yanderslutt

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 16 -- Let Me Remind You Who You Belong To

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

Your thighs still ache. Not sore. Not bruised. Marked.

You shift under the covers, blinking at the soft light streaming through your apartment window. The world outside is moving—birds, buses, people with normal lives. People who don’t wake up breathless, trembling, soaked with memories they can’t wash off.

“Say it.” His voice is still in your ear. Like he left it there on purpose.

You close your eyes. And it comes back all at once.

The way his tongue moved like he already knew you—every secret, every nerve ending. The way his fingers held you open like you were something to be studied. Worshipped. Owned.

You squeeze your legs together. Stupid. Stupid. It makes it worse.

You throw the blankets off. Pad barefoot into the kitchen like movement will save you. Coffee. That’s what you need. Something real. Something not him.

You avoid the mirror. Because if you look, you’ll see what he did to you. You’ll see the flush still on your chest. The softness in your eyes.

You’re still wearing his scent.

Your phone buzzes. Shinso.

Shinso: “Did you see the updated rotation? Aizawa’s name is on your independent review panel.” “You good?”

You stare at the screen. Independent review panel. Your thesis. He’s going to be reading it. Judging it. Watching you unravel on paper the way you already have in his hands.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your breath is shallow now, fingers trembling as they hover over your screen. You lock it. Set it down. But your body is already hot again. Needy. Desperate.

You clench your thighs. It’s not working.

You press your palms to the counter. Try to breathe. Try to remember why you hate him.

Because he’s obsessive. Because he knows too much. Because he doesn’t ask permission.

But then again… You didn’t tell him to stop.

And worse—your body still wants more.

You gasp when your own hand drifts down—not to explore—just to quiet. But even the press of your palm between your legs makes you whimper.

His name is there too.

You sink to the kitchen floor.

You try not to let it happen. Try to stay in control. But all you can see is the way he looked at you. Like you were prey. Like he was going to devour you every time he got the chance.

You don’t slide your hand beneath your panties. Not right away. You press your thighs together, desperate to pretend this isn’t happening. But your hips tilt. Your breath hitches. Your mind spirals.

You on his desk. His voice in your ear. “You’re mine.”

You can still taste him.

And then your hand moves.

Slow. Shameful. Trembling.

You’re crying and wet and he’s not even here, but he’s got his mouth on you anyway—in your head, in your pulse, in your bones.

You pant his name when you finish. Not because you meant to. Because you can’t stop.

Silence follows. Then shame. Then want. Still.

You curl your legs up to your chest. He’s inside you, and he didn’t even have to touch you this time.

And now?

Now you have to walk into that university. Sit in that room. Watch him act like nothing happened.

Or worse… Watch him pretend it’s happening again.

-

The first thing you notice is that her name is missing from the schedule.

Professor Kayama. Midnight. Gone.

The syllabus says she’s on leave. “Family matters.” Temporary replacement pending. That’s all you’re told.

You sit near the back of the lecture hall—coffee in hand, hoodie drawn tight, laptop open and barely used. You’re tired. You’re overstimulated. You’re still coming down from him—from Aizawa, from that night, from your thighs clenching in the dark while his name echoed in your mouth.

So when the door opens, and Keigo Takami steps through—

—you nearly choke.

Blonde. Smirking. Loosened collar and too-bright eyes. That signature walk. That same scent—spice, aftershave, arrogance—follows him like a storm cloud.

He’s in a button-down and navy slacks. No wings today. No hero uniform. He looks... casual.

But there’s nothing casual about the way he finds your face in the crowd.

Like he knew you’d be here.

“Professor Kayama’s asked me to step in while she’s away,” Hawks says, lips curled into a practiced grin. “Temporary contract. Still figuring out where the chalk is, so bear with me.”

A few students laugh. Your stomach drops.

He turns toward the whiteboard. The marker squeaks.

“The Ethics of Image Versus Intention: How Far Can a Hero Go?”

You stare. You grip your desk. You burn.

He speaks with rhythm—smooth and casual, like he’s still doing press tours. His tone is playful, charming, animated. He paces like he owns the floor.

But he keeps coming back to you.

“Heroes are storytellers. You know that, right? We sell image. We wear smiles. We say what we’re told.”

“But what happens when the image cracks?”

He looks at you again—only you.

“What happens when people find out who we really are?”

The class is still. Some nodding. Some scribbling.

You?

You’re boiling.

He smiles and continues.

“At some point, the line between your hero self and your real self starts to blur. Maybe you get sloppy. Maybe you fall for the wrong person. Maybe… you hurt someone who thought they could fix you.”

Your hand flies up.

“Is this about PR strategy,” you say through clenched teeth, “or are you projecting?”

The room stills. Even Hawks stops moving.

And then—he laughs.

That same familiar sound. Easy. Infuriating. Fake.

The class ends on that note as he gives a casual response, carrying out the rest of the lecture. 

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. I thought you liked a little performance.” Keigo says as all students begin to exit the lecture room.

Your name on his tongue is too much. Too casual. Too intimate.

You gather your things. Fast.

“Leaving already?” he teases as you stand. “But I just got started.”

“Maybe I’ve seen enough of you,” you snap.

But before you can storm down the stairs, his voice drops. Quieter. Just for you.

“I took this post for you, you know.”

You stop.

“Just wanted to see how far you’ve come. If you’re still running... or if you’re finally ready to face me.”

You don’t turn around.

You walk out the door.

Keigo follows you outside watching you walk away,

“Still writing those sharp essays?” he asks, low enough that only you can hear. “Still slicing open the hero myth like it ever deserved to breathe?”

You stay silent. Stopping in your tracks to turn around.

“You were always the clever one,” he continues, tone dripping with amusement. “I used to read your blog after I—” He stops. Smiles. “Well. Never mind.”

I see your throat move. Swallowing down something you’ll pretend doesn’t hurt.

He leans in closer. One hand by the side of the wall. His voice drops to a whisper.

“I missed that mouth. Sharp. Unforgiving. Perfect.”

Your knuckles go white.

My vision pulses.

He reaches forward like he’s about to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. But you turn. Just enough that he grazes your cheek instead.

Still too close.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “That’s not what you used to say when I had you—”

“I need to use the restroom,” you lie, voice shaking.

He lets you go.

I let you pass.

You don’t see me as you storm out, your heels echoing down the corridor. But I see everything.

Every fracture.

Every buried scream in your chest that you’re too proud to release.

You don’t mean to come to me.

But you do.

I hear the soft knock on my office door twenty minutes later—tentative, uncertain, like you’re not sure what you want.

I open it.

And there you are.

Eyes glassy. Lips slightly parted. You don’t even speak. You just stand there, staring like you forgot why you walked this far—like your feet betrayed you and your heart followed.

I step aside.

You enter.

I close the door.

It clicks softly shut. Like a secret being sealed.

You finally speak.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You say it like an apology.

But to me?

It’s a vow.

I move slowly—like I’m approaching a wounded creature. I don’t ask what he said. I don’t have to. I see the ghost of it written in your skin.

“You’re safe,” I murmur.

You nod, too fast. Then you sit—no, you collapse—on the edge of my couch, hands shaking as you set your bag down.

“I’m not weak,” you whisper.

“No,” I say. “You’re stronger than you know.”

“But I still let him…” Your voice breaks off.

I kneel in front of you.

Your eyes widen slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at you,” I reply. “The way he never did.”

You blink, slow and fragile.

“I’m not him,” I whisper. “I don’t want a version of you that’s convenient. I want all of it. The pain. The fire. The fear. I want the part of you that came here tonight—because you knew I’d understand.”

Your bottom lip quivers.

And I snap.

I lift you by the hips, placing you on my desk. You gasp, but don’t protest. Your thighs part instinctively, your breath stuttering as I step between them.

“You let him speak to you,” I murmur, eyes locked on yours. “You let him pretend like you were his again.”

Your head shakes. “No. I didn’t—”

“But your body still remembered him,” I growl, mouth brushing your throat. “Didn’t it?”

You freeze.

And then, quietly:

“Yes.”

My breath hitches.

“But I didn’t want it,” you continue. “I didn’t want him. I just… I didn’t want to feel invisible again.”

“You’ll never be invisible to me,” I growl. “Not when you walk into a room like a fucking eclipse. Not when I can feel the shape of your thoughts before you speak.”

I slide your top off one shoulder. Slowly. Reverently.

“You came here because you knew I’d see you.”

“I came here because…” you stop.

My hands trail up your thighs.

“Because you needed me,” I finish for you.

You don’t speak again.

You don’t need to.

Because the way you arch into my touch, the way your nails claw into my shoulder as my mouth finds your collarbone, the way you moan when I whisper your name like a benediction—

That’s all the answer I need.

You’re already trembling when I settle you on my desk again—fingers curled at the edge, thighs spread just enough to make my blood burn.

And you’re trying so hard not to give in.

But I see you.

Every inch of resistance is a lie your body can’t keep up with. The way you shift beneath me, the way your breath comes in soft little gasps, the way your eyes are glassy with unspent tears and something else—something primal.

You want this.

You want me.

“Tell me,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles down your thigh. “Do you ache for him like this? When you’re alone?”

Your breath stutters. “Don’t—”

I grip your hips suddenly, dragging you forward on the desk until your core is flush against me. You gasp.

“No?” I ask, dark eyes scanning yours. “Because I think you still remember how he kissed you. I think it crawls under your skin like rot. I think you hate that you remember it.”

Your hands fist in my shirt.

“But this?” I whisper. “You’ll remember this and crave it.”

You shiver.

“Lie back,” I command softly.

You hesitate.

So I guide you.

My hand presses gently to your sternum, and you melt into the wood. Your skirt is bunched high, your chest rising fast. I grip your knees, pushing them further apart, baring you like a confession. Like a prayer.

“You’re wet,” I murmur, voice strained. “So fucking wet already, and I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

Your hands fly to your face.

“No,” I growl, pinning your wrists to your sides. “No hiding. Not from me.”

I kneel.

Right there, between your thighs.

The scent of you drives me insane. It’s sweet and slick and dizzying, like the smell of something forbidden you’ll never get enough of.

I drag my tongue up your slit once, slow and indulgent.

You cry out.

“That’s it,” I whisper against you. “Let me hear how much you need this.”

I suck your clit into my mouth gently, then flick my tongue in a maddening rhythm. You arch, back bowing off the desk, legs twitching around my shoulders. I hold you still, fingers digging into your hips.

And then I devour you.

No mercy. No pause. My mouth works you like I’ve spent years dreaming about this exact moment—because I have. Your taste coats my tongue, your thighs clamp around my ears, and the way you say my name—shaky, desperate, reverent—shatters whatever restraint I had left.

“Shouta—!” you gasp. “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” I growl. “You’re going to fall apart for me.”

I slide two fingers into you, curling them just right. Your body jerks. I keep my mouth latched to your clit, flicking faster, relentless.

“Don’t you dare hold back,” I say into your skin. “Give it to me. All of it.”

You moan—loud, wrecked—and then you break.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing hard. You cry out, legs shaking, hands scrabbling at the desk for something to hold onto. I stay right there, drinking it in, fucking you with my tongue and fingers until you’re limp and gasping.

Only then do I rise.

Your eyes flutter open, dazed.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My lips are slick, my hair a mess, my pupils blown wide.

“You’ll never think of him again,” I murmur, dragging my thumb across your swollen bottom lip. “Because now your body only knows me.”

You don’t speak.

You just look at me like I’ve just rewired your entire nervous system.

And maybe I have.

I lift you gently, cradling you in my arms, carrying you from the desk to the couch without a word. You tremble against my chest.

I don’t speak again until your breathing slows.

Until your body relaxes.

Until you’re pliant and safe and mine.

“You did good,” I whisper. “You’re safe here. With me.”

You nod against my neck.

But in my head?

All I can hear is him.

Still writing those brilliant takedowns?

I clench my jaw.

You’ll never need to take him down again.

I will.

With my hands.

With my words.

With everything he thought made him untouchable.

Because now?

You don’t belong to him anymore.

You belong to me.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 15- "Between Her Thighs, The Truth"

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

“If silence in the face of injustice makes you complicit…”

I pause. Let the silence deepen, rot a little. Let it swell like a bruise in the gut of the room.

“…then what does obsession make you?”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

The sentence cracks like thunder through the stillness. A clean break in the lecture hall’s spine.

Every head turns up. Every heartbeat stalls. The class isn’t quiet in the way classrooms are typically quiet—it’s quiet like a secret being born. Tense. Prickling. Suspicious.

I stand behind the podium, both hands resting on either side of it, fingers splayed. I’m not looking at any one student.

But I see her.

Out of the corner of my eye. Dead center of the second row. Not taking notes. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Good girl.

I wait—because the thing about obsession is that it reveals itself in stillness, not movement.

One student shifts uncomfortably. Another clears their throat. A pen clatters to the floor.

And then there’s her.

Y/N.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. But her fingers curl slowly around her pen, white-knuckled, bloodless, as if holding it is the only thing keeping her from splintering in two.

I see her legs press together under the desk—barely. The kind of motion no one else would notice.

But I’m not everyone else.

No. I’m the one who’s memorized her tells.

She’s trying to breathe evenly. She’s trying not to show it. But her body always speaks louder than her words.

And right now?

Her body is screaming.

I take my time stepping out from behind the podium. Let the echo of my boots stretch across the hall. One deliberate footstep at a time.

Let them feel it.

Let her feel it.

“Let’s say,” I begin, voice pitched just enough to draw them in, “someone has demonstrated interest. Consistently. Intimately. Physical cues. Lingering glances. Emotional curiosity. Even… vulnerability.”

I walk the length of the front row. Slowly. Hands clasped behind my back like a predator indulging his prey with one final stroll before pounce.

“But when confronted with the object of that curiosity… they pull away. Withdraw. Recoil. They pretend to forget.”

I glance down—just for a second. She won’t look at me.

But her shoulders are tense now. Rigid. Her lower lip trapped between her teeth.

She’s thinking about that night.

Good.

“So I pose the question…”

I stop directly in front of her desk.

I can smell her from here. That soft, clean scent of hers laced with the faintest note of vanilla and something sharp. Something wild. Her knees are drawn close. Her skirt’s a little shorter today.

Coincidence?

Hardly.

“…at what point,” I say, voice low and deliberate, “does pursuit become unethical?”

Her jaw tightens.

No response. No flicker of the eye.

But her breath hitches.

And her thighs shift again under the desk. It’s subtle. A press of discomfort. Or pressure. Or both.

She’s wet.

I know it.

I can feel the way her pulse thunders from across the air between us. She wants to stand up. Scream at me. Say something biting and academic like, you’re crossing a line.

But she won’t.

Because it’s not just me crossing the line.

She’s dragging her toe across it too.

I take a step back, voice dropping to a near whisper that only the front rows will catch:

“Obsession isn’t rational. But neither is need.”

Now she looks at me.

Just for a split second. Her eyes—burning with disbelief. With rage. With hunger. And she tears her gaze away so fast it’s almost painful to watch.

But I saw it.

That’s all I needed.

“So I ask you again…” I pause. Let the silence settle around her like smoke. “What does obsession make you?”

The room is dead quiet.

She’s breathing through her mouth now. Her chest rising and falling—small, controlled. I can practically hear the blood rushing to her face. To her thighs.

I let the words hang in the air a beat too long. Let the others feel confused. Uncomfortable. Curious.

But her?

She’s on fire.

I turn my back to her—only physically. Never in mind.

I walk back to the podium. Click my laptop shut. The echo rings like a gavel.

“Assignment for next class…” I say, tone light but firm. “Reflect on what you owe to your own desire. Not the ethical implications. Not the social norms. Just… what you owe it.”

My eyes cut to her again.

Her pen is still clenched in her hand.

The page in front of her is blank.

Good.

You can’t write when your thoughts are a goddamn hurricane.

I walk out of the lecture hall before they can ask questions.

I don’t need to hear what they think.

Because I know what she thinks.

And she’s going to follow me.

Whether it's with her words, her silence, or the breath she holds like it's my name.

You can’t focus.

Your hands tremble as you grip your pen, but it may as well be a matchstick—useless against the fire crawling up your spine. The classroom is empty now, except for the faint creak of the door closing behind the last student. You don’t move. You just sit there.

His voice still echoes in your ears.

“If silence in the face of injustice makes you complicit… what does obsession make you?”

It wasn’t a question meant for the class.

It was meant for you.

The way his eyes lingered just a beat too long. The way he said obsession like it tasted good. The way your breath hitched when he passed behind you, his presence a gravitational pull, bending the air and your will.

Your thighs are tense. Your heart is beating too loud. You haven’t written a single note. You’re too aware of every inch of your body—especially the ones that reacted when he spoke about power, fear, control.

You're slipping.

But the worst part?

You liked it.

You fucking liked it.

You wanted to hear him say more. Wanted to feel his gaze again. Wanted to know what it would sound like if he said those words to you when your back was against a wall, his voice low and growling, his hands on your skin.

You close your eyes. Bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.

His words were a warning.

You’ve shown signs of interest. You hesitate. You withdraw. You pretend you don’t want it, but your body tells me otherwise.

He’s not wrong.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

Because you’ve kissed him. You’ve let him touch you. You’ve tasted him. And still—still—you came to class today. Still, you listened to him talk about ethics like he wasn’t slowly unraveling your sense of morality with every look.

-

The Next Day…

The lecture hall is a vacuum.

Aizawa’s voice is like smoke—low, curling around every student, wrapping the class in his hypnotic drone about accountability and underground ethics. You’re taking notes, but you’re not writing. Your pen hovers uselessly over the page, your attention fixated on the way he paces like a predator in black.

Every word he says feels deliberate.

“Obsession blurs morality. It makes monsters out of heroes and martyrs out of liars.”

He looks at you when he says it.

Your stomach clenches.

Your legs cross.

You try to breathe.

“Power without control isn’t justice—it’s personal.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You feel seen. Undressed. Owned.

And then the door slams open.

It’s too loud. Too sudden. It slices through the tension like a blade.

A dozen heads turn.

And there he is.

Keigo Takami.

His wings are tucked in neatly. His coat is unzipped. And his smile?

Devastating.

Smug. Flawless. Dangerous.

“Miss me?” he purrs, sauntering down the steps like the whole room belongs to him.

Your blood runs cold.

No. No, no, no.

What is he doing here?

Aizawa stills at the front of the room.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

But you see it—the shift. The way his shoulder tenses. The way his fingers curl slightly at his sides. The way his entire body becomes a storm in pause.

“Guest lecture,” Hawks says, tossing a folder on the front desk with a wink. “Nezu signed off this morning. Figured the kids could use a little charm alongside all this brooding.”

The class laughs nervously.

You don’t.

You’re frozen.

He looks right at you.

“Especially since I heard my favorite writer’s in this class. What was it again?” he tilts his head, pretending to think. “‘When the Hero Fails You’? Such a catchy title.”

Your cheeks go hot.

You want to throw something.

You want to cry.

Aizawa says nothing.

But you feel him watching you. From across the room. Like a lion who’s just had his territory pissed on.

Hawks moves closer. Too close. Your desk is only a few feet away from the front row. He leans casually on the edge of the professor’s table, feathers twitching behind him like lazy threats.

“I gave an interview the week that piece dropped,” he says, smiling. “But they didn’t use it. I said you had talent. Real bite.” He tilts his head again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Looks like you still do.”

You force your gaze down.

Your pen shakes in your hand.

Aizawa’s voice finally cuts through the room.

“Back of the room, Takami.”

It’s not loud.

But it’s lethal.

Keigo raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, hey. I’m just the messenger, man. Don’t kill the vibe.”

He flashes another look your way as he saunters to an empty seat. “Nice to see you again, Y/N.”

The way he says your name is a violation.

Your throat tightens.

Your skin feels too tight for your body.

Aizawa watches you—only you—as Hawks settles in.

And you know it.

The battle lines are drawn.

One in the front.

One in the back.

And you?

You’re the reason the war started.

Hawks takes center stage like he was born there. Of course he does. The room leans forward without realizing it, hanging on his words, lulled by the effortless rhythm of his voice.

“Damage control,” he says smoothly, “isn’t just about saving face. It’s about rewriting the narrative before anyone else can tell it for you.”

His eyes flicker to you. You freeze in your seat.

“This is especially true for pro heroes. One slip-up—one quote taken out of context, one blurry photo, one unguarded moment—can destroy years of good PR. That’s where your work comes in.”

He gestures vaguely to the class, but it feels like the comment is aimed directly at you. As if you’re the one who slipped up. As if your entire body isn’t tense under the weight of his memory.

“See, the public doesn’t want honesty,” Hawks continues. “They want believability. They want a story they can root for. If you can make them feel something—admiration, sympathy, even outrage—you win.”

There are a few nods. Someone chuckles. You don’t. You’re too aware of the other presence in the room. Aizawa, still standing at the back now, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but eyes burning holes through Keigo’s spine.

“And if that story gets a little messy sometimes?” Hawks shrugs, smirking. “Well… that’s what makes it interesting.”

His gaze lands on you again.

This time, he holds it.

Longer than he should.

Your mouth goes dry.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The moment class ends, you’re out of your seat—shoving your notebook into your bag with shaking hands. You don’t make it three steps before—

“Y/N,” he calls.

You stop.

Turn slowly.

Hawks grins, hands in his pockets. “Mind if we catch up?”

You glance past him—to Aizawa, who hasn’t moved. His stare is still glued to the two of you like he’s already imagined a hundred ways to kill him.

“I have to—”

“It’ll be quick,” Keigo says, stepping closer. “Just outside?”

Your pulse thuds in your throat.

Aizawa’s jaw twitches.

You nod once.

Big mistake.

The hallway is quiet.

Too quiet.

Hawks leans against the wall like nothing’s wrong. Like he didn’t wreck you once and then disappear into the sky without looking back.

“I read your new piece,” he says casually. “The one about performance ethics and identity manipulation. Heavy stuff.”

Your arms fold. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

He hums. “You’re even sharper now. Impressive.” Then, lower: “But I gotta say… it felt a little personal.”

You stare.

He steps closer.

“You wrote it about me, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer.

He leans down, eyes glittering. “You miss me?”

You breathe in sharply.

“You really think I don’t see it? The way you look when someone brings me up? The way you dress now—like you’re not trying to forget what I like, but reminding me what I lost?”

“Back off, Keigo.”

He grins. “Still spicy. I like that.”

He reaches out—thumb brushing your jaw.

Too fast.

Too familiar.

But before you can swat him away—

A hand grabs his wrist.

Tight.

Unforgiving.

“You touch her again,” Aizawa growls, “and I’ll break every bone in your hand.”

He’s still smirking when I grab his wrist.

But it falters when I squeeze.

"Touch her again," I say, voice low enough to be lethal, "and I’ll break every bone in your hand."

Y/N’s breathing quickens.

Keigo tries to laugh it off. "Jealousy’s not a good look, man."

I step closer. "You don’t get to breathe the same air as her."

His smile dies.

And then—finally—he walks.

He doesn’t look back.

But she does.

And that’s what breaks me.

She turns to watch him leave.

Even if it’s just for a second.

Even if she hates him.

She still looks.

And I can’t—

I can’t have that.

I don’t ask.

I don’t speak.

I just take her wrist and lead her down the hallway like she’s tethered to me.

And she doesn’t resist.

the moment you step into his office, the lie disintegrates.

The lights are low. The door clicks shut behind you. He doesn’t look up right away—just leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, hands steepled in front of his mouth like he’s trying to decide whether to lecture you or devour you.

“You came.” His voice is rough. Controlled. Too controlled.

You swallow hard. “This isn’t appropriate—”

“Don’t start with that.” He stands. Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze drinks you in—tight jeans, fitted sweater, tension in your shoulders like a rubber band pulled too tight.

“You want to talk about ethics?” he murmurs, moving toward you. “Let’s.”

You don’t back away, but your breath catches when he stops inches in front of you.

“Tell me it was wrong,” he says, voice low. “Tell me you didn’t want me to pin you to the wall earlier. Tell me your thighs weren’t shaking.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

He moves past you to the door—locks it.

Click.

The sound makes something inside you snap. You shiver. He hears it.

“You’re not running,” he says.

“I didn’t say I wanted to stay.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You step back as he prowls closer, your thighs brushing the edge of his desk. “You’re not supposed to want me,” you whisper.

“Too late.”

He cages you in, one hand braced beside your head, the other tilting your chin until your eyes meet his.

“You wrote about justice,” he says, eyes blazing. “But what you really want is retribution. For every time he lied. For every time he made you feel like you were too much or not enough. I see it in the way you fight me—like you want to be broken in the right way this time.”

You should slap him.

Instead, you grab his shirt and pull him in.

His mouth crashes to yours—hot, consuming, devastating. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s real. Tongue, teeth, gasps between desperate breaths.

He groans when you tug at his belt.

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “You don’t get to rush this.”

And then he drops to his knees.

Your breath stalls.

“Aizawa—”

“Shouta,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Sh-Shouta—what are you—”

“Don’t play dumb now.” His fingers trail slowly up your thighs. “You walked into my office wearing this little thing and expected to leave untouched?”

You can’t answer. He’s already hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties.

“Sit on the edge.”

You do. Your body trembles. He doesn’t care.

No—he relishes it.

Because when he sees the shake in your legs, the widening of your eyes, the way you stop breathing for half a second when he drops to his knees—it confirms what he’s known since the moment you walked into his life.

You were meant to be unraveled by him. No one else.

He grips your thighs with both hands, spreading them gently but firmly. Like a worshipper parting curtains to a shrine. His mouth hovers just inches from your heat, and he pauses—not out of hesitation, but reverence.

“Keep them open,” he murmurs, eyes dark, locked on you. “Don’t hide from me.”

He breathes you in. Slow. Deep. Possessive.

God, you smell like heat and panic and the kind of want that drives men insane.

He lowers his head and presses a single kiss to your inner thigh, then another, then another—working his way up as your breath stutters and your fingers curl around the desk’s edge in anticipation.

You’re already wet.

The sight of it—slick, glistening, begging—makes him groan softly against your skin.

He thinks: This is mine. This has always been mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.

And then his tongue touches you.

A slow, devastating stripe from base to clit—just one.

Your gasp is instant. High-pitched. Disbelieving.

He smirks against you.

You taste like honey and havoc. Like everything he’s ever needed and nothing he deserves. It’s going to kill him. But if this is how he dies? Tongue-deep in you, swallowing every tremble? So be it.

He laps at you again, slower this time. Then faster. Then with rhythm.

Your hips jerk—he grips them hard, pinning you in place with bruising fingers. He murmurs something obscene against your clit, and the vibration makes you whimper.

He flattens his tongue and drags it up. Swirls. Flicks. Sucks.

Your thighs tremble again.

He loves it.

“Shit—Shouta—” you breathe, and that does it. That breaks him.

He groans like an animal in heat.

“Louder,” he growls against you, voice muffled but vicious. “Say it again.”

He slides one hand up, spreads your lips with his thumbs, then dives in again—this time with no patience, no hesitation, no mercy. His tongue curls into you, relentless, deep and devastating, licking you open like he wants to memorize your shape from the inside out.

His thoughts are chaos: She’s shaking for me. She’s soaking for me. No one else will ever do this again. No one else gets to see her fall apart. No one. No one. No one.

You writhe above him, fists clenched on the desk, your mouth parted in a silent scream.

He groans against you as you grind helplessly into his face, and he lets you. Encourages it. Tilts his head to give you more.

Your thighs clamp around his ears. He moans at the pressure.

He’s going to come in his pants just from this—just from the sound of you falling apart on his tongue.

Your hand flies to his hair. You tug. He groans louder.

“Shouta—” “Come on,” he growls. “Let go. Right here. On me.”

And then you do.

You shatter like a fever breaking. Your cry is ragged. Raw. Holy. Your thighs tremble violently as your orgasm rolls through you, one aftershock after another, until you’re sobbing his name in broken, breathless fragments.

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He keeps licking, softer now—languid, slow—like he’s savoring the aftertaste of victory.

Only when your body slumps back against the desk, legs slack, does he finally rise.

His lips are wet. His chin glistens. His pupils are blown wide with lust—and something deeper. Something dangerous.

He looks at you like he just found religion.

“You’re mine,” he says, breathless. “You always were.”

You can’t speak. You’re too wrecked, too ruined, too undone.

He drags his thumb across your lips—slow and possessive—and presses it into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You do.

He watches, jaw clenched, hips twitching.

Then he leans in—mouth brushing your ear.

“Now,” he whispers, still panting. “Let’s talk about that paper on power.”

Because this—you breathless, his mouth still wet with you, and the smell of sex clinging to the air—is what power really looks like.

And he just proved it.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 14 - "You’re already mine."

The coffee is cold by the time you realize you’ve been staring at the same sentence for twenty minutes.

Your journal is open, but the page is blank.

Keigo is suddenly on your mind as you reflect on your relationship with him trying to figure out how he keeps showing up. What does he want from you? You didn’t get the reckless mind games anymore… you were fed up. You wanted closure. 

You should hate him. You do hate him. But hate doesn’t stop the ache in your throat. Or the sick coil in your stomach that comes with remembering how he used to say your name. How you wanted to believe him.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at it, expecting Shinso again.

But it’s not.

Keigo.

Meet me. Just once. I owe you that. The place on 3rd. 8pm.

If you still hate me after this... you’ll never hear from me again.

You stare at the screen.

There’s no reason to go. You’ve said everything that needed saying. You’ve screamed it, cried it, written it. He doesn’t deserve five more minutes of your life.

But part of you wants to see him—to see the regret. To watch him try and fail to make it right. To reclaim your power by facing him as someone he can’t touch anymore.

Or maybe…

Maybe you just want to know if he still looks at you like you were the best mistake he ever made.

You close your eyes. Count to ten. Tell yourself this doesn’t mean anything.

And you text back:

Ten minutes.

You shouldn’t have come. The moment the bell above the coffee shop door chimes and you spot him—him—at the back corner booth, you know this was a mistake.

Keigo looks just like you remember. Too charming for his own good. Wind-swept blond hair, sunglasses hanging off the collar of his jacket, one leg kicked out like he owns the place. He lifts a hand when he sees you and gives that half-smile. The one that used to disarm you. The one that lied.

You tell yourself it’s just coffee. Nothing more.

You walk over, spine stiff, fingers clenched in your coat sleeves.

“You came,” he says softly. His voice is gentler than you remember. It annoys you.

“I have thirty minutes,” you reply.

He motions to the seat across from him. You sit.

There’s a cup already waiting for you. Your usual.

You don’t touch it.

“Look,” Keigo starts, voice quieter now, “I didn’t ask you here to start anything. I just... I’ve been thinking. About what happened. About us.”

Your eyes narrow. “Us?”

He winces. “Bad choice of words.”

You lean back, crossing your arms. “Get to the point, Keigo.”

He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair. “I fucked up.”

You blink. That... wasn’t what you expected.

“I know I did,” he continues. “I was selfish. Reckless. I was used to attention and I didn’t think about what it was doing to you.”

“You didn’t think about me at all,” you say. Your voice is flat. Your eyes burn. “You paraded other girls around while calling me your secret.”

“I was protecting you—”

“Bullshit,” you snap. “You were protecting your image.”

He flinches. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you laugh bitterly. “Because I remember the night you told me to stay hidden. That being seen with me would ‘complicate’ things.”

Keigo swallows. “I didn’t know how to handle what we had—”

“What we had?” You lean forward, heart pounding. “You had me. That’s it. I was the only one in it.”

Silence. The words hang there like smoke. Heavy. Choking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I mean it.”

But it’s too late.

“Why now?” you ask. “Why pretend you care after all this time?”

Keigo shifts uncomfortably. “Because I saw you. With him.”

You blink. “Who?”

“That professor,” he says, jaw tightening. “The one who looked at you like he already owned you.”

You freeze.

“I know that look,” Keigo adds. “Because I used to wear it too.”

Your stomach twists.

“Are you jealous?” you ask, voice sharp.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m angry. I’m confused. I’m wondering if you gave him the parts of you I didn’t get.”

And there it is.

That selfish, shallow wound inside him.

You clench your fists. “I gave you everything and you threw it away.”

His eyes narrow. “You sure about that? Or did you always want someone darker than me? Someone who didn’t flinch at your damage?”

That does it.

Your hand moves before you think. The slap echoes.

Keigo’s cheek turns red. His eyes widen.

You’re already standing, tears in your eyes. “Fuck you.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You rush out into the cold, your heart pounding like a war drum.

Later that night…

The walls of your apartment feel closer than usual. Too quiet. Too intimate.

You light a candle. Lavender. It doesn’t help.

You replay the scene over and over in your mind. The way Keigo looked at you. The way he still knew how to hurt you.

But worse than that… is how you felt after.

Because even in your anger—your heartbreak—you thought of him.

Aizawa.

Shouta.

The way his voice curls around your name like a promise. The way his breath touched your skin in your apartment, sending fire into your lungs.

You hate yourself for it.

But you want him.

Your fingers tremble as you light another candle, trying to drown out the memory with calm.

But the scent only reminds you of the night he came too close. Of the way he touched you like you were a secret he was ready to destroy.

You walk toward the mirror.

Unbutton your blouse slowly.

Not for anyone else.

Just to see what he might see.

Your skin feels electric under your own touch. Your body remembers his hands. His mouth. His whisper: “If you open that door, I’ll fuck you loud enough that he hears every sound you make.”

You inhale sharply.

Your thighs clench.

No.

You crawl to your feet, dragging yourself to the shower. The water is too hot. You don’t care. You let it burn the pain out of your shoulders, your thighs, your fingertips. You stand under the stream until your skin prickles and your tears have been replaced by steam.

You tell yourself you’re stronger than this.

You towel off, wrap yourself in your softest robe, and settle on your bed—wet hair dripping onto your collarbone. The apartment is dim, lit only by your bedside lamp. Outside, the city murmurs. Inside, you’re alone.

Or… you think you are.

You roll onto your side.

And freeze.

A note is tucked under your pillow.

Your heart stutters. You reach for it slowly, fingers trembling. The handwriting is neat. Familiar.

“If I could take away the pain, I would. But the fire suits you.” – S

You stare at it.

Shouta.

You don’t know when he left it. Or how. But the ache behind your ribs softens for just a moment. Your breath catches.

He was here.

And somehow… you’re not afraid.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Shinso.

Shinso: “Hey. I heard about what happened. Keigo’s a piece of shit. Don’t let him crawl back into your head.”

You: “Too late.”

Shinso: “Y/N, don’t let him take your voice again. Your thesis? Your work? It’s too important. It’s the thing that made you fight.”

You swallow hard.

Because he’s right.

You open your laptop and pull up your thesis draft: “Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies: A Case Study in Complicity and Silence.”

Your cursor blinks. But you can’t type.

Because all you see—when you close your eyes—is the way Aizawa looked at you last night.

The hunger in his stare. The way his hands held you like you were something fragile wrapped in fire. The way he didn’t touch you to punish or own—but to worship. To understand.

He sees too much. And that’s what terrifies you.

Because if he looks any closer, he’ll see what you’re hiding:

You want him.

Even now—after everything—you want him to walk through that door again. You want him to take the hurt from Keigo’s words and turn it into something else. Something physical. Something that will make you forget.

But that would make you weak, wouldn’t it?

You drag a shaky hand down your face. Get a grip.

You throw your robe off and curl under the sheets, bare, trying to cool your skin. You roll to your stomach, bury your face in the pillow, and bite back a frustrated whimper.

Aizawa’s POV

The city hums beneath my feet—drenched in fresh rain, electrical haze, and the unmistakable scent of her. Smoke. Skin. Salt. Something sweet and haunted. The kind of smell that stays on your clothes. In your mouth. Under your fucking skin.

I can still taste her breath.

Like the ghost of a kiss we haven’t had yet. Like her lips pressed against my name but not saying it. Her voice is stuck in my throat, like a bruise that won’t heal. That fear in her eyes when Keigo stepped too close… that heat when she slapped him across the face?

God. That was art.

She was trembling, but she didn’t run.

She stood her ground.

Strong. Feral. Hurt.

Mine.

I stood outside her apartment after she told me to go home. After she told me she needed space. That she needed time to breathe.

So I gave her space.

But not distance.

I didn’t leave. Not right away.

I leaned my forehead against her door—wood swollen from humidity and anger—and exhaled everything I’d been holding since she pulled away.

My hands still ache from touching her. My lips still sting from restraint.

My whole body wants her.

I shut my eyes.

I breathe her in through the goddamn cracks.

And I whisper—barely, reverently, like a prayer she’ll never hear:

“You’re already mine.”

She just doesn’t know it yet.

And that’s fine.

I can wait.

For now.

BACK TO Y/N – EARLY MORNING

Your sleep is restless. Half-dreams. Ghosts. Shadows pressing into your subconscious. When you wake, the pillow is damp with tears you don’t remember shedding.

You shower again. Pull on a turtleneck. Layer mascara under tired eyes. You check your schedule.

And your heart drops.

Research Ethics – Prof. Aizawa. 10:00 a.m.

You don’t want to see him. But you do.

Your legs carry you toward the lecture hall before your mind decides to follow.

You slip into your seat.

He walks in seconds later.

No words are exchanged.

But his eyes meet yours—brief, burning, unreadable.

And something shifts.

Because this isn’t over.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 13 -- “Still Got Him Framed?”

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

CW: Self-pleasure, obsessive behavior, toxic romance, minor stalking, emotional manipulation

She left the light on.

She never leaves it on.

A single lamp, low and golden, glows through the second-floor window of her apartment like it’s been waiting for me.

And I wait for her. I always do.

From across the street, hood pulled low, hands in my coat pockets, I’ve watched every habit, every ritual. Lights off by midnight. Curtains drawn. Laptop always closed before she sleeps. Except tonight.

She forgot.

She’s unraveling.

She’s thinking about me.

I slip in through the side entrance. The door lock’s been faulty since last week—I made sure of it. She’ll blame the maintenance office. She always does. I’m careful with her. Gentle. I never take more than she’s ready to give.

But tonight?

I’m not feeling very gentle.

She’s not home yet. She’s at the campus library, last I checked. Her phone pings when she’s on the university WiFi. She thinks her VPN hides it. It doesn’t.

I enter the apartment like it’s muscle memory. I could do it blindfolded by now. The scent hits me first—lavender, citrus, paper, skin.

Skin.

I sit in your chair.

Not just to rest. Not just to look.

Your sweater is still draped over the armrest—worn, soft, and laced with the kind of scent that makes my pulse throb in places I shouldn’t be thinking about right now. But I am thinking about them. About you.

I bring it to my face. Bury my nose in it.

God, Y/N. It smells like skin. Like lavender. Like ink and heat and the faint trace of something sweeter—maybe your shampoo, maybe your body wash. Maybe just you. Raw and real.

My cock stirs instantly in my pants. It’s embarrassing how fast it happens. But that’s the thing about obsession—it doesn’t ask permission.

You’ve done this to me. You and your tucked legs in the lecture hall. You and your smart mouth and that guarded stare.

You with your lips parted, waiting to say something biting while your thighs press together under the desk. You with your skirt hiked high on accident, your shirt clinging to you after a rainstorm.

You, not even trying to be sexy—just being. And I can’t breathe when I think about it.

My hand slides down. Slowly. Like I’m savoring the sin.

I tug my pants down just enough to free myself, already so fucking hard it hurts. I close my eyes and picture you in that chair—right here, where I’m sitting—legs spread, eyes glazed, panting my name instead of moaning it under your breath like you try not to.

I wrap my fist around myself, hot and tight, and I hiss between my teeth.

“Fuck…”

I don’t pump fast—yet. No. I take my time. I build it. Because the fantasy is better when it simmers. And you, Y/N, are the slowest, hottest burn I’ve ever felt.

You’d be a mess under me, wouldn’t you? Clawing at my shoulders, trying to keep up with the way I touch you.I bet you taste like the end of the world. I bet you’d scream into my neck if I made you come with my tongue alone.

I bet you’d beg—eventually.

I drag my hand up, thumb brushing the head—precome already beading there. I smear it down my length, groaning as my hips twitch.

“I’m gonna ruin you…” I whisper it into the sweater, voice shaking. “You don’t even know. You belong to me.”

I start stroking harder now. Faster. My thighs tense. My back arches just a little. The scent of your skin is still in my lungs and I’m so close—

“Y/N…” I moan, low and guttural, letting the name fall from my lips like a curse. “Fuck… Y/N…”

I come into the sweater. Hot. Messy. Shameful. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can’t see anything.

Just you. Always you.

Not just her body—her compliance. Her submission. Her mind. I want the whole picture. I want her thesis, her fears, her scars. I want to sit across from her in class while she fights not to squirm. I want to hold her while she cries about things she’s never said aloud. I want to erase the memory of him from her body.

I want her to look at me and forget Keigo Takami ever fucking existed.

I tuck the cardigan into my coat.

Then I start to explore.

I don’t open drawers. That’s too messy. She’d notice.

I stay surface-level. Tables. Bookshelves. Papers. A Post-it note with her class schedule. A scribbled quote:

“Power is not a weapon until it’s personal.”

I smile. That’s mine. She copied that from lecture.

Then I see it.

A small photo frame on the far edge of the bookshelf—almost hidden behind a dusty anthology. I pull it forward.

And I freeze.

It’s him.

Keigo.

Keigo fucking Takami.

Grinning beside her on what looks like a rooftop at sunset. He’s holding her waist. Her hair is shorter. Her smile is small. Fragile. Like she doesn’t trust herself to feel joy all the way through.

The frame is worn at the corners. Not new. Not recent. But not forgotten.

She still has it.

Why?

My jaw clenches. My fingertips tighten around the frame.

Why the fuck do you still have him here?

After everything he did?

He’s poison in a golden cage. A liar with a soft laugh. He touched you. Owned you. Broke you.

And I’ve spent weeks cleaning up the pieces.

You said you didn’t love him. You said he made you forget how to trust. But this picture—

This picture says you’re lying.

I turn it face-down.

Then I reach into my coat.

From a zipped interior pocket, I pull out a black disc the size of a quarter.

It hums faintly when activated. Blinks once.

Tracker.

I slide it behind the baseboard heater, near the window.

Just in case.

Just so I know.

When you’re home. When you’re gone. When you’re safe. When you’re not.

I stand and scan the room one last time.

Nothing looks disturbed.

But everything is different now.

Later that night

I see her on campus—walking alone, wind catching her hair, coat pulled tight around her body like armor. She looks tired.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

I want to wrap her in silence. In warmth. In me.

She glances up—and sees me.

We lock eyes.

And for a second… I think she knows.

She tilts her head.

“Were you on your way somewhere?”

I shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Always are,” she replies. A wry smile. But there’s something behind it. A flicker.

She doesn’t know about the tracker.

She doesn’t know I touched myself in her chair.

She doesn’t know I held that fucking photograph in my hands and nearly shattered it.

She doesn’t know I’m in love with her in a way that is violent and sacred and forever.

But soon?

She will.

And when she does—

I won’t give her a choice.

[yanderslutt]

CHERRY ˚₊ · »-♡→ CHROLLO X YAN! READER X HISOKA

prologue: I was just a lonely art student with red ink on my fingers and a thesis about hero ethics—until I met him. Professor Chrollo Lucilfer: velvet voice, scripture smile, and a mind sharp enough to cut me open. I should’ve stopped when the sketches turned into sculptures. When I started bleeding into my work—literally. But I kept going. Because I wanted him to see me. To remember me. But I forgot one thing. Hisoka. My ex-lover. My first sin. The one who left bite marks and came back with a grin. He sees what I’m becoming. He says it’s beautiful. Now they both want me. And I’m not sure who I’ll destroy first.

🍷 red ribbons. cherry juice. obsession like art. 🎀 welcome to my descent.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[yanderslutt]

Current Work:

Teacher's Pet - YANERE! Aizawa x Reader

Cherry - Chrollo Lucilfer x Yandere! Reader x Yandere! Hisoka

Groupie Love - Softdom Mikasa x Reader x Yandere! Yelena

House of Balloons - Yandere ! Gojo x Reader x Choso

All updates are daily as of right now! 💫

— please support me on wattpad : @yandereslutt !

[yanderslutt]

CHERRY ˚₊ · »-♡→ CHROLLO X YAN! READER X HISOKA

˖°࿐ •⁀➷

Chapter 2 - ˚₊ · »-♡→

The Things We Offer

You don't knock right away.

You stand in the hallway for three full minutes—watching the flickering fluorescent light above his office door, heart racing like you’ve done something wrong. Like you’ve already been caught.

You stare down at your ribbon-tied wrist. Red. Soft. Silky. It’s ridiculous, you know. You’ve rehearsed your question a dozen times in your head. It’s academic. Safe.

But your body doesn’t believe you.

You raise your hand.

Knock twice.

“Come in.”

His voice is a melody wrapped in smoke.

You push the door open.

—

Chrollo Lucilfer’s office smells like sandalwood and red wine.

Not the sweet kind. The dark, bitter kind that stains your mouth and makes you say things you regret in the morning.

The lights are low, drawn from a single antique lamp tucked behind a stack of leather-bound books. A candle flickers on his desk—its wax bleeding down like a slow death.

He looks up from his chair, framed by shadows and shelves.

“Miss Y/N,” he says. Not surprised. “Please. Sit.”

Your throat tightens. You obey.

The chair creaks beneath you. Your thighs press together automatically—not out of fear. Something worse. Need. Heat. Anticipation you didn’t prepare for.

“You had a question about the reading?”

You nod. “The section on heroic self-sacrifice… and devotion. It caught me off guard.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, folding his hands in front of his lips. “Yes. The illusion of noble decay.”

He stands slowly. The movement so smooth it feels choreographed. His coat shifts behind him like a stage curtain. You grip the arms of the chair.

“Tell me,” he says, walking to the shelf, “what disturbed you?”

“The implication that love is only authentic when it violates something sacred.”

He tilts his head. Selects a book. Then turns.

“Good.” “Good?” you echo. “It disturbed you. That means it reached something real.”

He places the book on the desk in front of you. Not yet handing it over.

“We are taught that love is symmetrical. That it’s shared. Fair.” “But it’s not,” you whisper. “No,” he says. “It consumes. And when it does, it leaves behind art. That’s the sacrifice.”

Your breath hitches.

He leans against the desk, one hand resting on the edge. So close. His fingers curl, just a fraction.

“You’ve begun to understand that, haven’t you?”

You nod.

“Your recent work—” he continues, eyes scanning yours, “—is unraveling. In a beautiful way. Lines fraying. Color bleeding. Composition losing control.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“That’s why it’s honest. Unfinished work doesn’t lie. It hasn’t been polished into fiction.”

You swallow. Loud in the silence.

Then he finally places the book in your hands.

“The Desire for Ruin” by Kuro Tazawa. A rare out-of-print copy.

Red ink stains the margins.

A cherry stem lies between the pages—pressed and dried, tied into a knot.

“Things rot when left untouched,” he says softly. “But sometimes, we offer them anyway. Not to please—but to provoke.”

Your hands tremble.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I… I’ll take care of it.”

He smiles—slow, deliberate, like the sun rising on something ancient.

“I hope it changes you.”

You flee before your body gives away just how much it already has.

You don’t notice the extra weight in your bag until you’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment.

The hallway is still. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that listens back.

Your fingers pause over the zipper, chest rising too fast. Something pulls at you. A wrongness.

You unzip your tote and find it. A folded page. Old. Soft. Familiar.

You don’t even need to open it to know.

You recognize the grain of the paper. The frayed corner. It’s from your sketchbook. The one you burned last winter. Or thought you did.

Your hands shake as you unfold it.

A charcoal sketch—of you. Lip parted. Collarbones exposed. Your eyes wide and dilated, lashes smudged. Neck arched.

You remember when he drew this.

Not with pencil. But with touch.

Hisoka had pressed you down into the mattress, one knee between your legs, his hand pinning both of yours above your head as he whispered:

“Look at you. You're a canvas.”

His fingers had trailed your skin like brushes. Painting bruises. His teeth had left crescent moons on your thighs.

“You're a masterpiece, Y/N. And I ruin everything I love.”

Your body remembers before your mind does. Heat curls low in your stomach. Not just fear. Shame. Desire. Recognition.

You blink down at the note scrawled across the image in violet ink:

“You look beautiful when you’re nervous. Still as sweet as I remember. But does he know how you sound when you’re begging?”

Your breath stutters. You drop it like it burned you.

The floor feels unsteady. You fumble for your phone.

No missed calls. No messages. No sign of forced entry. No camera alerts.

You slam the door behind you and lock it. All three bolts. Twice.

Your chest rises. Falls. Rises too fast again.

Then—

You see it.

Taped to the window.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Another note. Same violet ink. Same unmistakable scrawl—loopy, chaotic, almost playful if it weren’t so sharp.

You step closer.

Your fingers tremble as you peel the paper free.

“You’re not hiding from me, darling. You’re just giving me better angles.”

Your knees nearly give out.

Because now you remember what he used to say— When he would straddle you, camera in hand, clicking the shutter as you squirmed beneath him.

“Keep your eyes on me, bunny. I only capture what’s mine.”

You press a hand to your mouth.

He’s been here. Not days ago. Not weeks ago.

Tonight.

And he’s watching again.

Not because he misses you.

But because he doesn’t believe he ever lost you.

Hisoka’s POV

She leaves her balcony door unlocked now. Not on purpose. But not by accident, either.

He can tell.

She used to double-check it three times. Used to draw the curtain. Now she leaves it cracked—just enough for the cold air to slip in. Just enough for a watcher to breathe her in.

And tonight, he’s the air.

Hisoka crouches on a rooftop across the street, gloved fingers steady on the edge of the ledge, camera balanced between his knees. The wind howls through the alley below, but he’s still as a gargoyle—and just as old, just as cursed.

It’s raining.

Not heavy. But persistent. Cold. Silver. The kind of rain that slides down his temple, catches in his lashes, wets his collar. He lets it. Doesn't even blink.

He wears black tonight. Of course.

A wine-colored silk shirt clings to his chest, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His slacks are fitted, leather gloves slick and creased with wear. A long trench coat clings to his back, soaked through, but he doesn’t care. His hair is tied loosely at the nape, strands sticking to his cheekbones, damp and wild.

A single cigar burns between his lips, the tip glowing like a warning flare.

He takes a slow drag. Exhales smoke into the wet wind.

“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low and spoiled with hunger.

Y/N stands at the window, barefoot, one sleeve sliding off her shoulder. She’s holding a book—his book. The one Lucilfer gave her.

Chrollo’s fucking book. Chrollo’s fucking cherry stem pressed between its pages like a goddamn signature.

Hisoka’s teeth clench on the cigar.

That smug, sanctified bastard, he thinks, thinks he’s going to rewrite her. Mold her into his next tragic little thesis.

He flicks ash off the side of the building.

“No,” he whispers, licking a drop of rain from his lip. “She’s already been written.”

“By me.”

Hisoka lowers the camera and just watches.

Watches the way she shifts. The way her eyes stay on the page, but her body betrays her—hips tilted, thighs clenched, chest rising too fast.

“He’s got your mind,” he murmurs. “But I had your whimpers. Your nails. Your blood.”

He remembers the way she slept: Curled around his leg, mouth bruised, breath shallow. The scent of sweat and candle wax between them. The little gasps she gave when he whispered filth in her ear, the way her eyes rolled back when he pressed just hard enough.

She thought she could erase that.

But it’s etched in her. He wrote his name on her lungs.

“He won’t touch you like I did,” he breathes, tracing her silhouette on the fogged glass with one gloved finger. “He won’t make you sob without using a single word.”

Lightning splits the sky. Thunder rolls.

Hisoka pulls something from his coat pocket. Gently. Reverently.

A ribbon.

Her ribbon.

The one she wore the night she screamed his name loud enough to wake the neighbors. The one he pulled off her throat with his teeth and tied around her wrist like a leash.

He runs it between his fingers now, careful not to crush the memory.

“Go ahead, little cherry,” he murmurs around the cigar. “Let him make you feel safe.”

“When he breaks you, I’ll be the one who picks the pieces.”

“And this time—” he grins, feral, “I’ll keep one.”

He walks down the fire escape, slow and deliberate. Boots clicking wet metal.

He reaches her floor. Strolls past her door like a shadow on two legs. The hallway light flickers once.

He leans down and slides a third note under the crack—two fingers pressed to the envelope like a kiss.

“Still watching. Still sweet. Still mine.”

He flicks the cigar to the floor. Stomps it out with a gleaming heel.

Then he disappears into the rain.

Before the moon even registers his absence.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 12 - The Man Behind The Window

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

You lay there, motionless in the dark, long after Aizawa left. The air felt strange after he was gone—warmer, heavier, full of breath that wasn’t yours. Like he left part of himself behind.

And maybe he did.

His scarf is still curled at the foot of your bed like a warning—or a gift. You’re not sure which.

Your body aches. Not with pain. With restraint. Your lips are swollen. Your thighs still shake. And your heart won’t stop reminding you what it wanted last night… and what it didn’t get.

You stare at the ceiling until sunrise. You don’t cry. You just don’t move.

The kettle screams louder than usual.

You’re not sure if it’s the volume or the way your nerves feel raw, exposed, like every sound is slicing skin. You pour the tea. You sit in your tiny kitchen. You try not to look at the scarf again.

You fail.

You stare at it for too long. Then push it into the back of your closet like it’s something shameful.

You open your laptop.

You’ve been trying to write your thesis for weeks—Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies: An Analysis of Hero-Civilian Moral Contracts in Postwar Japan. It used to feel important. Urgent, even.

Now the words feel clinical. Hollow.

You read the line:

“The line between protection and control is defined by consent.”

Your stomach twists. Because it’s true. And also not.

You rewrite it.

“The line between protection and control is often invisible—especially when the protector is the one being feared.”

You delete that too. Too honest.

You close the doc. You open a new one. And without meaning to, you start typing something different. Something messier.

Title: The Man Behind the Window

He watched me before I even knew his name. He listened to me through walls I thought were safe. He touched me with words before he ever laid a hand on my skin. And I let him.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

You pause.

Your fingers hover over the keys. You could delete it. You should. But instead… you keep going.

He is not a villain. He is not a hero. He is a question I am too afraid to answer.

Your phone buzzes. A text.

Shinso [1:03 AM] You good?

Shinso [1:04 AM] I know that look from last night. You didn’t want to be there once you saw him.

Shinso [1:06 AM] You don’t have to say anything. Just don’t disappear on me again.

You stare at the screen. You type a reply:

“I’m okay.”

Then delete it. You almost type:

“I don’t know who I’m becoming.”

Delete.

Finally, you write:

“Thanks for checking in. Means more than you know.”

You send it. It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Professor Yamada sends an email reminding you about the paper due soon. 

“Hello Students. Just checking in—you doing alright with the ethics paper. Don’t be afraid to dig deep. Make it personal. That’s how we change the field?”

You blink.

The ethics paper. The one you haven’t touched since last week.

Personal, huh?

You highlight the line in your thesis intro:

“Hero ethics are built on transparency and boundaries.”

You replace it with:

“Hero ethics collapse when desire overrides duty.”

Later that evening, the shadows start feeling heavier.

You swear the lamp in your living room was tilted slightly to the left this morning. Now it’s facing the window.

You try to dismiss it.

You try harder to pretend the scarf isn’t still warm in your closet.

But when you reach for the mug on your nightstand, it rattles. And when you look down… The book on top of your desk isn’t the one you left open.

It’s one Aizawa gave you during the end of your first class with him. A worn copy of The Ethics of Care in Hero Society. The page it’s opened to?

“Moral gray zones: where the rescuer becomes the captor, and the captive learns to stop resisting.”

You feel your pulse in your throat. Your lungs shrink.

You grab the book. Slam it shut. Turn the closet light on. Nothing’s moved. You look at the lock on your front door.

It’s still locked.

You check the windows. They’re shut. But the air… it’s not the same.

He’s not here. You know that.

But he’s always here.

You return to your laptop. To your unfinished confession.

I wanted him before I even admitted it to myself. But I don’t know if that means I’m sick… Or if I’ve just finally stopped pretending I’m not.

You click “Save As.” You call the file: Private – Do Not Submit.

Just as you close the laptop, a new email pops up. No sender name. Just an address you don’t recognize.

Subject Line: “Still Watching”

Message Body:

The question isn’t whether you’ll write the truth. It’s whether you’ll survive it.

You delete it. Immediately. Empty trash. Clear history.

But your hands shake the entire time.

And in the reflection of your laptop screen… you swear— for just a second—you see movement behind you.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 11 - Tension

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

The knock at the door doesn’t feel like a sound. It feels like a gunshot.

You flinch, breath hitching as Aizawa’s mouth freezes just beneath your jaw, his hands gripping your hips so tightly your knees nearly give. His body is wrapped around yours, heat bleeding from him like something feral.

You’re still at your apartment.

Still pressed against the wall.

Still seconds away from doing something you know you can’t take back.

The knock comes again—softer this time. Almost hesitant.

Your voice finds its way through the haze. “I should—” “No.” His voice is hoarse, guttural. Desperate. His lips drag down your neck, and you feel his breath when he says it again, slower. “Let it go. Stay.”

You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t.

But when his hand trails from your ribs down to your hip and pulls you closer—when you feel just how hard he is against you, how tightly coiled, how entirely undone—you lose your grip on reason.

Your hands are already tangled in his hair. His scarf is discarded on the floor. Your coat’s gone, your blouse half unbuttoned, and his mouth—God, his mouth—is claiming your skin like he’s been starving for years.

“Do you have any idea,” he breathes between kisses, “what you do to me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your thighs squeeze together, your spine arches slightly, and you feel his hand slide beneath your top—calloused fingers dragging across your stomach with reverence, like you’re something holy. Or breakable.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “And I will.”

But you don’t.

Instead, you press your mouth to his, and it’s not soft this time. It’s needy. Messy. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he groans—low and dangerous—before lifting you off the floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You wrap your legs around his waist. He slams your back against the nearest wall.

And you don’t care anymore.

The way he moves—like he’s claiming something, like you’re already his, like you belong here—is intoxicating. Your skirt is bunched around your hips, his hands sliding down your thighs. His mouth returns to your collarbone, your chest, the curve of your breast, until you’re gasping his name like a confession.

“Aizawa—”

“Shouta,” he growls against your skin. “Say it.”

“Shouta—” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groans again, and this time he grinds against you—slow, deep, with full contact—and your head drops back with a gasp.

You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t need this. But your body is betraying you, trembling under his touch, arching into every motion, chasing friction like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips hover just above yours, breath mingling. “You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me.”

You whimper. You don’t mean to.

You blink up at him—sweaty, breathless, burning—and he stares back like you just ripped something out of his chest.

“Don’t Deny it Y/N,” he murmurs. “Deny what?”

“That you want this.” “No.”

He smirks. “Liar.”

His lips crush against yours before you can think. Hot. Deep. Consuming.

You gasp against him as he walks you backward into the wall. Your hands are on his shirt. He lets you pull—lets buttons pop free.

You slide your palms over his chest, feel the heat of his skin. He groans softly when your hips press into his.

His mouth trails down your throat. His thigh slides between yours. Your breath hitches.

You bite your lip. “Still think I’m just your professor?”

“No,” you pant. “You’re worse.”

He laughs against your skin. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You feel his hand sliding up your leg—slow. Possessive. Fingers gripping your thigh like a warning.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

You freeze. He doesn’t.

Aizawa’s eyes stay locked on yours. His hand stays exactly where it is.

Another knock.

“Y/N?” A voice. Muffled. Male. It’s Keigo.. 

Your breath catches. You whisper, “It’s me…please open the door.”

Aizawa pulls back half an inch. Not enough to stop. Enough to make you feel every centimeter of space he’s not closing.

“You gonna answer it?” You swallow. “Should I?”

He leans close again. “If you open that door… I’ll fuck you loud enough that he hears every sound you make.”

Your knees nearly buckle. Your mind says run. Your body says stay.

The knocking stops. Silence falls.

And you—You don’t know what you’ve just chosen. But the door… Wasn’t locked.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I need to answer it.”

He says nothing. Just steps back, deliberately slow, hand dragging across your waist like he’s reluctant to let go. You straighten your blouse with shaking fingers. Fix your skirt. But when you reach for the door, he’s already leaning against the wall like a storm waiting to start again.

You open it.

Keigo stands on the other side.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like it’s casual, like he didn’t interrupt something. But his eyes drop to your chest—your wrinkled clothes, your swollen lips—and something sharp flickers behind his practiced smirk.

“Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he says lightly, but his voice is tight.

Aizawa appears in the doorway behind you, slow and looming like smoke. “You were.”

The silence between them could crack bone.

Keigo straightens. “Funny. You always did like things that didn’t belong to you.”

Aizawa doesn’t blink. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You step between them. “Stop. Both of you.”

They freeze. You can feel them staring, but you don’t meet their eyes.

“Go home,” you say, voice low but firm. “This isn’t whatever you think it is.”

Keigo exhales through his nose, but says nothing. He holds your gaze for a beat too long, then turns and walks down the hall, wings twitching at his back like he’s holding something back.

You close the door quietly. When you turn around, Aizawa’s already picking up his coat.

“You’re leaving?” you ask, surprised.

“I’m not going to fight him in your apartment.”

You nod, swallowing the guilt in your throat.

“But make no mistake,” he adds, voice razor-sharp as he pauses at the door, “this isn’t over.”

You step out the hallway wanting to tell him to come back. However, you couldn’t make out those words. “Aizawa.” 

When he turns around, he looks completely disheveled—tie loose, hair mussed, breath shallow. His eyes are wild. Lusted. Caged.. “Go home. Please be safe…”

And then he’s gone.

Leaving only your heartbeat echoing in your ears, and the soft scent of him still clinging to the space where your bodies had nearly collapsed into one.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 10 – “A Knock”

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

It’s raining again.

Of course it is.

You’re silent beside me in the passenger seat, arms crossed so tight your shoulders practically touch your ears. You won’t look at me. You haven’t since I pulled you out of that damn hallway, hand around your wrist like a leash I wasn’t ready to let go of.

You didn’t fight me. Not really. You let me drive. Let me unlock your door. Let me follow you up the steps to your apartment in silence.

But now—now you’re pacing.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, voice brittle with exhaustion. “Back there… with Keigo. You didn’t have to step in like that.”

“I didn’t do it for him.”

I move to lean against your kitchen counter, watching you. The way your hands flutter when you’re overwhelmed. The way your mouth moves like you’re trying not to say the thing you’re really thinking. The way your pulse beats at your throat.

You’re unraveling, and I am the knife.

“I’m not a child,” you say, voice rising. “I can handle myself—”

“No,” I interrupt. “You couldn’t. Not with him.”

You go still. Just for a second.

“I don’t need saving.”

“Good,” I murmur. “Because I’m not here to save you.”

You stare at me.

There it is. That look again. The storm behind your eyes. The fight you put into every breath when you want to run—but don’t. You’re caught in it. In me. And now you’re realizing there’s no easy way out.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I should be the only one here,” I reply. “I should’ve been the only one for a long time.”

“You’re my professor.”

“And yet, you opened the door.”

You don’t answer that. You just back up until your spine hits the wall behind you, and still—you don’t look away. Brave girl.

“I don’t want this,” you say. But your voice shakes.

“Lie better,” I growl.

I cross the room in three strides. Tower over you. Cage you in with my arms, hands pressed to the wall on either side of your head.

Your chin lifts defiantly. But your body? Your body is already betraying you. Breathing shallow. Skin flushed. Legs trembling just enough for me to notice.

“You think this is about sex?” I ask. “You think I followed you through shadows, stole time, erased boundaries just to fuck you?”

You flinch.

“No,” I whisper, leaning in until our lips are just a breath apart. “This is about ownership. This is about you giving me the thing no one else could handle. The truth.”

“I don’t want—”

“Stop,” I snap, my mouth brushing your jaw. “Stop lying to me.”

My hand finds your hip. Not rough—firm. A claim. You should push me away. But your fingers curl against my chest instead, grabbing the fabric of my shirt like it’s the only thing holding you up.

“I could make you forget him,” I whisper against your ear. “I could make you forget your name if I wanted to.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you breathe.

“Then tell me to leave.”

You say nothing.

“Say it,” I challenge, my hand sliding up your side. “Tell me to walk away.”

Still silent.

My fingers brush your jaw. I tilt your head up.

“You don’t want soft,” I say. “You want real. You want brutal honesty and hands that don’t shake when they hold you down.”

You inhale sharply.

“You want someone who’ll burn for you. Someone who already is.”

Your lips part.

But before you can speak—

The lights flicker. A shadow moves across the hallway window.

You freeze.

I go still.

Then I move. Fast. Silent. Pull the curtain back.

Nothing.

But I know someone was there.

I turn back to you. You haven’t moved—but your eyes are wide now. Afraid, maybe. Or maybe… just fully aware.

“Someone’s watching us,” you whisper.

I reach for you. My hand cups the back of your neck. My forehead presses to yours.

“Let them,” I whisper. “Let them see who you belong to.”

Your lips tremble.

“You don’t own me.”

“Not yet.”

My mouth crashes into yours.

And just before you give in—just before your knees buckle and your hands find their way under my shirt—

A knock.

Slow. Deliberate. Three times.

You gasp. I pull back, just enough to whisper against your lips:

“Don’t answer it.”

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 9 – “You Look Like Trouble”

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

You didn’t plan to go out tonight.

But Shinso had a way of making things sound less like invitations and more like interventions.

“You’ve been in your head too long,” he said, pushing a flyer into your hand. “One night. One drink. One breath. You don’t even have to smile.”

You didn’t argue. You just followed.

And now you’re here—bathed in violet strobe lights, pulse thudding to the rhythm of some too-loud synth mix, drink in hand, dress too tight, skin too bare. You tell yourself this is fine. Normal. Human.

You’re pretending. Again.

Because the moment you stepped through the door… something felt wrong.

Not wrong like danger. Not danger like fear. Something else.

Like being watched.

The bass drops. Hard. Your glass rattles in your hand.

Shinso leans in behind you, lips brushing your ear. “You alright?”

You nod. Too fast.

His eyes flicker over your face, doubtful. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I can take you home. We can watch a movie. Like the old days.”

“I’m fine.” You take a slow sip. It burns. You don’t flinch.

He lingers a second longer. “He’s not here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

Because you both know.

You scan the crowd.

Bodies writhe under the strobing lights. Hands on hips. Lips on necks. You’re surrounded by heat and sweat and desire—but none of it touches you.

You’re still looking for one shadow in particular.

And when your gaze lands on him—

Your breath stops.

Far in the back. By the exit sign. Leaning against the wall like the whole world bores him.

Aizawa.

Dark coat. Collar up. Eyes on you. Unblinking.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. However, a mint haired woman appears next to him. She smiling and talking with him. However Aizawa isn’t listening. He didn’t care about her. His eyes were fixated on you.

But the air shifts.

You look away. Too fast.

Shinso notices. “Y/N?”

“I need to dance,” you say.

And before he can stop you, you’re pushing into the crowd.

You move like you’re trying to forget.

You let the beat carry you, let strangers blur around you like ghosts. Your hips roll. Your shoulders sway. Sweat clings to your collarbone.

You let the music drown out the memory of his voice in your ear.

If he touches you again, I’ll make sure he never flies again.

A hand catches your waist.

You don’t scream.

Because you already know who it is.

Keigo.

His grip is too familiar. Too soft. Too practiced.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmurs against your neck.

You stiffen. “Let go of me.”

“Come on,” he chuckles. “I’m just saying hi.”

“You already did that.” You twist in his grasp, but his hand tightens.

“You look good,” he says, like that means something. “Better than you did when you cried in my apartment.. even when your crying.. you still looked so fuck-able.”

You go still.

He laughs, low and smug. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”

“You never do.”

You try to push him off, but he moves faster—spinning you into him, pressing your back to his chest as the beat shifts.

And now you’re trapped.

Bodies press in all around. Heat radiates. You feel him everywhere—hands on your hips, breath on your ear.

“I missed you, you know.”

“No,” you breathe, “you missed control.”

“I missed that mouth,” he hums. “Always saying no. Always meaning yes. Remember.. the way your body would react when I—”

You snap.

You elbow him. Hard. In the ribs.

He lets go with a sharp grunt.

“I’m not yours,” you spit. “I never was.”

And then—

A presence.

A shift.

A heat like fire crawling up your spine.

You turn.

Aizawa is behind you.

Not close.

But close enough.

His eyes are dark. Still. Hungry.

Keigo freezes when he sees him.

Aizawa tilts his head.

You can’t breathe.

Keigo laughs. It’s forced. “Ah. The professor’s here. Guess we’re all running into old friends tonight.”

Aizawa says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

Because his body is already moving.

Because his hand is already around Keigo’s throat.

Not hard. Not choking. Just… firm.

Warning.

Keigo doesn’t smile this time.

“I told you,” Aizawa says, low and dark, “not to touch her.”

The music pounds. Lights flicker. But in this space—this tiny, suffocating space—there’s only the three of you.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Keigo snaps, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Aizawa agrees, “but I might.”

You step forward. “Stop. Please.”

But Aizawa doesn’t move.

His grip tightens.

You touch his arm.

He freezes.

That’s what pulls him back.

He releases Keigo like he was nothing more than a napkin—dirty and discarded.

Keigo coughs, stumbles, eyes burning.

“This isn’t over,” he hisses.

But Aizawa’s not even looking at him.

He’s looking at you.

And now it’s just the two of you.

You don’t speak as he leads you to the back exit.

The cold air outside is jarring. Your skin prickles.

You breathe. Shallow. Shaking.

Aizawa leans against the brick wall, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice brittle.

He looks at you. That stare again. That endless silence.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally says.

“You followed me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You step closer. “Why?”

He studies you.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he says.

It punches the breath out of you.

“Is that why you watched from the shadows?” you ask.

“No.” He steps forward. “I watched because I didn’t trust myself to touch you.”

You swallow. “And now?”

His hand lifts—slow, careful, reverent—and brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“I still don’t.”

You want to speak. To say something clever. To defuse this.

But then his mouth is on yours.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

It’s war.

His hand fists your jacket, pulling you closer. Your body responds without permission. You moan against his lips—soft, broken—and he drinks it like wine.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless.

“W-we need to stop..,” you whisper.

“But I’m just getting started..,” he says.

He leans in again.

But before his lips meet yours—

Your phone buzzes.

You pull back, chest heaving.

It’s Shinso.

Where are you? Are you okay?

You don’t answer.

You just look at Aizawa.

And for the first time tonight—you’re scared.

Not of him. Of yourself. Of how much you want this. Of how far you’ve already fallen.

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 8 – Good Girls Stay Quiet

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

TW: emotional manipulation, obsession, toxic attraction

The rain doesn’t wake you.

It’s the stillness that does. Like the world is holding its breath.

You lie there, blinking at the ceiling, the faint sound of water tapping against your window the only thing moving. Everything else—your limbs, the air, your heart—feels suspended in glass.

Your fingers curl into your sheets. Your legs shift beneath the thin blanket. You can’t explain why your skin feels too tight or why your stomach won’t stop fluttering.

But you know who it’s about. Even if you won’t say his name out loud.

You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:12 AM. There’s no reason to be awake. No reason to feel… watched.

Except—

There’s something on your desk. You know your apartment. You know what belongs where. You always leave your pens lined up, your laptop closed, your notebook spine centered. You know.

And that paper sitting at the edge of the desk?

You didn’t leave it there.

You cross the room slowly, like walking through a dream. Or a memory. You pick up the note with two fingers, as if touching it too long might stain you.

"You locked your window tonight. Good girl."

Your blood goes cold. Then hot. Then something in between.

Because you should be terrified. And maybe part of you is. But mostly?

You're excited.

Your breath trembles out of you, hands tightening around the paper. Your skin tingles like electricity’s crawling across it. You turn to the window.

It’s locked. But the curtains are open. And the rain’s slowed to a drizzle.

You can’t see anyone.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not there.

-

Class is hell the next day.

You try to listen. You try to focus on your notes, your lecture, the scratch of your pen against the page. But every word he says—every glance he doesn’t give you—makes your nerves burn.

He’s ignoring you. On purpose. You can feel it.

But why do you care? You.. don’t care.. I don’t. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s distant.

No. His voice is velvet. Dark, slow, deliberate. Every sentence is a thread pulling you deeper into a knot you don’t know how to untie.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mina whispers from beside you, nudging your foot. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

You blink. “Have I?”

Mina narrows her eyes. “You okay?”

You nod. Lie. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But the truth is: you’re unraveling. And when you leave class, your heart is already racing. Because you know.

You know you’re going to him.

The hallway outside his office is empty. The lights above flicker faintly—like even they’re not sure if they want to see what’s about to happen. You stand in front of the door, hand hovering just inches from the handle.

It’s cracked.

Just slightly.

You push it open.

He’s at his desk, back turned. His sleeves are rolled up. Hair half-tied. One boot resting over the other like he has no reason to move. He doesn’t look at you.

“Close the door.”

You do.  Submissive. At his command. His tone sending shivers down your spine.

The sound of it clicking shut feels like a switch being pulled inside your chest.

Silence stretches. He still doesn’t turn around.

Then: “I thought you might come.”

You hate the way your voice sounds when you speak. Tight. Nervous. Eager.

“I didn’t plan to.”

He finally turns.

His eyes drag over you in one slow sweep—neck to navel, hip to shoulder, mouth to eyes. You feel bare under that look, like he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built since Keigo left you bleeding on a hospital bed.

“You wore lipstick today,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Red. Worn down from your bottom lip. You bite it when you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say.

“You wrote about me again,” he adds, walking slowly toward you.

You back up a step. Not out of fear. Out of instinct.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he interrupts. “Not directly. But the metaphor was obvious. You described someone who stares too long. Someone who sees too much.”

He stops in front of you. Closer than he should be.

“You said, ‘It’s not the danger that scares me. It’s the way it makes me feel alive.’”

You swallow. “You read that?”

“I read everything you write.” He leans in, brushing your ear with his breath. “You want someone to devour you. Not love you. Not protect you. Just know you.”

You flinch at the accuracy.

“You’re messed up,” you whisper.

He smiles.

“So are you.”

He doesn’t touch you.

He just leans—close enough to smell your skin, close enough for your thighs to clench against nothing. And then he whispers something that makes your spine shiver.

“Take off your jacket.”

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it. Just stares.

Your hands move before your brain catches up. The fabric slips from your shoulders and falls to the floor. The air feels colder without it.

“Good girl,” he says softly.

Something cracks open in your chest.

Not pain. Not fear.

Something worse.

Desire.

He reaches for you—finally—and brushes your cheekbone with the back of his knuckles. The gentleness makes your knees go weak.

“You don’t have to be good for anyone else,” he says. “But for me?”

He leans in.

“You will be.”

You look up at his eyes wanting to bite. The both of your foreheads touching as the breathing between you both is ragged and almost unbearable. Before your lips touch his you pull away.

Your phone buzzes.

The sound splits the air like a blade.

You step back, breathless, trembling, and pull your phone from your pocket.

Shinso: “Club night still on. I’m bringing you. Dress hot. Keigo might be there.”

Aizawa’s hand tightens at his side.

He saw it. You know it without looking.

You look up. His eyes are already on yours. Cold. Dark. Unreadable.

“That’s not—” you start.

But he cuts you off. Voice low. Controlled.

“You’re going.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You swallow.

He steps closer. You step back. He follows. Again. Until your back hits the door.

His palm presses flat beside your head. His other hand lifts, ghosting over your waist, fingers just barely brushing the hem of your shirt.

“Let him look,” Aizawa murmurs, voice gravel and silk. “Let him see what he lost.”

You inhale sharply.

“But don’t forget…” His lips almost touch yours.

“You’re mine now.”

“I need to go.” 

You grab your bag immediately leaving as Aizawa closes the door sliding down it his eyes wide open as he unbuckled the belt on his pants. “You’re driving me crazy Y/n…” 

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 7 - Body

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

The silence hits harder than the slap. You shut your door behind you and lean against it, hands shaking like you just escaped a crime scene. You didn’t. But it feels like you did. Like your name is still echoing in the room you left. 

Like his stare is still on your skin.

You lock the door. Then deadbolt. Then slide the chain.

You breathe. Once. Twice. Not enough.

You slide down the door and sit on the floor. Cold. Tense. Your legs curled beneath you like folding yourself small might erase what just happened.

Aizawa had you pinned. Not physically. Not really. But emotionally. Completely. The desk still presses into your spine like a ghost memory. The way his breath feathered over your ear. The way his voice—calm, controlled, venom-laced—made your stomach flutter like something was alive and trying to claw out.

You close your eyes and try to banish it. But your body remembers.

Your thighs ache. Not from movement. From restraint. Your mouth burns like you kissed him in your mind a hundred times and none of it ever touched air.

You hate that you didn’t say no. You hate that you didn’t stop him. You hate that part of you didn’t want to.

You press the heel of your palm against your chest. You whisper, “Get it together.” But your hand trembles.

You peel yourself off the floor. Shower. Scrub until your skin goes pink. Still, the steam smells like him. Not cologne. Not shampoo. But something feral, like heat and exhaustion and everything you shouldn’t want.

In bed, you try to sleep. You don’t.

At 1:14 a.m., your phone buzzes.

📩 New message from: Keigo

Hey. Didn’t mean to crash your day earlier. Didn’t know you were still... y’know, messed up about it. You look good, though.

You nearly drop your phone. You close the message. Then open it again. You want to delete it. But your finger hovers too long over the screen.

The voice memo loads on its own. You press play. You shouldn’t. But you do.

“You really never got it, huh?” His voice is smooth, amused. “I cared. I just didn’t show it right. You were always looking for something in me I didn’t have. Maybe that’s on you.”

You toss the phone across the room. It hits the floor with a dull thud. You curl up on your side, trying to forget him. Trying to remember Aizawa without wanting to crawl out of your own skin.

You think about the way he said:

“I don’t want to hurt you. But if he touches you again...”

You shut your eyes. But the weight of being wanted—possessed—is still curled around your ribcage like a hand refusing to let go.

You drift off to sleep. The window is shut this time. But it doesn’t matter.

Because when the wind howls... You still hear your name.

Whispered. Not from memory. From outside.

—

⚖️ AIZAWA POV

You shouldn’t have lost control. Not like that. Not in front of her.

You press the cigarette to your lips and inhale deep, the smoke curling around your face like a veil. You stare at the second-floor apartment across the street. One light still on. Her bedroom window—curtains cracked open just enough to see shadow. Movement.

You breathe. Slow.

Keigo. Fucking Keigo.

You could smell him on her. Not literally. But emotionally. His presence—his rot—lingered in the way her shoulders curled, the way her voice caught on the word “please.”

He hurt her. He thinks he can come back.

You stare at the scar on your knuckle. The one you got three years ago busting open a back alley drug ring. It throbs tonight. Old wounds always do when something new is about to snap.

And you’re going to snap.

You watch the light in her room go dark. You don’t move.

You stay outside. You whisper her name.

“Y/N.”

Just to taste it. Just to see if the air feels different when you say it aloud.

It does.

You think about the sound she made when you leaned in. The tremble in her voice. The defiance and desire fighting for control in the same breath.

She’s like a maze. All edges and sharp corners, but you’re already halfway through and the only way out is through her.

You exhale. You pull a folded paper from your pocket. Her class schedule. Office hours. Dorm layout. You memorized it days ago. But it comforts you to hold it.

You tap your phone. Scroll to the folder. Her thesis. Her blog. Photos from her old articles. A screenshot of the panel where she first saw you.

You whisper again. “You chose me.”

And then: “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

[yanderslutt]

Chapter 6 - The Door Wasn’t Locked

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 - YANDERE! AIZAWA

CW: Emotional manipulation, obsessive desire, toxic romance, suggestive intimacy

You didn’t knock. You don’t know why. You could have. You should have.

But the door to his office was cracked—just enough for light to spill into the hallway. Just enough to say come in without saying it. So you did.

Professor Aizawa—Shouta—is seated at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tie hanging loose around his neck like he either forgot to finish dressing or started to undress and forgot to stop. His eyes are on a paper you recognize. Yours.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says without looking up.

“I didn’t either,” you reply, stepping inside and closing the door with a soft click.

He lifts his gaze then—and you freeze, because his stare doesn’t feel like a greeting. It feels like an x-ray. Like he’s peeling you back layer by layer, not looking at you but through you.

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. You sit. Slowly.

Silence stretches. It’s not awkward. It’s… heavy. Dense. Like every second he doesn’t speak is him giving you a choice to run, and every second you stay is permission for him to go deeper.

Finally, he speaks. “You’re in control here, you know.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You chose to come in. You chose not to knock. You chose to sit.” He leans forward, forearms pressing into the desk. “You chose me.”

Your stomach twists. “This is office hours. I thought I was coming here for work… not play, sir.”

“No,” he says softly. “This is a test.”

You grip the edge of your chair. “Of what?”

“Trust. Want. Power.” His voice lowers. “You think you understand those things, but you don’t. You write about them like they’re theory. But they’re not. They’re lived. And if you let me…” He pauses, voice sinking low. “I’ll show you.”

You exhale slowly. “You’re a professor.”

“I’m your professor,” he corrects, voice like velvet dragged over a knife. “Is that the problem?”

The air is too thick. You cross your legs without thinking. His eyes drop. His jaw flexes.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head, testing. “Do what?”

“Pretend like you don’t want this.” His voice is smoke. “You came in here for something. You can lie to yourself about it if you want—but don’t lie to me.”

You swallow. “What do you think I want?”

“I think,” he says, standing, slow and calculated, “you want someone to see the parts of you no one else can handle. The obsessive ones. The ones that never stopped loving the wrong person. The ones that want to be dominated—but only by someone who knows exactly what you need before you ask.”

Your breath catches.

He moves around the desk with the grace of a man who’s already certain of your answer.

He stops beside you. His fingers lift, ghosting along your jaw. “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N. I want to ruin you in a way that makes you whole again.”

You should run. You should scream. But you stay. Trembling, quiet, too aware of how your body betrays you. Keigo never made you feel like this.

Because this—Aizawa—he’s not a distraction. He’s a question mark with teeth.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “But only if you beg.”

Your lips part. Your body pulses with something unspoken—

The door slams open.

You jerk upright, nearly falling out of the chair. Aizawa’s head snaps around.

And there he is.

Keigo.

Standing like a ghost you thought you’d buried, the same cruel smirk stretched across lips that once whispered apologies you’ll never believe again. He leans against the doorframe like he owns oxygen.

“Wow,” Hawks drawls. “Didn’t expect a reunion tour. You two looked cozy.”

Aizawa doesn’t speak. But something in the air coils like wire—tight, ready to snap.

You rise, every muscle tense.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice shakes. You try to sound strong, but your eyes are already hot.

Keigo shrugs, sunglasses dangling from his collar. “Guest speaker this week. PR and image management. You know, my forte.”

“No,” Aizawa says, sharp as broken glass. “You’re not on the schedule.”

“Nezu cleared it,” Keigo replies with a faux-innocent smile. “I wanted to say hi. To both of you.”

He turns to you.

Your blood runs cold. “Long time, Y/N.”

You rip your wrist from Aizawa’s grip, your fist flying before you can think.

Crack.

Your knuckles meet Keigo’s cheekbone. His head snaps sideways, and silence swallows the room.

You stand there trembling, chest heaving, tears threatening. “I see you haven’t changed,” you whisper. Your hand aches. Your heart aches more.

Keigo slowly touches the red mark blooming on his cheek. “Still fiery. I missed that.”

That’s when Aizawa moves.

Like a storm. A shadow. A blade.

He’s on Keigo in a blink—teeth bared, voice lethal. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. You don’t breathe in her direction.”

Keigo’s grin falters. “Touchy, touchy.”

“She’s mine,” Aizawa growls.

You barely recognize him. His restraint is fraying like old rope. His hands are clenched. His body trembles.

“Stop!” you snap, stepping between them. “Both of you! I don’t belong to anyone.”

But Aizawa doesn’t move. His gaze burns through Hawks like a curse.

“She’s mine,” he repeats.

The words crack something open in you.

“Get out,” you whisper. “Please.”

Keigo looks at you once—eyes unreadable—then turns and walks away without another word.

The door slams shut.

Silence.

Aizawa’s still there. Still watching you. Still vibrating with fury and something darker.

You look down, ashamed. Tears slide down your cheeks. Why now? Why here?

You don’t want him to see you like this.

But when you glance back up, he’s already in front of you.

He steps closer, slowly, like you’re a wounded animal he doesn’t want to startle.

“If he touches you again,” he says, voice quiet and raw, “I’ll make sure he never flies again.”

He cages you between the desk and his body.

You look up at him—wild-eyed, breathless, undone.

And you realize...

You might already belong to him.

[yanderslutt]

FYI :

- I exclusively right yandere-like content!

- wattpad: @yandereslutt (i post all content here first then tumblr! if I don't have it up here I might have it up on wattpad.

- tiktok: @yanderexxslut

- Instagram: [ n/a]

Ty for all the love so far!

[yanderslutt]

 ❝But when I close my eyes, it's not her name I moan.❞

˖°࿐ •⁀➷

POV: Y/N CW: NSFW (18+), possessive behavior, dubcon undertones, obsessive/toxic dynamic, emotional manipulation

"Say my name."

Her voice cuts through the dim haze like a knife dipped in honey—sweet, slow, and venom-laced. You're already straddling her lap, thighs sticking against the expensive leather couch, your dress bunched at your waist, clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Your lipstick is smudged into her collarbone, your breath coming out in shallow pants as her hand fists your hair, pulling your head back.

The other hand? Already between your legs—controlling, claiming, ruining.

"Yelena," you gasp, barely above a whisper, your thighs trembling from the pressure she's building.

"Louder." Her teeth graze your jaw, a cruel smile blooming against your skin. "Like you mean it, pretty baby."

She smells like cigarettes and gunmetal—something masculine and dangerous. Her lips taste like cherry vodka and heat. You don't remember how you got here. You never do. Just the way her fingers slid into yours after the rally, after the speech, after the applause. Past the barricades. Past the guards. Past the world screaming her name.

Now it's you screaming it.

Your back arches. Her name falls from your lips again and again like both a prayer and a curse. You hate her. You love her. You want her to stop touching you. You want her to never stop.

"You think she can touch you like this?" Yelena growls suddenly, breath hot in your ear. Her fingers never slow. "Mikasa?"

That name—spoken like poison—drags the breath from your lungs. She laughs, low and bitter. "That little girl wouldn't know what to do with you."

You flinch.

You didn't say her name. You never say her name around Yelena. But somehow, she always knows. Knows when you've looked at Mikasa too long. Knows when your eyes lingered, or when you blushed at her compliment. Knows when your mind wandered during sex, wandered to soft hands and softer eyes.

"She's not like me," Yelena spits, voice rising. "She doesn't love you the way I do. She never will."

Her grip tightens—on your hips, on your heart—and you moan, because it's all you can do. Because when she touches you like this, when her hands move like knives and balm all at once, you forget yourself.

Pain becomes worship.

And maybe this is love—in the same twisted way war can be peace, or chains can be comforting.

But somewhere, buried under the noise and the heat and the smoke in your lungs, you're thinking about her.

Mikasa.

The way she looked at you yesterday across the war room table. The quiet pause before her eyes dropped to your bruised arm. The way her fingers lingered just a second too long on your shoulder when no one was looking.

The way it felt safe.

And maybe that's the problem.

Yelena makes you feel alive.

But Mikasa? She makes you feel human.

Yelena bends you forward like you're a prayer being recited backward. One knee on the couch, one foot on the floor, hips arched as she pulls your panties off with a swift, practiced tug. They catch on your ankle, and she leaves them there—like a trophy. Her grip digs into the soft of your thighs as if trying to anchor herself inside you.

"Don't run from me," she murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. "Don't you dare."

It almost sounds like desperation.

Almost.

But not quite.

You couldn't run even if you wanted to. Your knees are jelly. Your pulse is in your ears. Her thigh slides between yours, keeping them spread—commanding. Your body responds to her like it always does, helpless and ruined.

She fucks you like you're both her audience and her altar.

Like your pleasure is her applause.

Like her name on your lips is the only thing keeping her from collapse.

"You love this," she breathes. "You love me. The lights. The chaos. The way I own you."

You want to cry.

You want to laugh.

You want to scream until the world outside the VIP room forgets your name.

Instead, you push back into her, and she drags another breathless whimper from your throat.

It's always like this.

The backstage sex. The frantic, violent kisses after speeches. Her fingers inside you while the crowd chants outside—"Yelena! Yelena!" You're the secret. The addiction she hides in velvet. The shadow she fucks in silence.

Her teeth sink into your neck, sharp and hard enough to leave a bruise. The pain crackles under your skin, igniting something shameful.

"You're gonna let her touch you?" she snarls. "Let her soft hands undo what I made?" Her fingers plunge deeper. You moan.

"She thinks she knows you," she pants. "She doesn't. I made you. I broke you open. You were nothing before me."

You flinch. Not at the words—but because maybe she's right.

Maybe you're not a person anymore.

Maybe you're a groupie. A body. A vessel for someone else's power.

"Say it," she hisses. "Say you're mine."

You hesitate.

Just a second.

That's all it takes.

Her hand wraps around your throat, yanking your body flush against hers. Her breath ghosts over your cheek, her other hand dipping low—slow, deliberate, dragging through the mess between your thighs like she's painting something.

"Say. It."

"I'm yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Yelena."

She groans, as if your voice is a shot of heroin. She clutches you tighter, and you feel her trembling against your back—this tall, strong, cruel woman undone by the way you crumble in her hands.

But your eyes flutter shut. And it's not her you see.

It's Mikasa. Silent. Still. Watching you yesterday from the other side of the room. Watching the way your sleeves never quite hid the bruises. Watching the way your smile didn't reach your eyes.

Watching you fade.

And for a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to be touched with care.

To be seen without being consumed.

To be loved without being owned.

But Yelena doesn't give you time to think.

She pushes you up onto the table. Her personal staging area—glass bottles, cigar ashes, and Polaroids sliding aside under your palms. Cold marble kisses your back. The club's bass echoes through the walls like a second heartbeat.

She kneels between your legs, tossing her blazer off like it means nothing. Her silk shirt is halfway unbuttoned, damp with sweat. It clings to her skin, revealing glimpses of lean muscle, scars, and that ink-black tattoo curling just beneath the curve of her bra.

Her hair is a mess—half-tied, half-stuck to her jawline. There's smudged mascara beneath her eyes, making her look rabid. Her lips are red from kissing you too hard.

"God, look at you," she murmurs, biting into the meat of your inner thigh. You hiss. "My perfect little doll."

She pushes your knees wider, dragging her tongue through your folds like she's trying to erase the memory of anyone else. It's messy, raw. Loud. You sob her name, grip her hair, try to hold on—but her hands are everywhere. Bruising your hips. Gripping your thighs. Digging crescents into your skin.

She moans into you, vulgar and deep.

The room echoes with slick, obscene sounds and your broken cries. Somewhere in the corner, Lana Del Rey hums from a speaker hidden in the ceiling:

"It's so sweet, swingin' to the beat..."

You're close.

Too close.

You feel like you're going to snap in half—but she pulls away suddenly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, licking her lips like she's just tasted something divine.

"Not yet," she says, breathless. "Not until you tell me what I need to hear."

She stands again, towering over you. Shirt untucked. Belt undone. Her fingers skim your trembling thigh, then your flushed cheek. She grabs your chin. Tilts your face up. Her thumb pushes into your mouth.

"Say my name."

"Y-Yelena..."

"Say it like it's a sin," she growls. "Like it's the last word you'll ever say."

"Yelena," you whisper, eyes glassy, jaw slack.

She smiles—slow, wicked, victorious.

"Good girl."

Her fingers plunge into you with precision that makes you sob. Her other hand cradles your face as she watches every twitch, every flinch, every shattered expression cross your features.

Her pupils are blown. Her smile is feral.

"Fuck—you'd fall apart without me."

And maybe you would.

Maybe you already have.

You scream her name as you shatter, stars bursting behind your eyes. Your body collapses onto the table in heaving gasps, every nerve alight.

Yelena doesn't let go.

Not when you twitch.

Not when your voice breaks into something near tears.

She holds you, pressing kisses to your temple as she whispers:

"You're not a fan."

She drags her fingers out of you, slow and reverent.

"You're a shrine."

The silence afterward is deafening.

She buttons her shirt slowly, smirking, hair falling into her face. She zips her pants like it's just another day. Like she didn't just ruin you. Like your body isn't still twitching with aftershocks.

You lie there, legs spread, mascara running, dress bunched at your waist.

And for a second—you don't feel like a person.

You feel like an offering.

She leans down.

Kisses your forehead, mock-gentle.

"I'll see you tomorrow, my little groupie."

Then she walks out. Like she didn't just break you in half.

The door clicks shut.

The crowd outside roars.

And the only thing you hear is Lana's voice fading into the silence:

"My groupie love..."

[yanderslutt]

CHERRY ˚₊ · »-♡→ CHROLLO X YAN! READER X HISOKA

prologue: I was just a lonely art student with red ink on my fingers and a thesis about hero ethics—until I met him. Professor Chrollo Lucilfer: velvet voice, scripture smile, and a mind sharp enough to cut me open. I should’ve stopped when the sketches turned into sculptures. When I started bleeding into my work—literally. But I kept going. Because I wanted him to see me. To remember me. But I forgot one thing. Hisoka. My ex-lover. My first sin. The one who left bite marks and came back with a grin. He sees what I’m becoming. He says it’s beautiful. Now they both want me. And I’m not sure who I’ll destroy first.

🍷 red ribbons. cherry juice. obsession like art. 🎀 welcome to my descent.

˖°࿐ •⁀➷

Chapter 1 - ˚₊ · »-♡→ Cherry

The first time you see him, he’s not standing at the podium. He’s sitting. Legs crossed. Elbow resting on the edge of the desk like it belongs to him—because it does.

Chrollo Lucilfer is already halfway through a paragraph when you walk into lecture ten minutes late, red ink still drying on your wrist where you scrawled today’s date.

“Art,” he says, voice low and unhurried, “is not a means of expression. It is a negotiation between mortality and meaning. The artist dies; the art persists. But that persistence is rarely honest. It’s curated memory. A fabrication of truth.”

Your pulse stutters.

There’s a stillness in the room you’ve never seen in any other lecture. Not even during midterms. Heads tilted. Fingers frozen above keyboards. No one dares interrupt. Even the TA sits silently in the corner, as if he’s the student.

You slip into your seat near the back and slide your sketchbook from your bag. Not your notebook. Not your laptop. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way he speaks—slow, deliberate, like each word was etched into his tongue with a scalpel.

“I won’t waste your time with rubrics and requirements,” he continues, flipping closed the book he’d been reading from—The Ethics of Aesthetic Violence by D. Heller. You know the cover. It’s been on your shelf since freshman year.

“If you're here, it’s because you want to dismantle illusions. That, or you're scared of the world outside the gallery.”

Your pen trembles. You pretend to sketch the sleeve of his coat. But you’re drawing his hands. Long fingers. Silver ring on the index. The only thing that gleams in the dim lecture hall.

Chrollo Lucilfer. Visiting professor. Guest lecturer from the Aurelius Institute of Metaphysical Ethics. Teaching only one seminar: “Art, Death, and the Self: Postmodernism in Heroic Society.”

You’d signed up on a whim.

You thought it would be academic. Abstract. Another self-indulgent course designed for students who liked hearing themselves speak.

You didn’t expect him.

By the second class, you know his routine. He always arrives early. Wipes down the podium himself. Brings his own chalk, even though no one uses the blackboards anymore. He writes the lecture title in cursive.

Today’s:

“Obsession As Authenticity: Creation in the Wake of Destruction.”

You nearly drop your pencil.

He opens with a quote by Nietzsche, then segues into Marina Abramović. Discusses beauty in brutality. The ethics of performance. The boundaries between creation and suffering. Students are squirming. Some scoff. A few drop the class after the first week.

But not you.

You hang on every word.

“Pain is not theatrical if the blood is real,” he says, watching the class. Watching you. “And devotion, my dears, is not obsession—unless it becomes art.”

“If love is a form of control,” Chrollo muses from the podium, “then obsession is simply… commitment without a leash.”

The class stirs. The sound of her voice causes waves of chills in your spine. Your eyes slightly widen as a confused expression comes over your face.

“You disagree?” he asks the room. Silence. Then his eyes cut toward you. “Y/N?”

Your throat tightens. He never calls on people. He just speaks and lets you drown in it.

You meet his gaze. “Obsession implies surrender. Love is… mutual.”

“Is it?” His head tilts. “Or do we only believe in mutuality because we want to be consumed at the same rate we devour?”

Your lips part. “That sounds like fear talking.”

He smiles. Slowly. “No, Miss Y/N. That sounds like truth.”

You don’t blink. You are confused by the sudden interaction between the two of you. This is the first time you meet him and yet you are captivated by his words and the sound of his voice. Sweet yet deadly.

You start researching him. Not in a normal way.

You call it “thesis research” when your roommate asks why you’re in the library until 3 a.m., elbows deep in philosophy journals. You tell her it’s for your senior project—something about Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies. Technically true. But that’s not why your fingers twitch when you find an old photo of Chrollo at a gallery in Prague, standing beside a wax figure of himself with a gash through the chest.

“Existence is performance,” the quote beneath it reads. “Immortality is found only in interpretation.”

He’s not just a professor. He’s a philosopher-artist. He’s been teaching under aliases for years, leaving behind cult-like fanbases in every institution. Some call him a genius. Others, a manipulator. There are rumors he once dated a student who disappeared mid-semester. Nothing confirmed.

You save everything.

Every blurry panel discussion. Every review of his exhibits. You print out a short essay he wrote titled “The Artist as a Corpse” and annotate it in red ink, circling phrases like “sacrificial muse” and “emotional vivisection.”

It gets worse after the third lecture.

That’s when he learns your name officially. You can tell by the way he said it the first time. When he says it again… its almost like the sound of honey falling down his tongue. Fuck.

You stay after class. Pretend to ask about the reading, but really you just want to hear him talk. Up close. His voice is worse in person. Like velvet dragged over a blade.

He looks at your sketchbook—open to a rough study of his profile. You try to close it, but he stops you.

“That’s me.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Sorry. I—I draw during lectures. It helps me focus.”

“You’ve captured something raw. Even the way you drew my ring.. I am excited to see what else you bring to my class.”

“It’s unfinished,” you stammer. “Good.” He tilts his head. “Unfinished art is honest. Before the ego polishes it into fiction.”

You nod. You don’t know what you’re agreeing with. You don’t care.

“I look forward to your thesis. Surprise me.”

You float home.

From that day on, he becomes your focus. Your only focus.

You stop drawing anything else. You tell yourself it’s research—embodiment, muse studies, metaphysical ethics—but your studio fills with images of him.

Charcoal outlines of his collarbone. Sculptures made from wax and cherrywood. A miniature bust, carved from soapstone, buried in a velvet box beneath your bed.

You’re not eating as much. You’re not sleeping.

Your professors think you’re evolving. They praise your new work for its “visceral intimacy.” Your advisor says she’s never seen you more inspired.

But you’re not inspired. You’re unraveling.

One night, he plays music before lecture.

Just once.

You arrive early—your first time—and he’s there already. Leaning back against the desk, flipping through a book. A low melody drifts through the room.

Your heart stops.

He looks at you. Smiles.

“Beautiful choice, isn’t it?”

You nod, unable to speak.

You’ll remember this moment forever.

After class, you stay behind again.

He doesn’t stop you this time. Doesn’t speak. Just watches—as you approach his desk and set the small glass jar down between you.

A collection of dark, glistening cherries. Their stems still wet.

“I picked them for you,” you say, voice softer than you intended. Your hands tremble, but his gaze never leaves yours.

“Do you have a garden?” he asks, lifting the jar—deliberate, unhurried—and setting it gently back down like something sacred.

“Yes,” you nod. “Just a small one… on the balcony of my apartment.”

He selects a single cherry and brings it to his lips. You hold your breath.

He bites.

Juice spills across his lower lip like wine. He doesn’t wipe it. Just lets it linger there.

“They’re sweet,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped and low, his tongue catching the last of the juice.

You swallow.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Have a great rest of your day, Professor Lucilfer.”

His smile curves slow and knowing. Not surprise. Not gratitude.

Recognition. As if he’s been waiting for you to bring him something red.

He picks it up. Turns it in his fingers. Then bites again.

The juice stains his lips red.

You exit the hall breathless. Skin flushed. Heart pulsing like you’ve just confessed a crime.

You think you're alone.

“Still bleeding red for the wrong man, huh?”

The voice is silk. Too familiar.

You freeze. Turn.

Hisoka.

He leans against the stairwell wall like he never left. Same grin. Same wild eyes. Like he never watched you walk away six months ago. Like he never broke your ribs and kissed the bruise afterward.

“You look good,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Still got that twitch in your eye when you're turned on.”

You step back.

He follows. Not touching. Just hovering—always a breath too close.

“You’re wasting it on him, you know.” “Go away.” “I will. But not before I ask…” He leans in. His breath brushes your cheek. “Did he even thank you for the cherries?”

Your throat tightens.

He chuckles. “Didn’t think so.”

He disappears before you can scream. Or chase him. Or kiss him. You don’t know which one scares you more.