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wastingprompts · 1 month ago

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CALL ME BACK

[Seraph’s Mixtape Event]

Yandere CEO Gojo Satoru x Fem Reader

WARNINGS: obsessive behaviors, coercion, depictions of anxiety, threats, weapons (blade and firearm), invasion of privacy, power imbalance, forced intimacy, mentions of past relationship problems. YANDERE/DARK CONTENT AHEAD, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. 2.5k words.

ALSO CONTAINS: mention of tokyo being the setting, some corporate terms that might've been switched up.

“If you get a minute call me back, I'm so lonely and you're the only one that knows me”

-Call Me Back, Chase Atlantic

24 missed calls from *unknown* number. Block [xxx-xxxx-xxx]? Cancel / [Confirm]

You once again woke up from a barrage of phone calls. It was the sixth this week, probably somewhere in the hundreds since the past few months, and the cutesy ringtone you carefully picked and recorded from a game was starting to sound more and more irritating. Unfortunately, you reckon that this will still occur tomorrow, completing the week’s seven days.

Ever since you broke up with Gojo Satoru, he hasn't stopped calling you.

From his old burner phones, new sim cards and even the phone booth down the road, all are used in an attempt to contact you. You've changed your numbers countless times, but for some reason, he always manages to find your new ones.

So you've settled for just manually blocking each and every new number of his, despite the pounding in your chest everytime you receive these calls. Knowing Gojo’s immense wealth, he's probably capable of buying new numbers and landlines everytime, so you have to just make-do of this situation.

If you were to tell yourself that this is how your relationship would end up, your past self would've laughed at your face.

There was a time where you're genuinely head over heels for Satoru, with his boyish grins and loving personality, he was basically the man of your dreams. He likes the same things as you do, geeked out over Digimon on your chats and is overall a sweetheart that's easy to sink into conversation with. One thing was that he's also the heir to a big corporation, something that younger you was in awe of.

Back then, the hopeless romantic soul in you did not believe that economic class affected how a person loves. You were just in love right? Doesn't matter what your background is.

But then disagreements arose. You were harshly reminded that rich people do not have the same worries as the lower class. It started small, with questions about your career choices and comments about your apartment. It became invasive next, with nudges of dropping your job and just marrying him to even buying out your old apartment complex in an attempt to make you live with him.

Something small in you wanted to just actually drop everything and run to him, but there was a nagging uneasiness that you felt way more. You tried explaining to him that you liked feeling productive, that you still have your childhood dreams to do, and that you'd prefer your relationship with the current pace it has, but the man just laughed and said ‘stupid, just let me take care of you.’

You left then, because you didn't like how it sounded, how fast and how suffocating his love feels — and how he showed you that dreaming is for the less fortunate because otherwise money would've made it real already.

★

You blocked his number again.

But Satoru just laughs, drops the phone, then presses the heels of his designer leather shoes down the screen until it cracks and gets crushed under pressure. He then looks down at the sorry state of what used to be a phone, brows furrowed like a god whose anger was incited by the thing.

The love of his life keeps pushing away his attempts of reconciliation so he hopes that the room around him would understand the chaos he'll bring, that was called for, he thinks.

You were his only love. When Satoru first met you in college, he was enamored. You are a breath of fresh air to be with, laughing at his weird side and letting him unwind his more hidden interests to you. You never chastised him for being a complete nerd over niche media or attending too many conventions, in fact you even joined along. You're the light of his boring life and he craves that shine so much.

By the time you were graduating, he was already planning your marriage and life, but then you suddenly left and he's been in shambles ever since.

His blue eyes land on a piece of paper that was brought to him two hours ago. An average startup company, nothing too special.

He has a very funny and special idea though.

★

A jarring announcement was raised on your workplace group chat when you looked at it during your breakfast.

Your company is going to have a merger with the biggest entertainment conglomerate in the country. At first you rubbed your eyes in disbelief because there is no way a startup like your workplace can simply shimmy its way to the big leagues that fast.

But to your horror, you realize just why a big name is so eager to form a deal with yours — it was the same one owned by the Gojo family, of course it's head being Satoru now.

How in the world did he know where you went after you resigned at your old job? But then again you realize that he even knows your new phone numbers so you just groaned loudly. You loathe this day coming, especially when the next announcement was about the official meeting between the two companies.

It’s impossible for him to not be there, and it’s not like he’ll miss the chance of seeing you again over anything else.

★

You were fiddling with your nails so much that you might just uproot it from your skin.

Gojo-fucking-Satoru is currently in front of a projector screen, explaining details of an investment he plans on doing.

Investment or whatever, you think, because you're having a hard time focusing now.

Not when his eyes are so laser-focused on you.

So you excuse yourself, a small ‘sorry, my vision is not doing great because of a headache’ to the secretary beside you, who understandably smiles and lets you go so easily.

You hunched down and beelined to the door. After you closed it, you breathed out a long sigh, tears threatening to fall. You continued to walk to the restrooms, where you finally sob into one of the cubicles.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You stayed in there for a few minutes, breathing in and out and plugging your earphones in to calm your senses. You didn't know why you felt so scared seeing him, you're not even sure if he's actually looking at you.

But then that was answered when you heard a fairly loud knock at your cubicle.

“You in there, sweetheart?”

You breath hitches and you let out an almost croaking sound, which makes the knocking even stronger. He actually cut that meeting out and went after you, god.

He cancelled an entire meeting over you, just to chase after you and who knows what else. The millions worth of this investment is just a tool for him to insert himself back to your life. Your eyes water when you hear the door of the restroom close.

“Go away.”

“What's wrong first, the secretary told me you're having vision problems.”

Oh god, he sounded like he did back then, when you were so blissfully unaware of his tendencies, when everything about the two of you are still in a rose-colored tint.

“Satoru, do you seriously not have any idea what's wrong right now?”

You don't get a response from that for a while.

“Lovely, please, can we talk? You keep blocking me. I can explain.”

“Explain what? That you've been terrorizing your poor ex who clearly has cut off things with you, please don't even start.”

“I can't lose you, please”

You open your cubicle, just as he was about to reach out to you, you storm towards the door, unlocking it without sparing him a glance, with the same force you close it to his face.

How unfortunate for you, because Gojo Satoru is too high up in his skyscrapers and too deep down in his obsession to ever see you from eye to eye. To him, he cannot lose you, and that's what only matters.

For Gojo Satoru is not used to losing what's his.

★

One minute you could be on your way home from work, then another minute the shareholder of your company is chasing you down the barren streets of Tokyo with an odachi at hand.

If you were to be very specific, the CEO that invested in your company four days ago who's also your ex-boyfriend is seemingly marching your way with a peculiar odachi blade in his hand

Compared to normal odachi, the blade of this one is pitch black, with red and blue intertwining dragons embossed in a shiny finish. It looks like something out of an anime you both loved watching and if you're not literally running for your life, you might've paused and stared at the way lights of neon signages reflect on them.

Honestly, it fits the Gojo Satoru you've known, for he is not one to settle for common things. It needs his own touch, it needs to be his alone because Gojo Satoru does not share his world with anyone.

And unfortunately for you, like that odachi — he has decided that you belong only to him, and like the colors in that blade, he will make sure that everyone who looks at you will know of the fact.

“Oh come on now, not even a hug for your dearest boyfriend?”

The man approaching you finally speaks, there's a playful tone in his voice, as if he's not currently holding a weapon and striding your way with it.

“Shut the hell up Gojo, we're over for like who knows how long now! You don't… you don't get to just come at me with a weapon and expect to be back together!” You did your best to retort at his words, but the shakiness of your voice betrays you.

“Aww, but I never agreed to that! You need the opinion of both parties to make that decision. Also it's Satoru for you, remember?” Gojo laughs, you look back at him and see his hand that carries the blade suddenly raises and you flinch.

Keep running, keep running, keep running.

“You hurt my feelings darling, I thought we had something big but you seemed to avoid me everytime, have you moved on that fast? Was everything we shared just nothing to you?” There was a sad tone to the way he speaks, if you knew better, you'd probably believe him.

But this is Gojo Satoru and you're not taking any chances at being caught back in his web.

“Just- just go away please… we're done already. Please, please just go away.” You cannot stop your emotions from getting out. All you wanted was to go home and go on with your life, but this man had decided to ruin all that just for his own whims.

“I can't.”

Your blood runs cold at his declaration. You tried running faster, but unfortunately you're against the Gojo Satoru. A loud bang ruptured in the quiet night, and in your horror, you realize it's from a firearm, possibly a sniper.

“We promised forever.”

Gojo Satoru needs to have his own touch to things, so the maniac he is, hired snipers to scare you. It dawns on you, that only a powerful man like him can pull off something like this.

To someone like you, no less.

Stunned with the sudden sound, it gave much leeway for Satoru to catch up to you. He hugs you from behind, kissing the crown of your head while swaying both your bodies. His breaths are becoming more labored each time, as his hand — the one with the blade, slightly raises to your neck.

“We promised forever, so we'll go forever. You know I don't go back on my promises. We had so much planned and you just fucking left, you can't just do that, you cant, you can't, you can't…” Satoru sputters as he clings to you. You might be going crazy with all that's happening, but you think he's on the verge of crying.

Your mind is going blank. You have no clue how to get out of a situation where your deranged and powerful ex-boyfriend is relentlessly clinging to you while threatening you with weapons.

You don't know where things are headed, so on a last ditch effort, you whispered words that you're not sure you meant.

“Gojo… since nothing is getting through that head of yours and you're so hell-bent on threatening me like this… why not just do it? Do it, kill me, hide my body in a ditch somewhere and maybe you might be able to move on.”

You are so scared, so so scared. What could a man who's less than sane could do with those words?

Your fear increased tenfold when you felt him increase his grip on you. The hug he has you on is now painful, like he's trying to squeeze you until you spill your guts out.

And then you feel tears on your shoulder.

Tears…?

“No… nonono what went wrong? How can you say that? Is dying better than going back to me… you don't even call me Satoru anymore! Don't you love me?” He was now mindlessly prattling on. There were tears in his eyes that are now staring at you blown wide open.

“Ahh I can't kill you, I can't. I love you, I love you so much,” he said as turned his head to your ears, kissing and biting at your earlobes in between breaths. Suddenly he whispered again, “but I can kill for you.”

Your heart drops and you feel goosebumps on your skin. No way, no way he would do that right?

But then again, you knew all too well what kind of man you're involved with.

Satoru suddenly bursts out laughing, the sudden change in emotion makes you flinch. It's the kind that lasts what felt like so long, he was heaving by the time he was done.

“I only wanted them for the surprise factor, but I guess I can use them in other ways. So… darling since you're acting so stubborn, I’m gonna have to up the stakes here, each time you say no or disagree I’ll have one of my men shoot a passerby.”

Fuck.

“So, let me bring you to the car, go back to our home and we'll talk, yeah?”

You stand there, frozen. Gojo can kill, he will kill. He's untouchable by the system and he probably owns this entire area, CCTVs included. Your quiet response has Satoru in a smile, he drags your body back to a sports car he probably bought just for this occasion, the blade still painfully close to your neck.

For all his barbaric ways earlier, he actually brings you down to the plush seats gently. You also thought that maybe there's a driver and you'll feel less alone with the blue-eyed monster but to your disappointment, he sat down at the driver’s seat.

When the door closes, instead of starting the car, Satoru suddenly lunges at you, trapping your body. His teary eyes bore into you, his entire body trembling.

“I didn't like that darling, I can't stand the thought of losing you, you're mine. Whatever the problem is we'll fix it, I'll be good, I swear! And if you say you don't love me anymore…” His lips connect with yours, the kiss is rough, almost manic. You're losing your breath when he finally stops then continues,

“We'll fix that too, okay?”

[seraph's notes]: can you guys tell i like writing chasing and yearning scenes, i hope you can tell because there will be more-

jk u didn't hear that from me... or did you?

want more? check out the [database.] for other content!

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wastingprompts · 1 month ago

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tw yandere ideas

somethings that I'd love to read

• giving it up to a insistent coworker/classmate or something only for him to become a yandere over a one night stand (this has probably been done, but I like the aspect of the yandere thinking he is normal about it only to lose it when reader,,, let's say,,, leave before he wakes up, try to be casual between their friends,,, is flirty with others in front of them

• freak toxic reader gong wild over a yandere who has aced manipulation his whole life (he's thinks he's in control~) but can't fool reader and they drive him crazy, make him whine, throw tantrums, cry, disheveled and bloodshot eyes begging for reader to love him — not because he wants to manipulate her but because he doesn't care if they won't love him for real,,,, all he want is a crumble of her attention. he has to be a bottom for reader. reader as unhinged as possible, please

• just a cunning reader for once

• reader with no morals but still unwilling, like, reader who just has a personal style (they're so quirky jk). basically is not bc they are yandere, reader just won't live for someone else, they just won't entertain small talk and cordial convos,,, with yandere (they're mentally ill but try to be kind, probably just cold with yandere bc they have fun seeing how far they go for the bare minimum

• just depressed for almost two decades reader who most of the manipulation just won't work. threatening close people? reader is so fucking disconnected and isolated that she gets relieved with one less acquaintance or even friend or family — fucked up one already thought she was unloved anyway, they'll find a loophole to not feel guilty about it, it'snot like they are going to move one, they are just so hopeless for so long— ,,, torturing? reader doesn't mind no eating bc they cant taste shit; doesn't mind isolation bc love solitude; pain is whatever, physical or psychological reader just pushes through,,, death? lol maybe thet are a coward and won'tdo it themselves, but it's not like they wouldn't welcome it,, reader might even use it all as threats to yandere just so they could get some space,, like yeah mf you thought I was an easy prey but you see just how far the lack of self preservation and self-love goes

• now bare with me,,,: filthy rich popular kid but social butterfly golden boy yandere,,, with kind of aloof, indifferent reader that wants to be normal. it's not like reader doesn't try to be interested they even act interested in people a lot of times and that makes people very appreciative of them bc they can see how kin they try to be despite what is probably a distant nature. reader isn't manipulative by any means, they just try to go by, go unnoticed but not isolating themselves. just trying to not get in anyone's way & the yandere just get bothered by the smiles that doesn't reach the eyes — not in a depressed way,, just not genuinely interested —,,,,, how the small talks aren't stretched out to a maximum in hopes for an acquaintance status that will lead to an invitation of something exclusive,,,, how things are kept exclusively objective —in a educational or professional environment — with some dressing of friendliness,,, how, although awkward, reader knows how to fake spontaneity and don't know how the yandere's observant eyes get affected by the nonchalant touches reader practices on everyone,,, reader who smiles and nod in acknowledgement when passing by,,, yandere isn't popular for nothing, he knows how to read people and he can read reader, yandere just can't accept reader see him just as another person to try to fool — reader isn't trying to fool anyone, just wants peace T_T

bonus points IF

• golden boy blackmail reader for closeness. kind of wholesome if golden boy blackmail reader for them to be his sugar buddy. in his head, he will spoil the mf, he will make them happy despite that not being reader's goal in their worldview. reader think there isn't more to life? he will prove them wrong. it can work. he can love the indifference out of them. it can be cute. if reader opens up, they might stay friends or even start dating

• now if reader keeps her distance he will get greedy. he won't rest until reader let him in and if reader doesn't consider him important he will make himself vital to them. he will break their mind if necessary, change their brain chemistry if it means he will get closer to them or even be in control. he will break them and glue their pieces back together but with him locked inside so they can never look at him in a unreadable way, he will tell how they look at him and it'll be with undisputed and undivided attention, full of love or fear.

• he will flee the country and abandon all his golden boy persona or heir 'responsabilities' if it help him take care of his darling

• the greediness might be enough for a blackmailing in a sexual relationship. the classic. starts as forced "fwb" and then yandere just go to the dogs and baby trap fem!reader while selling the ultimate love story led to beautiful family for others just for funsies, and he may or may not believes it himself

• golden boy gone creepy yandere with light sucked out of his eyes, zombie like, only ever looking alert when reader is in the proximity, the once bright boy now only has significant facial expressions if reader is around, even worse if she is close to him. people don't like to be around him when he is around reader =○

• this golden boy gone creepy yandere forcing a closeness with reader. just an oppresive, of dubious consent constant proximity. he finds a way of them to live with him, to drive her around, to sit by him, to sit on him, to sit on him while being fed by him as he eyes seemingly never close, forever watching her closely. suddenly becoming her shadow, even creeping others by how absurdly desperate he is to be next to them. neglecting his own well-being, shamelessly devoted to reader and uncaring for others. shocking everyone by how he seems to live off reader's attention. people never see him taking care of any physiological need, they don'teven know if they get worried, scared or suspicious of reader. reader in my head loves this the most. the worshipping without crossing the usual lines might be the one who really gets her going.

#avery prompts #story prompts #writing prompt #prompts #yandere prompts #yandere imagines #yandere community #tw yandere

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wastingprompts · 1 month ago

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I made a really long post about gojo when I was traveling and the internet fucked me up and now it's gone.

But basically, I was reading an isekai'd reader x yandere jjk and started thinking about a isekai'd reader with bad self-esteem and for some reason she is forced to be somber in the already dark reality and circumstances

like, for some reason she has her mind made-up that she can't change anything there and goes helaena from hotd on everyone who gets interested in her, probably in response to the whole isekai'd mary sue plot armor thing (she can't believe their interest and I think that strengthens the yandere aspect),,, it wouldn't change anything to an intrigued gojo,,, who at first laughs it off but starts to get more and more bothered by how unwilling she is in form a true bond

now, the self-esteem issue is because much like me, hence why my mind started thinking this, the idea that gojo would go yandere over, let's say, lil' ol' me, is stupid, because the guy is the strongest and although mostly nice, why would he think a random person is on his level? even more so, when the guy had geto,,, but he might go yandere over reader because he is scared to lose someone he deems important and because he can't accept that, according to reader, his future is already written out and there's nothing he can do to change it,,, not when he is the honored one

If someone gets the slightest interest in this and want to write something based on it, please, lemme now and I'll eat that shit up.

#avery prompts #story prompts #writing prompt #prompts #yandere prompts #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru imagines #tw yandere

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wastingprompts · 3 months ago

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The App (2)

Three weeks. Two burner phones. One frenzied apartment change. That was all it took for you to start believing you were free.

You’d torched every digital breadcrumb like a fugitive with blood on their hands. The old phone? In pieces. Your social media? Wiped clean, like a crime scene bleached of evidence. The new number came from a prepaid device you bought with cash at a rundown gas station two towns over—right next to a place that sold fireworks and pickled eggs. You told no one but your family where you’d gone, and even then, you didn’t tell them why.

The apartment was smaller than the last one. Claustrophobic, maybe, but it had good bones: thick walls, double deadbolts, and a front desk guy named Marcus who treated unknown visitors like they were walking lawsuits. Most nights, you even slept through without scanning the corners for shadows that moved too smoothly, too human, but not quite enough.

For a moment, a fleeting, fragile moment, you believed you'd done it. That you’d outrun Raye.

And then the books started arriving.

The first one came five days after you finally began to settle in. No envelope, no Amazon box. Just a dog-eared romance novel—The Billionaire’s Forbidden Love—resting right in front of your door like an orphaned pet. Shirtless dude on the cover, a woman swooning like her bones had gone soft. You laughed, briefly. Then you saw the neon-yellow highlighting, thick and uneven like it had been applied with too much pressure:

“You can run, my love, but you cannot escape destiny. What belongs to me will always find its way home.”

You didn’t laugh after that. You pitched it into the alley dumpster and double-locked the door. Then you added a chair under the knob, just like your dad taught you.

The next day, the second book showed up. But this time, it was inside. Sitting right on your pillow. The highlighted passage was even worse:

“He watched from afar, memorising every pattern, every habit. True love required study, devotion, and pursuit. She would understand, eventually, that his persistence was the purest expression of his feelings.”

You tore the place apart. Every lock, every latch, every inch of ductwork. The windows were sealed, the cameras at the front desk had nothing. No one but you had come in.

By the end of the week, you had seventeen books. Seventeen. Titles like – Surrendering to the Shadow King and The Possessive Duke’s Darling. And they kept appearing in places they had no business being. One in your refrigerator, its pages damp with condensation. One stuffed between your clean towels. One curled like a sleeping dog in your shower caddy.

Each with its own highlighted passage about destiny, ownership, and love sharpened into obsession.

You considered calling the police. Then you thought about what that call would sound like: Hello, officer? I’m being stalked by a man who may not be a man and who communicates exclusively via bodice-rippers. Yeah. That’d go over well.

Then came a knock.

You crept to the peephole, half-expecting a nightmare in a human suit. But it was Mrs. Abernathy, your octogenarian neighbor with a floral scarf and a fondness for raisin cookies.

“You have a package, dear,” she called sweetly. “Special delivery.”

You cracked the door just enough to peer out. “I didn’t order anything.”

Her eyes didn’t look quite right. Too glassy, like someone had forgotten to switch them on all the way. Her smile stretched a bit too wide, like someone had drawn it there with a knife.

“Oh, I know,” she said, waving a small wrapped parcel. “That lovely boy Raye asked me to bring it. He showed me pictures. Said you were engaged. Such a devoted young man!”

You slammed the door like it was a guillotine. Locked everything. Heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ribs.

Through the wood, her voice came again, but it had a different flavor now—tinny, mechanical, like it had been routed through a bad speaker. “He asked me to tell you he’s learned from his mistakes. Movies were poor research materials. He’s found much better guides now.”

You didn’t say a word. Eventually, her steps shuffled away.

You should’ve been gone by then. Should’ve run. But something—foolish hope, or maybe just fear—kept you rooted to that spot. That night, the package still showed up.

You found it on your kitchen counter. Inside was a leather-bound journal. Handmade. Not a book but a log. Each page was filled with razor-precise handwriting—cold, methodical, obsessive. A surveillance diary.

It catalogued your life: what time you left for work, what you ordered for lunch, who you spoke to, how long your showers lasted. Some entries even had photos. From behind bushes. Across the street. Through windows. They dated back months before you ever met him.

The final page was in red ink, as if written in something warmer than pen:

“I have identified the errors in my courtship approach. Fiction is an incomplete source for behavioural protocols. I have been observing actual human mating behaviours and have identified more successful strategies. Persistence is key.”

“I have instead been consulting superior information repositories that your species calls Reddit, 4chan, and various forums dedicated to "game." I have also analysed dating advice blogs and YouTube channels dedicated to human mating strategies.”

“The consensus is clear: females respond to what humans designate as "alpha" behaviour. One must "hold frame" and employ "negging" and "dread game." The courtship requires what your species terms 'pushing past last-minute resistance”. I will begin again tomorrow. You will find my improvements satisfactory.”

You didn’t read any further. You just grabbed your things, left the apartment, and checked into a hotel the furthest from your apartment.

You didn’t care anymore. The world you thought you knew had slipped away, and now you were just running, your phone buried in the lining of your suitcase. At dawn, your eyes opened to a rose on the pillow beside you.

Your phone buzzed, though it was supposed to be off. You checked it. The app was back.

A single message blinked at you like an open eye:

Good morning. I have located your temporary nest. Your evasion techniques are impressive but unnecessary. I now understand that pursuit and resistance are part of the dance. This is biology. I will perform correctly this time. I am upgrading for you.

You didn’t even stop to brush your teeth. You didn’t bother packing. You didn’t bother trying to reason with yourself. You checked out of there in a flash, running down the hotel hall, looking for an exit; a chance to breathe without Raye’s presence closing in on you like a vice.

You burst into the morning air, your breath clouding in the cold as you stumbled into the streets. The first taxi you spotted felt like a lifeline, and you threw yourself into it without thinking twice.

The driver was an old man—silver hair combed neatly, liver spots on his hands, eyes soft and wet like a dog’s. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror and smiled, a slow,little smile.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice gravelly and warm, the kind of voice you think should come bedtime stories.

“Train station.” Your voice was high, tight. “Please hurry.”

The cab pulled out with a gentle lurch.

“Bad morning?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the window and pressed yourself against the door. You stared out the window, your heart was still punching your ribs. You thought if you stayed quiet, maybe you could disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t find you.

“Boyfriend trouble?” the old man asked, trying to make it sound harmless.

You swallowed. That word—boyfriend—curled in your throat like something rotten. “Why do you care?” you asked, too sharp.

He fell silent.

The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering signs, streets that all looked like they were exhaling their last breath. Then you realized something was off. A left turn when it should’ve been right. A street you didn’t recognize. You sat up, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

“Sir? Did you hear me?”

Still nothing. The cab made another turn. Left. Not toward the bus station. Not toward anything you recognised.

“Hey! Sir this isn't where the train station is,” you repeated, the chill of dread sliding under your skin like ice water. “You’re going the wrong way?”

The driver’s voice came again, but it had changed. Just slightly. Too measured. Too... calculated.

“Creating uncertainty increases emotional dependence,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“The literature states that unpredictable environments produce deeper attachments.”

You reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

You yanked this time. Still locked - child locks. Of course.

Your stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless lake. You turned back to the driver, heart hammering. “Let me out,” you said. “Now.”

“The manuals suggest limiting options increases compliance,” he says, smooth as ice, still not looking at you.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. No signal. Useless. You pounded the window, screaming. “Let me the hell out!”

The taxi sped up, turning down a quieter road—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, warehouses that haven’t been used in decades. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one finds out until it’s too late.

In desperation, you looked at the driver, ready to plead, threaten, whatever it took—and froze. In the rearview mirror, where the old man's eyes should have been reflected, there was nothing. Just empty space.

As if sensing my realization, the driver's face rippled. Like wax left too close to a fire, the old man melted away. The silver hair receded, the wrinkles smoothed. And what’s left was him.

Raye.

His familiar, too-perfect face stared back at you from the mirror, his expression neutral, observant.

“Was the old man's disguise inadequate?” he asks, genuinely curious, like a scientist observing a mouse that bit back. “I modeled it after ‘trustworthy archetypes.’”

“You... you.. just, let me out,” you said, quieter now. Not because you’re calm, but because you were trying to be. “Please.”

“Your heart rate has increased,” he noted. “The forums suggest this indicates attraction, yet your verbal cues suggest aversion.”

His head tilted. That same goddamn tilt you remembered from your first and last date.

“The data remains inconsistent.”

“Well, gee, perhaps the reason for that is because you are kidnapping me!” You saw the road slipping past. Warehouses and rusted fences blurring by. You tried to memorize every turn. Useless. You knew it was useless..

“Your cultural narratives celebrate pursuit after rejection. They frame perseverance as romantic despite the ethics and laws. Is this your attempt at stimulating narrative tension? Are you playing, as your people say, hard to get?”

You were shaking now. Not from fear—but from thr hot, boiling pit simmering inside you. “They’re written by people who want control, not connection. Hell, do you even understand what you're reading?” You said, breath trembling, “You have no damn idea, do you?”

He processed that. You can see him processing it. "The research is indeed inconsistent." The cab had slowed now, creeping down a service road lined with oleander bushes, their pink flowers drooping like exhausted dancers. "I calculated the most efficient approach based on available data.. the forum posts with the highest engagement metrics suggested—"

"Shut up wbout your stupid data! You don't know anything about love!" I gestured at the surroundings; the locked doors. "This - what you're doing - just creates fear. Not love.”

Raye's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just slightly. The knuckles went white, then translucent, something that looked like starlight filtering through fog.

"I have exonerated my sources. I have watched 689 romantic films," he continued, voice carrying a new edge like glass scraping against glass. "Read 447 romance novels. Monitored 432 relationship advice forums. Observed—"

"OBSERVED!" You were shouting now, past caring. "That's all you do, isn't it? Watch and copy and calculate, but you've never felt a goddamn thing in whatever passes for your life. You never experienced love in your life."

The cab jerked to a stop.

In the terrible silence that followed, your own breathing, ragged and harsh, ricocheted in your ears. Raye's reflection had gone perfectly still. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — quieter, with a sound like distant rain.

"You are... correct. I have no experiential database for the emotion you call love. Only... approximations. Simulations." His head tilted, that familiar gesture now seeming disappointed rather than curious. "The inconsistencies in human behaviour patterns suggest an underlying complexity I failed to accurately model."

Something changed in the air. The child locks clicked open.

"If love cannot be calculated or observed from the outside," he said, still facing forward, "then my research methodology is fundamentally flawed."

I didn't hesitate. My fingers were on the handle, my foot hitting the cracked asphalt before my brain could catch up. I was already running, but his final words followed me down that empty road: "I will... recalibrate. Begin new research. Attempt to understand the variables I overlooked."

For three days, there were no books, no messages, no signs of Raye. You began to hope that perhaps you had crashed his reasoning, created a logic loop he couldn't resolve.

Then on the fourth morning, you found a book on my new kitchen table in yet another new apartment that no one should have known about. It wasn't a romance novel this time, but a philosophy text opened to a passage about identity. A note had been paper-clipped to the page, written in that same mechanically precise handwriting:

"I purged the corrupted data. Your internet contains many viruses of thought. I will observe more carefully now, without intervention. When I understand the paradox, I will return."

"The designation "fiancé" was premature. The designation "researcher" was inadequate. I find no human words for what has transpired between us. Thank you for identifying the error in my programming. I will experience love."

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wastingprompts · 3 months ago

Text

who does this mf thinks they are to write something so good? wtf????? this is much better written than many suspense movies' script????????

The App

It started with the app.

You never downloaded it. You never saw it download. It just appeared on your phone one grey Tuesday afternoon nestled between your weather app and your calendar like it had always belonged there. It wasn't sleek or modern but oddly anachronistic, with an interface that reminded you of Windows 95 and an icon that seemed to shift slightly when you weren't looking directly at it.

"TrueMate" it was called, in soft pink font, glowing gently, innocuous. You told yourself it must’ve come from an ad you accidentally clicked. Maybe during that 3 a.m. scroll through horror subreddits or that article on cursed love letters.

You should have deleted it immediately. Instead, you shrugged. Curiosity is always the first thread pulled. You opened it. You swiped once and that was all it took.

"Match found," the screen declared without requiring a profile, photo, or even your name.

Just one match: Raye.

Just Raye, no last name, new to the area. Picture: pale skin, high cheekbones, lips too red, eyes too dark. His profile picture had an uncanny quality to it, as if several photographs had been mercilessly stitched together by an algorithm with unusual ideas about human faces.

Then, a message pinged from Raye:

Hello. I would like to meet you.

Yoy should have closed the app. Instead, you found yourself typing back:

That's a bit forward. You don't even know me.

I know you are the one I want to meet. Tomorrow? Coffee? I have researched the proper courtship ritual. I will arrive with flowers. You will be impressed.

The oddness of his phrasing made you smile. A foreigner, perhaps, or someone on the spectrum with an endearing directness?

He picked the café. It was one of those cosy tucked-away places with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu filled with ironic puns.

Raye greeted you the next day. You weren’t catfished at least - he was tall and almost aggressively ordinary, with a face you'd forget while still looking at it. His suit was impeccable but somehow wrong—like it had been chosen by carefully studying magazine ads without understanding context. He clutched a bouquet of flowers that still had the price tag attached.

"These are for you," he announced at a volume slightly too loud for the quiet café. "I have purchased the traditional courtship flora."

You accepted them with murmured thanks, noticing how his fingers seemed to bend at odd angles when he released the stems.

"I have secured beverages and circular sweet bread items. Please sit so we may progress to the next stage," he said, watching you with unblinking eyes.

You chatted. It was normal. Almost. Raye had opinions about everything that seemed quoted directly from somewhere else—movie reviews, political commentaries, song lyrics—all delivered with the same intense sincerity. He laughed exactly three seconds after you made jokes, his head tilting at precisely the same angle each time. When he reached for his coffee, his movements were fluid but somehow rehearsed, as if he'd practised in front of a mirror.

"Your species fascinates me," he said after you mentioned your job.

"My species of [your job]?" You replied with a laugh.

"Yes. That." He leaned forward suddenly. "I have observed that after the initial meeting comes the small talk, then the revealing of childhood traumas, then the physical connection. We have completed two stages. Tell me about your childhood disappointments."

Something in his expression made you change the subject to movies instead. His knowledge was encyclopedic yet strangely hollow, as if he'd memorized IMDB entries without watching the films.

"You enjoy stories where humans overcome obstacles and form mating bonds," he observed.

"That's one way to describe romantic comedies, I suppose."

His eyes seemed to recalculate something. "Yes. Human romantic comedies. I enjoy them as well, as a human."

The conversation continued like that for an hour—moments of almost-normality interrupted by statements just odd enough to make you wonder if you was being pranked. But there was something compelling about Raye's attention, the way he absorbed your words as if they were precious.

You were halfway through your drink when, with the abruptness of someone following a script to the letter, he placed his hand on yours and said:

"Let's get married."

You choked. Tea went up your nose. “Sorry, what!?” you said, coughing and wiping your mouth.

Confusion flickered across his face, and his eyes had gone completely flat. "What do you mean? I'm not a stranger anymore," he said, his voice modulating into something softer. "I'm your fiancé. I just proposed."

The café seemed to grow quieter, the background noise fading. You pulse quickened as you pulled your hand away.

"There must be some misunderstanding - that's not how anything works - this is our first date. We literally met like an hour ago. People date for months, years even, before getting engaged."

"Incorrect," Raye replied, producing a small notebook from his pocket. He flipped through pages filled with what looked like screenshots. "In 'The Proposal,' Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds become engaged after knowing each other for 3 years, 2 months as work colleagues. But in 'Leap Year,' Amy Adams decides to propose after 4 years of dating. In 'Sweet Home Alabama,' they were married in childhood. And in 'The Bachelor,' multiple women compete for one marriage proposal in a matter of weeks." He looked up triumphantly. "The data is inconsistent. I have chosen the most efficient option."

Something cold slithered down your spine. "Are you... quoting movies to me?"

"I have conducted extensive research on human mating rituals," he said, tilting his head at that familiar angle. "I have watched 247 romantic comedies, 183 dramas involving romance, and 62 reality television shows about finding mates. I have identified the pattern. First meeting, then coffee, then proposal. We are proceeding correctly."

"That's not real life. Those are stories, fantasies."

His expression shifted again, this time to something you couldn't quite place—disappointment mixed with the concentration of someone recalibrating complex calculations.

"I see. I have misunderstood." He blinked rapidly. "Then we must proceed to the next step where one of us runs through an airport to prevent the other from leaving, or perhaps stands outside with a music-playing device held overhead, or perhaps, we should wait for it to rain and exchange a kiss-”

That's when you noticed his reflection in the window behind him—or rather, the place where his reflection should have been. Instead, there was a shimmer in the air, vaguely human-shaped but rippling like heat waves off summer asphalt.

"What are you?" You whispered.

"I am Raye," he said with a smile that showed too many teeth. "I selected this name because it contains 50% of the same letters as 'mate.' I have been studying humans for what you would measure as 3.2 Earth years. You are the first specimen I have selected for my personal research."

He reached across the table again, his fingers elongating slightly as they approached mine. "The app was merely a formality. I have been observing you for 76 days. You are perfectly ordinary, which makes you extraordinarily perfect."

You stood up so quickly your chair clattered to the floor. "I need to go."

"Are you…rejecting me?” He tilted his head, frowning. "I have proposed marriage. You are supposed to say yes after initial reluctance. That is how the story proceeds."

"This isn't a movie, Raye."

"No," he agreed, "Movies end. What I propose is much more permanent."

As you backed away, heading for the door, Raye remained seated, watching you with those unblinking eyes. Just before you reached the exit, your phone chimed with a notification.

A new message in the app that shouldn't exist: The courtship ritual is not complete. We will try again with the correct sequence. I have much to learn, and you are the perfect teacher.

You deleted the app the moment you got home. It reappeared the next morning—nestled between weather and calendar, as if it had always belonged there. Because of course it did!

(Because for some beings, a story doesn't end until they understand the proper way to tell it. And Raye seemed determined to get this story right. However, many revisions it might take.)

next chapter

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