scus

Greenlight!:

Yandere, normal, platonic, romantic, xreader, oneshot, full stories, headcanons, lemon, fluff, gore, I will add more when I think of more.

Wait!:

Age gap (both legal adults), Things not on my masterlist...i might try if I know the fandom other then that no, sorry..., platonic animals maybe?? Strictly platonic, ill think of more later,

No!:

Incest, CP (BIG NO NO), pedophile, body horror, ill think of more later..

FANDOMS:

Renegades (book by Marissa myers)

Omori

Henry danger

Mario characters

The simpsons

Hunter x hunter

Avatar

cookie run kingdom

Doki doki literature club

Stranger things

Regular show

Courage the cowardly dog

Spree (kurt kunkle)

Batfam

Superfam

South park

Vocoloids

Dandys world

Murder drones

The amazing digital circus

Fnaf

Sally face

Spu x family

Helluva boss

Hazbin hotel

Gravity falls

The owl house

Danganronpa

Undertale

Creepypasta

Old horror movies

Eddsworld

The rain in the abandoned European village tasted like ash and chemicals. From your vantage point inside Leon’s heavy leather jacket, zipped up securely to your chin, you could feel the rhythmic, steady thud of his heartbeat. To the rest of the world, Leon S. Kennedy was a cold, efficient government weapon—a legendary DSO agent who faced down world-ending biological horrors without blinking. To you, he was a warm radiator who gave excellent chin scratches, spoke to you in a low, gentle murmur, and let you ride along on international anti-bioweapon operations.

You adjusted your paws inside your custom Kevlar-lined harness. It was lightweight, snug, and clipped directly into the tactical chest rig beneath his jacket. Leon had refused to deploy on this mission without it. He had spent three agonizing weeks arguing with DSO logistics and brass to get a cat-sized piece of tactical armor approved. When they laughed and called it a joke, Leon didn’t smile. He simply threatened to walk out on the presidency's most critical investigation, coldly stating that his "primary scout" required adequate protection or the government could find someone else to clean up their mess. They capitulated within twenty-four hours.

The damp air shifted suddenly. The scent of ozone and wet mud was cut by a sharp, metallic stench—the unmistakable odor of rancid, curdled blood, chemical rot, and stagnant decay.

Zombies. Close.

You narrowed your yellow eyes, tensed your muscles against Leon's chest, and let out a sharp, vibrating hiss right against his collarbone.

Leon froze instantly. He didn’t question it. He didn’t look at his high-tech radar tracker or hesitate to scan the horizon. The bond between an obsessively devoted owner and his cat was absolute. If you told him death was lurking in the shadows, death was lurking in the shadows.

"Good eyes, Y/N," Leon whispered, his voice dropping into a gravelly, lethal tone.

With a practiced, fluid motion, he drew his custom handgun. He kept one hand braced under the flap of his jacket, instinctively shielding your small body as he backed up against a crumbling stone wall. A split second later, three infected villagers stumbled around the corner. Their jaws snapped pointlessly, their skin peeling away in gray ribbons, eyes milky and devoid of life.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three perfect, rapid-fire headshots. The bodies collapsed into the thick mud with heavy, wet thuds.

Before the echoes of the gunshots could even die down in the narrow alleyway, Leon’s focus snapped completely away from the environment and entirely onto you. He dropped his tactical stance, immediately unzipping his jacket a fraction more to look down into the dark fabric. His eyes were wide, scanning your pitch-black fur with a frantic, manic intensity.

"Did they get close? Did you catch any splatter?" His voice cracked slightly, a disturbing note of panic bleeding through his usual calm exterior. He stripped off his tactical glove with his teeth, using his bare, warm thumbs to gently wipe at your whiskers and muzzle, checking for any microscopic sign of infected blood. "Tell me you're okay, Y/N. If a single drop of that filth touches you, I’ll burn this entire valley to the ground. I mean it."

You let out a soft, reassuring purr and bumped your forehead firmly against his chin, leaving a few stray black hairs on his stubble.

Leon let out a long, shaky breath, the terrifying tension leaving his shoulders all at once. He buried his face into the top of your head for a brief, suffocating second, breathing in your clean, familiar scent. "Good. Good. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you. I've got you, Y/N."

A flashlight beam suddenly cut through the heavy downpour from the opposite end of the street.

"Leon! Over here!" A rugged BSAA local field contact named Vance jogged toward them, splashing through puddles. Vance took one look at Leon’s half-unzipped jacket, saw the two glowing yellow eyes staring back at him, and blinked in absolute disbelief. "Is that... a cat? Are you serious, Kennedy? You brought a house pet into a Level-4 Hot Zone? Is this a joke?"

Leon’s demeanor flipped instantly. The rare warmth vanished, replaced by an icy, lethal stare that made Vance freeze in his tracks. Leon deliberately shifted his arm, turning his torso to completely block your body from the operative's line of sight.

"She is my partner," Leon said, his voice dropping an octave, completely devoid of humor. "And Y/N is the only reason we aren't dead right now. Watch your mouth."

"Right, sorry, man," Vance stammered, raising his hands defensively. "Just didn't expect it. It's a surprise, that's all. Can I...?" Intending to be friendly and break the sudden, suffocating tension, Vance reached a hand out, offering a finger for you to sniff.

Before Vance’s hand could get within a foot of your nose, Leon snapped his arm forward. He gripped Vance’s wrist in a vise-like hold, squeezing hard enough to make the larger man wince. The air between them turned freezing cold.

"Don't touch her," Leon hissed, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous, protective glare. "She doesn't like strangers. And I don't like people breathing near her. Step back."

Vance swallowed hard, his face paling as he pulled his hand back the very millisecond Leon released his iron grip. "Understood. Loud and clear. Keeping my distance."

The rain outside the Wrenwood Hotel did not fall in drops; it fell in sheets, heavy and unrelenting, blurring the decayed, neoclassical facade of the building into a gray smear against the jagged treeline. Inside, the air tasted of stagnant water, black mold, and the unmistakable, copper-sour tang of old blood. Leon S. Kennedy adjusted his grip on his custom handgun, the weapon an extension of an arm that had grown heavy with decades of the same recurring nightmare. His flashlight cut a sharp, geometric wedge through the gloom of the grand lobby, illuminating peeling wallpaper, overturned velvet armchairs, and the dark, dried spatters of past violence. This was supposed to be a routine investigation into a localized viral anomaly—a quick sweep of an abandoned tourist trap before the quarantine perimeter was locked down tight. But Leon knew better. Nothing in his life was ever routine, and nothing ever stayed dead.

He stepped over a rotting beam, his tactical boots making almost no sound on the warped hardwood floors. The hotel was silent, save for the rhythmic drumming of the storm against the boarded-up windows and the distant, structural groans of a building dying from the inside out. Leon’s eyes scanned the shadows, his mind automatically calculating entry points, blind spots, and exit strategies. He had been doing this for too long. The faces of Raccoon City, the Spanish villages, the African marshes—they all bled together into a singular, unending mosaic of horror. He was tired. The weariness was deep in his bones, a permanent ache that no amount of sleep could fix. Yet, his instinct remained razor-sharp, a curse disguised as a survival mechanism.

A faint sound broke through the noise of the rain. It wasn't the wet, dragging scrape of a standard infected, nor was it the heavy, bone-crunching thud of a bioweapon. It was a soft, rhythmic clicking, followed by a wet, tiny sneeze.

Leon froze. His thumb automatically eased the safety off his weapon. He lowered his center of gravity, pivoting toward a collapsed reception desk near the back of the lobby. The sound had come from behind the ruined counter, where the shadows hung thickest. He moved with practiced, lethal grace, keeping his flashlight beamed low to avoid giving away his exact head-height. As he rounded the corner of the mahogany desk, he braced himself for whatever mutated aberration the corporate laboratories had engineered this time.

He did not expect to find a child.

Nestled in a makeshift nest of torn curtains and moldering ledger pages was a baby—no older than a toddler. But it wasn't a normal child. The skin was a pale, translucent gray, mapped with a delicate web of dark, violet veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. The eyes that blinked up at Leon through the harsh glare of his flashlight were a milky, clouded yellow, devoid of a normal human pupil but wide with an unsettling, ancient intelligence. The toddler’s clothes were tattered and stained with dark fluid, and from its tiny mouth protruded a set of sharp, milk-white teeth, wet with dark, viscous saliva. It was infected. It was a zombie, a literal monster in the cradle, a manifestation of the very plague Leon had spent his entire adult life trying to burn off the face of the earth.

The toddler blinked against the light, tilted its head, and let out a soft, gurgling coo, reaching two chubby, gray hands up toward the barrel of Leon’s gun.

Leon’s finger tightened on the trigger. His training, his history, his survival instinct—everything screamed at him to put a bullet through the center of that small, deformed forehead. It was an anomaly. It was a vector. It was a threat. If left alone, it would grow into something that would tear human throats out. He had killed hundreds of things that used to be human. He had seen the T-virus, the G-virus, Las Plagas, the Megamycete; he knew there was no cure for the dead. The child was gone, replaced by a hollow shell driven by a biological urge to feed.

Yet, his hand trembled. Just a fraction of a millimeter, but enough to make the flashlight beam dance across the gray skin.

The baby didn't cower. Instead, intrigued by the dancing circle of light, it rolled over onto its stomach with a wet plop, dragging its legs behind it with the clumsy, uncoordinated movement of a typical infected. It crawled forward a few inches, its tiny, claw-like fingernails scratching against the floorboards. When it reached the edge of Leon’s boot, it didn't bite. It simply leaned its small, heavy head against the tough leather, letting out a rattling, wheezing sigh of exhaustion.

Leon stared down at it, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it hadn't in years. This wasn't a feral attack. The creature was weak, starved, and somehow, inexplicably, seeking comfort. Leon looked around the ruined lobby, his mind racing. Where were the parents? Likely among the rotting corpses he had passed on the road leading to the hotel. This child had been left behind, infected during the initial outbreak, and had somehow survived in the dark, eating whatever small vermin crawled into its reach.

"Damn it," Leon muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the empty room.

He didn't lower his gun, but he didn't shoot either. He knelt down, keeping a safe distance, his flashlight illuminating the toddler's face. The baby looked up again, its milky eyes fixing onto Leon’s face. It didn't have the wild, bloodshot glare of the Ganados or the mindless rage of the Raccoon City zombies. It looked... lonely. It let out another tiny, clicking sound, its small jaw snapping shut on nothing, a phantom feeding reflex that lacked any real malice.

Leon reached out with his gloved left hand, hesitating for a split second before touching the side of the baby's face. The skin was ice-cold, like a refrigeration unit, and slightly tacky to the touch. The baby didn't flinch. It leaned into the warmth of the leather glove, closing its cloudy eyes as if it hadn't felt a gentle touch in an eternity.

A strange, dark shift occurred within Leon’s chest. For twenty-eight years, he had been a protector who arrived too late. He had saved individuals, yes, but he had never been able to save the innocence of the world. He had seen the world rot from the inside out, and he had become a tool used by governments to clean up the ash. But looking at this tiny, monstrous thing, a profound, twisted sense of clarity washed over him. The world outside this hotel was broken, filled with corrupt politicians, bio-terrorists, and a public that lived in perpetual, ignorant fear. They wouldn't understand this child. If the BSAA found it, it would become a specimen in a glass jar, sliced open and analyzed until there was nothing left. If the government found it, it would be terminated without a second thought.

They won't touch you, Leon thought, the realization settling into his mind with the heavy, unyielding weight of an anchor. I won't let them.

He holstered his weapon. The decision was instantaneous, overriding every protocol, every moral code he had ever operated under. This child wasn't a threat to him; it was a clean slate. A creature that belonged entirely to the dark, just like he did. He reached down and scooped the toddler into his arms. The baby was surprisingly heavy, its muscles dense with the strange cellular changes wrought by the virus, but Leon hoisted it easily against his tactical vest. The toddler didn't struggle. It buried its face into the crook of Leon’s neck, its sharp teeth scraping lightly against the tough, ballistic nylon of his collar, tasting the salt of his sweat but making no effort to break the skin.

"You're coming with me," Leon whispered, his arm wrapping securely around the child's small back, locking it against his chest. "No one else is ever going to find you."

The walk back through the Wrenwood Hotel felt different now. The shadows didn't feel like hiding places for monsters anymore; they felt like a protective blanket. Leon checked his tactical radio, twisting the dial until the static cleared and his handler’s voice cracked through the earpiece.

"Leon, report. Have you cleared the lobby? We're detecting a spike in biological activity near your location."

Leon looked down at the gray head resting against his shoulder. The baby had fallen into a deep, deathly sleep, its breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible.

"Area is clear," Leon lied, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, a perfect baseline of professional calm. "Just some old residue. The hotel is a dead end. I'm pulling back to the extraction point to regroup. Tell the perimeter team to hold their positions."

"Copy that, Agent Kennedy. Secure the perimeter and return."

Leon clicked the radio off, then pulled the battery out entirely, dropping the small plastic block into the dark water pooling on the floor. He didn't need the agency anymore. He didn't need their missions, their wars, or their endless, futile attempts to fix a world that was already dead. He had a purpose now. A real one.

He carried the child through the back exits of the hotel, avoiding the main roads where the automated military drones might be scanning for thermal signatures. The baby, being cold-blooded due to its necrotic state, didn't register on standard thermal imaging anyway—a perfect ghost. Leon navigated the muddy, rain-slicked woods with the ease of a apex predator, his focus entirely consumed by the small bundle in his arms. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of the wind through the pines made his muscles tense, his hand moving toward his knife. If anyone—friend or foe—stepped into his path now, he wouldn't hesitate. He would clear a path through flesh and bone to keep this child safe.

By the time the storm began to break, revealing the pale, sickly light of dawn, Leon had reached his safehouse—a hidden, reinforced cabin buried deep within the Appalachian ridges, miles outside the quarantine zone. It was a place he kept off the grid, stocked with rations, weapons, and medical supplies for a rainy day. He had never intended to use it for this, but as he kicked the heavy oak door shut and slid the three deadbolts into place, he knew he was never leaving this life behind.

He laid the baby down on a clean, woolen blanket on the cabin's sofa. In the clear light of day, the child's condition was more apparent. The gray skin had a faint, iridescent sheen, and the dark veins around its throat throbbed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Leon knelt beside the sofa, removing his gloves and tactical vest. He reached out with a bare hand, running his thumb over the child's smooth, cool forehead. The baby stirred, its yellow eyes opening slowly, fixing onto Leon with that same eerie, absolute focus.

"You're safe here," Leon said, his voice softer than it had been in decades, though an underlying current of absolute possession ran through every syllable. "No scientists. No soldiers. Just us."

The baby let out a tiny, rasping chirp, its small fingers reaching up to catch Leon’s thumb. Its grip was incredibly strong, tight enough to turn Leon’s skin white, but he didn't pull away. He smiled, a dark, small movement of his lips. The baby opened its mouth, showing those sharp, needle-like teeth, a clear sign of hunger.

Leon didn't flinch. He stood up, walked over to the freezer, and pulled out a package of raw, vacuum-sealed meat he kept for emergency protein. He sliced off a small, thin strip of red flesh, then walked back to the sofa. He held the meat out to the child. The baby didn't hesitate; it snatched the flesh with its tiny hands and shoved it into its mouth, tearing it apart with its sharp teeth with a feral, terrifying efficiency.

The little bell above the bakery door let out a bright, cheerful ding! that cut straight through the quiet warmth of the afternoon. I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron, tossing the dish towel over my shoulder. I put on my best customer-service smile, spinning around on my heel.

"Welcome in! What can I get for—"

My breath hitched.

"Hey, kiddo."

Leon.

He was leaning against the doorframe, looking absolutely wrecked. His broad shoulders slouched beneath his leather jacket, his messy blonde hair falling over his eyes. But the exact second his gaze locked onto me, the crushing exhaustion vanished from his face. He looked so out of place standing there among the pastel frostings, pink boxes, and the sweet scent of vanilla. He looked like a dark, protective storm cloud that had drifted into my perfect, sunny little world.

"Leon!" I beamed, practically leaping over the counter flap. I threw my arms tightly around his neck, burying my face into his chest. "You're back early! I thought your police academy training seminar was supposed to last until tomorrow night."

"They wrapped things up early," Leon murmured. His voice was a low, rough gravelly purr against my ear.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me so close against his body that I could barely breathe. It felt desperate. Tight. Like he was making sure I was actually, physically there. He buried his face into my hair, inhaling deeply. To me, it was just a sweet, sisterly hug. But to Leon, the scent of sugar and baked bread was the only thing washing away the metallic stench of blood, rot, and burning flesh that had filled his lungs only six hours ago in a damp, underground nightmare.

He finally pulled back, but his large hands didn't leave my shoulders. His piercing blue eyes swept over my face, scanning every single inch of me for a scratch, a bruise—anything. "How have things been here? No trouble? Tell me no one has been bothering you."

"Leon, it’s a bakery in a town of five thousand people. The most exciting thing that happened today was Mrs. Higgins complaining that her sourdough wasn't sour enough," I laughed, shaking my head as I reached into the display case to grab his favorite strawberry shortcake. "You worry too much. You'd think you're guarding the President, not your nineteen-year-old sister."

Leon’s smile didn't reach his eyes. A dark, heavy shadow flickered across his handsome face.

If you only knew, he thought, his chest tightening as he watched me slide the pastry into a bag. If I only knew about the things tearing through Raccoon City. If I only knew about the walking corpses, the horrific viral mutations, and the government cover-ups he spent every waking hour fighting off just to keep this specific, tiny, peaceful town safe. To Leon, I was the only clean, untainted thing left in a deeply infected world. He would pull the trigger on a thousand monsters—and a thousand humans—before he let a single drop of that filth touch his little sister.

"Just taking my job seriously," Leon said softly, reaching out to boop the tip of my flour-covered nose.

"Well, Mr. Serious Officer, you missed your afternoon check-in call by ten whole minutes today," I teased, crossing my arms and pouting playfully. "I almost thought I'd have to call the station and report a missing big brother."

Leon’s hand froze. His heart stopped for a terrifying beat. His phone had actually been smashed into pieces during a frantic grapple with a mutated creature in a sewer line. He had sprinted three miles to a secure agency vehicle and driven here at breakneck speeds, his hands shaking on the steering wheel, completely petrified that his ten minutes of silence had left me vulnerable.

"Sorry about that. Bad cell reception in the hills," he lied smoothly, his voice dropping into that calm, steady tone he used when he was managing a crisis. He stepped closer, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His skin felt rough against my cheek, his touch lingering just a second too long. "But you stayed inside, right? You didn't leave the shop at all?"

"Of course I didn't. I had three custom cake orders to finish." I paused, my eyes drifting down to his sleeve. A strange, dark smear was smudged on the cuff of his jacket. "Hey, what's that? Is that... soot?"

Leon subtly pulled his arm back, tucking his hands into his pockets. It wasn't soot. It was dried, oxidized blood from a bio-weapon he had cut down with his combat knife.

"Yeah. We had a flare drill at the range. Messy stuff," he murmured, his face a perfect, emotionless mask. He looked past me, his sharp eyes scanning the empty street through the bakery’s front glass. A man was walking a dog across the street. Leon instantly noted his height, stride, and distance from the shop, categorizing him as a potential variable. "Listen, I was thinking. Your apartment lease is up next month."

"Yeah? I was just going to renew it. It's only two blocks from here, so it's super convenient."

"I found a better place," Leon said. His tone completely shifted. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command that left absolutely no room for argument. "It's a house a few miles out of town. Gated. Heavy deadbolts. Reinforced window panes. It's much safer."

I blinked, totally thrown off. "Leon, that sounds way too expensive. And I love being close to the bakery! I like walking to work."

"I'll pay the difference. And walking isn't safe anymore, even in a town like this," Leon said, stepping directly into my personal space. His tall, muscular frame completely blocked out the light, enveloping me in his shadow. The warmth in his eyes was fierce, bordering on obsessive. He couldn't tell me that a localized strain of the virus had been detected just two counties over last night. He couldn't tell me that he had spent his morning executing the infected to stop it from spreading toward my doorstep. "You're moving into the new place. I'm handling the boxes this weekend. It's settled."

I sighed, rolling my eyes but secretly smiling at how overprotective he was. I was used to it. Ever since he joined the police force, his coddling had gone into total overdrive. I just assumed he was a stressed-out cop who took the "protect and serve" motto a little too literally when it came to his family.

"Fine, fine. If it makes you sleep better at night," I relented, picking up a rag to clean the counter. "But you're helping me unpack every single box."

"Deal," Leon murmured. A genuine, profoundly relieved smile finally broke across his face.

He leaned against the counter, taking a bite of the sweet pastry while watching me hum a quiet song as I wiped down the surface. I was completely safe. Completely innocent. And completely oblivious to the nightmares lurking just outside our little bubble.

Craig's usual cold, monotone exterior completely cracks around you, making him fiercely protective and defensive of your friendship above all else.

He approaches his yandere tendencies out of a desperate, overwhelming need to be your absolute best friend, genuinely believing he is just being incredibly loyal.

He tracks your daily schedule down to the exact second, purely so he can coordinate his breaks and guarantee you two always sit together.

He uses his tech skills to quietly mirror your phone screen, mostly just to see if you are venting to other people instead of coming to him.

He sits in the back of class and stares blankly at the back of your head, getting deeply annoyed if anyone else tries to partner up with you.

His signature middle finger is weaponized as a silent threat, flashing it at anyone who tries to join your duo because he hates sharing your time.

He gathers private dirt on your other friends by quietly observing them, leaving anonymous blackmail notes in their lockers so you only hang out with him.

He manipulates Clyde, Token, and Jimmy into letting you join their friend group, but ensures you are always paired up strictly with him during activities.

He gaslights you with a flat, certain voice, telling you fake rumors about your other friends so you will realize he is the only loyal friend you have.

He keeps a specific desk drawer entirely dedicated to your friendship, filled with neatly labeled items like matching arcade tickets and old school projects.

He positions Stripe's guinea pig cage to face a framed photo of you two, unironically rambling to his pet about how you are his only true best friend.

He exploits Tweek's intense anxiety, asking him to constantly check on you just to make sure no one else is trying to replace Craig as your number one.

If Tweek ever becomes closer to you than he is, Craig will feel deeply betrayed and ruthlessly trigger a panic attack to push Tweek out of the picture.

He stands by your locker every single day to walk you home, grunting a flat, "We're hanging out today," leaving zero room for objection.

He insists on carrying your heavy backpack every day, claiming it's just what a real best friend does so you don't wear yourself out.

He hacks into your home security cameras, not to spy maliciously, but just to make sure you safely made it home after hanging out.

He buys two copies of every video game, skateboard tool, and snack he owns, excitedly ensuring you two always have matching gear.

He sits next to you at lunch every single day, aggressively claiming the seat next to you and glaring at anyone who tries to crowd your space.

If you try to ignore him, he will sit right outside your house on his skateboard, waiting with a stubborn, sullen expression until you come out.

He learns your absolute favorite video games and secretly practices them for hours at night just so he can perfectly carry you in co-op modes.

He actively lets the air out of your bicycle tires just so he can hang out with you longer while helping you fix it.

He takes candid photos of you two hanging out, printing them out to keep in a hidden scrapbook under his bed that documents your friendship.

He shows up at your workplace or after-school activities, awkwardly sitting in the corner just to serve as your personal, silent support system.

He learns your parents' schedules perfectly, timing his visits so he can bring over junk food and video games for a movie night the second you're alone.

If you ever try to end the friendship, his deadpan eyes will immediately well up with tears, completely shattering his unbothered facade.

He will nervously pull out his phone and show you your tracking data, desperately begging you to see how much he cares about keeping you safe.

SEPARATE:

* Kyle maps out your entire semester before it even begins, looking up the professors for your major and cross-referencing syllabus workloads just to subtly pressure you into taking the exact same general education classes as him.

* If you are in different majors, he actively volunteers to "peer-review" every single essay, lab report, or project you write, weaponizing his high intelligence to foster a deep state of academic dependency.

* When you fail an exam or feel overwhelmed, he won't just comfort you; he will subtly imply that the campus environment is too toxic for you to handle alone, pulling your chair closer to his desk and telling you to just let him handle the study schedule from now on so he can ensure you pass.

* He feels a deep, possessive thrill knowing that your academic success and future career goals are entirely reliant on his intellectual labor, using the overwhelming nature of college academics to weave himself inextricably into your daily routine.

* If you do not room with him, he views your actual roommate as an immediate, hostile threat to your safety and moral purity, spending hours analyzing their habits to look for minor infractions like drinking, smoking, or messy habits so he can file anonymous, highly detailed reports to the Resident Advisor to get them evicted.

* He essentially moves himself into your space anyway, leaving his textbooks, laptop chargers, and hoodies scattered around your room to mark his territory while acting as a hyper-vigilant gatekeeper for your social life.

* Because he hates college party culture, he will explicitly forbid you from attending them by citing "safety statistics," and if you do manage to go to a frat party, he shows up uninvited under the guise of being your designated driver, standing in the corner and glaring with a terrifying, cold intensity at anyone who tries to offer you a drink.

* He exploits campus technology to keep tabs on you, casually suggesting you download location-sharing safety apps under the excuse of "campus safety at night," while completely memorizing your class schedule down to the exact building and room number.

* He knows exactly how long it takes to walk from the library to your dorm, and if you are even five minutes late, his phone calls and texts start flooding in, masked as frantic, breathless worry.

* When he discovers a romantic rival, Kyle rarely resorts to clumsy, physical violence, choosing instead to ruin their life institutionally by using fake email addresses to report your crush to the university administration for academic dishonesty or code-of-conduct violations.

* He destroys their reputation so thoroughly that they are forced to transfer schools or lose their scholarships, leaving you heartbroken and confused—at which point Kyle is right there to hold you, whispering about how people always reveal their true colors eventually, but he will never leave you.

* If he catches you genuinely falling for someone else, or if you attempt to cut ties with him because his behavior is suffocating, his calm, logical facade completely shatters, and the explosive, screaming temper he had as a child returns as something deeper, colder, and far more intimidating.

* He will pin you against a dorm wall or trap you in a secluded study room, demanding to know why you are throwing your life away on people who don't care about you the way he does.

* His inner monologue completely distorts reality, convincing him that you are simply naive, easily manipulated, and incapable of making adult decisions in this big college world, which makes locking you away feel like a necessary intervention rather than a crime.

* If he decides to take you, it will likely be to a secluded off-campus apartment or a remote cabin during winter break where he will confiscate your phone and take care of your every physical need with a gentle, terrifyingly domestic smile, completely convinced that once the chaos of college fades, you will thank him for saving you.

—

* Tweek develops a hyper-fixation on you as a coping mechanism for his overwhelming college anxiety, turning you into his ultimate "safe space" and the only thing that can quiet the constant noise in his head.

* The sheer size of a university campus

completely overloads his senses, causing him to latch onto you so tightly that he experiences severe, shaking panic attacks whenever you are out of his sight for more than an hour.

* He constantly uses his signature paranoia to justify tracking you, frantically convincing himself that if he doesn't know exactly where you are, you will get hit by a campus bus, get trapped in an elevator, or get targeted by a dangerous criminal.

* Tweek handles his absolute terror of you leaving him by weaponizing his vulnerability, crying and shaking so intensely during minor disagreements that you feel forced to stay and comfort him out of pure guilt.

* He uses his family's coffee business to keep you physically dependent on him, constantly brewing custom, hyper-caffeinated roasts packed with specialized herbal supplements designed to keep your mood stable and your energy focused entirely on him.

* If you try to study at the campus library alone, Tweek will hide nearby behind bookshelves or in adjacent cubicles, visibly twitching and tearing at his shirt collar while watching your every move to ensure no classmates sit next to you.

* He takes over your physical health under the frantic excuse that you aren't taking care of yourself, obsessively tracking your sleep schedule, packing your meals, and forcing you to take specific vitamins that he monitors you swallowing.

* When he perceives a threat from a classmate or a romantic rival, Tweek’s typical nervous stutter completely vanishes, replaced by a frantic, wide-eyed, sleepless manic state where he plots how to eliminate them before they "ruin everything."

* He uses anonymous campus burner accounts to send terrifying, unhinged conspiracy theories and fake threat letters to your friends, successfully scaring them into avoiding you entirely so that you have no choice but to rely on him for protection.

* If he finds out someone asked you out, he won't confront them directly; instead, he will completely break down in your dorm room, pulling his hair out and screaming that the person is a secret predator, deliberately making such a massive, exhausting scene that you promise never to speak to that classmate again just to calm him down.

* He secretly collects your discarded personal items—like used pens, stray hairs from your hairbrush, or old hoodies—and hides them under his mattress in a frantic, disorganized shrine that he clutches tightly to sleep when you aren't there.

* His breaking point occurs when he becomes entirely convinced that the university environment is designed to tear you away from him, causing him to snap and decide that the only way to keep you safe from the world is to completely remove you from it.

* He will subtly slip a heavy sedative into your daily coffee, pack your unconscious body into his car, and drive you far away from the campus to a remote, locked location—likely an old, abandoned property owned by his family's business.

* Once he has you locked away, his manic energy completely resets into a domestic, hyper-attentive state where he tearfully serves you homemade food and coffee, rocking you back and forth while whispering that the scary outside world can never hurt their relationship again.

—

* Wendy approaches her obsession with the terrifying, clinical precision of an Ivy League-bound honor student, viewing you not just as a partner, but as a long-term investment that she must protect and optimize at all costs.

* She uses her high-ranking position in student government to completely control the campus environment around you, subtly adjusting university club schedules, student worker shifts, and even department events to ensure your paths cross perfectly.

* If she notices a specific classmate or professor trying to get too close to you, she will abuse her administrative connections to quietly access their student or employee records, looking for any minor academic violation to weaponize against them.

* She establishes a flawless public image as the campus power-couple, manipulating social media and public campus events so thoroughly that the entire student body views the two of you as completely inseparable, making anyone else feel too intimidated to ever flirt with you.

* Wendy completely weaponizes gaslighting under the guise of intellectual debate, using her champion debate-team skills to pick apart your arguments until you genuinely believe your boundaries are irrational and that her controlling behavior is just "mature relationship communication."

* She subtly takes over your entire financial and professional future by "helping" you apply for internships and scholarships, deliberately deleting acceptance emails from companies located out of state so you are forced to accept positions close to her.

* If you manage to get a spot in a co-ed dorm, Wendy will quietly meet with the housing department, leveraging her student government influence and fabricating "safety concerns" to switch your housing assignment so you end up rooming either with her or a quiet student who is never home.

* She tracks your location using high-end security apps that she insists you install for "campus safety," keeping a dual monitor setup in her dorm room where one screen holds her thesis work and the other tracks your live GPS coordinates.

* When a romantic rival refuses to back down, Wendy completely ditches her diplomatic facade, printing out highly confidential, damaging information about that person and leaving it on their advisor's desk to ruin their academic career overnight.

- She keeps a highly organized, password-protected digital dossier on her laptop containing your daily schedule, a list of everyone you speak to, your current grades, and a detailed psychological breakdown of your emotional vulnerabilities.

- If you try to break up with her, she doesn't cry or scream; instead, she sits you down with a cold, terrifying smile and calmly explains exactly how she can ruin your GPA, your scholarships, and your post-grad job opportunities with a single phone call.

- Her absolute breaking point happens if she realizes the unpredictable nature of the college campus is making her lose her grip on you, pushing her to execute a highly calculated plan to remove you from the university system entirely.

- She will systematically forge paperwork to officially withdraw you from all your classes, pack your bags while you are out, and use her family's wealth to relocate you to a private, highly secure off-campus residence that she fully controls.

- Once she has you isolated, she treats you with absolute, chilling grace, managing your daily routine like a strict but loving warden, completely confident that she has successfully saved your future from the chaos of the outside world.

—

POLY:

- This four-way relationship operates like a highly structured, inescapable web where Kyle handles the long-term planning, Wendy manages the logistics and campus politics, and Tweek acts as the hyper-vigilant emotional anchor.

- They have a shared Google Calendar and a synchronized tracking app that all three of them monitor constantly, ensuring that no matter where you are on the university campus, at least one of them is physically by your side or watching from a distance.

- Kyle and Wendy use their combined, staggering intellect to completely run your academic life, co-authoring your study schedules and peer-reviewing your papers together at a private library table while Tweek sits next to you, frantically rubbing your shoulders to keep you from getting stressed.

- Tweek is the one who handles your immediate physical environment, constantly bringing custom coffee blends and meals to your dorm room, while Kyle and Wendy handle the high-level security, ensuring your dorm roommate is permanently reassigned so the four of you can essentially live together.

- When a classmate tries to flirt with you, the trio reacts with a terrifyingly synchronized, multi-layered counter-attack that leaves the target completely socially and academically ruined before the weekend even starts.

- Wendy will use her student government power to get the rival removed from your group projects, Kyle will launch an institutional smear campaign against their reputation, and Tweek will send anonymous, unhinged text warnings that scare them into changing their major entirely.

- Arguments within the polyamorous dynamic are impossible for you to win; Wendy will logically dismantle your boundaries, Kyle will guilt-trip you using his self-righteous savior complex, and Tweek will start sobbing and hyperventilating until you apologize just to make the chaos stop.

- They weaponize their own internal relationship dynamics to keep you trapped, comforting each other in front of you to show you what a "perfect, united front" they are, leaving you feeling entirely isolated if you ever try to push back against their rules.

- Wendy manages a shared, encrypted database on her laptop where all three of them log daily updates about your mood, your conversations, the people you interact with, and your current academic standing.

- Kyle acts as the moral judge of the group, deciding which of your friends are "toxic influences," while Wendy seamlessly executes the social elimination of those friends and Tweek watches your phone to ensure you don't secretly message them.

- If you try to run away from the campus or escape the relationship, their individual breaking points instantly merge into a highly efficient, terrifyingly organized kidnapping plot.

- Wendy handles the finances and secures a secluded, off-campus property, Kyle officially forges the university paperwork to withdraw you from your classes, and Tweek smoothly slips a sedative into your morning coffee.

- Once you wake up in their shared, highly secure off-campus home, the atmosphere shifts into a smothering, deeply domestic paradise where all three of them dote on you constantly.

- Kyle will read to you on the couch, Wendy will manage your daily schedule within the house, and Tweek will hold you tightly through the night, all three of them completely convinced that they have successfully saved you from the dangerous outside world.

Kenny hoards his meager arcade tokens for weeks just so he can "win" you the specific cheap prize you eyed at the local pizza place.

HIM WHEN HE FINALLY GETS IT:

He keeps a close eye on the town's creepy adults and will randomly show up on his beat-up bike to escort you home if you are walking past the sketchy parts of South Park alone.

KENNY PULLIN UP COMIN TO GET YOU:

He uses his Mysterion persona to watch your bedroom window from a nearby rooftop at night, convinced he is the only one who can actually keep you safe from the town's bizarre dangers.

You sometimes see mysterion through your window..

If Cartman tries to rip you off or bully you, Kenny instantly drops his usual relaxed attitude and gets dangerously in his face until Cartman backs down.

Why he tryna act all tough..

He knows exactly how crappy it feels to go hungry, so he will quietly slip his own meager lunch into your bag if he thinks you didn't eat enough that day.

Him giving you what little food he has left:

He steals small, worthless trinkets from your room—like a plastic ring or a cool rock—and treats them like absolute treasure, keeping them hidden inside his parka pocket.

Kenny reading your diary he stole:

Whenever he dies and resets the timeline, his very first instinct upon waking up alive in his bed is to run straight to your house to make sure you are still okay.

He fell outta his bed to find you..

He laughs off your jokes way harder than anyone else's, using his loud, muffled giggles to make sure you always feel like the funniest person in the room.

Whenever you say something not funny...Kenny will always think its funny because YOU said it

He borrows your school supplies constantly just to have an excuse to sit right next to you and whisper inappropriate jokes during class.

I dont have an image for this one..

He watches your interactions with Craig's gang very closely, ready to step in the second any of them give you a look he doesn't like.

Kenny sad bc you ain't talking to him:(((

Kyle uses his high academic ranking to convince the teachers that he needs to peer-tutor you, ensuring you two share a desk in almost every class.

Him watching the teacher say no to you for anything

He gets intensely stressed if your grades drop even a little bit, aggressively forcing you into mandatory, late-night study sessions at his kitchen table.

He gets so scared when you get an F

If Cartman makes even a slightly rude comment about you, Kyle completely loses his temper and physically attacks him on the spot, way more brutally than usual.

He has to look up at cartman when arguing because cartman is so fat

He writes down every single detail about your allergies, medical history, and daily routine in a private notebook, treating your health like his personal responsibility.

He giggles and kicks his feet when he learns something new about you

He subtly interrogates Stan or Kenny after school if he finds out you spent even five minutes talking to them without him there.

Has to interrogate every mf that you come across like hes on judge judy..

He monitors your online activity under the guise of "internet safety," keeping track of who is commenting on your posts and blocking people he deems toxic.

Him blocking your friends and family because you didnt ask for "permission" you dont even know him though...

When his mom tries to plan a family trip, he throws a massive tantrum and refuses to go unless your parents agree to let you come along with them.

Throws the biggest fit ever.

He acts like a strict guardian, lecturing you for hours if he catches you staying out past dark or hanging out with a crowd he considers a bad influence.

He keeps a spare key to your house that he "found" on the counter, using it to let himself into your room whenever he decides you need company.

He will completely abandon his own strong morals and lie to the principal or the police if it means keeping you out of trouble.

He WILL hurt others for you

Cartman uses his mom's credit card to buy expensive gifts or gaming consoles for you, throwing a massive screaming fit if you try to refuse them.

He WILL scream at you since he doesnt know how to handle his emotions

He fabricates incredibly elaborate, highly damaging rumors about anyone who tries to flirt with you, completely ruining their social life by the end of the school day.

He laughs at anyone's life he ruins

He prints out a massive, professional-looking contract full of fake legal jargon and tricks you into signing it just so he can claim you legally owe him all your free time.

Type of note he will give you if you dont spend time with him

If you don't answer his text messages within two minutes, he will literally call the police non-department line to report you missing just to force you to look at your phone.

He will dress up as a police officer and go to your house and arrest you..putting you on the backseat of his bicycle

He treats you like absolute royalty while acting completely obnoxious to everyone else, forcing the other boys to sit on the floor so you can have the best seat in the room.

He will treat you like he did princess Kenny just a tiny bit nicer..not that much though

He sneaks into your house while you are at school just to install hidden nanny cams in your living room, fully convinced he is "monitoring your safety."

He keeps a highly detailed, deeply unhinged binder full of photos, schedules, and ranking charts tracking every single person you interact with on a daily basis.

He takes pictures of you when you embarrass yourself to keep in the memory album

If you show a minor interest in a specific hobby or show, he will immediately buy out all the local merchandise for it so that you can only get it by asking him.

If you mention liking a specific animal he will wear a hat imitating that animal so youll like him like you like the animal!

He uses his alliance with Cthulhu or any random town crisis to specifically target and eliminate people who annoyed you the previous week.

He is NOT being sneaky about assassinating people for you since hes easy to spot.

He will completely fake a terminal illness or a dramatic kidnapping scenario just to see how fast you will run to the hospital or his house to check on him.

If you dont make it in 5 minutes (the hospital is an hour away from your house) he assumes you dont want to be friends anymore and whines

Stan gets visibly restless and starts chewing on his collar if you sit with anyone else at the lunch table, staring dicsomfortingly across the cafeteria.

Him pretending to listen to his friends while staring at you-

He obsessively checks his phone for your replies, and if you leave him on read for too alone, he will casually walk past your house with Sparky just to see if your bedroom light is on.

Of course stan has to check his phone for any texts by you before bed!

He channels all his hidden aggression into his sports games, completely dominating the field if he knows you are watching from the bleachers.

He gets so unbelievably sad when his team loses and your sitting in the bleachers..he hates failing you..even if you don't know he exists..

If Kyle tries to give you advice that contradicts what he said, Stan will get unusually cold and defensive, starting a massive, week-long fight with his best friend over it.

He will happily mock his best friend if he thinks Kyle is getting in the way

He secretly hates when you listen to new music bands, so he will constantly make you custom playlists filled with depressing indie songs to keep your tastes identical to his.

Him looking at your Playlist saying "what the hell is this!?"

He treats your problems like absolute life-or-death crises, turning a minor bad grade or a mean comment into a massive, brooding existential emergency that he needs to fix for you.

Him looking at your grades (he needs them to be all a's..if they arent he blames it on the teacher, not you!) Stupid teacher putting in incorrect grades..you obviously deserve an A

When Wendy or any other girl tries to talk to him, he immediately shifts the conversation entirely to you, hyper-fixating on your achievements until the other person gets bored and leaves.

Him appearing out of no where when someone mentions your name...

He keeps a secret, locked folder on his computer filled with saved photos from your social media profiles, organized neatly by the date they were posted.

Him writing down what you did 5 seconds ago

If you are upset, he will drag you out to the middle of the woods or the farm just so you can scream at the sky together, refusing to let you go home until you smile.

He encourages you to scream louder

He gets incredibly passive-aggressive toward anyone who invites you to a party without him, subtly convincing you that the event is going to be lame so you stay home with him instead.

His face when you agree to stay "home" with him

The morning light filtered weakly through the kitchen curtains, carrying the sharp, acrid smell of cigarette smoke. Your mom stood by the open window, one elbow propped on the sill, a half-burned cigarette dangling from her fingers. She took a long drag, exhaling slowly as she stared at the transfer papers from Principal Asano that lay crumpled on the table. Her face was twisted in open disgust, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Class 3-E,” she muttered, more to herself than to you. “Of all the goddamn places.”

She didn’t look at you. Not once. You stood awkwardly in the doorway in your uniform, bag slung over one shoulder, waiting for… something. A goodbye. A word of encouragement. Even a complaint directed at you. Instead, she flicked ash out the window and took another drag, the silence stretching thick and uncomfortable. The disappointment in the air felt heavier than any lecture. You swallowed the lump in your throat, grabbed a quick piece of toast that tasted like cardboard, and slipped out the front door without another word. The lock clicked behind you like a final judgment.

The walk to the 3-E campus was hell.

The main road ended at the base of the mountain, forcing you onto a narrow, overgrown forest trail. Tall trees blocked out much of the sunlight, leaving everything in a hazy green dimness. Roots snaked across the path like traps waiting to trip you. You kept your eyes down, stepping carefully, heart jumping every time leaves rustled. A thin snake slithered across the dirt a few feet ahead—you froze, waited for it to disappear, then hurried past. Further on, patches of poison ivy forced you to edge uncomfortably close to thorny bushes that snagged at your uniform. Sweat already beaded on your forehead. Your legs burned from the steep incline. This was nothing like the clean sidewalks and train rides to the main campus. Everything here felt wild, unforgiving, and isolating.

By the time the old wooden building came into view, you were breathing heavily, chest heaving, uniform damp with sweat and dotted with bits of leaves and dirt. Your hair stuck to your neck. You paused at the entrance, trying to compose yourself, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve.

You slid the classroom door open with a quiet creak.

Inside, the room was already lively. Students chatted loudly, some tossing paper balls, others comparing what looked like modified rubber knives. A boy with striking red hair and piercing eyes lounged near the back, spinning a pencil between his fingers. Karma Akabane. You’d heard rumors even on the main campus—troublemaker, genius, dangerous smile. His gaze flicked to you immediately.

You stood there awkwardly, still catching your breath.

Karma raised an eyebrow, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “New meat, huh? You look like you just survived a war zone.” He stood up and sauntered over, hands in his pockets. “Karma Akabane. Welcome to the rejection club.”

You managed a small, breathless “Hi… Y/N.” Your discomfort must have been written all over your face—shoulders hunched, eyes darting around. Karma noticed. His sharp eyes scanned you for a second, taking in the sweat, the leaves on your sleeve, the way you seemed ready to shrink into the floor. But he just shrugged, unbothered. “Relax. It’s not that bad here. Sit wherever.” He turned and dropped back into his seat without another word, already losing interest.

You picked a random empty desk near the middle-back, somewhere not too front-row obvious but not completely isolated. Your hands trembled slightly as you set your bag down. The chatter continued around you, but no one stared too long. It felt… strangely normal.

Then the air itself seemed to explode.

“GOOD MORNING, CLASS~!!!”

A booming, energetic voice filled the room like fireworks. A yellow blur streaked in at impossible speed, tentacles waving wildly, academic gown fluttering. Koro-Sensei materialized at the front of the class in an instant, his round head beaming with that permanent, wide grin, beady eyes sparkling with pure enthusiasm. He was enormous, vibrant, and radiating so much chaotic energy that you instinctively gripped the edge of your desk.

“Today is a wonderful day for learning and growth! The sun is shining, the mountain air is crisp, and—” His gaze locked onto you instantly. “Ah! We have a brand new student joining us!”

He zipped over in a gentler streak, stopping a respectful distance from your desk. “Everyone, please welcome Y/N! They’ve transferred from the main campus and will be with us for the remainder of the year. Y/N, I am Koro-Sensei, your dedicated homeroom teacher. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you!”

His voice was loud but warm, almost vibrating with genuine excitement. “A new face is always so refreshing! I’ve been looking forward to this since I received the news. We’re going to learn so much together. If you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here to support you one hundred percent!”

You blinked up at him, stunned. This was the monster who destroyed the moon? The one everyone was supposed to assassinate? He seemed… overwhelmingly friendly. Gushing, even. His tentacles gestured animatedly as he floated back to the front, already launching into roll call and morning announcements with infectious cheer.

The rest of the day unfolded in a whirlwind that left you exhausted but oddly steadier.

Normal classes—math, science, literature—felt surprisingly manageable. The students were loud and imperfect, but they didn’t freeze you out. During literature, you found yourself answering a question about character motivation almost without thinking. Koro-Sensei’s eyes lit up. “Excellent insight, Y/N!”

Assassination training, however, was where you crashed and burned. When the period started, the class shifted into focused chaos. Students launched coordinated attempts—knives flying, traps snapping, distractions shouted. You stayed glued to your seat, flinching at every sudden movement, hands useless in your lap. You had no idea what to do. Every time you tried something basic, it went wrong: a clumsy step, a mistimed throw, freezing up entirely.

Koro-Sensei was there every single time.

After one particularly failed attempt where you dropped the rubber knife and it bounced pathetically away, he appeared beside you in a gentle whoosh, voice softer just for you. “Not to worry! Try shifting your weight like this—” One tentacle demonstrated a slow, patient motion. “And keep your eyes on the target’s rhythm. You’ll improve with time. No rush at all!”

You mumbled a shaky “Thank you…”

“No biggie!” he replied brightly, giving you a cheerful thumbs-up with another tentacle before zipping off to dodge three more students at once.

It happened again and again. Each pointer was delivered with endless patience. Each “Thank you” from you was met with his signature “No biggie!” and an encouraging grin. By the end of the day, you almost believed you might not be completely hopeless.

When the final bell rang, students packed up quickly, laughing and complaining about homework as they headed down the mountain. You lingered at your desk, pretending to organize notes, reluctant to face that brutal forest path again so soon. The classroom emptied until only the quiet creak of wood and distant birds remained.

A soft rustle of tentacles made you look up. Koro-Sensei floated near the teacher’s desk, watching you with quiet curiosity. “Y/N? Why aren’t you heading home yet? The others left a while ago.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “The walk here… it’s really exhausting. The forest path is full of snakes, poison ivy, steep hills… I’m already worn out from this morning. I was just catching my breath before doing it all over again.”

Koro-Sensei listened attentively, floating closer and settling at a nearby desk like a concerned parent. “I see. That trail is quite unforgiving, especially for a first-timer. You handled it well reaching us today.” He nodded sympathetically, agreeing without dismissing your struggle. “Many students find it difficult at first.”

The two of you talked for a while after that. It flowed easier than you expected. He asked gentle questions about your old classes, what you missed, how you were feeling. You answered carefully at first, then more openly. He laughed warmly at a small story you told about a disastrous group project from your old school. The conversation felt natural—comforting, even.

At one point, he complimented you sincerely. “I noticed during literature today—you have a real talent for ELA. Your analysis was thoughtful and well-articulated. That’s something to be proud of.”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. “Yeah… it’s always been my best subject.”

Koro-Sensei’s beady eyes sparkled. He filed that away carefully, already thinking of ways to nurture it in future lessons.

The sun was lower now, casting golden light across the classroom. Koro-Sensei glanced outside, then back at you. “Well then! No need for you to suffer that path again today. I’ll fly you home.”

You blinked. “O-oh, no, I don’t want to trouble you—”

“Nonsense!” he declared cheerfully, already scooping up your bag with one tentacle and extending another toward you in a supportive gesture. “It’s no trouble at all. Consider it a welcome gift from your teacher. Besides, I can have you home in seconds!”

His mind was clearly made up, grin wide and unwavering. You hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. As he gently lifted you into his hold—secure, surprisingly comfortable—and shot out the window in a controlled yellow streak, the mountain forest blurred beneath you. The wind rushed past, but you felt oddly safe.

You sat at your desk in the middle of a mundane history lecture, staring blankly at the textbook page that might as well have been written in another language. The words blurred together. Notes from earlier in the week lay scattered in your notebook, half-finished doodles filling the margins where actual information should have been. It wasn’t that you didn’t try. You did—quietly, desperately, in your own way—but the effort never seemed to translate into results that mattered here at Kunugigaoka Junior High.

The classroom was a sea of perfectly pressed uniforms and sharper students. Laughter rippled from the back rows where the popular groups clustered. You kept your head down, earbuds hidden beneath your hair (against the rules, but no one ever noticed you enough to enforce them). Being an outcast wasn’t a choice; it was the default setting. You weren’t loud or rebellious enough to draw negative attention, nor charming or talented enough to earn positive glances. You simply existed in the gaps between everyone else’s stories.

A knock at the classroom door cut through the teacher’s droning voice. The door slid open, and the school secretary peered in, her expression neutral. “Y/N? The principal would like to see you immediately.”

Whispers erupted like startled birds. A few heads turned your way—curious, amused, or indifferent. Your stomach twisted. What did I do? You hadn’t broken any major rules. You gathered your things with clumsy hands, nearly dropping your pencil case, and followed the secretary down the polished hallways. The walk felt longer than usual, your footsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet.

Principal Asano’s office was as intimidating as ever—immaculate, minimalist, and radiating an aura of absolute control. He sat behind his large desk, fingers steepled, his sharp gaze assessing you the moment you entered. A second man stood off to the side: the vice-principal, perhaps, or someone from the administrative staff. You bowed politely and sat when instructed, hands folded tightly in your lap.

“Straight to the point,” Principal Asano began, his voice smooth and unyielding. “Your academic performance has been… consistently below the standards expected at this institution. Placement exams, midterms, participation—none of it meets the bar. We’ve reviewed your file thoroughly.”

You swallowed. Heat crept up your neck. You wanted to defend yourself, to explain that you studied late into the night or that test anxiety made your mind go blank, but the words stuck.

“Kunugigaoka prides itself on excellence,” he continued. “Students who cannot keep pace with the main campus curriculum are… reassigned. Effective immediately, you will transfer to Class 3-E for the remainder of your time here at the school. Your belongings will be moved. Classes begin there tomorrow.”

Class 3-E. The End Class. The dumping ground for failures, the secret training ground for an assassination mission against a super-powered teacher who had destroyed the moon. Everyone knew the rumors. You’d heard the whispers in the halls—how the students there trained with knives and guns (unloaded, supposedly), how they were isolated on a mountain campus, how failure in 3-E meant failure in life. Your heart hammered.

“But… I’m not…” You faltered. “Im not an outcast like them!"

Principal Asano’s smile was thin and impersonal. “This is not a discussion. It is a decision made in the best interest of the school’s overall standards. You will report to the 3-E campus tomorrow morning. Transportation details and a new schedule will be provided. Dismissed.”

The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. You were ushered out with a folder of documents and the weight of the world on your shoulders. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. You packed what little was in your locker, avoided eye contact with former classmates, and headed home on the train, the folder clutched like a death sentence.

---

Later that evening – Koro-Sensei’s Perspective

The sun had dipped low behind the mountains surrounding the old 3-E building, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks that Koro-Sensei found utterly delightful. He zipped around the classroom at Mach 20, yellow tentacles a blur as he finished grading the last stack of assassination technique essays. “Mmm-hmm-hmm~! Such creativity today! Though Karasuma-sensei might frown at the excessive use of rubber bands in trap design.”

He paused mid-tentacle-flip, one striped appendage holding a bright red pen, another adjusting his academic gown. The students had already gone home for the day, leaving the building quiet except for the distant hum of insects and the occasional rustle of leaves. Koro-Sensei loved these quiet moments almost as much as the chaotic ones filled with youthful energy and failed murder attempts. Almost.

A soft *whoosh* announced the arrival of a familiar figure at the doorway. It was Principal Asano’s messenger—discreet, efficient, and always bearing interesting news. The man handed over a sealed envelope without a word, bowed, and departed just as quickly.

Koro-Sensei’s beady eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Oho? What’s this? Fan mail? A new recipe suggestion? Or perhaps another thrilling challenge from the government?” He tore it open with theatrical flair, tentacles unfurling the crisp paper.

His reading speed was, naturally, extraordinary. Within seconds he absorbed every detail:

*New transfer student. Y/N. Academic struggles in main campus. No noted aptitude for stealth, marksmanship, or physical conditioning. Assigned to 3-E for remainder of high school term. Arrival tomorrow.*

Koro-Sensei’s grin widened impossibly, the black crescents on his face curving into pure delight. A new student! How wonderful! He spun once in mid-air, tentacles waving like celebratory streamers.

“Another precious pupil to nurture! Mmm-hmm-hmm~! How exciting!” He floated over to the class roster board, already imagining the perfect desk placement—somewhere visible but not overwhelming, perhaps near Nagisa or Kayano where friendly faces could ease the transition. “Not good at being sneaky, eh? Assassination not their forte? No matter! Every student has hidden talents waiting to bloom. Perhaps literature? Or art? Or the quiet joy of simply trying their best!”

He began zipping about the room again, tidying already-immaculate desks and arranging a small welcome gift: a beautifully wrapped box of premium snacks from his latest international collection. “I must prepare a personalized lesson plan! Something gentle for the first day. No pressure about grades or knives until they’re ready. We’ll discover what makes them shine. Oh, the questions I’ll ask! Their favorite subjects, hobbies, dreams… I cannot wait to get to know them!”

Koro-Sensei paused by the window, gazing out over the mountain path that the new student would soon climb. His expression softened into something warm and genuinely eager. In his long, strange existence—first as a ruthless assassin, then as this bizarre octopus educator—he had come to cherish these moments most of all: the arrival of a new life into his temporary classroom family.

“Welcome in advance, Y/N,” he murmured cheerfully to the empty room, voice full of boundless optimism. “This old teacher promises to make your time here meaningful. Let’s learn and grow together, shall we?”

Sully is the colder, more violent alter that emerges from Liu. Around a child, he comes across as an unpredictable, off-putting older-brother figure who always seems a little too intense, a little too detached from normal human boundaries. His presence feels heavy and wrong, like something is watching from just behind your shoulder even when he’s standing in front of you.

He shows up without warning—standing at the edge of the playground after school, sitting on the roof of your house at night, or waiting inside your closet when you open it. His scarred face and wide, unblinking stare make it hard to look at him for long. He talks in a flat, childish voice that doesn’t match the dead look in his eyes.

If anyone upsets you (a bully, a mean teacher, even a parent raising their voice), Sully handles it in ways that leave you with nightmares. You might hear distant screaming later that night, or find him wiping a knife clean the next time he appears, casually saying “They were loud. Won’t be loud again.” He never seems sorry—only mildly annoyed if it got blood on his hoodie.

He insists he’s “only seven” sometimes and wants to play games like hide-and-seek in abandoned buildings or forests at 3 a.m. His laugh is sharp and sudden, cutting off too fast. During games he might disappear for long stretches, leaving you alone in the dark before popping out right behind you with a knife in hand, giggling like it’s the funniest thing

He leaves strange presents on your windowsill or under your pillow—shiny rocks, torn-up stuffed animals from who-knows-where, or little drawings done in thick red marker that look suspiciously like real blood. He watches your face closely when you find them, expecting you to be happy, and gets quiet and intense if you look scared.

Sometimes mid-conversation his expression softens and Liu takes over—voice gentler, trying to explain away the bloodstains or the screams you heard. But you can tell when Sully is about to come back: his eyes go glassy, his head tilts at an odd angle, and the air feels colder. The two of them arguing with each other out loud in front of you is deeply unsettling, like listening to one person fight with their own shadow.

Even when he’s not physically there, you start noticing little signs he’s been around—your window unlocked when you’re sure you locked it, drawings of stick figures on your walls that weren’t there before, or the way neighborhood animals go quiet when you walk home. He seems to know things he shouldn’t: what you dreamed about, what you’re scared of, when you’re alone.

If you cry or get scared, he’ll pat your head too hard or awkwardly wrap an arm around you while muttering “Stop that. It’s annoying.”

His version of protection is making sure nothing else can hurt you… by making sure nothing else can get near you at all. The silence after he “takes care of things” feels heavier than any normal quiet.

—

The alley smelled like rotting garbage and wet cardboard. Rain had fallen earlier that evening, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that reflected the flickering streetlights overhead. Sully stood in the shadows between two overflowing dumpsters, his hood pulled low over his scarred face. The knife in his pocket felt warm from how often his fingers brushed against it. He wasn’t supposed to be here—Liu had wanted to keep moving—but something had made him stop.

A small family huddled under a torn blue tarp stretched between a chain-link fence and a concrete wall. The mother looked exhausted, her eyes sunken, rocking a baby that barely made any sound anymore. The father sat with his back against the bricks, coughing wetly into his sleeve. And then there was the child—you. Maybe eight or nine years old, bundled in layers of filthy clothes that didn’t quite fit. You were trying to share a single stale slice of bread with the baby, breaking off tiny crumbs with careful fingers.

Sully tilted his head. The parents weren’t yelling. They weren’t hitting you. But they were letting this happen. Letting you shiver in the cold, letting your cheeks hollow out, letting your small hands tremble as you tried to make the bread last longer. It was almost funny in a sad, stupid way. Like watching someone slowly peel the wings off a butterfly while calling it love. He found it… endearing, in a twisted sort of way. The quiet suffering. The way humans could just keep going even when everything was pointless.

He watched for hours. Night settled fully. The father eventually dozed off. The mother whispered something to you and pulled the baby closer. You stayed awake, staring at the sliver of moon visible between the buildings, humming a broken little tune under your breath. Sully’s lips twitched. Cute. Pointless, but cute.

The next afternoon he was still there, lingering on the edge of the park across the street where your family had moved to beg. He sat on a bench with his legs drawn up, picking at the dried blood under his fingernails. People gave him a wide berth. Good.

You approached him slowly, barefoot in shoes that were falling apart. Your steps made almost no sound. When you stopped in front of him, he didn’t look up right away. He let the silence stretch.

“Um… mister?” Your voice was soft, hoarse from days of not enough water. “Do you have any spare change? Just a little? My baby sister’s really hungry.”

Sully finally lifted his head. The scars on his face pulled tight as he stared. Your eyes—God, your eyes. Even sunken, even ringed with exhaustion, they still sparkled. Like someone had left tiny pieces of glass in them that caught the light anyway. You were starving. You smelled like street grime and sickness. Yet you stood there smiling a tiny, hopeful smile, as if the world hadn’t already tried to chew you up and spit you out.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stared, unblinking, letting his wide eyes drink in every detail: the way your lower lip was cracked, the matted hair sticking to your forehead, the small bruise on your knee from sleeping on hard ground.

“You’re dying,” he said flatly. His voice still carried that childish lilt, the one that never quite matched the dead look in his face. “Slowly. They’re killing you out here.”

You blinked, confused but not yet scared. “We’re okay. Mom says it’ll get better when it warms up.”

Sully let out a short, sharp laugh that cut off too suddenly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and held it out between two fingers. When you took it, your small hand brushed his. Cold. Too cold.

“Thank you,” you whispered, clutching it like treasure.

He watched you run back to your parents. They hugged you. Praised you. Shared the hope of one more meal. Sully stayed on the bench until the sun went down, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on his knee. Those sparkling eyes kept flashing behind his own whenever he blinked.

---

That night the city slept under a thick layer of clouds. Sully moved like smoke. The parents were passed out from exhaustion and whatever cheap alcohol they’d managed to get. The baby was silent. You were curled up on a piece of cardboard, using your jacket as a blanket.

He crouched beside you for a long time, just watching your chest rise and fall. Then he pressed a cloth soaked in something sweet and chemical over your mouth. Your eyes flew open—those same sparkling eyes—wide with terror for a single second before they fluttered shut. Your small body went limp against him.

Sully picked you up easily. You weighed almost nothing. He carried you through the alleys, humming the same broken tune you’d been humming earlier. The knife in his pocket stayed sheathed. For now.

---

You woke up in a dark basement room that smelled of damp concrete and old blood. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging slightly even though no one had touched it. Your hands were tied loosely in front of you with strips of cloth—not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that you couldn’t run easily. A thin mattress had been dragged into the corner. There was a bottle of water and a stale sandwich on the floor nearby.

Sully sat cross-legged on the other side of the room, back against the wall, knife balanced on his knee. His head was tilted at that odd angle again, eyes reflecting the light like an animal’s.

“You’re awake,” he said. The childish tone was back, but it sounded wrong in the concrete box. “Good. I was getting bored.”

You scrambled back until your shoulders hit the wall, breathing fast. “Where… where am I? My mom—”

“They’re still out there. Probably looking for you by now. Or maybe not. People lose things all the time.” He shrugged. “I’m keeping you for a week. Then I’m going to kill you.”

The words dropped like stones into still water.

You stared at him, small chest heaving. Tears welled up but didn’t fall right away. “Please… I didn’t do anything bad. I just wanted some change for my sister—”

“I know.” Sully stood up slowly, unfolding like a spider. He crossed the room and crouched in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint metallic scent on his clothes. “That’s why it’ll be a mercy. You’re happy while you’re dying out there. That’s weird. I don’t like weird things that don’t make sense. So I’ll fix it. One week of not starving. Then… quiet.”

He reached out and patted your head too hard, twice. Then he stood and left the room, locking the heavy door behind him with a sound that echoed.

---

The first three days were a strange, creeping nightmare.

You did everything you could think of to make him not want to hurt you. When he brought food—cheap fast food burgers, bags of chips, juice boxes—you ate it all and said “thank you” in the brightest voice you could manage even though your stomach hurt from eating too fast after so long without. You listened to every rambling story he told about “when I was seven” (even though he looked much older) and laughed at the parts where he clearly expected laughter, even when the stories involved screaming.

Sometimes he would sit right next to you on the mattress, shoulder to shoulder, and just breathe. Not speaking. Just breathing, slow and steady, while he stared at the wall. Other times he would disappear for hours and come back with fresh blood on his sleeves, acting like nothing happened.

On the fourth night you drew pictures for him on the back of old newspaper he’d left. Stick figures. A sun. A house with a chimney even though you’d never lived in one. He took the papers and studied them for a long time under the swinging bulb.

“You’re still sparkling,” he muttered. “Even down here.”

You didn’t understand what he meant, so you just kept drawing.

He started staying longer. Instead of leaving you alone with the fear, he brought more blankets. He showed you how to hold the knife the “right way” (though he never let you keep it). He played games—simple ones like rock-paper-scissors, then weirder ones where he would hide in the shadows of the basement and make you find him. When you succeeded he would giggle in that sharp, sudden way that made your skin crawl.

By the sixth day the planned ending felt further away. Sully kept forgetting to mention it. Instead he watched you sleep. He brushed the hair out of your face with fingers that still had someone else’s blood dried in the creases. He brought you a small stuffed rabbit he’d taken from somewhere—its ear was torn and there was a dark stain on its belly.

“You’re not annoying,” he told you one evening while you shared a bag of gummy worms. His voice was flat, but his eyes followed every movement you made. “Most things are annoying. They break easy. But you keep sparkling even when you’re scared. That’s… different.”

You offered him a gummy worm with a shaky hand, smiling the way you used to smile at strangers for coins. “Do you want the red one? They’re the best.”

Sully took it. He didn’t eat it right away. He just rolled it between his fingers, staring at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle that kept changing shape.

Later that night, after you had finally fallen asleep from exhaustion, he sat against the wall across from the mattress again. The knife rested on the floor beside him, untouched. His head tilted slowly as he watched the rise and fall of your small chest.

One week, he had said.

The seventh day was coming.

But the bulb kept swinging gently above, and Sully’s wide, unblinking eyes stayed fixed on you long after the city outside had gone quiet. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Just watched.

The seventh day dragged on in the dim basement like every other. The bare bulb swayed lazily overhead, casting long, shifting shadows across the concrete walls. Sully had barely slept. He sat in his usual spot against the far wall, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking slightly back and forth with that odd, childish rhythm. The knife lay on the floor beside him, untouched for hours now. His wide eyes never left your small, sleeping form on the thin mattress.

You looked peaceful when you slept. Too peaceful for someone who had spent days terrified of the countdown he himself had set. That sparkle was still there, even behind your closed eyelids. It made something twist uncomfortably behind his scarred ribs. The plan had been simple: one week of not-starving, then quiet mercy. End the slow torture your parents had dragged you through. But the week was ending, and the thought of pressing the blade down... it felt wrong now. Like breaking something that still hummed with a weird little song.

By late afternoon, the decision settled in him like a cold, giddy secret. He stood up abruptly, joints popping, and paced the small room in tight circles. A sharp, sudden giggle escaped his lips—too loud, cutting off too fast. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. Not going to do it. Not going to end it. The realization made him feel light in a way that was rare. Almost bouncy. He wanted to spin around the room like when he was little, before everything went red and loud.

But he waited. A couple of hours. He wanted to watch you wake up first. Wanted to see that face when he told you.

---

You stirred as the light from the single bulb grew harsher in the windowless room. Your small body ached from the hard mattress, but the constant fear had dulled into a tired ache after so many days. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes, and immediately looked toward him. Checking. Always checking where he was.

Sully was standing right at the foot of the mattress now, rocking on his heels. His head was tilted at that unnatural angle, scarred face half-hidden by his hood, but you could see the strange energy in him. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to clap or grab something.

“I decided something,” he announced in that flat, childish voice. It carried an undercurrent of excitement that made the air feel thicker. “You’re not dying today. Or tomorrow. Or... after.”

You blinked, still half-asleep, processing the words. Then they hit. Your tired eyes widened, and for the first time in a week, a real, bright smile broke across your face. It reached those sparkling eyes, making them light up despite the dark circles underneath.

“Really?” you whispered, voice cracking with hope. “You mean it? I don’t have to... you’re not gonna...”

Sully nodded rapidly, that sharp giggle slipping out again. He even did a little hop on one foot, like a kid who’d just won a game. “Yeah. Changed my mind. You’re too... different. Still all sparkly even down here. It’d be boring without it now.”

You scrambled off the mattress and threw your arms around his waist in a tight, grateful hug. Your small frame pressed against his blood-stained hoodie, face buried in the fabric that smelled of metal and damp earth. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The words tumbled out in a rush, muffled against him. You squeezed harder, tears of relief soaking into the cloth. “I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t cry or anything. Thank you so much...”

Sully froze at first, arms hovering awkwardly in the air. Then he patted your head—too hard, like always—twice, then three times. His hand lingered, fingers threading through your matted hair. The giddy feeling swelled. He let out another abrupt laugh that echoed off the walls. “Stop that. It’s weird when you say it so much.” But he didn’t pull away. He stood there, letting you cling, staring down at the top of your head like it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen in years.

You eventually stepped back, still beaming, wiping at your face with dirty sleeves. “Can I... can I go back now? To my mom and dad and the baby? They’re probably really worried. I can tell them I got lost or something. They’ll be so happy I’m okay.”

The words hung in the damp air.

Sully’s rocking stopped. His wide eyes locked onto yours, unblinking. The giddy energy didn’t vanish, but it twisted, sharpening into something heavier. He tilted his head the other way, slowly, like an owl tracking a mouse.

“No,” he said simply.

You froze. The smile faltered but didn’t disappear entirely. “But... you said I’m not dying. I thought that meant I could go home. They need me. My sister’s still out there and she’s really little and—”

“They’re still killing you slowly,” Sully interrupted. His voice stayed flat, but the childish lilt had an edge now. He crouched down to your level, bringing his scarred face uncomfortably close. You could see every twisted line of old burns and cuts, the way his eyes reflected the swinging bulb like wet glass. “Out there with the cardboard and the rain and the nothing-food. They smile and hug you while you get smaller every day. I watched it. It was stupid. Funny, but stupid.”

You took a small step back toward the mattress. “I don’t mind. It’s my family. Please? I’ll come visit you or something. I promise.”

He followed the step, staying close. Too close. His hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that you couldn’t easily pull away. His fingers were cold.

“You’re staying here,” he said, almost conversationally. “It’s nicer. Food whenever. No coughing dad. No baby that doesn’t cry anymore. You can draw more pictures. We can play the hiding game again tonight. I’ll even let you pick where I hide first.”

Your lower lip trembled, but you tried to stay bright, still hoping. “But I miss them. Just for a little while? I can come right back after I see they’re okay.”

Sully’s grip tightened a fraction. He pulled you gently but insistently back toward the center of the room, away from the door. The heavy lock on it gleamed dully under the light. “They’ll get used to it. People lose things. Like toys. Or pets. Or kids.” He shrugged, that sudden smile flickering across his face again—too wide, too quick. “Besides. You hugged me. Said all those thank yous. That means you like it here now. With me. It’d be mean to leave after that.”

He released your wrist but stayed crouched, watching every micro-expression on your face. The way your sparkling eyes darted toward the stairs leading up to the locked door. The way your small hands clenched at your sides. He looked... content. Giddy still, in his quiet, unsettling way. Like a child who had found a new stray and decided the leash was necessary.

Hours passed after that. He brought you more food—warm this time, fries and a chicken sandwich he’d gone out to get while you were sleeping earlier. He sat right beside you on the mattress while you ate, shoulder pressed against yours, humming that same broken tune from the alley. Every time you glanced at the door, his head would tilt and his eyes would follow yours, as if reading the thought before it fully formed.

Later, when you tried again—voice small, “Just one visit?”—he simply stood up, walked to the heavy door, and checked the lock with deliberate slowness. Click. Click. Then he turned back, knife now twirling lazily between his fingers.

“Bedtime soon,” he said, as if you hadn’t spoken. “You can sleep longer tonight. No more counting days. That’s nice, right?”

The bulb kept swinging. Sully kept watching. The basement felt smaller than ever, the air thicker with the knowledge that the week had ended, but the door stayed firmly shut. And somewhere far above, in the cold streets, your family was still searching... or maybe they weren’t. Sully didn’t seem to care either way. He just kept humming, eyes fixed on you with that unblinking, giddy intensity.

——

TAG:

HEADCANONS:

- Marge shows up at your door every morning around 9:30 with a basket of fresh-baked goods (blueberry muffins with extra berries because she remembers you mentioned liking them once). She calls it “just being neighborly,” but she’s already planned your entire day around what she thinks will keep you happy and safe.

- She has a color-coded schedule on her fridge that now includes your work hours, errands, and “quiet time with Marge.” If you deviate without telling her, she shows up with that worried frown and a pitcher of pink lemonade, saying, “I just got so anxious when I didn’t hear from you, honey…”

- Your house gradually fills with her touches: perfectly folded towels in the linen closet, labeled Tupperware meals in the fridge (“For when you’re too tired to cook, dear”), and a spare key she “happened to have made” so she can “water your plants while you’re out.”

- She refers to you as “my sweet girl,” “my other daughter,” or “the best friend a woman could ask for” in that soft, raspy voice. The family has accepted it—Lisa finds it wholesome, Bart teases you both, Homer just shrugs and offers you a Duff.

- Marge’s protectiveness starts wholesome and canon-accurate: she’ll passive-aggressively bake “apology” cookies for anyone who was rude to you at work, or write a strongly worded letter to your boss if they overwork you. But it escalates quietly—if someone flirts with you or makes you uncomfortable, she’ll show up at your side with Maggie in the carrier and politely (but firmly) steer the conversation away.

- If you mention going out with new friends or joining a club, she gets that anxious, trembling-lip look. “Oh.. But honey, those groups can be so judgmental… Why don’t we have our own little book club here? Just us girls, with tea and cucumber sandwiches. It’s much cozier and safe.”

- She has a hidden steel underneath the pearls and green dress. When a sleazy salesman at the mall grabbed your arm, Marge somehow found out within hours. The next day the man mysteriously apologized profusely and never bothered you again. She’ll only say, “I had a nice chat with Chief Wiggum. We look out for our own in this town.”

- Marge will “accidentally” delete contacts from your phone that she deems bad influences—pushy coworkers, flirty acquaintances, anyone who might pull you away from Evergreen Terrace. She does it while “helping organize” with a sweet smile and an apology if you notice: “Oh dear, my fingers must have slipped!”

- Her biggest fear is you leaving Springfield (or even just spending too much time away). She once had a quiet meltdown when you mentioned a possible promotion with travel. She hugged you tightly, voice shaking: “I couldn’t bear it if you forgot about us… about me. You make everything feel right again.”

- Marge’s anxiety manifests as classic Marge worry dialed up: she fusses over your health, your diet, whether you’re getting enough sleep. If you’re stressed, she shows up with a warm bath drawn and a knitted blanket she made “just because the color reminded me of you.”

- She has occasional emotional outbursts when her control slips—nothing violent, but she’ll raise her voice in that rare Marge way (“After everything I’ve done to keep you safe?!”), then immediately apologize with tears in her eyes and extra baking. You always forgive her because she looks so genuinely remorseful.

- Deep down, she sees you as the stabilizing force she always wanted in her chaotic life. Homer is… Homer. The kids are a handful. You listen, you appreciate her efforts, you let her take care of you. Losing that would break her perfect homemaker illusion.

- She keeps a little scrapbook of photos of the two of you (and the family). It’s labeled “My Dear Friend & Family” in neat handwriting. She adds new pictures almost daily and sometimes stares at it when she’s alone, murmuring, “You belong right here with us.”

- Marge becomes your social gatekeeper without you fully realizing it. She’ll politely discourage invitations from others (“Oh, that crowd at the community center can be so rowdy…”). If someone new tries to get close, she invites them over for coffee… and subtly interrogates them while serving perfectly sliced cake.

- Town events are now “we” events. Church, the Springfield Mall, PTA meetings—she always has a spot saved for you and will look heartbroken if you say you’re busy.

- She’s fiercely loyal. If anyone in town gossips about you (Helen Lovejoy, for example), Marge will defend you with quiet moral outrage, then come home and vent to you while stress-knitting a scarf in your favorite color.

- The rest of the Simpsons treat you like an honorary member. Maggie reaches for you instinctively. Lisa shares books with you. Even Patty and Selma tolerate you because Marge lights up when you’re around.

- If you ever seriously tried to pull away (moving, new relationship that takes time, etc.), Marge’s anxiety could tip into something more intense. She might “accidentally” cause small inconveniences to keep you nearby—car trouble she “fixes” by having Homer tow it, or a sudden family emergency that needs your emotional support.

- She never crosses into physical harm—that’s not Marge—but her emotional manipulation is wrapped in love: guilt-tripping with tears, baking your favorite treats while looking sad, reminding you how much the whole family relies on your presence now.

- In her mind, everything she does is for your own good and the greater good of “family.” She’s the moral center, after all. Keeping you safe and close is just… responsible.

- Quiet moments reveal the obsession: late at night after Homer’s snoring, she’ll walk you home and hold your hands a little too long under the porch light. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? Bake, clean, stand up to anyone… You’re the piece that was missing.”

- She teaches you her famous meatloaf recipe and gets genuinely excited when you nail it.

- Movie nights on the couch with the whole family—her sitting right next to you, occasionally patting your knee reassuringly.

- She knits you matching scarves or sweaters and beams with pride when you wear them.

- When you compliment her cooking or tell her she’s an amazing friend, she gets that soft, glowing smile and hugs you extra tight, whispering, “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetie.”

—

You’d only been in Springfield for three weeks when the doorbell rang with that cheerful, slightly hesitant ding-dong.

You opened the door to find a tall woman with a towering blue beehive, a green dress that looked freshly ironed, and a warm but worried smile. In her hands was a steaming casserole dish wrapped in a checkered cloth.

“Hi there, neighbor!” she said, her voice soft and raspy in that distinct Marge way. “I’m Marge Simpson, from right next door. I noticed you moving in and thought… well, everyone needs a little help settling into a new place. Especially in Springfield. It can be… a lot.”

She laughed nervously, adjusting her grip on the dish. “It’s tuna noodle. Low-fat, mostly. I hope you’re not allergic or anything. Oh, and I brought some of my pink lemonade too. The kids say it’s the best in town, though Bart usually spikes his with who-knows-what when I’m not looking.”

You invited her in. That was your first mistake… or maybe the best decision you’d ever make.

Marge’s eyes lit up as she stepped inside your modest house. She took in every detail—the half-unpacked boxes, the slightly crooked picture frames, the way the afternoon light hit your living room.

“Oh, honey,” she sighed, setting the casserole on your kitchen counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. “This place has so much potential! But you shouldn’t have to do it all alone. Here, let me help you fold those towels properly while the casserole warms up. No, no, I insist. It’s what friends do.”

By the end of the afternoon, your kitchen was spotless, your laundry was neatly sorted, and Marge was sitting across from you at the table, sipping lemonade and listening intently as you told her about your old life, your stressful job at the new plant on the edge of town, and how lonely the move had felt.

She reached over and squeezed your hand. Her touch was gentle, maternal, reassuring.

“You don’t have to be lonely anymore,” she said softly, her big eyes full of earnest concern. “You have me now. And the family, of course. We look out for our own in this neighborhood.”

You smiled, touched. Marge felt like the warm, steady big sister you’d never had.

It didn’t take long for “dropping by” to become every day.

Marge would appear at 10 a.m. sharp with a basket of fresh-baked muffins (“I added extra blueberries just the way you like them, dear”) or a new knitting pattern she thought would look lovely on you. She’d help with chores, chat about town gossip (“Did you hear about what happened at the Kwik-E-Mart again? Apu is a saint for putting up with it all”), and always, always ask about your day.

“How was work, sweetie? That Mr. Burns sounds just dreadful. If he gives you any trouble, you tell me. I’ll… I’ll write a very strongly worded letter.”

Her protectiveness started small and canonically Marge-like. When you mentioned a rude coworker, she baked him passive-aggressive “apology” cookies that somehow tasted like guilt. When your car made a funny noise, she had Homer tow it (grumbling the whole time) and refused to let you pay for the repairs.

“You’re family now,” she’d say, patting your cheek. “Family doesn’t keep score.”

Evenings became your favorite. After Homer stumbled in from the plant, complaining about “stupid safety meetings,” and the kids scattered—Bart skateboarding off to cause trouble, Lisa practicing her saxophone, Maggie sucking on her pacifier—Marge would invite you over for “quiet time.”

You’d sit on the couch while she folded laundry with perfect precision, occasionally glancing at you with that soft, adoring smile.

“You know,” she said one night, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I used to feel so overwhelmed before you came along. Homer’s… well, Homer. The kids are a handful. But talking to you, helping you… it makes everything feel right again. Like I have a real purpose.”

You hugged her. She hugged back a little too tightly, her fingers lingering on your back as if afraid you might vanish.

The obsession crept in so gently you almost didn’t notice.

One Saturday you mentioned you were thinking of joining a book club downtown. Marge’s smile faltered for half a second—barely noticeable—before she brightened again.

“Oh! That sounds… nice. But aren’t those groups full of gossipy women? The kind who judge everything? You don’t need that, honey. Why don’t you and I start our own little reading circle right here? Just us girls. I’ll make tea and those cucumber sandwiches you love. Much cozier, don’t you think?”

You agreed. It seemed sweet.

Then came the time you ran into an old college friend who was passing through Springfield. You invited her for coffee at the Java Server. Marge found out (Springfield has eyes everywhere, especially when Marge is quietly asking around).

That evening she showed up at your door with red-rimmed eyes and a plate of slightly over-baked cookies.

“I just… I worried when I didn’t hear from you all day,” she said, voice trembling with that classic Marge anxiety. “What if something happened? What if that friend wasn’t really who she said she was? People can be so cruel, you know. Remember what happened to Helen Lovejoy’s cousin? Oh, I couldn’t bear it if anything bad happened to you.”

She pulled you into a hug, her tall frame enveloping you completely. “Promise me you’ll tell me before you meet anyone new? I just want to keep you safe. You’re too good for this town sometimes. Too trusting.”

You promised. How could you not? She looked so genuinely scared for you.

Springfield being Springfield, trouble found you eventually.

It started with a sleazy salesman at the mall who wouldn’t take no for an answer when you politely declined his timeshare pitch. He grabbed your arm a little too hard.

The next day, Marge arrived with a fresh batch of “stress-relief” brownies and a determined glint in her eye.

“I heard what happened,” she said, setting the plate down with more force than usual. “That awful man. Homer told me—well, actually, Moe told Homer, who told me. Word travels fast here.”

She sat you down and inspected your arm, even though the bruise was faint. Her fingers were gentle, but her voice had a steel edge beneath the sweetness.

“No one touches my friend like that. No one. I… I spoke to Chief Wiggum. Politely, of course. But I made it very clear that if anything like that happens again, the Simpson family will not stand for it.”

You laughed it off. “Marge, it was nothing serious.”

Her eyes flashed—just for a moment—something darker than her usual worry. Then she smiled again, smoothing your hair like you were one of her children.

“It is serious to me. You’re important. More important than you know.”

That night she stayed late, helping you “organize” your contacts on your phone. She deleted a few numbers “by accident”—people she’d decided were bad influences. You didn’t notice until weeks later.

Weeks turned into months. Your life orbited around the Simpson house more and more.

Marge redecorated your guest room “just in case you ever need to stay over.” She stocked your fridge with her homemade meals labeled with little notes: “Eat this when you’re sad ♥ —Marge”

She started calling you “my sweet girl” or “my other daughter.” Lisa found it endearing. Bart teased you both mercilessly. Homer just shrugged and offered you a Duff.

But underneath, the yandere thread tightened.

When you mentioned applying for a promotion that would mean longer hours and possibly some travel, Marge had one of her rare, explosive-but-quickly-apologized-for outbursts.

“Travel?! Leave Springfield? Leave us?” Her voice rose, hands clenched around a dish towel. “After everything? After I’ve been here for you every single day? What if you meet someone out there who doesn’t care about you the way I do? What if you forget about us—about me?”

She caught herself immediately, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just… I love you so much. Like family. More than family, in some ways. You make this crazy town feel like home. Please… don’t go. We need you here. I need you here.”

You stayed. Of course you did. She looked so heartbroken.

She started “checking in” more often—little texts, drive-bys in the station wagon, showing up with Maggie in the baby carrier just to say hello. If you didn’t answer within an hour, she’d knock on your door with that worried frown and a fresh pie.

“I just got so anxious,” she’d explain, voice soft and raspy. “My mind goes to the worst places. What if you were hurt? What if someone was bothering you and you didn’t want to trouble me?”

One evening, after a particularly bad day at work, you broke down crying on her couch. Marge held you close, rocking you gently like she did with Maggie, stroking your hair.

“Shh, shh, my sweet girl. Mama Marge is here. No one is ever going to hurt you again. Not while I’m around. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll talk to anyone I need to. I’ll… I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe and happy right here with us.”

Her voice was soothing, loving, completely in character. But her grip was iron. Her eyes, when you weren’t looking, held a quiet, burning intensity.

You were hers now. Her best friend. Her confidante. Her project. Her reason to keep the Simpson household together.

And in Springfield, once Marge Simpson decided something was hers to protect… well, even Mr. Burns thought twice before crossing her.

Late one night, after the kids were in bed and Homer was snoring on the couch, Marge walked you home under the streetlights of Evergreen Terrace. The air smelled like freshly cut grass and distant Krusty Burger grease.

She stopped at your doorstep and took both your hands in hers.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right?” she whispered, her blue hair glowing softly under the porch light. “Bake for you, clean for you, stand up to anyone—Homer, the town, even my own sisters if they ever dared say a bad word about you. You’re not just a friend. You’re the piece I didn’t know was missing. And I’m never letting anything take you away.”

She kissed your forehead, gentle and maternal.

“Get some rest, dear. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow with breakfast. We have so many plans.”

As she walked back to her house, humming a little tune to herself, you felt it: the warm blanket of her love… and the quiet, unyielding cage it had become.

You smiled anyway.

Because in a town as chaotic as Springfield, being loved this fiercely by Marge Simpson felt like the safest place in the world.