Code-Name: Butterfly.

0. SUITORS

"Label:" Name | Prns. Short bio. | #tag

1. SYNPOSIS

This is an X. Reader blog with a focus on Light Yandere, Characterized Y/Ns, and Harder-to-Find Tropes.

The theming is just for aesthetics! Though, I am thinking of making a "canonical timeline" where the masquerade ball is a general setting.

I typically write Male Suitors, but I'll definitely shake things up every now and then. As for Y/Ns, I'll try to keep things gender-neutral.

This is a SFW blog. If any NSFW accounts interact, please be cautious and have a SFW pfp/username!

2. GUIDELINES

No NSFW requests or comments. Please keep simping appropriate and have class in my court! If you are unsure of whether or not a comment is "too far," just ask me, or find some way to soften it.

Absolutely no Ai. Do not feed my work into Ai, do not expect me to use Ai, and do not ask for Ai chat-bots!!! Only authentic craziness here, babeyyy.

While I may dabble in some Yandere Suitors, I will stray as far as I can from "hardcore" content. Obsessive and immoral Suitors are fine! However, if these characteristics start becoming cartoonishly cruel, I will definitely pull back and compensate. Besides, I think it is much easier to find Extreme Yandere vs. Light Yandere, so I'm not going to oversaturate the market.

Speaking of oversaturated markets: I will likely try to avoid common tropes or at least common depictions of tropes. I am not obligated to accept prompts that I do not like.

So here are some prompts that I will not accept. Some exceptions may be made if I personally find some way to twist them, but that depends solely on me.

Bully x. Victim.

Anything based in misogyny. Trophy-Wives/Husbands, Bimbos, Extreme Objectification, etc. Suitors will treat fem. Y/Ns with the same attitude as masc. Y/Ns.

Extreme age gaps.

Love at first sight. I hate this one. I absolutely will not write this one. Every Suitor will have some genuine reason behind their love/infatuation for Y/N. Slow-Burn or Implied History, just no superficial love.

3. EXTRA TAGGING

#The Hostess. | Text-posts from the author! This tag will be used for any post that isn't directly writing.

#Inquiries. | Asks!

Imagine obsessing over a classmate in your creative-writing course. A mousy boy who catches your attention in the college-library, spotted lingering behind a large crowd.

He had looked nervous, like he could run off any second. His hands shakily held a pile of books, while he tried to maneuver around the loitering friend-group.

Needless to say, he had you hooked.

Maybe you were just curious, because you had seen him be praised by the professors before, but he seemed to disappear every single time you tried to investigate further. Here, however, you could see him plainly; a frowning face to connect to the intelligent shadow you'd vaguely seen before.

When you began to get closer to him, intrigued by his reserved nature and easy-to-miss intelligence, he was as meek as you'd expected him to be.

You hadn't expected things to spiral as fast as they did, however. One thing just led to another. Peer-reviewing sessions, shared lunches, and library-walks just began to unravel your possession of him. For whatever reason, his sensitive personality kept pulling you in closer. You would joke about one of his drafts being terrible, because of one grammatical hiccup, and he'd be close to tears.

You never had power like this before. It was kind of nice.

But you'd never call your love shallow. He was good company, and the teary eyes that he showed you were just a bonus. It was like a constant switch between genuine companionship, and your need to push his buttons to see how far you could go.

He was just too easy. Too willing to cling to you, and especially too cute.

The professor began to recognize you two as a duo. He'd partner you two up for his star student's comfort, because everyone knew that you're the only one who could tolerate his stammering voice. It was almost like your responsibility to take care of him. A pride, to you.

(But if you started glaring at anyone who did try to get close to him... well, nobody needed to know.)

You were lucky that you didn't need to admire him from a distance. If he was a little bit more guarded, things would be tricky. But instead, you could leave straight-forward messages for him in his books. Sticky-notes with penned hearts, candies, pressed-flowers...

...Threats in the margins of romantic-quotes, your bloody thumb-print where he'd turn the page...

Yes. You were very lucky. Lucky to have such an obedient boyfriend, who would see these things and never blink twice. Lucky to have a best-friend, with big, wet eyes that cried to you if he was struggling. Lucky to have a dog, who trails after you, lost, because you're the loveliest person he's ever met.

You're strange to some, and sometimes you scare him... but he promised to be yours, and he'd hate to break your heart. You're just too good to him.

Starving Artist who meets you in his photography class.

To be honest, he doesn't get enamored by people immediately. He can see the beauty in everything and everyone. People are hard to find "ugly"-- well, at least, before they open up their mouth.

He's easily irritated by people who talk too much. People that are shallow. Vapidness. It grates him that people can ruin their appearances so easily...

So when it comes to you? An absolute diva? The very definition of someone who speaks before they think, who dresses up and takes up all the attention; well, he hates that you're so charming, because his temper is so short. Just stay away from him, so that he can at least savor your beauty, and definitely not because he finds himself drawn to your surprising creativity-- ...

"Hey, why are you staring so much?"

Ah. He's been caught. "P-pardon?" ...

Starving Artist who swears that he hates you, because he hates everyone else in his life. But when you talk on-and-on, he begins to unravel true meaning behind your words. He finds shocking thoughtfulness in how you pick your colors. He finds a blunt humor to your earnestness. He even finds familiarity in how you nag him everyday, because it gives him an anchor in reality, especially when his mind drifts too far.

He's like a protective wolf. He isn't tamed necessarily, but he lingers from a distance, and makes sure that you're okay. To him, you're a returning visitor, trespasser in his wild woods. (Though, he wouldn't mind being collared by you.)

But it works, because it gives him an excuse to admire you from a distance. Being too close would be dangerous. Part of him doesn't trust himself to be soft. The other part of him doesn't think he's good enough to deserve you.

He's the artist for a reason; he observes, unseen, and lets the beauty unfold before him.

So why is he jealous now, when he realizes that you outshine everyone you cross? Why can he not see the beauty in others now..? ...

"I can tell you wanna tell me something. Quit acting like a stranger!"

Oh, if only he could. "Pose for me." ...

Starving Artist who has always preferred candid group-photos, but now thinks you're at your best, isolated. He drags you off at random intervals, mostly when you're talking to your friends, and suddenly demands that you pose for his camera. Or, more intimately, his paintbrush.

You don't get to see his canvases as much as you see his photographs, but in the past, his paintings and drawings have always been of a pessimistic outlook. Your favorite of his had been an oil pastel of dark grays, depicting tired men on a train from work.

In the present, however, he seems to paint you with brighter colors. His face is hyper-focused, nearly scary, and you'd think that he's some gothic artist. And yet, when you turn the canvas around, it's pinks and reds depicting your figure.

You're flattered. And a little creeped out that his studio is now covered almost-exclusively in pictures of you... but also flattered. He makes you look good.

He also makes you work hard. The painting sessions take hours, and you never know when you're allowed to move. Even when he finishes a painting, he just continues to stare at you in your stillness. To admire. You have to ask him to let you go.

Over time, his depictions of you become more abstract. More emotional. Intense. Baby blues transition to electric blues. Olive greens transition to a neon lime. And the subject-- your person-- becomes simultaneously less decipherable, and more unmistakably you. You have no idea how he does it. He really is an artist.

You let a compliment slip, one day. His paintbrush becomes rigid. He spills his paint bucket, and the rose-red pools by his feet. And he's out the door, leaving you in the studio, surrounded by all of your portraits. ...

"You're nicer than you seem. I don't know why you try to be so cold."

Your hand is so hot against his face. It lights a fire in him. It's scary. "I'm more than what I seem? You're funny, Y/N." ...

Starving Artist who lays in bed, cradling photographs of you to his chest. No matter what he does, he can't seem to get your essence just right. No matter the colors, no matter the cameras-- everything is just wrong.

He resorts to other directions: clay, wood-carving, even poetry.

None of it is as lovely as you.

But what can he do? Is he chasing an image of you? Is he trying to recreate something that cannot be mimicked? Or is it you, in your rawest form, that he wants?

He feels sick thinking about it. He's gotten too greedy, already. By allowing himself to become so close to you, he's already betrayed his own principles: he's dirtying something good. He's ruining what's sacred.

He wants to soil his hands further, though. He dreams of his hands on your hips. He dreams of your face changing tint. ...

"Where are we?"

He hums. It's like a date, if he pretends enough. "The rose garden. Then, we can go to the hills over by the cafe." ...

Starving Artist who randomly shows up at your apartment, telling you that it's time for a photo-shoot.

You hardly fight it, because he treats you to breakfast and lunch; but never dinner, because he gets too flustered to ask you for a longer session (even though he really wants to see you under the moonlight).

He likes taking you to the greenery. He thinks it's gorgeous, having you beside natural beauty. It's also less-crowded. You once suggested doing a crowd-shot with your friends, and he looked so distraught that you just felt bad. He must've had really bad social anxiety, you thought. But really, he just doesn't want you to ruin the illusion of a date for him.

It's selfish, he knows, but he can't help it. It's so nice having you dress up specifically for him. Sometimes, he offers to take you to the boutique, if he thinks that you need a specific accessory for a shot. His wallet suffers at the hand of your appetite and your fashion-taste.

Your friends tell you it's rude that he acts so entitled to your time. You think about it. It probably is, but who would pass up free earrings? ...

"It's for you."

... "...." ...

Starving Artist who-- okay, what the fuck. When the hell did you take a photo of him?

He holds the candid picture as though it's something unreal. He has no idea what to do with his hands. He's never been portrayed before. He looks ugly, he thinks. But you did what you could, having an excellent contrast between his side-profile and the window.

He'd been so wrapped up in you being his muse, he had forgotten you had your own camera.

He feels awful about it.

Damn you. ...

"Are you crying?"

"W-what? No. Of course not."

"You clearly are."

"I just-- don't see myself often."

"That's sad."

"Hence the tears..." ...

At the very least, he can now justify his own candid photos. If you took a picture of him when he was unaware, well-- you wouldn't mind if he did the same to you... right?

High-school should have been easy, and it had been for the past three years.

But the academic was now a senior, and you were now his biggest problem.

What the hell?

Being at the top of his classes had always been natural. Ever since middle-school, people had just begun expecting it, and it was a routine standard that no one dared to break. Some had tried, but very few people could scratch the surface of his intelligence.

Math? Such easy calculations. Science? Well, it was the way the world worked, and Earth had hardly changed in the past 17 years, no? And even every arts-related subject was easily excelled. It was just what he did. It was what he prided himself on.

So when he suddenly found himself being verbally-bested in a class-discussion--an "ethics bowl" in Honors Language Arts-- he found himself clawing at the chair below him, and hardly listening to your squeaky arguments.

It was not like he could listen to you even if he wanted to, anyways. The steam pouring out of his ears made it hard for him to hear anyone. So when the bell rang 30 minutes later--an entire 30 minutes where he, for once, had not been interrupting his measly classmates--the teacher had to shake him by the shoulders for him to leave.

Just what had you done to him? Who the hell were you? What the hell were you?

Not once had he ever been challenged like that. Even in this school, which was a private academy with top-notch teachers and incredibly advanced classes...

You must have bought your way in. So he would pressure you out, just like you had pressured him out of the class debate.

That night, he spent three hours finding anything that he could about you: social medias, past awards, and even your profile in the class's digital roster. That was how he found out that your shared classes did not end there, and that you two actually had a very similar schedule.

It was a shame that such fervent research stumped him, and had caused his AP Physics homework to be forgotten.

"The- the homework? Uhm. Yes, of course I... have it... done... ah. Oh. Ooooh no..."

Honestly, who was this guy? You were just trying to correct your work (well, more like doodling in the margins with your red-pen, because you hadn't made any mistakes...) when he suddenly popped up next to you.

He demanded for you to show him your homework, and when you looked over, you saw that his paper had been crumpled, as though he had just now quickly done all of it. It'd be impressive, if he was actually half-as-right as he thought he was. But instead, you saw why he needed your work as reference, because his answers were far from correct.

"Sure," you told him with a shrug. You pushed it over with a slight grin. "Just don't copy it too much."

"Copy? The whole point of this class is to collaborate and check our answers with one another. Of course, you wouldn't know that, because you have never had this professor before, but--"

"Professor? We're in high-school."

He narrowed his eyes, "but he used to be a real professor, which is why he is teaching such a high-level class. Surely, you know what you signed up for, right?"

Your eyes flickered down to his paper, where he was hastily crossing out all of his wrong answers. "I should be asking you that."

His fist clenched around his pen. "But I think we both know the answer to that."

You hardly thought so, but whatever made him stop nagging you. He was sitting way too close for comfort, and all you wanted to do was go home and continue your piano lessons.

"You play piano?"

Somehow, you two have become consistent lab-partners in the advanced chemistry class. Perhaps, it was because the teacher found out you were both in the ecology club (another weird coincidence), and found it funny to push the only genuine-science-enthusiasts together.

Which... yeah, it was funny, especially since he seemed so flustered about it. You could talk on all day, and he would just listen in angry silence.

Today, though-- he responded to a particular ramble of yours.

"I do." You said, readjusting your goggles. "Can't say I'm great at it, but I like to think I'm kinda competent."

He hummed, staring at you from your left peripheral. He reached over to your head, before pausing, and then dropping a hair-tie in front of you. You picked it up and tied your hair back.

He spoke again, "I do choir, but that's only because I now lack the time for instruments. I can sing in the shower, but I can't exactly pull out a grand-piano whenever I want to."

You shared interests outside of academia? You perked up at that, and turned to him. "Wait, do you actually play piano, or is that just an example? What instruments are we talking about?"

"Well, historically, I'm more equipped in the brass-section..." He admitted with a growing smirk. "But how hard could it be to best you in piano?"

You raised an eyebrow, finding yourself with a growing grin as well. "Considering you haven't touched an instrument in an assumably long time, I'd say it's harder than whatever you're thinking right now."

You had gradually gotten closer, and his eyes widened. For all of his talk, he seemed immediately defeated, and his surrender quickly swept in.

With a sudden pull-back, face red, he nervously tugged on his uniform tie. "Pfft.... yeah right."

"You're... you're going where..!?"

The scholar had tried to be nonchalant for a number of reasons. Firstly, he could hardly admit to himself that he was slowly becoming more infatuated with you. And secondly, he knew that if you ever became aware of his feelings, you'd never take them seriously!

But when he overheard your conversation with your math teacher, he couldn't stop himself from craning his face slowly to you with a horrified expression. You'd been boasting about your early-acceptance-letter to a top-school across the country...

And it was the exact same school that he had been accepted to last night.

"...Is something wrong with the school? Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked, oblivious to this horrible fact.

Oh, Y/N-- poor, academic Y/N. You're too smart for your own good, because now you've got a puppy that's going to trail after you for college. He hadn't even realized the leash before, and now he was hoping and praying that you'd remain just as oblivious.

"Nothing." He said softly, "I just heard it's... expensive."