions which allow us to weave law into reality — but a sense of duty we share. As we stand here, let us remember it is our collective will to push the boundaries of the possibilities we have today.”

The guests paid much attention, and you tried to as well. It was hard to focus on the taste, and you drank the honey of his voice like a deserted hermit, left with no water to the point of their lips resembling dehydrated land. The sweetness stung your sore and dry throat, but you couldn’t stop.

There was no focus on admiring the taste. Trying to decipher what sort of flowers went into the golden dew you were drinking wasn’t an option anymore.

His tone was fluid, and you swallowed dryly.

“Our ultimate goal is to benefit Penacony, and we are not competitors in improving our ways; rather, we are collaborators.“ Sunday glanced over the guests, scattering an air of appreciation for their presence, the pollen of flowers to rest upon their eyes.

In your mind you felt there must’ve been more to his words. There always was, and the orchestra hadn't been only about showing people his conducting talent.

It were the people that he conducted, and the orchestra was only the symbol of it—something clear as day when you considered his stance when addressing others.

Once the guests were paid attention to as such, the halovian continued, his tone gaining an air of boldness, confidence. Firm and unwavering as stone. Cold stone. Your fingers touched the pillar with an unseen curiosity.

“It is not enough to respond to the changing world; we must seize it and adapt our ways, improve in ways we want the future generations to do. We must set an example not only in the public eye, but in places where no eyes lay.

Penacony is a planet of potential—boundless and ripe, full of opportunity not only for us, but for our people. It is up to us to direct that potential, mold it, guide it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the pressure in his words evident. Sunday wasn’t trying to appease the elders' ways, despite what all the other heads did. He took the route of openness, stunning them with light and only then—allowing them vision.

“And so, as I step into this role, I make this promise to all of you; I will do what is necessary. I will push the limits of what we thought was possible, we will no longer simply adapt to change—we will become it.”

A strong middle of the speech, as strong as it was in the orchestra. And then the aftertaste; lingering and sweet whisper of what would come undoubtedly. Like in his performance.

“I will not ask for approval based on words, what I offer is action. And with action, I’ll reap results. To those who stand beside me, I offer support, and I’m grateful to know the weight of choice is understood. To those who oppose—I offer nothing but silence-“

You involuntarily gripped at the stone tighter.

”-for in silence, we will do what others cannot.”

—

The public meetings left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, akin to drinking tea after consuming a cake most layered and sweet. Such tea was reality that you had to be struck with when the sweetness of the event eventually washed away like foam upon sea.

It was nearly voracious and gluttonous, a stomach which didn’t know how to seek satisfaction with a balanced diet; disregarding the idea of a fulfilling, voluminous light meal, for the idea of something small and dense, over and over.

Your gaze was trained on the papers in your hand, the desk beyond them so dull and lacking that it didn’t catch your interest. Your eyes moved upon the words with little interest — it was a proposal for a financial strategy for the upcoming year, one you had to analyse and sign to confirm that you realised your responsibilities.

Like all areas of your work, the technicalities didn’t matter, as longest as the job got done. A weary sigh, and then the papers dropped onto the wood in front of you. Your elbow rested upon it, and you instinctively flipped to the last sheet, signing it without realising you held the pen all this time.

The secretary in front of you tensed. A frail and new thing really - her hands balled at her lap, her breathing coming to a stop. Unimpressively you watched her mouth open.

In that moment you wondered what it may be that she wanted to say—maybe question you, or correct you. Leaning back against the seat you released the paperwork, and waved her off; her nervous departure taking even less than reading the writing itself.

Many people hoped for this work to be a gate for them, a stepping stone to an oh so grandiose and dream-like future they assumed they’d get access to. It was proven by the way they decorated their work areas and offices, you’ve seen it countless times really. Pictures of their family and loved ones, small memorial trinkets of their goals and interests. Some even kept plants, or testaments of their hobbies; like paintings or figures.

With a sharp gaze you looked at the walls of your office. Plain, with the decor scarce spare for what you arrived to all those years ago—a still-life painting and a vase which was empty for a long, long time.

Some people got too invested in their work, while some took it for granted; you were neither. A boat never ending too far on the deep end, yet never as much as scraping the oceans floor. All reports were on time—never early, and never late.

Conversations and useless chatter reduced to minimum, spare for whatever could bring gain.

Some people worked too hard, while some worked too little. Former—welcomed promotions, more money, more power, which inescapably tied to more responsibility, less time. And the latter ended up on the grey end, replaced by better; fired.

You would say you value your free time; you would even say your schedule was already too tight as it was. Colleague invitations all declined, small talk cut with a dismissive scoff.

With your head held high you never engaged in office politics, never asked questions. Your colleagues talk about career trajectories, while you’re wondering when the work hours are over.

—

Sunday was an important figure now, more so than he was before.

He was so utterly unlike you, in that aspect. The man seemed to have been ambitious, something you’d never imagine in your own life. Stuck in monotony, content in uncontentment; having enough to live, but not to dream. In a sense it was intriguing, a person living so.. distinctly.

Sunday must have had it all. The recognition fell upon him shortly after he was officially recognised as the new head of the Oak Family, and it didn’t take a genius to guess other parts at play.

An underwater current, unseen to the naked eye, until it pulls you in, and you’re drowning — you had to stay away, never allow yourself to linger too close for fear of being tugged into its rhythm.

You never danced to someone else’s tune, and you never sang to the directions of others.

And so—to keep your distance, you joined a conference where he would be the speaker. Counterproductive, in a sense, but your actions didn’t need to be logical for others. The ascension event has left you hungry for more of his articulate wisdom—

Because you didn’t want to truly stay away. Not in any way that mattered - it wasn’t usual for something to properly catch your eye, catch your heart. Admiration—a word you’d use to describe this occurrence.

You admired Sunday, and that’s about it.

And admiration truly could carry people places they’d never think to visit; that’s how you found yourself seated in the last row of the otherwise empty hall. It felt clinical and grey, large windows on one side of the room, draped over by zebra blinds, cream coloured and clean.

The windows gave way to a majestic view of Penacony from great height, but you didn’t find it in yourself to look through this time—waiting in your seat like lamb for slaughter.

As before you were early, rationalising it by the need to observe rather than be watched. Yet the seat was quite far from the spot where the speakers would converse, an unpleasant taste left in your throat at the idea of not seeing the events unfold properly.

You leaned back in the chair, and half-mindedly thought to grab your coat and just sit elsewhere—but whoever watched over you, be it Xipe or otherwise, had different plans. Before you made your move a group of people entered the hall, marking the end of your silent campaign.

So much talk—you shouldn’t be annoyed, the conference hasn’t even started yet. Yet the lack of appropriate behaviour boiled you over, and as more guests arrived in their restless and bored chatter, you inhaled and exhaled shakily.

Then, you checked your wrist watch, and looked ahead. People sat in front of you, next to you. Never behind you—something to actually be grateful for.

Ten minutes.

And then it was five minutes, which dragged over like hours. You bounced your knee, hands pressed together on your lap as a deep sense of unease filled you. As people took up their seats, you hardly felt like watching them this time.

It was different from the previous admiration.

—

You wouldn't say you were infatuated or enamored with the idea of Sunday at all; he hardly lingered in your mind. Then again that was the best subject for observation, and as such he would remain one. Something to treat as a sweet treat, or as a dessert.

Perhaps it was a good way to get out of the house more often. You never got along with people, and so it was easier to stay home with your own thoughts, rather than be exposed to the mediocrity of others. Given that attitude, you usually spent time by yourself.

Occasionally though you were in a people watching mood; not just any sort of window-gazing or park-sitting watching. Sometimes you picked places where humans gathered to dine and discuss, to wine and speak.

It wasn't that you needed their secrets in particular, or that you needed their sense of familiarity from some form of loneliness—rather it was a background noise you seemed to want.

Sometimes you'd try to filter the noise and information with your mind, cutting through the nice and useless threads to gather an image of something. Usually you weren't trying to spy.

You weren't spying now either, you were merely observing. Sunday was a few tables away after all, sat straight, with no sweet drink in sight as all the times before.

It was an accident that you found yourself here—well, one that became intentional with each visit. Wind told you once that a particular person enjoyed such a setting on very specific days, and you merely wanted to check it out yourself. That was how it began.

Soon after you found yourself arriving at the cafe multiple times a week, slowly trying to gauge out a routine tied to this place. The day was long, and so was the week.

It was mere curiosity that led you to sit in the cafe for hours at a time to try and see which moments were the graced ones—as it was only fascination that caused you to memorise the schedule.

You had a habit of chewing your food slowly and steadily, instead of consuming it all before you accurately enjoyed the taste. Watching from a controlled distance was a sign of a connoisseur.

The cafe was muted in colour, beige and darkened, giving off a feeling of an autumn evening rich with burned shades of yellow—spare for how washed out they were.

The halovian was at the table in the corner, and so were you, just the opposite side. His discussion was most fruitful indeed, and instead of focusing on the tablet in front of you, you were listening.

Sunday seemed to have been engaging in a light yet meaningful conversation, which carefully threaded between personal and professional. The noise around them and you made it harder to catch all detail—so your mind wandered.

From what you gathered, the person was someone close, whom Sunday must've known. Not by work, despite the distance that was between them, as the tone was far too light hearted. Each time Sunday frequented the cafe, it would be easier to spot the same habits of his.

Such as the way he hardly gestured during a conversation, spare for when you assumed he was making a point. Frequently he would place his hands upon his vest to straighten it out, if it ever dared to crinkle from his movement.

Even in such a comfortable setting he tried to carry himself with grace, just like at the events. And just like at the orchestra, he was eloquent in movement. His hands never made any sudden gestures, and he would ensure his vision remained trained on the guest he was speaking with.

Slight changes were present, you noted, finally lowering your gaze to the tablet. You grabbed the pen nearby to write down more.

Sometimes, Sunday would change the ordeal of his actions depending on who he spoke to. Once he came here with a family member of his—the famed singer Robin. You only knew more of her after extensive research which followed that encounter, and it led to more conclusions.

Sunday seemed more carefree around such a trusted person. He even allowed himself to lean an elbow on the table, his expression ever so pleasant then. Unlike what it was now, neutral and to the point. A mixture of his professionalism and an inherent familiarity he couldn't reject nor deny.

Not often would his posture become harsher—strictly detached and shielded, yet offensive nonetheless. It all laid in the anger of his gold eyes sometimes, covered over by a soft neutrality to mask his stance. Maybe Sunday remained detached, keeping his cards to his chest, but you could see it on his face.

You bit your lip in deep thought once your eyes moved up. The Head of the Oak Family seemed to have been holding onto something at this very moment. Perhaps it was his sense of conduct.

Remembering these few differences of his demeanor, you leaned down to put the straw of your drink between your lips. You wondered how he'd act around you. Would he disregard you? Would he treat you with disgust?

How does a rabbit behave around a fox? Would a dove fly away if a cat sat close?

The black haired male in front of Sunday nodded to him, and the cacophonous conductor only looked to the side, meeting the gaze of someone near his table. It was averted shortly after.

You wondered for a moment, with a sense of unease; if he sees them, does he also notice you?

—

Formally, the Oak family was a collaborator, not an enemy or opposition. Then again formal agreements hardly translate into words or actions, and it was no surprise that the name of competition lingered within the work area like cheap perfume, gone when waved away, short-lasting.

It was unlike the true aroma of your coffee, not enjoyed in silence, but in the noise. As soon as you grabbed a sugar packet you turned away from the machine, only to watch that one inconvenient pest trail behind you.

Superficial as all—a person kept around only for appearances. The girl cleared her throat as she walked with you.

”…and still they haven’t. What should I do?

Her voice was like a sound coming from an untuned accordion, and you gripped at the paper cup. You spared her a glance only. Nothing was as annoying as interrupted willful solitude.

“I don’t know”

The reply caused her to frown, and she immediately reacted at the dismissal. “What do you mean? Here I am asking you for advice, and—“

”Well, this is your problem.” You retorted.

Frankly, you didn’t care whether she had her reports on time or not. You only gave enough to hold onto her in case of emergencies—a nameless girl you simply felt bad for.

”But I need this report—“ She spoke, catching up to your step, and you weren’t willing to slow down your walk to the elevator in the building. You clicked the number of your floor without looking at her. “If i don’t get it, the presentation won’t get done in time.”

The anger simmered in your chest, but your face remained as neutral as before, and the metal doors of the elevator slid open. “Why won’t you tell him to wrap it up then?”

She skittishly followed you in, eyes closed as her long eyelashes rested upon her cheeks. “How do I make it not sound rude?”

When she didn't notice your eyeroll, you glued your gaze to the closing doors of the elevator. “You're asking the wrong person.”

“But I really need it-”

“Tell the higher ups.”

“I'll really get in trouble, I really need that report to- to calculate the possible profit from collaborating with Oak Family on a project and-”

She wasn't aware what sparked your interest, but you immediately turned your face towards her. She swallowed under the scrutinising gaze, but her reaction was misplaced.

“Send me the items of interest. I'll do it.”

—

The next time you saw him at an event, you secured the spot with your unique predisposition. Maybe this work of yours was useful sometimes, as it was with financial access to exquisite things. Museums and galleries, orchestras, operas. You wanted it all.

Reactions of people to artistry were interesting to put it simply, how their eyes would squint or narrow—and their brows would furrow, knitted together in a concentration similar to a prophet upon receiving a revelation.

Some people would have a different reaction, with eyes widened and brows raised—shock and surprise, akin to witnessing an apocalypse, hearing an angel blow the final trumpet, closing the gates for forgiveness.

You were never the subject who experienced it, spare for understanding the reactions of others, a second hand emotion you were privy to.

And while elaborate paintings or sculptures hardly moved your long rotten heart, there was something that had your blood flowing anew, breathing life into you like a musician into their trumpet. It made you come alive—no longer a piece of metal, but a thing to be heard. An utter vibranto.

Despite the setting of a museum, you weren't here for whatever new items of culture it could offer you. You were here due to the event which would follow its opening, an invitation to all the folk of Penacony.

You ensured your placement at the back of the hall despite the early arrival, the guests and alike all gathering at the front. They wished to hear Sunday's opening speech, to see him. And oh, did he have a way with words.

It was for Penacony's grand history, a museum to gather the evidence of Families hard work and ambition. A monument of sorts, to celebrate how far everyone has come.

But that was only a side reason, something you convinced yourself of to feel better. You weren't here for it, no—you were here for Sunday.

He was speaking as always, a long talk to appease the masses with his wisdom and eloquence. A charming ritual in which all the eyes were magically drawn to him, hanging on each word he spoke. The details of his face evaded you from the distance, and for a moment your fingers shook in your pocket. You wanted to be closer. You were here only for him after all.

The history of Penacony was something you had no care for.

Would he see you from the first row?

—

All you had to do was to ask, and it was a given. Securing an important position at your work wasn't because of ambition, but because of your will to own.

It was hard to remain in such a placement without being promoted, or without drawing much attention to yourself that is; and while the job helped with achieving your goals, it wasn't ideal.

If you could have the same pay for less labour, you'd gladly take any offer; but good things don't just occur like natural phenomena, just as miracles don't shine down on sinners.

Another weekly meeting, another scheduled misery. Your arms were neatly placed upon the long table in the room, and you ignored the coworkers which sat around as. With a gaze most bored you stared at your folder, not meeting the gaze of the executive who was explaining the agenda; there was no need to. You never asked questions, and you never wanted more.

“We are currently facing many allegations from different sides” The executive stated, her blonde hair tied behind her head in a slick bun. It didn't get in the way as always—everything was programmed to not get in the way.

She looked behind herself to the whiteboard which contrasted with the otherwise dark blue wall. “First being our deal of halving the Bloodhound income in half.”

You frowned to yourself, fingers moving over the skin around your nails. You focused on the shape of it, feeling the texture beneath your fingertip.

You traced the side of your finger, to the dip between the digits, before moving up again, right to the peak of the knuckle. The art of not listening was ingrained within you by then, and as the executive listed current issues, you were wondering when the break would be.

You could do with a coffee.

“...inherently tied to the new Head of the Oak Family. He may not be as lenient as we had hoped—”

Involuntarily you looked to the executive. You wouldn't have listened otherwise, but— “While it is not Oak Family's business what we do with our deals, they allege we violated the code of..”

Whatever else she mentioned faded to the background. Oak Family. Sunday—

She went over the possible lawsuits or disagreement, but it didn't matter. You hardly listened to the tasks which were expected to be fulfilled regarding that issue, and when she asked who would partake in that assignment of the week, your hand shot up.

Eyes lingered on you, but you held back the urge to shrink under the gaze.

—

Like all figures which were sacred and holy, Sunday was away from the reach of your palm. A star you could only gaze at when it was night, a rare occurrence of the moon when it took different shades to show to the mortal filth below.

To a literal extent, he was also far from reach. The head of the Nightingale Family was someone you couldn't hope to meet despite being its member; what made you believe you were worthy to know Sunday, the head of an entirely different family?

Perhaps over time it wasn't about knowing him. It should be enough to admire him from a controlled distance. Distance gave certainty, and measured proximity gave control.

Two things which you found more delightful than any cake. And to uphold said control over the situation, without being a reckless fool, you decided to take a closer look this time.

Sunday was a prominent figure for months, and as his reputation and responsibility over the Family grew, so did the curiosity of many prying eyes. But you weren't just any prying eye.

You didn't wish to ever know him personally, and you didn't want to be a part of his life. His company you didn't seek because of possible fame or clout, but for your own satisfaction. Sinner casting prayer in silence, compared to ones who proclaim their worship in the street.

Inherently, that made you better than all of them. And such human weakness could not hold you back from confessing your wrongdoings.

You hoped to find no forgiveness in the holy scriptures that the private library offered.

As an important member, you could enjoy the privilege of having connections. Superficial as all, but that was what mattered in the world of adults; not deep friendships which ended with sleepovers, rather—dinner parties which ended with agreements and unspoken favours.

It took nearly nothing to sign up for a membership which only important figures were privy to, after all who sane would be in a private library?

Sunday could easily afford to make a library within the Oak Family manor; in fact, if he wished to, he could probably own an entire library for himself. It was most intriguing then, that he picked this specific one.

You slouched in your seat, the thick book raised just enough to cover your face. You sat near a computer, at the second story of the grand family-owned library. Commoners couldn't hope to be here, and a sense of warmth filled your throat at the idea of such exclusiveness. A private bird sanctuary in an enclosed garden.

Sunday didn't come here often and so it wasn't a treat you could get your hands on. Still, there seemed to have been routines he followed. As with cafe being the more-likely spot, you found he visited the library at least once a week. There were places you visited already as well, such as his most frequented benches in the Golden Hour.

Or his most favourite balconies at the edges of the city which never slept. You were there already. Sunday never changed.

You weren't surprised at his pristine attire as he browsed the sections, his back turned to you. All the other people ignored him, busy in their books.

Maybe they thought themselves to be better than him. A figure of Sunday's stature was a sight unseen, and your jaw tightened at the thought. His fingers lingered over a book, which he pulled out to scan. Dark wood of the shelves against the emerald green book cover, as mystical as a forest. The halovian tilted his head in curiosity, his wings fluttering.

Soft and gentle as ever. Preened, clean. You wondered how it would feel like to touch them, to run your fingers over them, to pluck them for yourself. Take away his metaphorical flight.

You wondered how it would feel like to slide your fingers underneath his gloves, to push the boundary of what you knew to be possible. A mortal craving the delight of flesh of a saint. You wanted to sink your teeth in his jugular.

The item was put back on the shelf soon after, and he stepped aside, where your eyes could no longer see him.

Perhaps it was his means of having a slither of commodity, behaving like an average person for feigned normalcy.

When Sunday finally moved to a further section you closed the nameless book you held, slowly walking to the bookshelf abandoned by him.

Your eyes scanned the spines, and your fingers touched upon the book he discarded, an indirect way to feel connected. You didn't pick the book up though, looking towards the doors of the library. The distance was enough for him to be right next to the exit.

He grabbed the engraved handle, and then stopped. Your heart throbbed, and his face turned. Sunday looked in your general direction, brows knitting together—a small shard of his broken up composure, and your heart stopped. It appeared as if he sensed something—someone— and you held your breath.

His facade concealed him once more, and he left.

—

Routine was a defining factor of a member of the Nightingale Family, and the schedule didn't change much. Meetings were always on time, spare for emergencies. The work hours didn't change, and all holiday breaks were consistent each year. The layout of the offices and rooms never switched, and workers usually stayed the same.

Routine—integral and true part of your life, as real as the blood that rushed through your veins like a wild river restricted by the channel layered with stone and sand. Something so simple, so expected, yet troublesome all the same.

Discipline was something tied to routine, and routine was dependent on previous discipline, creating a cycle of short lived codependency, in which the routine finally tore away to be by itself—leaving discipline to tie different aspects of life to established habits.

The more you watched Sunday, the more integral it was in your routine. As obvious as the moon rising in the night, it was slowly becoming a necessity. Like the smoker needing nicotine because of their own weakness—unable to stay away, despite initially using cigarettes as a means of relaxation.

Reliance gave way to habits born from stress, and escapism with such reliance was another means of growing a routine. A routine not based around day to day life, but a situational one, only working when certain things clicked into place. An addict only smoked when stressed, and the habit of stress-smoking created the routine of smoking on a time-based schedule.

You weren't sure which applied to you, but the gnawing scrape of routine gnawed at the lining of your stomach. It took your appetite and will to live with itself, causing a vortex only satisfied with relentless pursuit.

It was no longer thought of or planned, it was desperate. Like a hungry dog whining and scraping at the doors, a mouse squeezing through the hole in the wall only to slither inside.

As before, it only took a small amount of curiosity for you to gain more gossip. You initially were against the idea, provided your general nonchalance towards your job; if you privately asked your connections about questions only relating to Oak Family, you'd be seen as suspicious. And so you had to slowly worm your way into the graces of the Bloodhounds—their.. unique job in the Penacony made it all the more easier.

Bloodhounds were responsible for ensuring safety and peace of citizens, and so they were always watching, observing. And, in your growing desperation, you used some of your connections to gain favour within them—something which your co-workers would only see as making more connections. That was something praiseworthy.

From there, by pulling a few strings on behalf of Bloodhound Family, you were privy to information pertaining to routines of figures of importance. Because even the most important figures relied on routines and habits, that was what made them successful.

In mere mortal desperation, as a smoker consuming any sort of cigarette, you quickly used such an opportunity to ask about the Head of the Oak Family, despite the original plan to ask around for others first.

But it didn't matter. In the perpetual evening of Penacony's sweet dream, you didn't feel like you were committing a crime in broad daylight. Because you weren't. Observing someone wasn't something punishable.

You walked a pace slower than Sunday did, watching him from the street parallel to the one that his footsteps graced. The light above his head illuminated his halo each time he walked beyond a street lamp, the shine beaming and splintering into thousands shards in your vision as with all light.

The lamps emitted a rainbow halo around themselves, the brightness making it difficult to keep your eyes open. Even as he strolled peacefully as a means of relaxation, he was graceful. A swan confident of its swim across the shimmering, moonlit lake.

In retrospect, the halo around particularly bright objects did take your mind to Sunday. Something illuminated past your mortal comprehension, as if trying to gaze out into the roaring sun. Lately everything took your mind to him.

An apple that you bit, or the movie that you watched. A cat always eats the bird, but not all birds are prey, and not all cats are predators.

The street was filled with joined buildings, and people around didn't seem to care for anything other than going about their day—something you wilfully deprived yourself off. Like a madman cutting off their leg despite not being bound.

You did this to yourself.

Despite the stark awareness you continued the walk, at all times remaining a pace behind. His halo was shining as always, as if freshly polished and wiped away, his wings relaxed despite the spikes which bound one. You wondered how it would feel to place your mouth over the cold metal of them, and then tear at it. If you gripped his throat, would he have the strength to stop you?

His step stopped abruptly, and your body ducked into an alleyway with an unreasonable speed. Concealed by the comfort of the darkness you saw him turn his head to a poster on one of the buildings, entirely uncaring about your—

Sunday's back was to you, but he moved his head to the side, just enough for you to see his eyes flicker, looking at the street ahead with a newly formed frown.

It was like nicotine on an empty stomach, and a weird sense of rush filled your body.

—

“Didn't think you cared about these briefings.” A voice from beside you muttered as you took the seat close to the executive, just this once.

“I don't,” you replied, flipping through the agenda. “I just want to know who's attending.”

It wasn't an utter lie, but thanks to your newfound connections to the Bloodhound's, you figured out there would be a business deal in regards to the Oak Family.

All you had to do was get the Bloodhound's some information and keep a stable contact, something unlike your connections to the Iris Family. Those required little to no contact, spare for only exchanging favours with no further familiarity.

Bloodhounds were more knit together you realised—troublesome, but doable nonetheless.

With a few bats of your eyelashes you learned new things. New opportunities to witness Sunday —and gain political intel.

The executive finally arrived, and you closed the folder to put it back down. Proper and perpetual courtesy you did but default.

The blonde woman looked over at the gathered co-worker's, before turning on the screen situated behind the ever present whiteboard. “Thanks to the quick thinking of one of you, we managed to salvage the deal with Oak Family before the allegations got out of control.

Mr. Oak liked our programme and the idea to improve on our cultural industry—courtesy of the Iris Family.”

Whatever that meant, you nearly rolled your eyes. That was until the executive finally said your name, and you straightened, looking towards her with your hand at the table. It squeezed into a fist.

“Thanks to you we managed to get the presentation in time—where credit is due, of course.” She cleared her throat.

Mr. Oak liked the presentation. He saw it; you signed it.

Something in your stomach fluttered, simultaneously excited and nauseous. You didn't know whether to throw your hands in the air or to throw up, and you swallowed the dryness that formed within your throat.

You forced a smile on your face.

The eyes lingered on you, and you gripped at the table, before switching to holding your paper cup. The executive briefed everyone else on their tasks, while you wondered if you weren't digging your own grave.

He saw you where you couldn't see him.

—

You arrived to the event early, an Opera. You figured Sunday must've enjoyed the themes of grandiose and grandeur, and all things classic and exquisite. Bloodhound's were known for their straight forwardness, yet even they couldn't escape the tug of culture and an air of normalcy that the Oak Family enforced onto others.

Before they would sign the agreements once more, due to the five year policy, Mr. Oak required the important personnel to accompany him to one of the Opera's hosted at the grand theatre of penacony. Unnecessarily so, as the real discussions were said to start in an entirely different spot once the theatre was over.

The act was one he picked.

The Bloodhound who informed you of it was kind enough to let you know that only Bloodhound's and the Oak Family knew of this arrangement. Then again the tickets were available to everyone, as the event wasn't private.

Of course you had to go. And of course you chose the VIP section.

Glancing at your wrist watch you realised there was half an hour left until the performance began, and once more, like at the orchestra, your seat was elevated just enough to oversee the stage. The actors prepared the props, the musicians their instruments, and you prepared your mind due to a weird sense of unease.

A waiter came over with a smile strangely stretched, and you accepted the offered drink. You placed it at the small table in front of you, glancing around the darkened cubicle.

People of importance enjoyed the privacy that the shadow provided, and this was no different. Only when the light is cut, only then can the roaches crawl from underneath the stones like vermin.

You finally picked up the glass, red wine. Your hand was flat against its bottom and your brow furrowed when you felt a strange texture against your skin, akin to experiencing the streaks of the wood in a tree.

The glass was raised to your eye level, the bottom of it engraved in a pattern of a rose. Your palm slid towards you gently, until your fingers could run over the intricate design. You haven't seen glasses like these before, but it wouldn't change the taste of wine, and it wouldn't change the outcome.

—

You were here before. But it was only right to be aware of the territory you stepped to. The Oak Family manor was usually open for guests in the parts accessible, alongside the specific offices you could go to if you wished to file a complaint.

You were overstepping. But all your control and observation? You had nothing to show for it—the wax and stamps you've collected didn't count. You received them at your work, after all, merely as means of exchanging envelopes with the family in regards to some matters you didn't care about.

There was a need for something closer. A fear of wanting to eat the entire cake after tasting a slice, but you'd control yourself.

Maybe you'd try to break into some space, just for the feeling of familiarity. Surely he had to have his office, and he had to have his belongings—you were utterly pathetic.

A crime in broad daylight. You stole the gloves that he accidentally left on the table after signing paperwork. One time you watched him press the wax into the envelopes that he sent.

And one time you saw him from a balcony at a gathering in a garden. It was truly a beautiful day.

The sky was clear, spare for a small amount of pristine white clouds, and the guests were more than happy to discuss things with him in the open air, a breath of life from the early spring.

Things didn't make sense anymore.

—

It wasn't enough. Public meetings, seeing him walk on the street; it wasn't enough to satiate the gnawing in you.

You wished to know him; as well as you could from a distance, as a researcher astronomer knows the stars, as well as a biologist knows the layers of an oak tree. For now you had to satiate on the scraps you were fed after sacrificing your dignity.

No amount was fulfilling enough—and this time, in foolish recklessness, you arranged an entry into one of the private parties of the Oak Family. It was hosted right in the famed manor, and you signed up for it a week or so before it even took place. It wasn't something members of other Families would do, but you couldn't think of the consequence. You've followed him to events before.

You've been where he was, and did what he did, and you admired the view of the city once when he was admiring it, in a skyscraper. He wasn't aware of your presence then. But that was before, and now is now. And just because someone ate dinner, didn't mean they didn't crave breakfast.

Who would blame you, though? You've been starved of his enlightening presence for over a week—he didn't partake in anything special over the time, and just seeing him in a library, or a cafe, or on his walk, or in his gardens; it wasn't as satiating.

In his lonesome moments he didn't speak. He had no reason to. If you engaged with him, would he converse with you? Would he wave you off?

Your decision was done in haste, in sheer animalistic desperation with no thought. You hesitated for a second only, before deciding to screw it all. What would you from nearly a year ago think of yourself now? You'd shame yourself.

And so, right when the announcement came a week ago, you signed up, handing over your information just to be granted entry. Just to see him.

You tried your best to force your hands into compliance, stiffening them when you showed a guard your identification document. As they took it from you to inspect, something incoherent lingered on their otherwise neutral face, before you were allowed to pass.

All Families had their property; not that the members lived there, it was more like a governmental building tied to the place where the officials stayed.

You were allowed into the general guest area, while the other parts of the manor were entirely blocked, accessible only from the outside entrances for these specific parts. As much as it gnawed onto you to travel around, despite the risk of being caught, it simply wasn't possible.

As all guests were led to the major hall of the event, you wondered how personal this one would be. The space was gentle blue and heavenly, the light wooden panels serving as the great basis for tall walls and windows, and the blue curtains which draped over like leaves on trees.

The chandelier was grand, and you looked upwards for a moment, its colours golden and rich. Squinting, you cast your gaze downward again.

The guests gathered round an important figure, gravitating towards him like planets around the sun, listening intently to all he said. With a shaky sigh you found your feet involuntarily leading you over to the nearest table at the disposal, your shoes inaudible against the noise of the people.

Your hand lingered on its pristine white surface, but you didn't sit. Slowly but surely your gaze resumed its walk forward, spotting an empty table right near the centre of all the fuss.

It felt strange. Your blood was turning cold, and you swallowed. With one last hesitation you stepped forward, claiming the empty seat within Sunday's vicinity, where there were gaps between the guests in the front.

That felt.. nice. He looked over at the people, and he was smiling. The champagne in his hand was merely a prop, and his sister stood beside him. She wore some sort of a nightgown that you didn't spare your time for— your eyes quickly drifted to Sunday.

It seemed he was comfortable here, the cold facade of stone and divinity dispersed like leaves on wind. He talked to the guests as if they knew each other closely, his halovian sister smiling. On occasion she nodded, and added to his sentences, having guests laugh.

Your eyes remained glued to his suit, a cold and ice shade of white, and then a hot blue tie, like the utmost bottom of an iceberg. His hair was neat as always, parts of it brushed back while the longer strands draped upon his shoulders like water which spilled from glasses.

Behind Sunday was a white piano to match the design, something you assumed to be only a piece of decor.

“Exactly that, dear. Though it makes me wonder what challenges we will face next. After all,” Sunday gestured to the crowd. “we can expect the unexpected from some, while some choose to be predictable.”

Robin nodded, tipping her head. “Well said, brother. It makes me all the more excited for the charmony festival this year—” her wings fluttered excitedly, contrary to his, which seemed to hardly respond to his emotional stimuli.

You leaned your elbow into the table, hand supporting your chin. Just hearing him talk made your earlier anxiety ease, the hands of darkness which peeled at the lining of your intestines having retreated far into the world unknown. Sunday was akin to a miracle cancer to a condition he himself caused upon you. Truly cruel.

Sunday hummed. A guest joined the discussion, an older man. “I haven't seen such development since the times of the old Gopher Wood, Sunday. You truly do live up to the promise!” a hearty laugh followed.

Despite how often he was praised in public, in the newspaper—oh, the newspaper. Once it called him the most handsome man in Penacony, followed by so many mentions of fan accounts. A celebrity of his caliber seen by so many. It made your throat tighten and an unreasonable anger rise in you, just thinking about it—

“Now, now. Let's not be excessive.” The head of the Oak Family stated, tone gentle and conversational. He did not speak to you, but it felt like it.

“Let's focus on things that truly matter. Now, I've been asked quite nicely by someone,” Sunday's face turned to his sister, who couldn't keep her face neutral, as a smile involuntarily formed on her face. “to play a piece for us tonight.”

He slightly side-stepped, giving view to the piano behind. Robin's wings gave a flutter, and she nodded.

Sunday straightened his suit a little. This was unlike the conferences between families, this was more casual. Personal. Private, intimate.

Why were you here?

He headed for the stool situated in front of the piano, opening it for all the guests to see. To keep the politeness, he was still turned sideways, his back straight. But a soft chuckle left him. It seemed he only now realised the piece he'd be playing, reading off the musical sheet right in front of him. And then his face turned towards the audience for a moment.

“As requested, I'll play Clair de Lune. To commemorate this eventful night—” he stated. “And to bring upon ease.”

The guests whispered for only a moment, and Robin stepped aside, letting her brother take the attention this time. You assumed it must've felt good when eyes weren't on you, as they always were.

His hand moved to the keys, the touch gentle as he pressed them. Sunday's gloved fingers moved with ease, trailing along the instrument with an unseen softness and care, each break between the note filled with an echo.

You forgot how to swallow for a moment, the saliva collecting in your mouth until you finally recalled how to perform functions such as breathing.

On an evening like this, the tune was most appropriate, liquified moonlight amplified by his instrument. Despite no change in light, it felt akin to the piano dispersing the reflected beam of the moon across the guests, and all seemed as in awe as you were.

It was breathing life into you, and an uncanny unease as well. No one dared interrupt nor speak, and you leaned forward, both your elbows resting upon the white table.

Sunday moved with grace. You could see his head slightly tilt, despite seeing mostly his back at such an angle. All it did was help you witness the measured and precise dance of his fingers, like droplets of water upon the moonlit lake, gentle and careful and carefree.

The tune was revitalising, and when the last note died, your body forced you to finally exhale. Small round of applause fell shortly after, which you didn't join.

Unexpectedly Sunday raised his hand. “Well, while I am at it, I do believe another piece would be appropriate?”

But he didn't look at the crowd. Hell, he didn't seem to want to hear what they had to say. Sunday tilted his face to Robin. And she nodded excitedly.

It was sweet in hindsight.

“Very well then. For the new beginnings, and for the ends which start them”

This time he didn't need a sheet in front of himself, playing an entirely different rhythm. Sharper.

And by the time the guests were satiated with Sunday humouring them, the party was coming to an end. It was hard to say where each melody began and when it ended, and while the guests slowly began to converse between each other, Sunday's play faded to the background.

It all ended. The guests were leaving, spare for you and few others. They drank, and you lingered in the after-taste of the moonlight you were hand fed. The hosts were leaving too, Robin first, and then Sunday. His conversation with one of the people came to an end, and he stepped to the exit, shoes softly sounding out as he made his way forward.

You realised you pushed your limits when he stopped in his tracks right next to your table. A flicker of amusement was all you were given, and he left soon after.

The liquified moonlight’s effect was cast away when the coldness of anxiety coated your skin once more.

Does he know?

If he does, why doesn't he say anything?

—

There is always a bigger fish, just as not all birds get eaten.

Some birds eat.

—

You didn't want to walk through, but it was as inevitable as a hawk stealing a lady's pampered dog.

Then again you clung onto hope like a leech, hoping that maybe this really wasn't true. It sure felt like a dream, and it made you light headed with sickness. Your face turned to his to try and gauge any silent confirmation, but his eyes were glued to your face.

Lowering your eyes you walked through into the room with hesitation, acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps right behind you.

Before you was a rather large table, filled with blocks and models of sky-scrapers. The front of the model, Penacony's banner, was turned towards the doors. Such a mini city caused uncertainty to build in your throat, and your fingers twitched against each other as they folded before you.

The sound of a click cut through the air, and you didn't have to turn your face around to realise that the gates to salvation were long locked for you. Closed, never to be reopened again.

Above the grey model of the city was a lamp, leaving the room in a comfortable yet dim, warm yellow light. It did nothing to make you feel any warmer or any more welcome.

You were aware of sofas situated near each wall, it seemed like a gathering spot of sorts—spare for the way it's been mostly empty.

Aside from the two of you.

Sunday stepped from behind you, approaching the city model with an ease and certainty inappropriate for the situation. Using the opportunity you looked behind yourself once more, the engraved doors having been long shut as you had assumed.

The halovian cleared his throat, and your face shifted back to see the space before you. He stood at the side of the table, picking up the wine that was sitting conveniently next to him, a thing so normal yet out of place.

“Come,” his other hand gestured to you. “there is lots to discuss.”

As ambiguous and vague as it was, you had truly no choice. And so you took the first step, approaching the model. You were sure you were shaking despite the composed demeanor, one you held onto like a lifeline—your heart struck your ribcage with each frantic pump, but it felt like the blood coursing never gave enough air.

It was art to not hyperventilate right now, your senses dulled; as though the rush of your blood muted your ability to hear. And, yet, you heard him well.

You stood a good pace away from Sunday, but close enough to the table for him to have no objections. The bottle of wine was already open, and all he had to do was to take one of the glasses into his gloved hand, tilting it. The red liquid poured inside of it, rolling over the walls of the glass like a heart filling with blood.

He reached it out to you, and after a momentary period of stillness, your hand took the glass.

It did not spill, your oversensitive muscles however did not take kindly to the strain, the grip on the wine causing it to vibrate. It was not only humiliating, but just embarrassing. Your other hand joined the grip, moving underneath the glass’ bottom.

Sunday had his gaze glued to you, and the temporary shaking of the glass did not escape his gaze. Alas the corner of his mouth only moved up, before he cast his look down to the glass he was filling for himself.

Your skin felt the intricate design on the glass’ bottom, and you could swear your heart stopped. With eyes widened you took a peak downwards, and surely enough you saw that the bottom of it was engraved.

You would run out of here if you could. Even if it was pathetic, even if it was embarrassing and humiliating and even if you had to look like a prey to get out, you would. You'd leave Penacony, change your number, you could even change your face and identity. You'd—

“The city breathes, you know?” he began, causing your train of thought to derail entirely off the mountain. You swallowed, your confused expression causing the man to continue. “Not because it wants to. Because it must.”

The model before you was detailed, as a model could be that is. The buildings had their respective lights from the inside, even the Golden Hour held an unnerving degree of accuracy to it.

Sunday always made sure all buttons were in place. “Not in the way people do, of course not, but in a way that something vast and living shifts under its own weight.”

You were aware of his face turning to you for a moment, the silence stretching. It lingered on your face, before he tilted his head to the model, hand sitting loosely on one of the wider buildings. His index finger moved in a circle for a moment, but he didn't unnecessarily fidget.

“A change in the air, a tilt in the balance—no matter how small and insignificant, it's all felt somewhere.”

Your eyes glued themselves back to the model, and you felt tense, like a piece of wood waiting for the carpenter to arrive. No—the carpenter has arrived. And right now he was preparing his tools properly.

His hand moved towards one of the streets, pressing into one of the buildings. It dipped into the model's bottom, before clicking, and as his pressure released, the building loosened. Sunday picked it up with his hand, bringing it closer to his face.

It was a cafe, one too similar, and you felt like you were being mocked right now. Sunday sighed. “More often than not, it isn't the grand movements that matter, not the political ones either. It's the small ones that set the tune for the city's music. These ones—define its breath.”

He hummed, his finger running over the bottom of the mini building. With a click its light turned on, and he pushed it back into its appropriate place, slow and unrished, with no misstep.

Your fingers tightened against the glass, and you prayed you wouldn't shatter it. “Small steps like these measure up to grand tunes, be it a street closing early, or a whisper in the wrong ear,”

“even a shadow where there shouldn't be one.”

His gaze flickered to you, unreadable.

With a throat tight and mind spiralling, you couldn't hope to know what to say. It was no magic trick, you didn't know your last words.

“It doesn't take much to alter the shape of something—yes, even something as vast as this.”

He raised his glass in a silent toast, and you did not raise yours. You had no intention of consuming it, not from fear of it being drugged—Sunday did not play dirty. Rather, you were afraid your stomach would reject all that wasn't his flesh. Not from desperation, but sheer anger at the situation.

Sunday's eyes closed as he straightened, head tilting. His movement was slow and deliberate. “That makes watching interesting, don't you think? That's why I do what I do—”

“—it is most interesting to see what happens when someone changes the rhythm.”

He was calm, something contrary to your jerky movement as you set the wine glass down, the tension inside you snapping like a hairband; flying across the room like a miscalculated bullet of a faulty gun. “What's the meaning of all of this?”

Sunday didn't snap back. He smiled knowingly. Instead of responding immediately, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether to answer at all.

Informed and restrained, yet not forceful, as though the causality was something simple. He spoke at his own pace. “What is it, I wonder. Maybe you can tell me?”

The room felt all too small, and your words didn't change anything. Subtle amusement found itself passing on his face, yet he didn't wait for your response as you would've expected.

“I’ll admit—” he began. “I thought, for a time, that you belonged to someone else.” The halovian mused, his fingers lightly moving over the edge of a building, dancing forward towards the concert hall. “That you were someone's carefully placed piece.”

He exhaled, almost amused. Almost disappointed.

“But no.”

Sunday's fingers knew where to look, and you followed their movements as they pressed against a part of the structure of the building. The concert hall clicked, and its outside lights sprung to life like confetti bursting from pressure. This soft click, precise and deliberate, caused things to fall into place.

“You were moving on your own, weren't you?”

His gaze meets yours. Not in passing as before, Sunday truly looked at you, eyes flickering over your eyes, and the curve of your lips. A glance measured in centuries, in calculations that have already reached their conclusion long before you were aware of them taking place. His finger rested on the model, poised like he could collapse the entire thing with the slightest pressure.

“It's a dangerous thing,” he continues. “To move like that, without knowing whose board you're on.”

A beat of silence.

Sunday's hand leaves the city, and he lets it fall to his side, watching you with something unreadable.

“Then again you know what by now, don't you?”

There it is. The checkmate. A fail proof strategy which you thought you controlled, falling through your fingers like sand. The checkmate. The knowledge that this game—your game—was never yours to control.

Another pause, each stop between the notes of the tune made your heartstrings compensate for the silence. Then, just as the weight of it settles—

“Of course,” his voice is light, a shard of kindness in the otherwise cruel situation, as if he was offering you the last slither of dignity. “you could always try again.”

His lips curved into a smile.

“This time, perhaps, with me watching.”

—

There was a deliberate sense of being observed. It was unlike being watched by his mentor, and it was unlike being watched by a pesky Alfalfa spy.

Sunday showcased his abilities before; he could guide the masses, the grand symphonies—as easily as he guided singular figures and pawns.

He was a soloist as he was a conductor, and a conductor should know how to push things into place. He could lead the whole and he could lead the singular, yet there was something that was hidden in the darkness.

Sunday had realised it long before anyone else, and he saw through it long before being warned. Gopher's words, for the first time in a while, fell upon deaf ears.

And while originally it was his idea to introduce Sunday to the masses with orchestra, to have him make the repertoire, it wasn't his idea to drag the game longer than necessary. Much to your displeasure—if you ever did find out—the air of the order around Sunday pulled dirt out from the darkness without having to be prompted.

And, while you initially saw your steps as infallible—instead of covering them up like branches used to cover traces in the snow, you only highlighted your path.

With his resources it was a game of cards. Many names have repeated before, it was to be expected that same members visited the same events more often than necessary.

But there were things which were not accidental. Why would a spy have to follow him to a library? Sunday, when he was young, learned that the only way to understand mechanisms was to push all the buttons. He did not do that anymore of course, he preferred instructions, but it's not how it worked with people.

In your blinded following you chased after him everywhere he led you, without realising it. Sunday found it amusing—you were no good of a spy.

And then, he came to find you weren't anything like that at all. You were pathetic.

[yandere-sins]

Prisoner #006

a/n: A spin on the usual yandere situation, but this story has been sitting in my drafts for a while, I think it's time to release it ^^

Fandom: Genshin Impact Characters: Yandere!Prisoner!GN!Reader x Prisoner!Kaveh Warnings: Yandere, Violence (Reader is being psycho, lost of mentioning of murder and death, Reader stabs someone... a few times, Scratching, Intimidation, Threats, Cornering and intruding on personal space), Long Post

[Prison Project Introduction | Pinterest Moodboard]

Kaveh should have been afraid.

Deep down, he believed he wasn't as stupid and gullible as everyone made him out to be, and yet, he sat still as you drew meaningless little patterns into his skin. The stolen pen scratched over his arm, leaving the area next to the ink red and agitated, but he didn't have it in him to tell you to stop.

You've been a depressed mess since you came to prison, not your typical murderer behind bars. He'd been dealing with a lot of them, and if they weren't the psychotic type, they were haughty and always up for cruel jokes.

But not you. You were... peaceful.

Even when you cried and begged him not to hurt you after you've been brought to his cell despite his protests, the air around you was calm. Unlike the storm of personalities outside the bars of your cell, Kaveh actually managed to think in peace when he was around you. He had learned to navigate and time his way around the prison. Still, with the ruckus and disgusting things happening in the shadowy corners, there was never any space for him to let go and relax for a while—until he met you.

The knowledge about your prolific murders should have upset him enough to keep his distance, but you reminded him too much of himself when he first came here. Scared and unable to go anywhere without being harassed by the others. You clung to him desperately when he told you to tag along to the cafeteria on your first night, and you still asked him to go to the washrooms with you for safety. Kaveh couldn't blame you for being scared. It was a scary world, outside and inside of this prison.

So even though he knew about your wrong-doings, he let you scribble your marks on him in ink. You were humming a song he hadn't heard before, your mind in your own world as you left butterfly wings and flower petals on his skin, and Kaveh honestly had no complaints. Coming here, art had become sparse around him, the radio rarely running, the TV filled with sports but never dancing or acting. The paintings on the walls leading to the facilities were, frankly, hideous copies of capitalistic emphasis, and the prison layout was a smack in the face of any architect.

And then there was you. Not a Picasso per definition, but you drew the patterns effortlessly, unbothered by pressure to perform and perfectionism. Every stroke of the ballpoint pen was all you, not a style you worked to learn or something you copied from another artist. It was all and truly just you. Kaveh had no idea how much he could admire someone—even someone as terrible as you. But he did.

"Let's leave from here. Together."

The words slipped from his lips before he could even think about them. Alhaitham's plan of escaping was still fresh, depending on some hacker he met in this prison, and Kaveh should have never talked about it so casually. He couldn't promise it, couldn't say it would actually work. But when you stopped scribbling, he realized his mistake, looking up at you in horror over his own blabbermouth.

Only to be met with tears streaming from your eyes.

"You'd take me with you? After all I've done?" you mumbled, rubbing the back of your hand over your eyes.

"You... you didn't do it to me. We could start over, somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows our faces and just... live. Quietly and unknown. Only if you want to come... with me."

For a long moment, you stared at him. Unblinking, unreadable. Your arms were thrown forward, wrapping around his neck before your whole body jumped into his lap, discarding the pen and leaving it to clatter on the floor. "Yes!" you agreed euphorically, smiling from ear to ear.

Kaveh felt the heat rush into his face, happiness prickling in the corners of his eyes as he hugged you back. It almost felt like you agreed to marry him, rather than just join him on the escape. But he knew then that he'd work hard to become the man you needed in the future. Someone reliable, someone who could provide you with a life that wouldn't need you killing anybody anymore. So that the dream of you two living together in peace could become reality.

«──────── 🗡♡ ︎𓍝 ────────»

Kaveh should have been afraid.

Deep down, he was as stupid and gullible as everyone told him. He believed that you could turn over a new leaf. Running away with you could become a new start, different from the pitiful life you two had. That the two of you could live away from cruelty and bloodshed, in peace and quiet and togetherness.

And yet, he was staring down at the cold-blooded killer he fell in love with. Whose trap had been placed so subtly that Kaveh ran right into it. He didn't even know you had a knife ready on the day of your escape, and there was no one left—alive—aside from you two to turn to. Everyone who had fled had spread into different directions, and now it was only him and you and the dead corpses of the police that had caught up to you.

It was his fault, entirely so. They might have survived this encounter if he hadn't gotten close to you and you hadn't been convinced to run away with him. Had he not gotten himself caught, maybe you wouldn't have turned back to help him and had kept running instead, far, far away. Perhaps you wouldn't have pulled out your blade and killed these innocent men who were only doing their job to keep unruly people away from society. That kept psychos like you away from more victims to massacre.

"[Name]..." Kaveh stammered, not believing his own, wide-open eyes. The hand he was holding out towards you was shaking violently as he watched you slam the knife into the policeman's back again and again, blood spraying all over you and the squelching sound of flesh being stabbed echoing through the forest. Somehow, he had gotten back on his feet after being tackled to the ground. However, now that he had to watch you defend him so violently, Kaveh wished he had stayed face-down in the dirt.

"GET YOUR HAND OFF HIM! HE'S MINE!" you kept yelling at the dead body, and Kaveh couldn't help but feel pity for the guy as you mauled him. "YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM! HE BELONGS TO ME! HE'S MINE! MINE!"

Your voice was a screech in the dark, possessiveness thrumming in every word you screamed. Even if you two had grown closer the last few days, Kaveh couldn't understand your thoughts. Although you had protected him, seeing the blood drip off you in the moonlight only sent shivers down his spine rather than thankfulness. And where he felt a crush bloom in his heart before, there was nothing but terror and disgust left.

"[Name]--" he tried again, this time a little firmer as he grabbed your shoulder.

Instantly, you whirled around, fury and madness in your eyes. The bloody blade swiped up his arms, cutting up the beautifully drawn pattern left by you. Kaveh knew it was just an accident, but he couldn't help but yell, "Ow!" holding his own arm firmly against his chest as he stared at you fearfully. Stumbling back, he tripped over a root, the pain of collapsing to the ground shaking him, but fear forced him to keep watching you. What if he was your next victim? Nothing about you screamed trustworthy, and yet, when you came to your senses, you changed completely.

Suddenly, your body went slack, eyes swelling up with tears as you looked at him. "Kaveh!" you sobbed, the knife falling to the ground as you stumbled to your feet, knees buckling so you collapsed into the dirt before him. You stretched out your arms, but this time, Kaveh managed to jerk away, avoiding your blood-soaked hug.

However, you were just a little faster than him. A little more alert. You managed to grab the wounded arm, your tears stinging as they fell into his wound. Leaning over his limb, you cried bitterly, but Kaveh couldn't help but try and tug his arm from your hands. Immediately, your crying stopped, fingers clawing into your skin as he tried to get you off him—no success.

"You can't leave me!" you sobbed, looking up with tears in your eyes. Manipulative tears, as Kaveh began to realize, the reality starting to dawn on him. "I love you! We'll have a life together! We'll go somewhere no one knows us! I won't kill again, I promise! I just didn't want them to hurt you... I wanted them to leave you alone! I won't do it again, I can be harmless, I promise!"

His gut wrenched, hearing you throw his words back at him. Now knowing how easy it was for you to end someone's life, how much of a crazy person you really were, it felt like he was the one that had been gutted. Maybe everything would be fine this time, but Kaveh couldn't justify it with himself to find out. Your hands were already so bloody; no trying to pretend you were normal was going to wash away your sins. At least he never killed someone. He couldn't imagine someone doing it as easily as you had, not even thinking twice before attacking.

"N-No..." he stammered, unable to put all these feelings into words.

"No?" you repeated, the tears stopping suddenly. "What do you mean 'no'? I saved you, didn't I? Without me, you'd be the dead one!"

Your tone changed so quickly that it scared him to the bone. The fire started back up in your eyes as you glared at him. Kaveh felt your nails dig into his arm, tearing apart layers of skin as your anger turned towards him.

"You won't leave me! You can't leave me!"

With your voice raising back into screeching, Kaveh shuddered, eyeing the knife that laid out of reach. You didn't need it, your nails cutting into his flesh just as painfully. Fear was mangling every muscle in his body, making them tense and tainting his judgment.

"O-okay," he stuttered out, and immediately, the pressure vanished. Your shoulders slacked, and a smile crept back on your lips as you whispered, "Thank god..."

You hunched over his wounded arm, now punctured by your nails and the cut starting to dry up. The next thing Kaveh felt was wetness wiping over his wounds, your tongue lapping off the blood that stained him, whether it was his or the one dripping from you.

"I love you," you mumbled while licking. "I love you, Kaveh. You're so nice, so sweet. You're perfect, and you're mine. All mine. Kaveh, Kaveh, Kaveh..."

Looking down at the unsightly view before him, Kaveh couldn't help but pity himself. Had he known what he got himself into, could he have prevented this? Which version of you had been the real one, and had you pretended to be sweet and shy, tricking him into this all this time? Or was it real? So many questions and so few answers. All he could think of was how he had been scammed yet again as he watched the ink smear from your licking, the beautifully drawn butterflies vanishing alongside those in his belly, all of them dropping dead.

And now, Kaveh was afraid.

[writr4luvrs]

tw: yandere themes, toxic relationship, toxic work environment, not proofread

Oh, Yandere!Reader you're so cute. "File these papers and I'll reward you with a kiss." "Go grab my belt off my desk and I'll give you a pat on your head." "Make sure to not use too much bleach when getting the blood out my dresshirt this time and we can have dinner tomorrow night." Oh, Yandere!Reader, you're so loved when you get the proper attention. You're so happy and attentive to be in their gaze and feel their warmth. *sigh* it's kinda pathetic but fine, you deserve this one lil peck on the cheek for being so good this past week.

Makima, Erwin, Miche, Nanami, Higuruma, Quanxi, Levi

[evenyvn]

GUILTY

devil!reader x (fallen)angel!seonghwa

summary : through whispered temptations, you lured seonghwa into your sinful arms, making him fall not by force, but by choice. when his halo cracked and his wings dimmed, you should have felt victorious. but guilt cut deeper than sin.

cw : gn!reader, yandere!reader, reader is very manipulative, kissing, seonghwa is a victim but he likes it tbh, classic fallen angel troupe, the whole thing is just a word vomit tbh, lmk if there's something that i missed bcs I'm shyt at writing tags.

someone pls tell seonghwa to stop being so majestic so i can write for the others as well smh. inspired by guilty by taemin and so beautiful by drp ian.

There had never been a more perfect angel than Park Seonghwa.

The heavens sang his name, the stars bent toward his light, and even the gods marveled at his grace. His fluttering hair white and pure as his wings stretched across the sky like beams of the sun, his voice carried the weight of divinity itself, and his touch was said to heal the wounded. He was untouchable, untainted, sacred.

And YOU wanted him.

You wanted him the way mortals craved salvation, the way sinners begged for forgiveness. But you were no fool begging at the feet of a saint. No, you were a devil, a ruler of the underworld, a master of manipulation. You did not kneel for angels; you made angels kneel for you.

And so, you set your plan into motion.

At first, you only watched from afar. You sat at the edges of the heavens, between hell and heaven, hidden in the places where light did not reach, studying Seonghwa with a fascination that bordered on obsession.

He was everything the scriptures promised—kind beyond reason, beautiful beyond compare, good in a way that made you ache with something you could not name.

But goodness could be twisted. Purity could be tainted. Even the holiest of creatures could fall.

And Seonghwa… Seonghwa soon will too.

It started with whispered words, planted like seeds in his mind.

"Do you ever wonder if there’s more than heaven?" you said under the shadow on the edge of the heaven were you finally catch seonghwa wandering alone.

"Is it not lonely, being so perfect? Do they love you, or do they love what you represent?" you make your voice soft and as innocent as a child with their curiosity.

"Do you ever tire of belonging to them?"

Seonghwa resisted at first. Of course, he did. He was an angel, a being of unwavering faith. But you were patient. You fed him doubts laced with honey, dripped temptation into his ear like a gentle lullaby. And slowly, so slowly, Seonghwa began to listen.

The first time he sought you out, it was with guilt weighing heavy in his eyes.

"I should not be here," he had said, voice barely above a whisper.

And yet, he stayed. He stayed, and even come again and again.

You did not touch him, not yet. You did not rush. You let Seonghwa come by himself, let him wade deeper into your world, let him take one step closer every time you met.

You never forced him.

Seonghwa choose to fall.

The first time Seonghwa touched you, it was a hesitant brush of his fingertips against your cheek, as if seeking proof that you were real. The heavens did not tremble that day, but you swore you felt the shift in the universe.

And then, one night, where the heavens and hell unaware, Seonghwa kissed you.

It was soft, hesitant, the touch of someone who had never known sin. But the moment both of your lips met, Seonghwa broke.

You could see it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his hands fisted into your dark clothes like a drowning man clinging to salvation. But you knew better. Seonghwa was not drowning—he was burning.

And he liked it.

That was the night Seonghwa fell.

The moment your lips parted, the heavens screamed. The white glow of his wings flickered, his halo cracked, and a terrible silence followed. The kind that only came before ruin.

Seonghwa staggered back, horror dawning in his eyes as he clutched his chest, as if trying to hold onto whatever grace he had left.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

But you only smiled, cupping his face with a gentleness that no devil should possess.

"You are mine now."

Seonghwa did not return to heaven. He could not.

His wings, once white and pure, were now dusted with the faintest trace of shadow. His halo, once blinding, had dulled to the dim glow of a dying star. He was still beautiful—of course, he was—but he was no longer perfect.

And yet, to you, he was even more divine than before.

You worshipped him as if he were a god. You built him a throne of midnight and fire, adorned him in silks that shimmered like the cosmos, kissed his knuckles like he was the ruler of their world. You whispered prayers of devotion against his skin,

"my love, my angel, my everything."

Seonghwa was yours.

But then why… did victory taste so bitter?

Late at night, when Seonghwa thought you were asleep, he would pray. His hands clasped together, his head bowed, pleading to a god who no longer answered him.

"Forgive me."

"I was weak."

"I loved where I should not have loved."

You never let him see the way those words destroyed you.

Because for all your clever tricks, for all your manipulation, for all your power, there was one thing you had never accounted for—guilt.

Not just Seonghwa’s. Yours.

Because Seonghwa had fallen. And you had pushed him.

And now, you both trapped.

A sinner and a saint, bound by love.

Bound by ruin.

divider by @.aquazero | likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated ♡

[wito-chan-bla-bla]

Concubine!(Y/N), who gets into the palace because of a mistake made by her father, the general. Her native land is destroyed and literally trampled under the feet of a man who is called "a god born in the body of a mortal." When the soldiers came to her house, (Y/N) tried to escape from them, but ended up being caught and sent to the palace along with many other young girls.

Concubine!(Y/N), who was noticed by the emperor's chief aide, Suguru Geto, and promoted to concubine status.

Concubine!(Y/N), whom the emperor calls "an innocent and sweet girl" with a chuckle. (Y/N) doesn't look up at him, she only listens as he talks about how he is very curious about how his new concubine will survive in such a cruel place like the imperial palace.

Concubine!(Y/N), in whose heart an incredible hatred for the young emperor was kindled. Because of him, she lost her home and family, her status, her wealth, and everything else that fate had given her. Now she is ready to kill the emperor, even if it takes her own life.

Concubine!(Y/N), who quickly abandons her plans as soon as she really sees... him up close. No man from her homeland could compare to the young Emperor Satoru Gojo. This man, who was taller than any general or official, managed to smile as sincerely and warmly as little children do when they see one of their parents. His aura seemed to draw (Y/N) towards him. As soon as she looked into those heavenly eyes, she couldn't think of anything but the man who had ordered her family estate to be burned to the ground.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who changes her decisions incredibly quickly, but she absolutely doesn't care.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is beginning to be called a "traitor to her motherland". Her own former maids turn their backs on her when they discover that she has fallen in love with the Emperor at first sight. But what they didn't know was that their lady's heart was never as kind and good as they thought it was.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who doesn't understand what's going on with her. She can't take her eyes off the Emperor. She wants to stare at him for hours, even if they put her on hot coals and force her to endure horrific torture. She would do anything to keep admiring him.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who seems to be enchanted by these heavenly eyes, given by the gods themselves. She doesn't know why she can't stop admiring them, as well as the fluffy white hair, pale skin, and cheeky boyish smile, as if Satoru Gojo isn't an emperor running a huge country, but a neighborhood boy calling (Y/N) to play with him in the yard.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is gradually going crazy. Any rational thoughts are obscured by the emperor's face, the sound of his laughter, the smell of him, and the feel of his skin under her fingers. It's a trap set by the gods to force mortals into submission. Now (Y/N) understands why there has never been even the slightest revolt against the emperor in the empire.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who wants the emperor to be hers and hers alone. She's willing to do anything to get his attention. She is ready to trample her feet into meat to perform the most beautiful dance for him. She is ready to read hundreds of books to impress him with her knowledge. She is ready to argue for hours and listen to the speeches of the palace "smart guys" in order to please the emperor with a stupid joke or a witty phrase.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is ready to go to study with prostitutes, just to please her emperor. And when their first night together happens, she's ready to give him all of her, leaving nothing for herself. So when Satoru gently removes her jewelry and whispers "don't worry, I'll take care of everything, you just need to relax and honestly whisper how much you love me", (Y/N) falls in love with him even more.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who falls into the abyss of depravity and sin, only to be the only one whose body is near the emperor's bed.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who notices that the other concubines don't consider her their "rival". They believe that (Y/N) is a "wild, barbaric", "daughter of a defeated enemy", "girl whom the emperor took into his harem out of pity". And it makes something that has been trying to wake up all this time open its eyes completely.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who with her own beautiful, well-groomed hands, which only recently played beautiful melodies for the emperor and touched his naked body, makes a real hell.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who personally plunges a dagger into the chest of her father, who has been in prison all this time, killing him. All she wants is for the Emperor to have no doubts about her loyalty! The emperor's advisor and childhood best friend Suguru doubts that the concubine is okay. "Satoru, she literally drooled after she killed her father and looked at you. I think she's sick or something." "She's just very loyal to her emperor. What's the problem, Suguru?"

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who along with killing her father killed her humanity.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is suspiciously close to the palace doctor. Everyone is saying that soon (Y/N) will be pregnant with a princess or prince, so it would be nice for her to get an ally in the form of a good doctor. (Y/N) does not even know whether to laugh at the naive speeches of others or not.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who manipulates the first, youngest, concubine and forces her to run off with a young servant, with whom the other girl allegedly "fell in love at first sight". They are forced to leave the country because such behavior is interpreted as a betrayal of the emperor.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who uses sleeping pills, kidnaps a second concubine and sells her to a brothel. The girl can't even go back because she's declared a traitor and will be executed as soon as the guards catch her!

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who puts poison in the third concubine's food. Ah, what a pity that the girl suddenly died for unknown reasons! And the fact that (Y/N) secretly gave her small doses of poison that can't kill immediately has nothing to do with it! Just like the fact that the maidservant who had tasted the concubine's food had been drinking the antidote along with her evening tea all this time. Ah, it seems that someone is going to be hanged for poisoning her own mistress!

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who throws the fourth concubine off a cliff while walking. She flies straight at the sharp rocks washed by the sea, and then her body freezes, broken and pierced. Her flesh is devoured by predators, and soon no trace of the woman remains.

The main assistant!Suguru, who tells his close friend that there is definitely something wrong here. "The concubines started dying one by one after (Y/N) arrived at the harem. Maybe we should order guards to keep a better eye on her?" What for? (Y/N) looks so innocent, I'm sure she couldn't even punish a thief caught pickpocketing! Besides, what did these women want anyway? Being the emperor's concubine means putting your life on the line. There is no place more unsafe for a concubine than the imperial palace."

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who can't stand the thought of her emperor touching another woman. So when the lucky concubine returns from him, (Y/N) can't wait. She raises her dagger and plunges it right into the other girl's neck.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who cuts another concubine into pieces, strips the skin from those parts of the body where the girl could touch her emperor. In the (Y/N)`s head, Satoru Gojo belongs to her and only to her. Because who else can make him happier than (Y/N)? That's right... no one.

The main assistant!Suguru, who sees (Y/N) in front of him dismembering into small pieces a concubine who only recently smiled sweetly at him and asked what kind of tea their emperor prefers.

The main assistant!Suguru, who wants to call the guards or deal with the situation himself, but he freezes when he hears the same gentle, beautiful voice that his best friend constantly hears. He watches (Y/N)`s lips move, but he can't hear anything. It's like she's saying a spell that makes Suguru go away and not say anything to the guards or the emperor.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who, as usual, sobs violently at the funeral of another concubine, hiding a smile in the clothes of the emperor, who pulled her to his chest to hug and calm her down. She knows they won't be doing anything in his bed tonight. Satoru will just lie there, clutching the last surviving concubine, as if trying to protect her from the maniac who lives in the palace grounds and so skillfully evades justice and guards.

The main assistant!Suguru, who does not understand how he was manipulated that day, even when he is standing at the funeral. Still, he can't stay silent forever. He had to do something.

The main assistant!Suguru, who tells everything to his best friend, but in response, the emperor only laughs and sends him on forced leave. Suguru is afraid to leave his friend alone with a literally psychopath, but Satoru says that he is a great emperor, no one can beat him. Especially if it's some cute little concubine!

The Honored One, the Great Emperor!Satoru, who was born with special "Six Eyes" and "Limitless" abilities that only the imperial family knows about. Six Eyes can see everything that happens in the empire, so Satoru all along the identity of the little assassin slaughtering his concubines. Limitless also changes space itself, it gets into people's heads and changes their brains. And so no one... no one is physically capable of hating Emperor Satoru. They are simply fascinated by him, like puppets.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who was lucky enough to become the great emperor's favorite puppet. No one would believe that the charming empress who received this status from the emperor himself broke the necks of many elders who were not affected by Limitless with her own hands. No one would believe that there was nothing left in those beautiful eyes but a blind and obsessive love for the emperor.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who was another stepping stone for Satoru, so that he and his country ascended to the top.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who loves her emperor so much that she will be happy even if he steps or sits on her. She is willing to endure any humiliation if it comes from her dear emperor.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), whose mind most easily succumbed to the Limitless effect. But (Y/N) is all the same. She just loves her emperor to the point of cutting off other people's heads and breaking all her fingers if its make her emperor smile.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who, even if she knew about the existence of Limitless and looked at her actions rationally, did not want to take everything back. Because that's what she made the meaning of her life. And if her beloved emperor wants to use her in any other way than in bed, she will accept it with a smile.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is so obsessed with the sweet, poisonous love of her beloved emperor that she has completely lost all moral foundations and conscience.

Concubine!Yandere!(Y/N), who is… happy even though her hands are covered in someone else's blood. As long as it's for the Emperor's sake, for Satoru Gojo's sake... she'll shed her own blood as well.

[mytheoristavenue]

Stalker!Amajiki x Stalker!Reader where they're both equally obsessed with eqchother and still oblivious to the others' feelings.

You keep a keepsake box with soft indigo locks inside under your bed, and he keeps a stolen bottle of your perfume on his nightstand.

You stare at him in class until he catches you, sketching little doodles of him in your notebook. He stares at you in class until you catch him, jotting down how pretty you look in the sunlight.

You go through his bag when he's not looking, swiping discarded notes just to know what he's thinking- only to find them all about you. He goes through your bag with the same intent, only to find countless candid drawings of him.

You follow him to him too his dorm, only to peek into the window and find him gone. Little do you know, he's hiding in your closet, equally dismayed.

[tfyoulookingatgiuxs]

Did I go too far...?

Bullied!Eddie Munson x Yandere!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Did you ever think about when humans reach their limits? When they are losing their mind and became the monster they didn't want to be. Did you ever think the fact that their trauma are started to being their greatest weapon? The overthink, the screams, the warmth, the sweat, the horror. Did you ever think about it?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 FOR VIOLENT SCENES!! Yandere!Female!Reader, use of Y/N, Bullied!Eddie, Traumatized!Eddie, blood, hurt/comfort, angst, kidnapping, violence, manipolation, y/n is a psychopath, bullying, weapons, very bad languange, mention of humilation, enjuries, crying, threats, disturbing throughts. I'LL INVITE YOU TO NOT IMITATE OR TAKE THOSE THINGS AS AN EXAMPLE, THIS FOR ENTARTAINGING ONLY.

𝐀/𝐍: My obsession with yandere fics is back!! Hope you like it!! Have a great day/night. Sorry for my english, this is not my native languange. Support new writers and reblog. (DIVIDER NOT MINE) word count: 5K

The dirty, gray tiles together with the asphalt. A light breath that accelerates. The sweat that intensifies, that warms you up and makes your heart beat faster. Dilated pupils, broken eye capillaries that paint the eyeball bright red. The same color that makes its way on that same dirty asphalt. It reaches your feet, you smell it, the heat, so much so that you begin to tremble from your fingertips to your forearms. Adrenaline? Fear? Realization?

Or the simple awareness of having exceeded every limit? Of having let the darkness envelop you to the point of taking away all decision-making power?

This.

The heart in your throat, the bitter tears, the water running down your wrists, the evident veins pulsating as far as the eye can see. The air outside seemed more real to you, you thought you had just learned to breathe.

This.

The entanglement in your brain, frightening thoughts that scream, that beg. The fear, the consequences, the repentance. Here is the next step.

What did you do? How did you come up with it? And now? It's all over! Exactly. Reason hammers you, reproaches you for the grave sin you have committed, for letting this happen.

This. You have learned to distinguish it. To recognize it as: 'The limit of the human mind'

.

.

.

.

.

It seemed like a normal day. Autumn was about to herald the first lower temperatures than usual, and one of your favorite holidays was coming to Hawkins: Halloween, which would be tomorrow. Children dressing up, horror movies, spooky decorations and especially sweets and candies. The school was already baptizing the corridors with some cut-out ghosts, or with some flyers to participate in parties of various kinds. The bell rang to announce (fortunately for you) the end of Mrs.Torres' philosophy lesson. You couldn't find more boring lessons than hers. You almost fall asleep!

You left the class quickly, this is because you had other projects in mind. Tonight was scheduled to be your special night. Not just with a bowl of popcorn and a scary movie (to celebrate the night before Halloween), but in the company of your boyfriend, Eddie Munson. And yes, that's right. With the school freak. You met him two years ago, that is, the first day here at Hawkins High School.

It didn't take you long to realize that he was different from the others. Not only with his metalhead style that clashed with the classic clothing of the society. But for his charisma, for his way of talking to you and in general, him. It didn't reflect the person he proves to be at all, and you didn't mind that at all. You got to know him, you understood that among all those porcelain masks, he was authentic. You have always had your eyes open, especially with new acquaintances. But with Eddie you felt safe. With him you could not always remain as vigilant as a policeman.

Except that from best friend to boyfriend it was a moment. You didn't expect it either. There was something about him that had brought you closer. Not only was he sweet, caring, stupidly romantic, or even just good company. You had recognized in him a... potential.

Eddie has always liked to look stupid, the one who can't do certain things just because he didn't want to do them. But this is the deception. He is capable of doing anything, even what he thinks he can't do. You had read it in his eyes, and maybe it was what struck you about him. You never told him, because you think it's a stupid thing you made up, but you always swore to yourself that there was…

You locked the locker. The day was finally over, and luckily for you you had brought forward your homework for next week. You had prepared yourself as best you could to enjoy the weekend in addition to Halloween evening, so your smile today was quite evident. Too bad it disappeared instantly when you saw Trevor Walker passing by chance. He was with his group of friends, laughing as he fixes his slightly messy hair.

He was Jason Carver's cousin, showed up in Hawkins months after you and is said to have already made troubles. In addition to gaining popularity thanks to his cousin, he joined the basketball team captained by Jason, apparently supporting him. Too bad that the only thing he has in common with his cousin is the beauty and the facade of a good guy, because in reality he is just arrogant and makes fun of those he finds inferior.

You had proof of this when he initially buzzed around you because you were at the top of your class in Biology, but then he lost interest when you refused to do his homework for him. He thought he was deceiving you with nice words and his grin, but you weren't stupid to be fooled like that.

Seeing him so smiling and satisfied with himself with his friends gave you a strange feeling, and your doubts became real when Trevor looked at you and laughed, looked over his shoulder smiling and left with his group. Oh no…

You went in the opposite direction to his, where he had thrown his eye. In the distance, attached to the wall lay Eddie who was picking up something. You ran to him worried.

"Eddie, what happened?" You asked him bending over, he immediately shook his face letting his curly hair cover him.

"Nothing, I was just take my notebook..." The way he said it didn't convince you. You looked at his clothes and noticed that they were dirty with dust and dirt. Not to mention a few drops of blood on his Hellfire shirt.

"This..." You touched the fabric of the shirt gently, "Eddie, please look at me." You pleaded with him. He had done it again. Eddie gives up, turns around, and your worries have become reality. His face was covered in bruises and redness as well as blood. You were speechless, it wasn't the first time Trevor dared to annoy Eddie, in fact he did it all the time, but it was becoming too much.

"He did it again..." He managed to say Eddie as he tries not to look you in the eye.

"Come, let's go to the infirmary" You immediately said taking his notebook and gave him a hand to get up.

"You don't have to, I'm fine" He hissed as he tries to oppose it.

"No Eddie, you're not fine." You immediately responded feeling anger. But not towards him, no, you could never have any. It's about that son of a bitch Trevor. You had reported it many times to the teachers and the principal. He was given warnings that he would not even continue to attend basketball practice, but nothing seemed to stop him. You were tired. His bullying of Eddie had to stop, it has been going on for too long. Eddie had always been used to the usual jokes, the usual teasing, but he ignored them, He knew he was a freak. Different and nonconformist. But getting to physical violence was too much. "Please get medicated" you took a deep breath showing your concern, you had to do things at a time, so now you had to take care of Eddie. Fortunately, you managed to convince him and drag him to the infirmary.

Fortunately, he had nothing broken, only a small cut on his lip and nosebleeds. You stayed close to him as you helped the nurse clean up the mess on his face. As soon as the woman left you alone, you decided to break the silence that reigned between you until now.

"Eddie, you can't go on like this" You placed your hands on his biceps stroking them slowly. He looks at the floor as if he is guilty of some crime. "I know you've been through it before, in middle school, but that doesn't mean you can bear or ignore the problem" you try to make him reason. You tried to look at his eyes, they were as dark as oil.

"I... I don't know what to do" He almost whispered. Your forehead was now resting on his as if to give him comfort. "I only know how to look, to endure. I'm pathetic"

"Don't even say it Eddie" You immediately replied by giving him a kiss on the forehead "You're not pathetic"

"Y/N don't fool me. Look. I'm reduced like this and I let you see me like this. I'm a disappointment..." It gave you the impression that his mind as well as his will had given up, something not like Eddie. Trevor had turned him off so much that he turned him back into the insecure and lonely boy he once was.

"You're not. We can find a solution..." You hugged him by bringing your lips close to his ear "We always find a solution. Always" He didn't answer, he just made a sound that you found out was a sob. You still held him tighter than ever, as if you didn't want to leave him. You hated to see him this way, God, you would have done anything to make him happy. And the worst thing was that now you couldn't do much.

"I'm sorry Y/N, you don't deserve someone like me," he said between sobs.

"Don't ever repeat it again Eds, you know I'm happy to have you by my side" You started stroking his curly hair "this time Trevor will pay for it"

"No one will listen to you Y/N" He pulled away from your embrace to wipe away his tears. He was shaking. You think he hasn't vented like this in a lifetime. He was ashamed, he thinks crying is not 'like a real man' or similar bullshit that people say. "No one will ever want to defend 'Eddie, the freak, Munson'. That's why they don't do anything" he revealed to you and clenched his fists. You cast your eye on his rings, on his hands and the strength with which he thitens them. You sat next to him on that bed.

"And how does this make you feel?" you asked, trying to dig into those eyes now dark and lost in the void. Eddie took a while to answer you, thinking about it.

"Angry, very angry. Everyone has always treated me the same." he pauses "no matter how hurt I may be, they will always lower their heads, pretending nothing happened. While that asshole walks around quietly as if nothing had happened!" Frustration was the master in him, the desire to be heard, to be saved and defended for once. The prayers of a boy like the others, who is now an adult, but who had asked for help at the age of 14.

"And this time, that jerk will pay. I assure you. Look at me" Eddie didn't take long to turn around this time. The shining eyes and that defenseless gaze that made your heart melt. You placed your hands on his cheeks, being careful not to hurt him. "I will always be by your side Eds, no matter what happens. I see you Eddie, and I listen to you. I will never let anyone hurt you again," you said and then gave him a tender kiss on the lips. This time you would keep your word.

"And how would you like to do it?"

"Don't worry. Now why don't we go home, rest and I’ll show you tonight?" Your sweet tone relaxes him.

"But shouldn't we have watched a movie tonight and celebrated the night before Halloween?"

"We'll do it, don't worry babe. We're going to watch the movie and talk about this situation. But maybe at the moment it would be better to go to my house and rest" He seems to surrender to your sweet words and your smile that seemed to heal every wound.

"Okay" he nodded more than once with tired eyes, perhaps he had really realized that maybe an afternoon nap would have been good for him.

You brought Eddie to your house. You let him rest in the room and you were surprised to see that he had immediately put us to sleep. Apparently he was really tired. But this would have given you a chance to put your plan into action. You were tired of all this too. Ignoring as Eddie did and hoping that everything would soon be over would have been useless. You had to act and take risks. You took what you needed and left the house. Tonight there would have been no horror movie, because you were about to commit the horror.

.

You've never had the opportunity to do that. He always had people around, every attempt was in vain to find him alone. Trying would have involved many risks of being caught in the act. But you changed your plans, you designed something more feasible, even if it required twice the work and effort, plus twice the equipment.

You promised yourself never to do it again, you swore it to yourself and to God. You've scraped your knees on the ground full of pebbles and dry dirt, in an attempt to cleanse your soul, or at least half of it.

And yet you were there, yet you still couldn't stop that side that intensified in you...

The injustice before your eyes, the memories of your screams, prayers and dreams of a happy life broken in half. The same goes for Eddie. Trevor's tricks were running over the line. Increasingly frequent and violent. You couldn't stand by and watch. It was time to prevent all this, to put an end to it.

You have placed the last layer of plastic paper on the floor. You moved the living room furniture, covered it with plastic sheeting, covered and closed the windows and the front door. Eddie was still asleep and would soon wake up. Meanwhile, you've made sure every door in your home is locked (except your own room) as a precaution and safety. Darkness had taken hold in the streets of Hawkins and everything was ready. Five chairs surrounded you (scattered at different angles of the living room.) Five unconscious guests were tied up and deprived of all movement. They too would soon wake up…

You headed to your room, Eddie was already awake, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. As soon as he notices your presence, he smiles at you slightly.

"Hi" he whispers eagerly.

"Hi. Did you sleep well?" you sat on the bed near him.

"Yes. Even if I continued to have nightmares one after the other" he confesses with a note of shame. You approached to caress his forehead.

"And what did you dream?" Eddie takes a while to answer, perhaps because he had let himself be pampered by your touch, or even because the question made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Everything I've been through... even in middle school" You knew what he was referring to, so you stayed to listen to him "They beat me. They threw buckets of cold water at me, or mocked me at questions or in the cafeteria by throwing food at me" Your hand has crawled on his cheek. You would have consoled and caressed him for life in order to heal him. You thought about it especially when his eyes became shiny.

"And what were you doing?" You asked him, continuing to touch his skin with your fingertips.

"I was watching. Cried. I wished that everything would end. Let them stop" he said in a faint voice, as if revealing a secret.

"Did you take revenge in your nightmare?"

"No"

"Would you like to do that?" Eddie looks at you to that question as if he wanted to intercept your intentions: "If I can ask, of course" you added to inspire him with confidence and comfort.

"Yes" He didn't move, he preferred to stay still to enjoy your touch that made him feel good "I would like to make them understand what it means to be treated like this" you didn't have to know anything else. You put a kiss on his lips. A kiss that didn't last long.

"Come with me" You told him and he nods. You get up and you hold his hand until you get to the living room. The darkness made it impossible to distinguish. You advised him to stay still while you hurried to turn on the light.

His face changes completely when he sees Trevor and his friends bound and gagged on wooden chairs. He dilated his pupils as he searched for explanations in your gaze.

"What is this?" He immediately asked you in a slight tone of panic. You didn't know how to respond to him, how to explain your absurd gesture. You picked up a wooden bat and headed in his direction "Y/N, if it's a joke it's not funny!"

"Don't scream!" you scolded him "everything will end soon"

"What does that mean? Why they are here? Why did you cover the furniture? What do you want to do?" He bombarded you with frightened questions, until a moan distracted you. Trevor had woken up and with him two other friends of his. Perfect timing.

Trevor's face explained well what was going to happen soon, he tried to free himself by squirming, failing miserably. You approached "Someone is awake" you said removing the fabric from his mouth.

"Ugly psychopathic bastards!" He immediately began to scream "How do you dare to drug me, kidnap me and bring me here!? But do you know who am I? Or have you forgotten?" Trevor begins.

"Trust me, very soon no one will know anymore" you replied. His breathing was labored, his hair messed up falling in tufts in front of his face.

"Slut!" He shouted at you, still trying to squirm.

"It's useless for you to keep squirming, you can't free yourself. Much less scream, no one will hear you" You calculated her strength level and that of her friends, you were not stupid. If you had to kidnap someone, you had to do it right. As for the noise and its screams, you made sure to make sure your neighbors weren't there tonight. You called them informing them that their house had been invaded by rats and that tomorrow the disinfestation would solve the problem. Remember Mrs. Dolores' bewildered tone at that news, how she should have informed her husband and moved to her mother's house at least for the night. But after all, there was nothing to worry about! You were a good neighbor, you solved her problem in less than a few minutes. It would all be very sweet if only you hadn't concocted everything.

"Babe, this is insane! What are you doing?" Still his mind tries to realize if all this is a joke or reality.

"What you wanted Eds. I'm tired of you being treated like this, I can't stand by and watch"

Eddie tries to say something, but he can't "Let me understand... Did you two kidnap us just to get revenge?" He says it as if the whole thing were surreal, so much so that he laughs. Meanwhile, his friend, a few meters from him, looks at him with fear and concern. "Eddie the freak, ladies and gentlemen! You think you're scaring me piece of shit? Just because everyone calls you a satanist doesn't mean you have the balls to hurt me... you don't know what I'm going to put you through if you just dare to touch me" He threatens him.

"Don't listen to him Eddie"

"Of course! Don't listen to me, cover your ears. Otherwise, you might start crying. See if you let me go before I report you to the police and untie me!" He still shouts giving orders. Eddie seems paralyzed. Now he doesn't know what to do anymore. Follow the reason? To report you and run away? You approached him slowly. The wooden bat crawls on the floor.

"Remember what he did to you. What they did to you" you turned around him.

"Munson! I told you to untie me. What do you think you are doing there? Find an excuse to make amends?" Trevor was leaking with sweat, his veins on his neck were evident and his face red with rage.

"Remember your nightmares, where everything repeated itself and got worse" You brushed his shoulder with your nose. "Remember those who did not listen to you, who turned their backs on you"

"You're just a freak! You will be forever, useless and alone, with those nerdy loser drawings of yours!" He continues to scream non-stop. You could hear Eddie's heart beating even from a distance. This was the moment when the mind in front of an absurd decision tries to think of solutions, of the one where blood is not allowed. Too bad that the only solution was this. There would have been no way. People like Trevor had to be punished severely. "You don't have the balls to touch me, Munson! Remember! You're an ugly piece of shit, you're useless, like your friends-" He coughs. You could feel Eddie stiffen at those words, his teeth clenched, and his fists clenched. In this case, either he is still undecided and afraid, or he is considering silencing Trevor once and for all.

"Don't forget how no one came to your rescue-" you are interrupted by Trevor.

"-Like your pathetic family! useless pieces of shit! that's what you are!!" You have shaken your hand on the bat. If Eddie wasn't going to do anything, you would do it yourself. You would have no remorse. Meanwhile, the others who have recently woken up try to squirm in an attempt to free themselves. Others, like Chad, who flanked Trevor a few centimeters from him, watched the scene scared to death.

"You're pathetic! You don't deserve shit! See that you are dying! You both deserve to die!! Do you understand?" He screams and laughs at the time. He had gone completely crazy and your patience was reaching its limit.

"Eddie, if you don't do it-" He didn't give you time to finish the sentence, snatched the baseball bat from your hands and began beating Trevor violently. You watched him spill blood on the floor covered in plastic. Again, again and again. Trevor's head was slightly deformed, he may have broken his skull, as well as his jaw.

Trevor had bullied and mocked you since he arrived, sometimes Jason helped him, but he didn't participate so as not to be reprimanded by the teachers. He would snatch the notebooks in which you planned your next campaigns for the Hellfire, and when he wasn't satisfied he would take it out on your friends.

Eddie, covered in some blood, turns to Chad, gets dangerously close to him. Chad fidgeted and moaned something. For a moment Eddie seems to stop, as if thinking about it.

"You remember what Chad did, don't you?" You said behind his back. These words alone were enough to make him hit him as he had done with Trevor. And it went on like this until he killed everyone, one by one.

Chad in the gym made fun of you all the time for your physique, for how you didn't have a gymnastic body like theirs. He wrote to you on the locker room that your mother had given birth to a worm. This hurt you a lot, but not only because of the teasing about your physical appearance, but because of the bad jokes he made about your mother, who passed years ago, and the only one you loved more than anything.

More blood on the floor and broken bones.

Chester made sure to annoy you in the cafeteria when he was bored. He threw food at you, humiliated you in front of your friends and in front of the whole school. You once passed it off as a playful fight with food. Which had worked, but Chester and the others had also thrown the canteen trays at you, and he made sure to throw something sticky in your hair.

Eddie throws the neighbor's chair on the floor and starts beating him too until his shirt turns a very dark red.

Jackson used to remind you that you were different, not accepted by society and that you were a Satanist. He scribbled on your desk, threatened you and ordered you to kill yourself and throw you off a cliff. You spent mostly English lessons trying to ignore the bad things written on your desk.

It was the turn of the last, with the latter Eddie goes hard, because he stays at least an hour beating him and breaking the bones of his face and arms until he was completely tired.

Oliver at school filled your locker with rotten crap or chewing gum. But the worst thing was that it also targeted your house. It wasn't common, but at least once a week he would break a window or send you threatening letters in the mail, threatening you and your Uncle Wayne to leave Hawkins. He always wrote that poor stinking people like you did not deserve to live, but only to die in the middle of the street together with the homeless people.

Eddie walks away tired and throws the bat on the ground. Take labored, fast breaths. You approach slowly from behind him. Blood spread and painted the floor and the covered furniture. The scene was gruesome to say the least. Bodies beaten and with broken facial bones, some even carried serious injuries to the bones of the body. Eddie looks at his blood-stained hands. His pupils dilate, some of his eye capillaries are broken, giving him a bright red complexion. He was sweating, so much so that some of his hair had stuck to his forehead. He was shaking and began to sob. The realization. He understood the crime he had committed. He understood what had taken him.

"What did I do...?" he whispered to himself. Anxiety begins to devour him "I'm a monster..." Here is another step. Blame. Then soon there will be the phase of repentance, but nothing you couldn't manage.

"You're not Eds"

"Don't bullshit me Y/N!!" He screams, turning abruptly. You step back looking at his eyes no longer the ones they were before. "Look what I did!! I'm violent! I am-I am-" He begins to stammer and shed tears.

"Monsters are not born, they are made" you told him in a comforting tone "And these disgusting worms have just seen the monster they thought they saw. In this way they paid the consequences of their actions" Eddie stares at you as if he wanted to try to find meaning in your speech. "You are just a poor victim who because of them, because of their bullying, you crossed the line and exploded" you touched his hand and he for a moment portrays it.

"You..."

"I know what it means, Eddie, I've crossed the line in the past too. I went too far too" He doesn't seem to believe you, as if it were impossible for anyone to actually understand him. "Remember honey: I see you and I hear you. You won't have to hide with me" you told him with that sweet tone that he adores so much. This time you took his hand and he falls to his knees crying.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's all right love, I forgive you" you hug him savoring the metallic smell of blood. Eddie holds you close to him and you do the same.

"Don't cry honey, everything will be fine from now on. I'm with you. Why don't you go and take a nice shower while I clean everything up?" you advise him giving him several kisses from the neck to the cheek.

"Can you coming with me? Please?" he whispers to you.

"Of course my love. IYou can go in the meantime, I'll join you right away" He breaks away from the embrace and looks at you. You give him a sweet kiss on the lips and for a moment Eddie closes his eyes. He opens them.

He nods as you take away some tears with your thumb "Okay, I'll go" he says in a trembling voice, still shaken by what happened.

"Good boy, my Eddie." you praise him with a smirk. Eddie heads to the bathroom and you stand there in the middle of that massacre.

You were sorry to have reduced it like that, but it was the only way to finish it all and to make Eddie even more connected to you. If before you were his point of reference, now you are his only hope of life. Not to mention how it reduced Trevor and his friends. The blood, the broken bones, the lifeless eyes, the broken jaws and the deformed noses. What a sublime spectacle. It had been fascinating how suddenly Eddie had taken the bat and started a massacre. Here's what you meant by potential. If Eddie was capable of this, you couldn't imagine what else he was able to do. The demonstration that all human beings are capable of doing something, and for when it might sound good, like a speech that serves to inspire strength, it could actually take on dark and distorted tones. Tonight's could be defined as yet another mental breakdown. Where everything presents itself in front of you like a VHS recording that you can't stop watching. Honestly, you couldn't look anymore, it was too much, and after a thousand warnings the day of judgment had arrived.

You approached Trevor's dead body, blood still gushing from his mouth. She looked at him for a while and you smiled "I think Munson just killed you, I think he had the balls to hurt you" if only he could hear you! it would be a blast! you brushed against his raven hair "Look what you made him do... don't you think you've gone too far?" you whispered. If Trevor had the chance to hear you in the afterlife, well he had to know this. You heard the shower jet open and nonchalantly headed to the bathroom, ready to take care of Eddie.

[theres-a-body-here]

Darling~

Miguel O'Hara x Male!reader

Part 1 | Part 2 |

As Miguel slipped in and out of consciousness, he became vaguely aware of being dragged along the hallway by some unknown force. It wasn't until he regained some level of lucidity that he realized it was one of your black tendrils wrapped firmly around his ankle.

All around, the sounds of battle echoed - cries of pain and success melding together, only to become silence as you took him deeper into the structure's internal complex.

You hummed softly to yourself, navigating the maze-like corridors with ease while keeping Miguel close at hand

"V-Venom," Miguel managed to croak out, struggling against the paralyzing effects of Scorpion's poison coursing through his veins.

Continuing the journey deeper into the base, you cast a tender gaze upon Miguel. Your voice held a sickly sweet tone, gently whispering words meant for his ears alone.

"We've missed you so much, amor."

Miguel, however, was barely holding on, fighting back waves of nausea caused by the debilitating toxin coursing through his veins. He opened his mouth to respond, but only managed a pitiful moan in reply.

The sudden ceasing of movement rouses Miguel from his drowsy state just enough to notice you stopping in front of a door marked by a prominent medical symbol.

Everything became hazy again as your slimy, black tendrils went to work on breaking through the keypad lock securing entry.

Then, everything went black for Miguel…

~~~~~~~~~~

A low hum gradually filtered into Miguel's awareness, slowly awakening him from unconsciousness. He groggily blinked open his eyes, greeted by a harsh glare emanating from the sterile white ceiling above him.

Disoriented, he soon discovered he lay atop a cold metallic stretcher, rigid and unforgiving beneath him.

Grunting in discomfort, Miguel rolled his head to the side where a tray of medical supplies rested on wheels. Various syringes and vials occupied its surface, suggesting recent use.

Just as Miguel started to relax, a chillingly serene voice invaded his personal space.

"We were worried you wouldn't wake," you said nonchalantly, studying him with such intensity.

Startled, he whipped his head towards the source, finding you perched comfortably on another bed nearby.

Eyes locked onto yours, Miguel felt his blood run cold at your unsettling calmness – unmistakably predatory in nature.

An oppressive silence filled the space between you both, punctuated only by the relentless buzzing of fluorescent lights above.

Unsettling tranquility hung heavy in the air as you leaned forward expectantly, ready to continue your conversation.

"We hope you were dreami-"

However, before you could finish speaking, Miguel sprang into action. In one swift motion, he flung himself off the stretcher, grabbed its metal railing, and hurled the entire thing directly at you with impressive speed.

You remained entirely unfazed by the incoming projectile as long tendrils burst forth from underneath your clothing, effortlessly stopping the stretcher mere inches from your face.

Each individual strand contorted and flexed in unison, crushing and tearing into the metal structure with minimal effort before casting aside remnants like discarded waste material.

As quickly as it had begun, it ended; an eerie stillness hanging in the air.

Miguel was gone.

"Rude."

There was no anger in your tone - simply mild irritation tinged with disappointment.

~~~~~~~~~~

Miguel sprinted through the winding corridors without looking back, every fiber of his being urging him forward. Every muscle screamed in agony as he rounded corners and vaulted obstacles with newfound determination.

Eventually reaching the expansive hub of activity, he observed countless Spider-People working alongside each other, collectively pushing back against an overwhelming tide of evil forces.

Relief washed over him momentarily, replaced almost instantly by renewed determination - finding Spider-Byte and fixing The Go-Home-Machine was now mission critical.

~~~~~~~~~~

Suspended midair via tendrils looped around his neck, Hobgoblin gasped for breath while desperately thrashing around in random directions. His struggles proved futile against your iron grip; eyes bulging in terror as he looked at your calm expression.

You waved a photograph casually under his nose, tapping at the figure of Miguel. Two other figures were captured in the image, but they had been scratched out with sharpie in an erratic way.

"Have you seen him pass by?" You asked sweetly, casually flicking your wrist in a manner that tightened the hold slightly – eliciting a panicked yelp from the trapped villain.

With subtle adjustments to your grip, you allowed enough leeway for Hobgoblin to speak freely without fear of suffocation taking over completely.

His voice trembled as he stammered out his denial. "No, I swear! Never seen him!" He insisted, frantically shaking his head to emphasize sincerity.

You dismissed Hobgoblin's protests with a simple hum, signaling your skepticism but accepting his statement nonetheless.

You released Hobgoblin abruptly, your tendrils flinging him through the air until he collided with a nearby wall with bone-crunching force. Dust clouds rose as he slumped to the ground lifelessly.

Your attention shifted towards another hostage suspended upside down by your tendrils - a Western-style cowboy hat obscuring most of his face save for a pair of terrified eyes peering back at you warily through his red bandana.

"¿Y tú, arañanita?" you queried gently, pulling him closer while pressing the photograph up against his masked face for emphasis.

"Have you seen him?"

Unease etched across his features as he examined the snapshot showing Miguel's likeness within its borders. Despite attempts to hide his recognition behind a facade of stoicism, the slight twitch of his eyebrow revealed the truth.

He knows

"I don't even know who he is," he lied smoothly, maintaining composure despite the racing rhythm drumming through his body like wildfire.

Yet as his gaze met yours, fear gripped him fully as he saw a knowing look reflected in your irises and a faint smile gracing your lips.

You know

"We're in a hurry, so we'll make this quick," you murmured soothingly.

With those final words uttered, two thick tendrils snaked their way around his skull, muffling any protest that lingered on his tongue thereafter.

Within moments, the helpless cowboy found himself engulfed in complete darkness due to your suffocating grasp covering his face entirely.

His muffled cries grew louder but ultimately faded into the air of the isolated area.