destiny

prom song - lana del rey playin' !

The pixels of your screen illuminated the pitch-black bedroom.

It was a glow casted by a sad, lopsided mound of brown blocks that constituted your latest masterpiece—a dirt house built out of shee boredom.

It was past midnight on a Friday, the exact hour when your brain should have been turning off, but instead, you were mindlessly clicking away on Minecraft.

That was until BLOOP!

A notification?

You opened a tab, and checked—it was from discord.

You raised an eyebrow. You didn't particularly use discord, it was an artifact on your desktop you occasionally opened just to lurk in a server, never typing a single word before slipping away like a ghost.

Leaning back in your chair, you clicked over to the tab, your eyes narrowing at the pending friend request.

The username staring back at you was cupcakecutie.

You let out a soft laugh. The fuck kind of name is that? It wasn’t just the name—the entire profile was an aggressive assault of pastel pinks, anime e-girl aesthetics, and a sparkling banner decorated with frosted cupcakes.

It looked like a meticulously engineered trap designed to lure in lonely boys for nitro or pocket change.

You were tired, your eyes ached, and you had absolutely zero desire to entertain someone at twelve in the morning.

Your mouse hovered over the red "Decline" button, ready to bury the request into the void of the internet, when a frantic text box popped into existence at the bottom of your screen.

cupcakecutie:

haiiii !! (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

plz don't decline the request :((

please plz pleas!!

The letters were practically tripping over themselves. You could almost hear the frantic clatter of fingers slamming into a mechanical keyboard on the other side of the country.

A slow eyebrow raised as you stared at the desperate plea.

Didn't this person have anything better to do than stalk random people in a bloated server?

Then again, looking at your half-finished dirt mansion, you supposed you didn’t have much of a life tonight either.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, you tapped out a blunt—"sorry not interested."

With a click, you hit decline, closed out the Discord window entirely, and turned your attention back to digging holes in virtual dirt until your eyelids grew too heavy to fight.

When you finally dragged yourself awake the next morning, the sun was already slicing through your blinds, blinding you as you reached for your phone.

The moment your screen woke up, it didn't just light up—it practically vibrated itself out of your damn hand!

Notifications were cascading down the screen like a waterfall. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of pings. Every single one of them was originating from that same community Discord server.

Your stomach dropped slightly as you opened the app, finding your direct messages overflowing with messages from people you had never spoken to in your life.

The entire server seemed to have mobilized into a unified cult of advocacy.

“Why didn’t you accept the request?” one read.

“Cupcake is literally the nicest person ever, why’re you being so mean?” another demanded.

“They’re so kind and sweet and cute, you’re missing out big time, dude.”

It was a horrifying level of collective glaze.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, utterly bewildered. All of this over a single declined friend request?

You couldn't even keep up with the scrolling text wall. But right there, sitting stubbornly at the very top of direct messages, was a fresh notification.

Cupcakecutie had sent another friend request. Along with it came a block of text that sent a faint, uneasy shiver down your spine.

cupcakecutie:

I'm sorry, was it the eagerness?

Did it scare you off?

I'm sorry I'm sorryimsorryimsorryimsorry I want todiepleaseimsorry

You stared at the unhinged desperation bleeding through the text. Okay, now you were actually weirded out.

A part of you wanted to block the account instantly, to scrub your digital footprint clean of whatever hyper-fixation you had accidentally triggered.

But curiosity, that stubborn, foolish human trait, pulled at your fingers.

What the hell was this person's deal? Why were they targeting you, a literal nobody who never even typed in the chat?

Deciding you could always hit the block button if things got too dangerous, you finally clicked accept.

YOU:

fine. what do you want?

The response landed the exact microsecond your message registered as read, as if they had been sitting in a dark room, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at a blank chat box for hours, just waiting for a sign of life.

cupcakecutie:

HAIII !!! IM SO HAPPY YOU ACCEPTED! EEEKKKK !! IM FREAKING OUTTT!! HAI HAIHAIIIIIIHIIII!!! ⊂⁠(⁠(⁠・⁠▽⁠•⁠)⁠)⁠⊃ IM MIMI!! <33

You leaned back, nearly overwhelmed by the sheer energy vibrating off the text. The capitalization, the excessive emoticons, the sheer volume of characters—it was like being shouted at by a tidal wave of pink glitter.

YOU:

yes yay! now not to be rude, but why did you friend me? I'm not even online and never call so?? plus don't you think telling people to add you back is too much

It was a logical question. You were a ghost in that server. You didn't participate in game nights, you didn't post memes, and your avatar was a default letter.

There was absolutely no rational reason for anyone to notice you, let alone launch a full-scale harassment campaign to force you into a friendship.

cupcakecutie:

I'm so glad you asked! :3 it's cuz you seem so cool like the sprinkles on cupcakes!! I love your profile !! Your username is so gorgeous too!! ^^ eekkk I've been waiting to talk to you for so long I'm shaking !! I can't I'm gonna pass out !! (⁠♡⁠ω⁠♡⁠ ⁠)⁠ ⁠~ and I'm sorry for those guys texting you, their such assholes ! >:( they're always trying to start something it's annoying !!

You blinked at the screen.

YOU:

lol um thanks! umm yeah sorry for being kinda mean earlier I was js curious and yeah those guys texting me was pretty weird

You typed it out mostly to smooth things over, feeling a twinge of guilt for how harshly you’d rejected them the night before.

Even if they were incredibly creepy, they seemed fundamentally harmless—just an overly emotional, hyperactive kid looking for validation.

cupcakecutie:

ITS OKII !! DONT WORRY ABOUT IT NOTHING YOU COULD DO WILL GET ME MAD (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡ I WAS SO GLAD YOU EVEN RESPONDED!! IM SO HAPPY YOU WOULD TALK TO A LOSER LIKE ME :(( YOURE SO NICE, Y/N !!<33

You froze. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, your heart taking a strange, sudden leap into your throat.

YOU:

y/n? how did you know my name? it's not in my username at all?

Your Discord handle was completely detached from your real life. There were no linked social media accounts, no status updates, nothing that could trace back to your actual identity.

The sudden appearance of your real name in the chat felt like a cold bucket of water dumped straight over your head.

cupcakecutie:

OH IM SORRY(⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠) I LOOK LIKE A CREEP DONT I?? this is gonna sound weird but I ask people in the server about you(⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠) I'm sorry ! (⁠ ⁠≧⁠Д⁠≦⁠) PLEASE DONT BLOCK ME!

Your eyes narrowed.

You didn't even know anyone in that server well enough for them to know your real name.

It meant Mimi had actively gone digging, interrogating members, sifting through ancient chat logs, or piecing together fragments of information from months ago just to find out who you were.

It was thin-ice behavior.

YOU!

oh um okay

but at least this means we don't have to introduce ourselves !

You tried to play it cool, desperately trying to de-escalate the sudden spike of tension. But Mimi took that tiny olive branch and ran with it at breakneck speed.

cupcakecutie:

MHM!! (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) y/n y/n y/n !! It's such a pretty name !! it's like a lullaby! But then Mimi. Mimi just sounds ugly ! :( Mimi sounds like a dumb girl who doesn't go touch grass outside :( such a loser name ! :(( BUT Y/N IS A NAME I WOULD DIE TO SCREAM OUT !! Y/N Y/N Y/N <3 I love the way it rolls off my tongue ! (⁠｡⁠♡⁠‿⁠♡⁠｡⁠) I'm saying it in irl too omgee I'm getting butterflies in my tummy oh my gosh I'm blushing ♡⁠(⁠>⁠ ⁠ਊ⁠ ⁠<⁠)⁠♡

The screen seemed to blur with the sheer weight of your name repeated over and over again. It was dizzying. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the screen, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips.

YOU:

this is the most I've been complimented in one hour lol thank u ! and dw Mimi is a nice name.

cupcakecutie:

if y/n says Mimi is a nice name then it's nice ! :(( but y/n is wayyy better <3 y/n y/n y/n hehe I love saying ur name !! <3 just typing it out makes me feel tingly and full (⁠づ⁠｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡⁠)⁠づ

And with that, days bled into weeks, and against your better judgment, the strange routine stuck.

It was mostly because talking to Mimi required absolutely zero cognitive effort on your part.

You quickly realized that you could type a single letter, a stray punctuation mark, or a lazy "lol," and Mimi would instantly generate a multi-paragraph essay reacting to it.

It was like keeping a hyper-reactive, digital pet that viewed you as an absolute, flawless deity. Every word you typed was treated as sacred text and every casual thought you shared was dissected and praised as an act of pure intelligence.

But as the days rolled on, the weirdness began to pile up, stacking like loose bricks waiting to collapse.

Mimi loved to send photos.

The chat history became a long gallery of images—outfits, room decorations, aesthetic plates of food, and stylized mirror selfies.

But there was a glaring, consistent pattern—the face was always completely absent.

It was always obscured by a phone wrapped in a pink, ribbon-tied case, hidden behind a carefully placed oversized plushie, or cropped out entirely from the neck down.

The clothes were always baggy, soft pastels, oversized hoodies that swallowed their frame whole.

You never pushed the issue though. The internet was a dangerous place, and you figured the poor girl was just self-conscious or intensely protective of her privacy. You didn't blame her.

But then there was the way the rest of the server talked.

Occasionally, you would catch glimpses of general chat when your name was mentioned.

The users who had originally swarmed your DMs to defend Mimi were still talking about "her"—except they weren't using "her."

"Yeah, he's super cracked at that game," someone would type.

"Did you see what he posted in media?" another would reply.

He? Him? You would stare at the screen, a profound sense of confusion warping your brain.

Every time you interacted with Mimi, she used the most hyper-feminine, delicate language possible.

The emojis, the high-pitched text energy, the pink cupcake theme—it all pointed to a girl.

And when you casually slipped she/her pronouns into your conversations or talked about her like she was a girl—Mimi never corrected you. Not once.

She just hearted your message, accepted the affection, and steered the conversation back to how amazing you were.

Was Mimi a guy? Were you just losing your mind? Was the entire server playing some massive, coordinated prank on you?

And when you finally got the balls to reach out to one of the servers regulars you had seen interacting with Mimi the most—you kept the message light, hoping to mask the confusion that had been brewing in your chest for weeks.

YOU:

hey quick question, does mimi ever like... do a face reveal or anything of the sort? just curious bc we talk a lot but i've never actually seen her face lol

You waited, your fingers tapping against your desk. A few minutes passed before the typing indicator flashed.

Friend:

He did actually lol! When he first joined the server he sent a selfie. Cute isn't he??

Before your brain could fully process the pronoun, an image file popped into the chat window. You clicked it, the file loading in high resolution across your monitor.

You stopped breathing.

The person staring back at you wasn't a soft, pastel-wearing anime e-girl. The photo showed a young guy, sitting in a dimly lit gaming chair.

He had sharp, shockingly handsome features—a clean, defined jawline, dark, slightly messy hair falling effortlessly across his forehead, and eyes that looked straight into the camera with an intense, calculated focus with a pout.

That was Mimi.

A guy. Mimi was a guy.

Your mind ground to a screeching halt. The gears in your head aggressively tried to process the cognitive dissonance.

You reached up, dragging a hand down your face as you replayed the last few weeks of your life.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Your heart was drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

You felt violated, but more than that, you felt a creeping sense of dread. If he was willing to go to those lengths just to get you to talk to him, what else was he capable of?

You pulled up your direct messages with Mimi, he was already texting you.

cupcakecutie:

Y/N !!! Y/N Y/N Y/N !!! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠:⁠・ﾟ⁠✧

guess what guess what !! i saw you were typing in the general chat earlier but then you stopped :(( did you get distracted ?? were you thinking about me ?? hehehe i was thinking about you !! i made a list of all the things we’re gonna talk about today !! look look look !!

You took a deep breath, ignoring the message as you steadied your shaking hands, and typed out a message.

YOU:

I just saw the picture you posted in the general chat when you first joined.

You hit send.

The frantic, light-speed typing you were used to was gone.

Finally, a message popped up.

cupcakecutie:

Oh.

YOU:

you're a guy?

why did you lie to me?

why have you been pretending to be some e-girl for weeks?

what the fuck is wrong with you?

cupcakecutie:

i didnt lie :(( I told you my name was mimi! and you said it was a cute name, remember? you said it was cute, y/n.

YOU:

Stop acting like that. You actively let me believe you were a girl. You acted like a totally different person. The entire server uses he/him for you, and you just went along with me thinking you were some weird girl. Why didn't you just correct me?

cupcakecutie:

because you wouldnt have talked to me otherwise. ⊂(・﹏・⊂) you hate guys who act tough. I saw your messages in that other server you were in last year. you said you hated arrogant guys. i just wanted you to like me so much and everyone knows guys on the internet are mean and gross and you wouldn’t want to talk to a boy would you ?? you liked mimi !! you said mimi was cute ! you just want someone sweet right? so I became sweet for you! im sweet, aren't i? im the sweetest thing you've ever had. I can be whatever you want me to be.

Your blood ran cold. The other server you were in last year. You hadn't been in that server for over eight months. It was a completely different community, one you had left because it got too toxic.

How did he know about that? How long had he been watching you?

YOU:

Are you fucking stalking me?

cupcakecutie:

stalking is an ugly word y/n :(( it implies malicious intent! I dont have any malicious intent. I just love you. I love you so much it makes my chest hurt and my hands shake. I love everything about you. I just wanted you to be mine. I knew if I acted like a sad, desperate little girl, you’d eventually feel bad enough to talk to me. and I was right! :33 you talked to me for weeks. you told me about your day. you said goodnight to me. you belong to me now, y/n. we put in the time. we did the talking.

The sheer delusion in his words made your stomach churn.

Suddenly, your discord client chimed loudly. A loud, intrusive ringing sound filled your room.

cupcakecutie is calling you.

You stared at the incoming call screen. The pink banner with the cupcakes seemed to taunt you.

Your instinct was to decline it, to block him, to delete your account, and throw your PC out the window.

But a morbid, terrifying curiosity paralyzed you. You needed to hear his voice. You needed to know exactly what kind of monster you had been entertaining for the past month.

With a trembling finger, you clicked the green 'Accept' button.

The ringing stopped. For a moment, there was only the faint hiss of static, the heavy, digital silence connecting your room to his. You held your breath.

"You're actually there."

The voice that came through your headset sent a violent shiver down your spine.

It was nothing like the high-pitched, squeaky voice you had subconsciously assigned to him. It was deep. It was the kind of voice that commanded attention, the kind of voice that belonged to the ridiculously handsome face in that picture.

"Y/N," he breathed, the sound of your name rolling off his tongue with a terrifying reverence.

"God, you actually answered. I was so scared you were going to block me. If you blocked me, I would have had to do something drastic. I really didn't want to have to come over there tonight."

"Come over... what?" you choked out, your voice sounding small and weak in comparison to his heavy presence. "You don't know where I live."

A low, soft chuckle echoed through your headphones. It was a warm, pleasant sound that completely contrasted with the absolute horror of his words.

"Oh, my sweet, perfect Y/N. You live in the complex on 4th and Elm. Apartment 3B, right? Second floor. I bought a train ticket two weeks ago just so I could walk past it."

The oxygen vanished from your room. You were suffocating. The walls were closing in.

"Why are you doing this?" you whispered, your voice breaking.

"Because you're pure," his voice darkened, the playful edge vanishing, replaced by a raw, manic intensity.

"You're everything I've ever wanted. Is that so bad? You push guys away. You put up walls. But a girl? A sad, lonely, pathetic little girl who just wants a friend? You wouldn't turn her away. You're too nice, Y/N. You have such a soft heart. I just had to exploit it a little bit to get my foot in the door."

"You're psychotic," you breathed out.

"I'm dedicated! " he chirped, his tone shifting abruptly back to the bubbly "Mimi" persona.

"I worked so hard, Y/N! I spent hours perfecting the right amount of 'annoying' and 'endearing'. I had to threaten three of the server mods to make sure they pushed you to accept my request! I did all of that just for you! Because I knew once you talked to me, you'd realize how much we belong together!"

"We don't belong together! I don't even know you!"

"You know me, Y/N. I am Mimi. The only thing I lied about was what was in my pants, and honestly, you're going to like this version of me so much better," he purred, the deep bass of his voice rattling against your eardrums.

"I can protect you. I can give you everything you want. You don't have to worry about anything ever again. I'm going to spoil you rotten. Just like you thought I wanted!"

"I'm blocking you," you said, your hand moving frantically toward your mouse. "I'm blocking you, I'm calling the police, your fucking crazy!"

"If you block me," Mimi's voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, stripping away all the sweetness, leaving only a cold, hard promise, "I will be at your door in ten minutes. I am currently sitting in my car, three blocks down from your street. I have your spare key that you hide under the fake rock by the stairwell. If you hang up this call, I'm coming inside."

You froze. Your hand hovered over the mouse. He knew about the fake rock. You felt sick to your stomach.

"Good," he cooed softly, sensing your hesitation through the silence. "Just leave the call on, baby. Leave it on. Keep listening to my voice. You're doing so well, so fuckin' cute."

"Please," you begged, tears welling up in your eyes. "Please just leave me alone."

"Never," he replied, and you could practically hear the deranged smile on his face.

"You're mine now, Y/N. You accepted the friend request. You can't take it back. We're going to be best friends forever and ever! And parters! And everything else! I'm going to take such good care of you. I'm going to make you forget about everyone else in the world. It’ll just be you, and your cute little Mimi."

A soft, digital beep echoed through the headset as he unmuted his video camera.

There he was. He was sitting in the driver's seat of a car, the streetlights outside casting long, moving shadows across his handsome face.

He looked breathtakingly gorgeous, and utterly, completely insane.

He lifted a hand to the camera and offered a tiny, cute wave, his eyes wide and dark, locking onto yours through the lens.

"Hii, Y/N," he whispered, his deep voice wrapping around you like a physical chain. " I'm coming over now. Unlock the door for me, okay? I bought cupcakes, our favorite."

The air in the private academy’s library tasted of old paper, expensive leather, and the suffocating arrogance of generational wealth.

To Rican, the world had never been a complex web of human emotion or shared struggle. It was a ladder where everything and everyone was either beneath his feet or hoisted above his head.

He, naturally, existed on the highest of the high.

Born with what he fondly referred to as the holy trinity of existence—attractiveness, charisma that border-lined on hypnotic, and an amount of money that could buy a small nation—he had never once encountered the concept of difficulty.

The word "struggle" was a foreign sequence of vowels that simply did not apply to his universe.

And it definitely didn't apply for school either, not when it was like his personal playground.

His father had personally financed entire sports complexes and academic clubs just to ensure Rican’s boredom was kept at bay.

Life was flawless, a golden path laid out before him, except for one tiny thing.

Romantic interest.

Women flung themselves at his feet daily, but a quick, meaningless hookup was all he could muster.

And of course Rican took it upon himself to make it a mission to find someone who could be more than a hookup. (someone who could MAYBE give him a high-five trust)

His first attempt at finding love had been an utter disaster. It ending within thirty seconds when the girl’s voice proved to be a fraction too shrill for his ears, causing him to walk away mid-sentence without a backward glance.

The second target had shown promise until he cast his eyes downward and noticed the scuffed, criminanal sight of her off-brand loafers.

The mere sight of such poverty had induced a physical wave of nausea, forcing him to cross her off his list immediately.

But of course Rican was nothing if not persistent. Third time's the charm, right?

That was when his gaze had drifted to the back of your head.

You were cute, undeniable, but Rican didn't just want a doll—he wanted a prize that felt worthy of his high status.

To test the waters, he had casually slipped a crisp bill into the teacher's palm, ensuring that the seating chart for the semester's most intensive research project was altered.

The investment paid off instantly. Over the first few days, he discovered you were genuinely funny, easy to talk to, and possessed a face that perfectly aligned with his exact aesthetic preferences.

You, however, viewed the entire arrangement through a lens of profound skepticism.

You weren't naive. You knew how wealthy boys functioned.

So of course, you expected him to be arrogant, you expected him to be detached, and you fully expected him to eventually try and pawn all the project's actual research off on you.

What you did not expect, under any circumstances, was the warp-speed at which his brain apparently operated.

By the third day of the project, the casual banter had completely vanished, replaced by an intense, suffocating focus that made your skin prickle.

He could scoot closer to you, and stare at you even when you weren't speaking. It was becoming to the point where you were more shocked if he wasn't staring into your soul.

It was all little things just added up to eachother, like him cleaning the eraser dust off your lap faster than you could or him paying for your bus ride home and even more money so you could buy some food. (You never mentioned how you take the bus)

Then came the fourth day, and with it, the absolute pinnacle of his delusion.

He slid a gourmet bento box across the table toward you—a daily ritual he had aggressively started since the first day of pairing up—before leaning forward on his elbows.

His face was a picture of serene, absolute certainty as he uttered the words that made your entire brain grind to a screeching halt.

"How much for you to date me?"

You immediately froze.

"What?"

You weren't opposed to the concept of financial security, and like anyone else, you enjoyed the idea of having money. But just the sheer audacity of someone trying to buy you like a piece of livestock was completely uncalled for.

He didn't even look ashamed. He just sat there in his expensive chair, a massive, triumphant grin spreading across his face as if he had just offered you the deal of a lifetime, entirely blind to the look of sheer confusion freezing your features.

"Yes, like to have you," Rican clarified effortlessly, his voice dripping with a casual nonchalance that only made the situation a hundred times worse.

He leaned in a bit closer, his eyes bright with a terrifyingly possessive spark. "Preferably forever, and chained wrist to wrist to me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" You looked around frantically, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out from behind the fiction section, but there was nobody—just Rican and his completely unhinged, romantic delusions.

His smile only widened at your reaction, his head tilting to the side as he analyzed your expression with a creepy, clinical fascination.

"Your eyes look pretty, they're big right now," he mused, his voice dropping to a soft, delighted purr. "Is it because you're scared, or maybe excited? I really hope it's the second option."

"Rican, we've literally only known each other for like four days!" you hissed, leaning across the table to whisper-yell, desperately trying to keep your voice down so the librarian wouldn't wander over.

"What are you talking about? Dating? Where did that even come from?" You were genuinely baffled by the absolute lack of self-awareness.

How did rich people navigate the world so completely blind to the discomfort of others? How could he look at your pale, horrified face and see a green light for marriage proposals?

"Yeah, dating then marriage," he replied instantly, nodding his head as if he were explaining a very simple, chronological timeline to a child.

"Or we could just go straight to marriage and babies. But my tutor said it's more normal to become boyfriend and girlfriend first, so I'm trying to do it the traditional way."

You just stared at him. The sheer gravity of his insanity left you entirely speechless.

"I'll give you a weekly salary," he blurted out, misinterpreting your stunned silence as dissatisfaction with the terms.

You stared even more, your mouth slightly open, completely incapable of processing the words coming out of his mouth.

"Daily! Daily, instead?" he corrected frantically, his composure fracturing just a fraction as he leaned further over the table, his hands gripping the wood, desperate to seal the deal.

Your continued silence seemed to throw him into a spiral of panic, his mind incapable of understanding why a human being wouldn't immediately capitulate to the power of his wallet.

"Hourly?" he offered, his breath hitching.

"Every minute?" Rican pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate, pathetic whine as he reached out, his fingers twitching with the urge to grab your hands.

"Please, I just need you."

eisnewisnshe any new requests yall omg this has been laying in my drafts for like more than 5 months

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

hello hello!! glad u requested <3 hope u enjoy!

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as you slouched in your chair, eyes half-lidded with boredom.

History class dragged on, the professor’s voice a dull monotone that barely registered in your skull.

You stretched, arms arching over your head in a lazy yawn—mouth wide, throat exposed, the softest hint of a sound escaping you before you slumped back down, indifferent to the world.

And that was it. That was all it took when Rowan’s pen snapped between his fingers.

He didn’t react—couldn’t react—not here, not now, not with everyone watching. His face remained smooth, the same cold mask he wore every goddamn day, the one that made girls sigh and guys clap him on the back like he was some untouchable prince.

But beneath the desk, his thighs trembled. His nails dug crescent moons into his palms. His cock throbbed so hard it ached, trapped in the confines of his slacks, already leaking against the fabric just from that fucking yawn.

It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t even look at him. You yawned like it meant nothing, like you weren’t carving him open with every careless flick of your wrist, every lazy blink of your eyes.

He was Rowan, student council president, and captain of the debate team. How could you just ignored him?

Perfect scores, perfect posture, perfectly untouchable— wasn't he perfect?

Well maybe except for the way he laid in bed, fucking himself to the thought of you.

Midnight bled into the walls of Rowan’s bedroom, thick and suffocating. The air clung to his skin, sweat-slick and feverish, as he sprawled across his ruined sheets, legs spread shamelessly wide.

His fingers—long, elegant, the same ones that wrapped around lacrosse sticks and dismissively pushed admirers away—were buried inside himself now, fucking in and out with a desperation that would’ve disgusted him if he could think past the static in his brain.

But he couldn’t.

Not when your name spilled from his lips in a broken whine, muffled by the bodypillow with a picture of you he’d crushed against his face.

Not when his hips jerked helplessly, chasing the drag of his own fingers, imagining it was you—your hand, your mouth, your anything—fucking him open like he was nothing, like he was yours.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, voice wrecked, thighs shaking as he crooked his fingers just right. His other hand palmed his cock, stroking in tight, frantic pulls, precum smearing hot and slick over his stomach. “God, please—hnn—‘s not enough, need— need you—”

He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Your attention? Your touch? Your foot on his throat while you laughed at how pathetic he was? He’d take anything.

The memory of your yawn flashed behind his eyelids again—the stretch of your lips, the way your tongue curled just slightly, the way your eyelashes curled when you swallowed afterward.

He whimpered, high and pathetic, pushing a third finger in alongside the others, stretching himself obscenely wide.

"I’d let you ruin me," he babbled, words sticky with want, "wanna—wanna swallow your cum, wanna wear your marks where everyone can see—"

The thought of you leaving bruises on his throat, dark as ink against his too-pale skin, sent him careening toward the edge.

His back arched off the mattress, toes curling as he fucked himself faster, sloppy and uneven, chasing the fantasy of your hands holding him down.

His orgasm ripped through him like a fucking lightning strike, leaving him gasping, twitching, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

And when it was over—when his body sagged into the mess of his sheets, spent and shivering—he did it all over again, insatiable.

Rowan showed up to class the next morning looking immaculate, as always. His blazer was perfectly pressed, his tie knotted with precision, his expression colder than ever.

No one would’ve guessed that his thighs still burned from how hard he’d rubbed them together last night, that his ass still ached from how desperately he’d fingered himself open.

No one would’ve guessed that when you yawned again—lounging in your seat like goddamn royalty—he had to bite his tongue until it bled just to stop himself from dropping to his knees in the middle of the lecture hall.

And rowan knows, it's only a matter of time till that finally happens.

timothee at the knick games omg he's so cute

hope y'all like this idk how I feel at this

He was better as a concept.

That was the universal truth about Evan, whispered like a shared secret between girls in the back rows of classrooms and over sticky cafeteria tables.

He would sweep into a girl’s life like a summer storm, letting her believe, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that he loved her.

And then, the moment the calendar turned, he would suddenly become the most distant person on the planet.

It was a pattern so precise it was almost mechanical.

The love-bombing was just the bait.  But once he had someone hooked, the real Evan crawled out.

He was the type to casually "forget" anniversaries, to scroll through his phone while you were pouring your heart out, and to make you feel completely insane for expecting the bare minimum.

Worse, he was a chronic, unapologetic cheater.

His eyes were always wandering to the next girl before the ink on his current relationship was even dry.

He would text his exes late at night, flirt with your friends right in front of you, and gaslight you into believing you were just being "insecure" when you caught him.

He would drain a girl of her confidence, strip away her self-esteem, and then discard her like a candy wrapper when he got bored.

He was like a damn vampire, a boy who took and took until there was nothing left, and he deserved every single ounce of bad karma coming his way.

Which brought you to the bet.

It started out as a joke between you and your friends over an iced coffee on a Tuesday afternoon.

Someone had brought up Evan’s latest victim—a sweet girl from the track team who had been crying in the girl's bathroom all morning—and the conversation quickly turned into a critique of his predictable routine.

"I bet he uses the exact same script on every single one of them," your friend had scoffed, swirling her straw. "It’s so transparent. I give it three weeks before he pulls the vanishing act."

You had laughed, leaning back in your chair. "It’s not even that hard. The guy is practically a machine. You just input a little attention, and the love-bombing protocol starts automatically."

"Oh yeah?" your other friend challenged, a dangerous gleam in her eye.

"Prove it. Thirty bucks says you can’t get him to do the whole routine for you. Let's see how he actually love-bombs when someone is looking for it."

Thirty dollars wasn't life changing money, but enough to get you some fastfood so of course you agreed ! (lmao)

Besides, it sounded entertaining. Evan was in your English and your PE class, meaning he was practically served to you on a silver platter.

You accepted the bet with a laugh, fully aware that it was going to be a walk in the park.

And it was.

It was actually..almost embarrassingly easy.

Literally all you had to do was start talking to him.

You began by lingering after the bell in English, asking him stupid questions about the reading assignments you already understood.

In PE, you’d walk the laps next to him, laughing a little too loudly at his shitty jokes and tossing your hair over your shoulder when the sun hit it just right.

You gave him a few lingering looks, a handful of playful nudges during warm-ups, and a bit of calculated flirting that left just enough unsaid to keep him hungry.

You didn't even have to give that much effort because Evan was a boy validated entirely by female attention, and you were throwing him a bone.

And predictably, he bit down hard.

You got his number by the end of the first week under the guise of "needing help with the essay."

By the third week, right on schedule, he cornered you by your locker after school, his eyes wide and brimming with a desperate, practiced intensity.

He confessed his feelings with a speech that sounded like it had been plagiarized from a bad indie romance novel, his voice trembling as he asked you if he could be your boyfriend.

You smiled, the perfect picture of a flattered girl, and said yes.

The thirty bucks was practically in your pocket.

Dating him, however, quickly turned into an exercise in pure exhaustion.

You hated the boy. Watching his routine from the inside was infinitely more repulsive than watching it from afar.

You could tell, with absolute clarity, that he was love-bombing you. It was a performance that felt entirely manufactured and completely overdone.

Every morning, he was waiting at your locker, hovering like an anxious puppy.

He was constantly trying to kiss you, to wrap his arms around your waist in the middle of the crowded hallways, and to hold your hand so tightly your fingers went numb.

He would smother you with grand, empty gestures. He started buying you cheap, silver-plated rings from those little boutiques downtown, sliding them onto your fingers with a reverence that made you want to roll your eyes.

If your shoelaces came untied, he would aggressively drop to both knees right there on the dirty linoleum, tying them with a dramatic flourish as if he were a knight in shining armor performing a holy duty.

But the worst part was the way he looked at you. It wasn't sweet, it was intense to the point of being suffocating.

He looked at you like he wanted to eat you whole, his dark eyes tracking your every movement, devouring every expression on your face as if he were trying to memorize your soul.

It was too much.

It was entirely too attached, entirely too fast, and completely different from how he had treated any of the other girls he had dated.

With them, he had been a charming man. With you, he was a frantic, clinging mess.

And by the time the relationship hit the three-week mark, the novelty had completely worn off. Honestly, it was becoming incredibly boring.

You and your friends would sit at your usual lunch table, and you’d show them the latest cheap ring he’d bought you, laughing as they groaned at his pathetic antics.

"He’s suffocating," you complained, picking at your food.

"It was funny for the first ten days, but now I can’t even breathe without him texting me 'what are u doing?' It’s so tiring."

Your friends completely agreed.

The bet had been won, the point had been proven, and the entire charade had become a massive, irritating chore.

It was getting genuinely annoying the way he always clung onto you, the way his name would flash across your phone screen thirty times an hour, the way he would pout if you wanted to spend lunch with your friends instead of tucked under his arm.

Everything about him was irritating.

So, you planned to break it off.

You figured it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine.

You’d show him exactly how it felt to have the rug pulled out from under him, to be treated like an absolute afterthought by someone who had claimed to adore you just days prior.

You started ignoring his texts for hours, replying with dry, one-word answers.

When he tried to put his arm around you, you’d seamlessly step out of his reach to grab something from your bag.

You watched him flounder, watched the confusion bleed into his eyes, and you felt a cold, vindictive sense of satisfaction.

He deserved it.

You called him out to the bleachers after track practice on a Friday afternoon to finally end it.

The air was cooling down, the sky a bruised shade of purple, and you stood there with your hands shoved into your pockets, ready to read him his eviction notice.

Except, you hadn't anticipated one crucial, horrifying detail.

Evan wasn't faking it.

"We need to stop doing this," you said, your voice flat, cutting through the quiet hum of the empty field. "I’m breaking up with you, Evan. It’s over."

You expected him to sigh, maybe look a little annoyed that his game had been cut short, and walk away with his hands in his pockets to go text his next target.

Instead, the world seemed to violently fracture right in front of you.

The color drained from Evan's face so fast it looked like he had been struck.

His jaw slackened, his eyes widening in a look of such raw terror that you actually took a half-step back.

For a second, he didn't breathe. And then, the tears came.

It wasn't a quiet, dignified single tear, either. Evan started crying like a absolute baby.

A harsh, choking sob tore out of his throat, his shoulders violently shaking as his entire composure crumbled into dust.

Before you could even register what was happening, he dropped to his knees on the cold metal of the bleachers.

He reached out, his hands trembling violently, and grabbed onto your leg, burying his face against your denim-clad knee.

He held on for dear life, his fingers gripping your jeans so tightly his knuckles turned stark white, as if he were a drowning man and you were the only piece of wood left floating in the ocean.

"No, no, please, please don't do this," he sobbed, his voice cracking, completely ruined.

He lifted his face, and he looked entirely pathetic—his nose red, his eyes bloodshot and streaming with heavy, frantic tears, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.

"Please, just tell me what I did wrong. Was I too loud? Did I do something stupid? I’ll change, I swear to God I’ll change. Whatever you want me to be, I’ll be it. Just don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me."

You stood frozen, looking down at him in sheer disgust and shock.

"Evan, get off me!" you said, trying to pull your leg away, but his grip only tightened, his body shaking with another wave of hysterical sobs.

"I love you," he choked out, the words spilling out of him like a confession of a crime, raw and bloody and horrifyingly real.

"I've never felt like this before. I swear I'm not lying to you. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I just think about you every second of the day. Please, don't do this to me. I'll do anything. Just tell me how to fix it."

And in that agonizing, pathetic display, the truth finally clicked into place, sharp and cruel.

For the first time in his miserable, narcissistic life—the idiot had actually fallen in love.

He hadn't been playing a game with you.

The love-bombing, the suffocating attention, the cheap rings, the tying of your shoes, the hungry, desperate looks—it hadn't been his usual manufactured routine.

It had been the clumsy, overwhelming reality of a boy who had finally been struck by the lightning bolt he had spent years pretending to wield.

And unfortunately for him—it happened to be with the one person who never loved him back.

You looked down at him, at his tear-stained face, his desperate hands clinging to your clothes, and you didn't feel a single shred of pity.

You remembered the track girl crying in the bathroom. You remembered the countless other girls whose hearts he had chewed up and spit out without a second thought.

He was experiencing, for the very first time, the exact flavor of agony he had dealt out as a hobby.

"Let go of me, Evan," you said, your voice entirely devoid of warmth, cold as ice.

You wrenched your leg out of his grasp with a sharp, forceful tug.

He stumbled forward, his hands hitting the cold metal of the bleacher where your foot had just been, a fresh sob breaking from his lips as he realized he couldn't hold on.

He stayed there, on his hands and knees.

You didn't look back as you walked away down the steps, leaving him entirely alone in the ruins of the first and last thing he would ever truly care about.

Evan the type to rub his bulge over his phone that's open to a pic of u 🫡

and then Evan grew up to be Yan ex

"Bite me and I'll leave you forever."

His breath hitched.

The words dripped from your lips like honey, slow and sweet, but the meaning was poison.

His teeth froze mid-press against your finger, trembling.

No.

No no no, he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—but the thought of it, the idea of breaking skin and keeping a piece of you inside him, wedged between his ribs like a sacred relic, made his pulse throb between his legs.

He whined, high and pathetic, drool spilling down his chin as your fingers pushed deeper, curling against the back of his throat.

"You’re disgusting," you murmured, and he shivered, because it wasn’t disgust in your voice—it was fondness.

Like it was amusing how ruined he was, how he choked on your touch, how his hips jerked helplessly against the air, his cock straining against his pants, already wet at the tip just from your fingers in his mouth, just from the way you looked at him like he was something yours.

He was yours.

He’d carved the realization into his skin years ago, in shaky letters along his thigh where no one else could see — Yours. Yours. Yours.

And now here he was, a whimpering mess, tears streaking his cheeks because he couldn’t—couldn’t—stop imagining what it’d feel like to eat you.

Not poetically, but literally. Teeth in your flesh, blood on his tongue, swallowing you down so you’d never leave, so you’d always be part of him.

"Please," he sobbed, the word garbled around your fingers. He sucked harder, desperate, trying to show you how good he could be, how obedient, how he’d never hurt you—not unless you asked.

You tilted his chin up with your free hand, studying his face, the red-rimmed eyes, the spit-slick lips, the way his breath came in ragged gasps whenever you touched him.

"You’d die if I left, wouldn’t you?"

He nodded immediately, frantically, because it wasn’t even a question. It was a fact.

You sighed, almost amused, and dragged your fingers out of his mouth slowly, watching his tongue chase after them, desperate and hungry. "Pathetic."

He was.

And then—

You shoved your fingers back in, hard, and his spine arched off the bed, a broken scream muffled by your skin as he came untouched, his orgasm ripping through him like a fucking punishment.

🤤🤤 men who lick fingers and cream in their pants when u

anywho GUYS REQUESTTT YANS

Sae Itoshi had always wondered what dying felt like, not out of anything truly.

Sae simply liked understanding things, and death was one of the few things nobody could ever properly explain to him.

People always described it differently.

Some said it happened all at once. One second you're standing and the next you're gone.

Others described it as slow, like watching the shoreline disappear further and further away until suddenly your feet couldn't touch the bottom anymore and panic finally set in when it was already too late.

He used to think it was the first one.

He believed death would feel sudden, like a gunshot, maybe even like a cliff giving out beneath your feet.

Now he knew better.

Death was slower than that.

Death was realizing one day that someone had dug their roots into your ribcage so deeply that every attempt to pull away only tore pieces of you off with them.

Death was sitting across from you apologizing while you couldn't do anything but watch, knowing you'll only let them back in.

Death was hearing the same promises repeated so many times they lost all meaning.

Death looked a lot like you.

The worst part was that you sounded sincere every time, your hands wrapped around his.

Warm and soft, the same hands that had built him up only to leave him staring at his phone at three in the morning wondering if he'd imagined the entire relationship.

It was the same hands that had stroked his hair while swearing he was enough, the same hands that had promised change.

Promised effort.

Promised tomorrow.

Promised forever.

You always promised forever, and that same forever always seemed to expire within a week.

"I'm sorry."

Your voice was careful, almost like someone approaching a wounded animal.

You were apologizing.

Again.

And Sae hated that his first thought wasn't anger, his first thought was relief because at least you came back into his arms.

Sae stared at your intertwined hands.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, an affectionate gesture, a comforting one.

A lie.

Everything was a lie.

The realization should have hurt by now. Instead it settled inside him with a familiar numbness the same way old injuries stopped hurting after enough time.

Not because they'd healed, but because they'd become permanent.

You had lied when you told him you were his.

Not because you intended to deceive him, that would have required intention, and consistency.

You lied because you didn't understand the weight of your own words.

You said things because they felt true in the moment.

You loved him in moments, that was the problem.

Sae loved in permanence.

You loved in weather.

He remembered every promise you'd ever made.

You didn't.

The thought made something bitter twist inside his stomach.

He hated how well he knew you, he hated knowing exactly how your mind worked.

You would forget while Sae remained trapped inside every version of you he'd ever known.

Every laugh.

Every smile.

Every touch.

Every absence.

Especially the absences, those were the worst.

People thought heartbreak happened during breakups, sae knew better.

Heartbreak happened on ordinary Tuesdays.

It happened when you stopped replying, when a message sat unread for six hours.

Eight hours.

Twelve.

It happened when his calls went unanswered, when the ringing stopped, when he stared at the screen waiting for your name to appear, when it didn't.

The spiral always began the same way.

First came irritation.

Then worry.

Then anger.

Then panic.

By midnight he was convincing himself you'd died.

By two in the morning he was imagining you with someone else.

By four he hated you.

By five he hated himself more.

The bathroom floor knew him better than most people, cold tiles against burning skin and nausea twisting through his stomach—his brain has already convinced itself of seventeen different tragedies.

His phone clutched in white-knuckled hands, messages sent and deleted and rewritten.

Sometimes cruel.

Sometimes desperate.

Sometimes both.

Where are you?

Are you ignoring me?

Answer the phone.

Forget it.

Don't bother.

I hate you.

Please answer.

Then he'll start making up scenarios, maybe you're hurt.

Maybe you're dead.

Maybe you don't love him anymore.

Maybe you've found somebody better.

Maybe you're laughing at his messages right now.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

The word haunted him, because loving you meant existing inside an endless cycle of maybes.

Nothing was ever certain, except the fact he'd always come running back.

The humiliation of it never stopped, the awareness never stopped either.

He knew exactly what he looked like.

Pathetic.

Obsessive.

Unstable.

And somehow that knowledge only made him angrier, he hadn't been like this before you.

Before you, control had come naturally. Before you, emotions were simple things.

Then you arrived and suddenly his entire emotional state revolved around whether your name appeared on his screen.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

The word echoed endlessly through his mind.

Yet here he was, still holding your hands, still listening to your shitty apology.

Why?

The question haunted him.

Why couldn't he leave? People left relationships every day, people moved on. People recovered, people found better.

Sae had options, he knew he did.

People wanted him.

Admired him.

Desired him.

He could walk away right now and find someone else within a week, someone who wouldn't turn affection into withdrawal, someone who wouldn't accidentally destroy him every other month.

So why couldn't he do it?

His eyes slowly lifted toward yours.

And there it was, the answer looking at him like he mattered, looking at him like he was home.

The worst part wasn't that you lied.

The worst part was that you believed your lies when you said them.

Right now you meant every apology, right now you meant every promise right now you loved him.

And Sae was weak enough to accept moments even knowing moments were all you'd ever give him.

You had reduced him to something embarrassingly simple, a man starving to death who kept accepting crumbs because they came from your hand.

He should have been angry.

He was angry, furious.

The anger lived permanently beneath his skin now.

It fed on disappointment.

It fed on abandonment.

It fed on every cancelled plan and every ignored text and every broken promise.

Sometimes he imagined blocking your number and disappearing completely.

Sometimes he imagined cutting every thread connecting you to him.

But every fantasy ended the same way, with him crawling back, with him answering the call, with him opening the door, with him forgiving you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You squeezed his hands, waiting—hoping.

The silence stretched.

You looked nervous.

Good.

Part of him wanted you nervous, part of him wanted you to understand what he goes through just trying to get you to look at him.

He wanted you to finally realize what loving you had done to him.

The sleepless nights.

The anxiety.

The obsessive checking.

The sickness.

The dependence.

The constant fear.

Love wasn't supposed to feel like this, this wasn't love, it couldn't be. Love wasn't supposed to make someone feel haunted.

Yet despite everything, when he looked at you, his chest still ached with unbearable affection.

You were waiting for judgment.

He opened his mouth, the words were already there.

Get out.

Leave.

I'm done.

I'm tired.

I'm choosing myself.

The speech had lived in his head for months—years, maybe, perfectly rehearsed.

Instead he heard himself say, "It's okay."

Your shoulders relaxed instantly.

The sight made something inside him break, not because you were relieved, but because he was.

"I forgive you."

The words came out soft, a confession of weakness disguised as kindness.

Your expression brightened, hope returned to your face and Sae hated himself for loving that look.

He raised a hand, his fingers settled against your cheek, warm skin he kissed every night.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, a tender gesture, and a even more devastating one because even now he couldn't stop caring.

Even now he couldn't stop wanting to protect the person hurting him.

You smiled, and there it was again.

That awful fluttering inside his chest, those butterflies people wrote poems about.

Sae thought butterflies were a stupid metaphor, butterflies were beautiful and what lived inside him wasn't.

It was starving.

It was ravenous.

It chewed through reason.

It devoured self-respect.

It swallowed pride whole.

Sometimes he thought it wanted to consume you too, it wanted possession and ownership.

It wanted access to every thought in your head, it wanted guarantees, it wanted permanence. It wanted to crawl beneath your skin and stay there forever.

Because if he could become a part of you— truly become a part of you— then maybe he wouldn't spend every waking moment terrified of losing you.

You leaned into his touch.

"I love you."

The words left your mouth so easily.

Sae stared at you, searching, looking for certainty where certainty didn't exist—trying to find permanence inside someone who had never belonged to permanence.

You smiled softly, waiting, loving, at least in this moment.

And maybe that was the tragedy.

You loved him, just not forever.

Sae leaned forward.

His hand remained against your cheek.

His eyes closed, and he kissed you.

His hands are shaking when they cup your face, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

His tongue is hot and desperate in your mouth, messy and wet, and you can feel the way his breath hitches when you bite his lip just to hear him whine.

And when you pulled back just to breathe, just to see him, his eyelashes fluttered like moth wings against the flush of his cheeks, pink and feverish.

“Don’t,” he gasped, voice ragged, already chasing your mouth again before you could even speak. “Don’t stop, don’t—"

And maybe that was what death truly felt like.

#sae

No but we need more sub yanderes bc wydm I see yanderes like play and cheat and do all types of diabolical shit to their darling/reader or wtv and the reader does nothing about it... Like we NEEEED more submissive yans who gon take it up the butt and beg you not to leave them

Btw would y'all be comfy with me posting smut bc I was gna write smut for this one but I didn't know so TELL MEEEEEE

head over heels - tears for fears playin' !

Donnie had always been wrong in the head—that was the phrase adults used when they thought children couldn’t hear them through thin kitchen walls and half-shut doors.

They called him sick and troubled. His mother cried quietly over cups of coffee gone cold while doctors folded their hands together and spoke in those careful voices that sounded more afraid than sympathetic.

His father handled it differently—stiff jaw, crossed arms, pretending if he stared hard enough at the floor then maybe his son would become normal through force alone.

But there was never anything normal about Donnie.

He stared too long at people, like he was dissecting their souls under fluorescent light. He spoke too detached and sharp and cruel in ways that made adults uncomfortable because he sounded too aware for his age.

He exploded suddenly too much—rage that came from nowhere, volcanic and ugly, clawing out of him before he even understood why it was there.

Therapists scribbled words onto clipboards while Donnie sat there sinking deeper into the couch cushions, watching the second hand tick around the clock with unbearable slowness.

Paranoid tendencies.

Emotional instability.

Sleep disturbances.

Violent ideation.

Derealization.

Possible schizophrenia.

Depressive episodes.

They kept giving his parents new labels every year, new pills every month. Tiny capsules lined beside orange juice every morning before school.

There were white ones that made his thoughts sluggish, and blue ones that left cotton in his mouth and exhaustion in his bones.

There were others that made him nauseous, dizzy, disconnected from his own skin.

Donnie learned early how medication felt less like healing and more like being buried alive under chemical fog like someone pressing a wet cloth over his mind until all the sharpness dulled into static.

But even through the medication, the thoughts never stopped.

The thinking just didn't go away, it only consumed him whole.

He thought about death constantly—not in the dramatic way movies liked to portray, but in the quiet invasive way it infected everything. He’d stare at the ceiling at three in the morning wondering if existence was real or if everyone around him was sleepwalking through some cosmic joke he alone was cursed to understand.

Sometimes he felt detached from his own body, like he was hovering inches behind himself watching life unfold wrong. The world looked artificial half the time.

Hallways stretched too long, and smiles looked rehearsed. People sounded hollow. He’d sit in classrooms staring at teachers while their mouths moved and moved and moved without meaning anything at all.

And then there were the visions and hallucinations that only worsened his condition.

They were terrible things that crawled inside his mind at night, a grotesque rabbit whispering prophecy into his ear.

Violent images flashing behind his eyes, and the overwhelming certainty that something catastrophic waited around every corner.

Donnie couldn’t tell where dreams ended and reality began anymore. Sometimes he’d wake up sweating, heart convulsing in his chest, unable to remember if the blood on his hands had been real or imagined.

He terrified himself.

Underneath the sarcasm and anger and detached cynicism was a boy horrified by his own mind.

Horrified that maybe the doctors were right.

Maybe he was fundamentally broken. Maybe there was something inside him that could never be cut out no matter how many pills they shoved down his throat.

And before you, that terror swallowed him whole. Before you, his mind was a maze with no exit. Before you, he drowned in himself with no escape because Donnie thought too much about everything—about humanity, about time, about death, about whether love was real or just another chemical illusion humans invented to survive loneliness.

His thoughts spiraled endlessly inward until they became unbearable. He’d isolate himself for hours, laying in bed staring at the ceiling while every terrible possibility in existence tore through his skull at once.

He hated people, hated the way they looked at him, and hated meaningless routines. He hated himself most of all.

But then you came and suddenly all that noise rearranged itself around you.

It didn’t disappear—not completely. His mind was still fractured in all the ugly places. But when you spoke to him, something inside him organized itself into something almost understandable.

You became the center of every thought he had, you became the only thing in his head that had a logical solution.

He noticed it slowly at first— his breathing steadied around you and hallways didn’t feel so distorted when you walked past him. The world looked less fake under your gaze, even frank's voice seemed quieter after hearing yours.

You healed him in the worst possible way, not by curing him—but by becoming his cure.

the difference mattered because now Donnie needed you the same way lungs needed oxygen and people like Donnie did not survive deprivation well.

He’d lay in bed thinking about you until his molars and tummy physically hurt from it.

He imagined your name so many times it stopped looking like a word and became something sacred instead.

Sometimes he’d bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed while picturing you looking at someone else, and jealousy infected him instantly.

He thought about carving your name into himself constantly.

Donnie imagined it viscerally. Teeth scraping skin, and letters etched into bone. Your name embedded somewhere permanent where nobody could take it from him.

Sometimes he’d run his tongue over his teeth wondering how your name would sound carved there instead, every syllable shaped by you forever. Every word passing through his mouth altered by your existence.

That was how deeply you infected him, you rewired him entirely to the point the only way he was able to take pills nowadays is by imagining you praising him for it.

His heart itself felt ruined by you. Every beat seemed to echo your name in frantic morse code beneath his ribs. You. You. You.

Sometimes he pressed his palm against his chest hard enough to bruise just to feel it better. Just to imagine maybe if you touched him there, you’d understand the catastrophe you created inside him because Donnie blamed you for it.

It was your fault he couldn’t think straight anymore.

Your fault his obsession grew teeth.

Your fault his thoughts finally had direction.

You should take responsibility for that.

He wanted you to see what you’d done to him—wanted you to understand that before you, his mind had been a collapsing building full of smoke and screaming and confusion.

Before you, he wandered endlessly through his own thoughts searching for something—anything—that could make existence feel tolerable.

Then you arrived and suddenly all roads led back to you.

Before you, Donnie’s brain was a room full of shattered glass, and now every sharp piece reflected only your face.

And God, wasn’t that better?

Wasn’t obsession preferable to emptiness?

Sometimes he wondered if what he felt for you was even love at all or simply another symptom of whatever sickness lived inside him.

Maybe his brain had just latched onto the first person who made the loneliness stop hurting so much. Maybe you were another hallucination entirely—another cruel trick his mind invented to survive itself.

But then you’d touch him, and he’d feel real again.

And Donnie preferred being consumed by you over being consumed by himself.

He wanted permanence.

That was the problem.

People left too easily, and minds were changed too quickly. Reality itself felt unstable half the time, and Donnie couldn’t stand instability anymore.

So he wanted you carved into him somehow, stitched beneath his skin—embedded in marrow and blood and nerve endings where abandonment couldn’t reach.

He wanted you stuck inside him forever.

maybe then he’d never have to return to the awful hollow loneliness that existed before you.

Donnie loved you in the only way his damaged mind knew how—completely, and catastrophically like a collapsing star begging something beautiful to stay within its orbit long enough to survive the dark.

blink182 - playin' !

Zayne was an asshole to be frank—the type that made people tense the second he walked into a room.

He had that permanently irritated expression carved into his face like somebody had stitched his features together wrong—sharp eyes always narrowed, mouth twisted like he tasted something sour every time another human being opened their mouth.

He called everyone posers, called teachers government puppets, called football players meatheads and girls with dyed hair “factory made alternatives.”

He got into fights so often the vice principal stopped sounding surprised whenever his name echoed through the office speakers.

Half the time he came back to class with split knuckles and dried blood smeared beneath the silver rings on his fingers, slumping into his chair while blasting Pierce the Veil through one earbud loud enough for everyone around him to hear the static leaking out.

He was weird, not cute weird either. Just disturbing weird.

He bit his nails until the skin around them stayed raw and angry red, constantly pushed his side bangs back into place every few minutes because he hated when they separated wrong over his eye.

He smelled faintly like cigarette smoke even though nobody had ever actually seen him smoke. And he looked at people like he wanted them dead for inconveniencing him with their existence.

Nobody liked sitting next to him because he stared too hard. Nobody liked talking to him because he always had something cruel waiting on his tongue.

Yet somehow, with you, it got stranger because Zayne didn’t just look annoyed around you, he looked furious like your existence was a personal sin.

You’d catch him glaring from across the hallway with his jaw tight enough to crack teeth. During class he’d stare at the side of your head with this ugly intensity, fingers twitching against his desk like he was physically restraining himself from saying something awful.

Sometimes you’d turn around suddenly and catch him already looking—already studying you—and instead of glancing away like a normal person, he’d sneer like you were the one bothering him.

“You breathe too fuckin' loud,” he snapped at you once during chemistry when you leaned past him for a pencil.

Another time he scoffed because of the way you stood, literally just stood.

“Why do you stand like that?” he muttered darkly. “You look like a lost dog.”

You blinked at him. “What does that even mean?"

“Means you stand weird.”

jackass.

Everybody thought he hated you. Honestly, you did too. It was hard not to when he acted like every little thing you did crawled beneath his skin.

And maybe part of him did hate you.

Zayne couldn’t even tell anymore.

Whatever this thing inside him was, it felt more terrible than hatred. It sat inside his ribs like rusted nails because the same boy insulting you at school went home and carved your name into the wood beneath his bedframe with a pocketknife like a pretty altar he could come home and pray to.

The letters were uneven from how badly his hands shook.

He stared at them afterward for nearly twenty minutes in the dark, thumb brushing over your name over and over until the grooves dug splinters into his skin.

His room looked like a corpse of teenage boyhood. Black walls covered in band posters curling at the edges, clothes scattered everywhere, and empty energy drink cans littering his floor.

Lyrics and scribbled notes were also pinned to the ceiling above his bed because sometimes he liked reading them while he couldn’t sleep—but nowadays when he cant fall asleep he looks under his bedframe, sees your name, and his breath shakes.

His desk lamp barely worked, flickering weak yellow light over notebooks stuffed full of thoughts nobody else would ever read, thoughts and paragraphs about you.

You had ruined music for him, that was the worst part.

Music used to be the only thing that made him feel human. Before you, songs were escape routes, places to crawl into when home got too loud.

When his father started screaming downstairs again, when another plate shattered against a wall, when his mother cried behind locked bathroom doors—music filled the spaces where affection should’ve been. It swallowed him whole and let him disappear for a little while.

But now every song sounded like you somehow.

Every lyric twisted itself into your shape.

His headphones became torture devices.

He’d lay there at three in the morning with music crackling into his skull while thinking about the way your fingers curled around pens during class.

He remembered the way your voice dipped lower when you got tired and the way your shoes squeaked against polished school floors. They were tiny useless details that infected his brain like parasites.

It made him sick.

He hated how badly he wanted you because Zayne had never been soft for anyone before. He never cared enough to memorize somebody’s schedule, neither did he ever stared at a phone screen for an hour debating whether or not to send a text. And he for sure never switched jewelry because of another person.

But now the ring on his finger wasn’t his initial anymore, it was yours.

He’d bought cheap metal letter charms online at two in the morning after spiraling for six straight hours thinking about you laughing with somebody else in the cafeteria. When it arrived he locked himself in his room and replaced the old charm immediately, fingers trembling the entire time. He told himself it was just something he could laugh at later when he regulates his system again.

But afterward he sat there staring at it with burning ears and a racing heart like he’d just gotten married in secret.

God. He was disgusting.

He memorized your schedule and learned which hallways you preferred, which friends annoyed you, what flavor energy drinks you bought from the vending machine. Sometimes he lingered near classrooms just to hear your voice for five more seconds before going home.

And he still acted like he hated you because if he didn’t, he thought he might actually lose his mind.

One rainy afternoon he followed you home from three blocks away, hood pulled over his head while his heartbeat pounded violently against his ribs.

He told himself he was only making sure you got home safe. But even he knew that was bullshit. He knew it when he watched you through rain-soaked streets like something starving, and he knew it when he stood outside your neighborhood for ten whole minutes after you disappeared indoors.

He could’ve left, but istead he stared at your bedroom window until the lights turned on.

Then he went home and wrote six pages about you.

His poems weren’t romantic in the normal sense. They read more like confessions somebody would find beside a dead body, messy black ink pressed hard enough to tear paper apart.

He wrote about your throat constantly, about how pretty your pulse looked beneath skin, about how your hand would look wrapped around his neck “like a chain he’d gladly choke on.”

He wrote about wanting to unzip his ribs and crawl inside your bloodstream just so he’d never have to be away from you again. About how your voice made his insides feel “gooey and rotten sweet.” About how every time you smiled at someone else he imagined peeling his own skin off because jealousy physically hurt"

He hated everyone around you.

Especially guys, guys zayne knew he could never compete with.

Whenever somebody flirted with you, Zayne spiraled for hours afterward. His chest got tight, and his vision got all blurry. He'd bite his nails bloody trying to calm down while imagining their hands touching yours. Sometimes he got so angry he punched walls until his knuckles split open again.

Then he’d feel ashamed, then angry for feeling ashamed, then obsessed all over again.

It became this endless cycle of self-destruction.

At school he only grew meaner because kindness felt too vulnerable now. If he spoke softly to you even once, he thought the entire terrifying truth might spill out of him all at once. So instead he glared harder, mocked you more, hovered around you with this nasty tension simmering beneath his skin.

But there were cracks sometimes, tiny ones.

Like the day somebody shoved you in the hallway accidentally and Zayne snapped so fast it looked almost animalistic. One second he was leaning against a locker half asleep, next he had the guy slammed against the wall by his collar.

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he hissed.

The guy blinked in shock. “It was an accident—”

You remember how strange his face looked afterward. Angry, yes. But scared too. Like seeing you get hurt triggered something unstable inside him. He released the guy abruptly and stormed off before you could even thank him.

That night he replayed the moment obsessively, you touched his wrist for half a second trying to calm him down—just half a second and he thought about it for three weeks.

Sometimes Zayne scared himself. Especially late at night when everything got quiet and the obsession stopped feeling romantic and started feeling diseased. He’d stare at his ceiling with hollow eyes while your favorite songs played softly through his headphones, wondering why his chest physically ached whenever he imagined you leaving someday.

You weren’t even his.

That was the insane part.

You barely tolerated him yet his entire existence had started orbiting around you anyway.

One night he sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor surrounded by crumpled notebook pages, exhausted eyes fixed on your initial hanging from his ring.

His house downstairs was loud again—his father yelling, something crashing, his mother crying quietly afterward—but he barely heard it anymore. He only heard your laugh trapped inside his skull.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind them. He wanted relief, wanted one single moment where you weren’t tangled around every thought he had. But even now his fingers moved automatically toward another notebook.

Another poem.

Another page.

Another pathetic confession nobody would ever read.

He wrote about your eyelashes this time, about wanting to pin every expression you ever made against the inside of his skull forever, about how terrifying it was that somebody as ordinary as you somehow became the center of his entire miserable life.

Then he stopped writing halfway through because his hands were shaking too hard.

Zayne tilted his head back against the wall and stared blankly upward. The ceiling above him was covered in taped-up lyrics and scribbled thoughts and pieces of you. Your name appeared so many times it looked ritualistic like worship.

Maybe that’s what this was.

Not love.

Not really.

It was just something consuming waiting for him to finally let his guard down and kill him for good.

And still—if you asked him for anything, he’d give it to you, if you smiled at him gently even once, he’d probably spend the rest of the night trembling over it like a wounded animal finally being touched kindly.

Because despite the snarling and insults and dirty looks, despite the bitterness dripping from every word he threw at you—zayne was hopelessly, violently in love with you.

And it was killing him alive.

The first time Light Yagami saw you, he knew he would either love you or kill you. There was no in-between, no gray area—just the sharp, suffocating divide between devotion and destruction. And for a long time, he wasn’t sure which one he wanted more.

Disgusting—everything about it was disgusting.

Currently, light’s room felt too clean for the kind of thoughts rotting inside it. The polished desk gleamed beneath the yellow glow of his lamp, books stacked with mathematical precision, pens aligned carefully beside papers filled with calculated lies and perfect grades and schedules that made him look like the ideal son.

Every inch of the room screamed discipline, brilliance, control. Yet sitting at the center of it all was the black notebook resting beneath his hand like a second heartbeat, ugly against the sterile neatness of everything else.

It was both corrupt and divine.

And Light stared at it with irritation tightening his jaw.

It wasn’t enough.

Names filled page after page in his precise handwriting, criminals dropping dead across countries while the world trembled beneath the shadow of Kira, yet the police were still breathing down his neck.

L was still alive, still prying, still sitting somewhere with those horrible dark eyes and sugar-stained fingers, pulling at threads Light had woven so carefully.

It annoyed him more than fear ever could.

Fear was for ordinary people. Fear was for criminals awaiting judgment. Fear was for those too weak to shape the world with their own hands.

Light was not weak, but he was tired.

His fingers tapped once against the cover of the Death Note, then again, slow and sharp. The room hummed softly with silence.

Outside, distant traffic muttered through the city, headlights occasionally slipping across his ceiling. He barely noticed it. His mind was moving too quickly, thoughts splitting apart and reconnecting like electric wires sparking inside his skull.

Kill more criminals.

Manipulate the task force further.

Control suspicion.

Control L.

Control everything.

And somehow, disgustingly, impossibly—

you.

His eyes narrowed faintly.

You drifted through his mind again without permission, sliding between calculations and murder statistics like something invasive.

You were like a splinter beneath skin, a uncleanable stain. He hated how easily it happened now. The thought of you arrived naturally, contaminating every moment he tried to devote entirely to becoming god.

Your name echoed through him constantly.

it had settled between his teeth and rooted itself into the soft flesh behind them, whispering every time he swallowed.

It irritated him in ways he couldn’t explain logically, because Light understood everything logically.

Human emotion was simple chemistry. Attraction was weakness. Obsession was pathetic. He’d watched criminals destroy themselves over desire countless times already. Lust, greed, jealousy—humanity was embarrassingly predictable.

Yet whenever you walked past him, his thoughts became ugly things he never bothered to peice together simply because of how complicated they were.

and you never even noticed, that was the unbearable part.

You’d scratch absently at the back of your neck while reading something, looking exhausted and distracted, and Light would stare too long at the exposed skin there, wondering stupidly what your pulse looked like beneath it.

He wondered what expression you’d make if he pressed hard enough to leave bruises.

Light leaned back slowly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression remained composed, beautiful in the practiced way he maintained constantly, but his eyes were restless.

He imagined writing your name.

His gaze dropped toward the notebook immediately.

He could do it.

One movement, one neat line of ink, and you would die exactly as he commanded—the power thrilled him.

But instead of satisfaction, something unpleasant twisted in his chest at the image.

It wasn't guilt, never guilt, Light had transcended guilt long ago. This was different.

If you died, someone else might find you first.

Someone else might touch you.

Someone else might look at your face while your eyes lost focus for the last time.

The idea made his stomach tighten violently.

No, he thought coldly.

If you died, you should die infront of him, right where he could hold you and feel you pray his name into his warm palms—the thought came with horrifying ease.

Light exhaled softly through his nose, almost amused with himself. Human attachment truly was revolting. Look what it reduced people to.

Even now he could recognize the absurdity of these thoughts while still indulging them completely. You had become distracting in the worst possible way.

When he pictured the future, you appeared somewhere inside it now.

Ryuk’s voice broke through the silence beside him.

“Thinking about them again?”

The shinigami grinned horribly from where he crouched near the window, all teeth and shadows and amused cruelty. His eyes gleamed with the delight of someone watching a slow-motion disaster unfold.

Light didn’t answer immediately.

Ryuk laughed deeper.

“C’mon, Light,” he mocked lazily. “I thought you were better than that.”

Light’s expression darkened faintly.

“Didn’t you say humans like them were disgusting?” Ryuk continued. “That they’d taint you?”

The word taint scraped unpleasantly against Light’s pride, because that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? You should’ve disgusted him.

Ordinary people always did eventually. Their selfishness, their stupidity, their noise—it all became unbearable.

Light stood above humanity now. He judged it, purified it, and shaped it with divine purpose while everyone else stumbled around blind and filthy beneath him, yet—

His grip tightened slightly around his pen.

“They can’t taint a god,” Light said finally, voice smooth and controlled.

Ryuk snorted.

Light’s gaze remained fixed ahead, unblinking.

“I’ll just cleanse myself,” he continued quietly, “until we are both clean.”

Light rested his elbow against the desk and pressed his fingers lightly against his lips, eyes half-lidded in thought.

Clean.

The idea fascinated him.

Humans were born rotten. Weak desires ruled them entirely. Society itself was diseased because people lacked discipline, lacked vision, lacked the courage to become something greater. That was why Kira had to exist. That was why Light had been chosen.

So perhaps what he felt toward you wasn’t corruption. Perhaps it was refinement.

You were careless, but maybe that simply meant you needed guidance. Maybe he could strip away every ugly human flaw until you stood beside him properly, purified beneath his judgment alone.

The thought soothed him immediately.

Because Light Yagami was nothing if not patient.

And gods, after all, were merciful.

first time doing a small freaky drabble tell me if y'all like it :3

cieo stared at the back of your head, day dreaming.

the first time cieo notices you, it’s because you yawn—just that. it was a sleepy little stretch in the middle of chemistry, the way your sweater rides up just a sliver over your hipbone, the soft sound you make when your jaw cracks. his pencil snaps in half between his fingers. he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until the lead stains his palm black like a bruise.

it’s not fair. it’s not fair how you chew on the end of your pen when you’re thinking, how your socks are always slipping down into your shoes, how you tilt your head just slightly to the left when someone’s talking to you like you’re really listening.

he wants to bite the curve of your ear. he wants to press his tongue between your molars and lick the hollow of your cheek until you gag.

cieo starts bringing extra underwear to school because he keeps ruining his. he’ll be halfway through history, staring at the nape of your neck where your hair’s a little messy from sleeping wrong, and suddenly his thighs are wet. he has to sit there, trembling, until the bell rings so he can bolt to the bathroom and stuff the soiled fabric into his backpack. he tells himself he’ll throw them away when he gets home but he never does. he folds them under his pillow instead and whines as he debates on sending them to your house as a gift <3

at home, his room smelled like sweat and slick, sheets tangled around his waist as he whined into his pillow. his fingers were always inside him, fucking in shallow thrusts, imagining it was you—your hands, your mouth, the way you’d probably furrow your brows like you were solving another impossible equation while he fell apart beneath you. “fuck,” he gasped, legs shaking, “fuck, fuck—” his hips jerked, chasing the ache, the sweet friction. he came with your name bitten into his wrist, teeth marks blooming purple.

it was pathetic. he was pathetic.

he knew it when he pressed his face into your gym shirt after stealing it from the lost and found, wet already just from the smell of you. knew it when he traced the shape of your drawn lips on his notebook, over and over, until the paper tore.

you lend him a pencil once. just once. your fingers brush against his and he has to excuse himself to the nurse’s office because he comes untouched in his pants like some kind of fucking middle schooler. he spends the rest of the day with his thighs sticky, the scent of his own spend thick in his nose, and he doesn’t even feel ashamed. he just presses the pencil between his teeth and imagines it’s your thumb.

cieo follows you home for the first time on a tuesday. he doesn’t mean to. he just—you take a different route than usual, and he’s curious, and then suddenly he’s ducking behind a tree as you unlock your front door. he watches you kick your shoes off through the window, watches you stretch your arms over your head, watches you scratch your stomach absently before wandering out of view. he comes so hard his vision whites out.

after that, it becomes a habit. he learns your schedule better than his own. you have a math test next week? he knows. you’re fighting with your mom about curfew? he knows. you found the barista at the coffee shop near campus cute? he knows, and he spends three hours crying in the shower about it before deciding it’s fine, it’s fine, he can share if he has to. (spoiler alert, he won't)

he starts stealing your things. just little stuff—a hair tie you dropped, a crumpled receipt from your pocket when you hang your jacket up in the hallway, a single sock from the laundromat. he keeps them in a shoebox under his bed and takes them out when he’s feeling particularly pathetic, rubbing his cunt raw with the heel of his hand as he presses your stolen belongings to his face.

it’s your fault. it’s your fault for existing, for breathing, for having hands and a mouth and a voice that makes his stomach twist into knots. he hates you. he loves you. he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and live there.

one day, he’s trailing after you like usual, biting his lip to keep from letting out a pathethic moan as he watches the way your ass moves in your jeans, when you suddenly stop walking. cieo freezes. you turn around.

“i know you’ve been following me,” you say, voice flat.

cieo’s heart stops. he just stares at you with wide, wet eyes, his breath coming in short little gasps.

you sigh. “come here.”

he’s on his knees before he even realizes he’s moved.

(it’s not the last time you catch him and it’s def not the last time he cries into your thighs, begging for your fingers, your tongue, anything you’ll give him. you don’t even have to ask—he’ll give you everything.)

god, he’d let you do anything to him.

Faerin was never normal about crushes. That was the first thing everyone who knew him would say. He loved too hard, too quickly, too openly—like he was born with his heart split wide open for the world to poke at. He cried over romance movies, over cute compliments, over old couples holding hands at grocery stores. He memorized tiny details about people he liked and treated affection like a religion.

So when you appeared halfway through the semester looking all high and unfairly pretty, smiling at people like you weren't even trying—of course Faerin was doomed instantly !!

It started with your voice—warm and easy, low enough to make his stomach twist whenever you laughed.

The first time he heard it, he nearly dropped his drink.

He'd been sitting with friends outside during lunch, pink headphones hanging around his neck while he lazily scrolled through his phone. Then you walked past talking to another transfer student, sunlight hitting your face just enough to make Faerin stare like he'd been struck.

Pretty.

Pretty pretty pretty.

Not in the delicate way people called him pretty. No—your kind of pretty felt etheatreal—like the type that ruined people accidentally.

And you smiled at him, just a tiny polite smile because he'd accidentally been staring too long—and then faerin spent the next four hours in his dorm with his face buried in his pillow kicking his feet so hard his bedframe slammed against the wall.

By the next day, everyone knew because Faerin was horrible at hiding things.

His female friends cornered him before class after noticing he'd spent twenty minutes fixing his bangs in the bathroom mirror.

“You like the new transfer!” one of them gasped dramatically.

Faerin turned bright pink instantly.

“No I don't.”

“You curled your eyelashes.”

“That means nothing.”

“You're not wearing a jacket, you literally want them to see your figure.”

“i get hot."

"I literally saw you write their initial next to yours on your computer.*

Faerin immediately covered his face with a horrified squeak while his friends screamed, and laughed.

And somehow, somehow, things got even worse after he overheard a certain conversation.

It wasn't even intentional. Faerin had simply been walking past the stairwell when he heard your voice drifting down between the railings.

“…I dunno,” you said casually. “I just—i think prefer feminine, ya know? It's prettier.”

Silence.

Then one of your new friends laughed. “Like girls?”

“Nah,” you replied. “Just feminine people in general. Pretty boys too.”

Faerin genuinely thought his soul left his body, and he stood frozen on the stairs clutching his phone so tightly his fingers hurt.

Pretty boys.

Pretty boys.

You liked pretty boys.

You liked feminine attributes.

You liked—

Faerin ran away so fast he nearly slipped.

His friends found him ten minutes later practically hyperventilating behind the gym while aggressively fixing his hair in his camera app.

“they like feminine boys,” Faerin whispered shakily.

His friends stared—then screamed, after that, things became unbearable.

Faerin already cared obsessively about his appearance before you arrived, but now it became something far more intense. Every morning turned into a two-hour process of perfecting himself for you.

He'd wake up early to carefully wash his face with expensive cleansers. He started researching ways to make his eyelashes appear longer naturally. He bought strawberry-scented hair products because one time you mentioned liking sweet smells while talking to someone else in class. (He's always listening)

He noticed everything—you once casually said pink looked nice on him, and faerin made sure to add a piece of pink on his outfit every day.

You complimented his rings once while sitting beside him during class, he bought seven more.

You absentmindedly brushed hair out of his face during a group project because his bangs kept falling over his eyes, faerin didn't sleep that night. (He also cummed blanks <3)

He just laid there staring at the ceiling touching the spot your fingers grazed while his stomach churned violently.

His friends thought it was adorable at first.

Then ultimately just straight up concerning because Faerin wasn't simply crushing on you, he was orbiting you.

His entire routine slowly bent around your existence without you even realizing.

He memorized your class schedule within two weeks. He knew what snacks you bought from vending machines. He knew you preferred cold drinks even during winter. He knew you tapped your pencil against desks whenever you got bored because he was always staring at you. He knew you got sleepy during lectures after lunch because you always yawned. He knew which hoodies were your favorites because you wore them repeatedly, and he took track of them in his cute journal. He knew which people made you laugh hardest.

And jesus, he hated those people.

Faerin’s jealousy was honestly terrifying once people paid enough attention to notice it.

The problem was that you never noticed.

Or maybe you just interpreted all his weird behavior as him being naturally clingy and dramatic—which, to be fair, he was. Faerin acted sweet with everyone. He hugged people constantly, whined for attention, pouted dramatically when ignored. So when he suddenly wrapped both arms around yours because some girl was standing too close to you, you didn’t think anything of it.

Everyone else did.

Everyone else saw the way his expression changed whenever another person touched you.

Because in all honesty—Faerin’s face was expressive in the worst possible way. His emotions lived right there in his eyes, soft and huge and impossible to hide. Usually they sparkled with sweetness—pretty smiles, warm laughter, playful teasing.

But jealousy made him sharp, sharp enough everyone quieted around him once they saw his eyes go dark, and his eyebrows furrow in that nasty snarl.

God, Faerin hated people around you—especially the ones he knew were considered pretty by society's standards, the confident ones.

Girls with glossy hair and long legs and easy laughter. Guys who leaned too close to you when they spoke. Girls who touched your shoulder casually like they had the right. Guys who flirted effortlessly while Faerin sat there internally unraveling trying to figure out if his eye shadow looked okay.

Because how could he compete with that?How could soft little Faerin compete with girls who were naturally beautiful or guys who naturally had the confidence to say what they want ?

Some days the insecurity made him feel physically sick.

He’d sit in class staring down at his hands while negative thoughts spiraled endlessly through his mind.

Then one of those girls would laugh at something you said and Faerin’s entire chest would ache so violently he’d stop hearing the conversation entirely.

He became awful during group settings because of it.

If a girl complimented you too much, suddenly Faerin was draped over your shoulder whining softly.

“Can you help me with math later?” he’d mumble, resting his chin against your arm.

You blinked. “Didn’t you already finish it?”

Faerin’s pout deepened instantly.

“No.”

“You literally showed me your answers this morning.”

“…I forgot.”

The girl beside you would stare, because Faerin wasn’t subtle—not at all.

He’d cling tighter, fingers curling around your sleeve while staring at you with those huge glossy eyes. His voice would turn softer too—higher and sweeter in a way he only used around you.

And if that didn't make his competition back off—Faerin knew what will, to just insert and cut off whoever was talking till you gave him your full attention.

He did that constantly, inserted himself everywhere, and he was smart about it too.

If girls sat beside you at lunch too often, Faerin would appear seconds later carrying snacks for you both.

“Oh, can I sit here?” he’d ask politely while already squeezing himself beside you. Then he’d stay pressed against your side the entire lunch period—drinking from your straw without asking, playing with your fingers under the table absentmindedly while listening to conversations.

People noticed those things.

And he's glad they did—he wanted people to look at you both and assume he belonged to you.

He documented all of you obsessively. His hidden folders were genuinely insane. He had screenshots of conversations organized by date, and pictures he secretly took of you in class.

He even had voice messages replayed so often he memorized the pauses in your speech. He had entire notes filled with things you liked.

He reread your texts before sleeping every night while kicking his feet under blankets like an idiot.

Sometimes he practiced conversations with you beforehand too.

He’d stare into his mirror late at night rehearsing responses, trying to sound smoother, cooler, less embarrassing.

Then the next day you’d smile at him unexpectedly and he’d immediately short-circuit.

You really had no idea what you did to him.

One morning after carefully coordinating his outfit to match yours, Faerin spent almost forty minutes deciding between sweaters before school.

Because you were wearing black that day (he knew because he had a camera in ur room :3) so of course he picked a soft black oversized cardigan with pink details !

Then spent another ten minutes styling his hair to fall “naturally” over one eye.

By the time he got to school he was practically vibrating with anxiety.

What if you didn’t notice?

What if he looked stupid?

Then you looked at him in the hallway and laughed softly, “Woah. We’re matching."

Faerin genuinely forgot how to breathe.

You smiled so casually after saying it too, completely unaware you’d just caused catastrophic emotional damage.

“Guess we are,” he managed weakly.

You noticed him.

God, he loved being noticed by you.

It made him greedy—the more attention you gave him, the more he wanted.

And the jealousy got uglier because of it, especially when people flirted with you openly.

And Faerin dealt with jealousy horribly.

Sometimes he became quiet and miserable.

Other times—other times people mysteriously stopped talking to you afterward.

Nothing obvious, just subtle social destruction, rumors spreading quietly, and embarrassing screenshots leaked anonymously.

One girl who flirted with you relentlessly ended up sobbing in the bathroom after private messages she’d sent someone got anonymously posted online.

Nobody traced it back to Faerin.

Sweet little Faerin.

Faerin who brought homemade desserts for classmates.

Faerin who looked too delicate to hurt anyone.

Meanwhile he sat beside you during lunch stirring his drink quietly while you mentioned hearing about the drama.

“That’s awful,” you frowned.

Faerin nodded sympathetically.

“People are cruel.”

Then he rested his head against your shoulder and smiled secretly to himself while he hummed your favorite song under his breath.

So innocent, wasn't he?

You hated the countryside.

Not in the dramatic way people in movies hated things either—where they complained for ten minutes before magically learning to love the fresh air and the scenery. No. You genuinely hated it—hated the heat that stuck to your skin like wet fabric, hated the dirt that somehow always found its way under your nails no matter how much you washed your hands, hated the smell of livestock drifting through the air every morning, hated how quiet it got at night, so quiet you could hear insects screaming in the grass outside your window.

And most of all—you hated that your father lived there because every summer visit meant labor.

Your dad believed in “hard work buildin’ character,” which was just another way of saying he’d drag you out into the fields until your body ached and your skin burned while he barked instructions at you from twenty feet away.

Meanwhile you’d spent the entire year enjoying city life—sleeping in, staying indoors, wasting hours on your phone, eating whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. Then suddenly you were expected to wake up before the sun and work until your muscles felt like they were splitting apart.

It was miserable.

Packing your bags had been easy enough. Just throw clothes into a suitcase and ignore your mother giving you sympathetic looks from the doorway. Leaving your actual life behind though? That part sucked. You practically mourned your bed before walking out the front door.

The drive felt too long.

Every mile farther from the city made you more irritated. Buildings disappeared. Stores disappeared. Signal disappeared. Eventually all that remained were endless stretches of land, fences, patches of wheat, old tractors rusting in grass, and skies so open it almost felt uncomfortable.

When your father’s truck finally pulled into the gravel driveway, you stared at the old farmhouse with immediate dread.

Same chipped paint.

Same creaky porch.

Same stupid windmill off in the distance.

You let out a long sigh while dragging your suitcase out of the car—and the heat hit immediately.

Dry. Heavy. Brutal.

Your father clapped a rough hand onto your shoulder with enough force to nearly shove you forward. “Quit sulkin’. Ain’t gonna kill ya to spend a lil’ time outside.”

Easy for him to say.

The first day passed surprisingly fast though. Maybe because your father was oddly softer after not seeing you for months. Dinner had been decent. You talked a little, laughed once or twice.

And thankfully, he didn’t force you into the fields immediately. You spent the evening sitting on the porch while cicadas screamed in the trees, pretending the entire trip might not be completely terrible.

Then morning came—violently in fact.

You woke up to your father pounding on your bedroom door at seven in the morning, and groaned.

“Up.”

You nearly choked yourself in the pillow to death.

The room was already warm from the sun leaking through the curtains. You dragged yourself out of bed looking half-dead while your father tossed clothes at you.

“Wear somethin’ light. Gonna be hot today.”

No kidding.

You reluctantly changed into shorts and a thin shirt, already annoyed by how exposed you felt. The countryside somehow made everything feel more embarrassing. Maybe because everyone stared too long here, maybe because there was nothing else to look at except each other.

You barely had time to wake up properly before your father marched you outside.

The fields stretched endlessly under the burning sun, golden and green blending together beneath the bright sky. Workers were already moving through rows of crops in the distance. You hated how alive everyone looked this early.

Then your father introduced you to him.

“Axilen!” your father called.

You turned lazily—and immediately regretted it.

The man walking toward you was huge, not just tall but built like a damn fridge.

Muscular arms strained beneath the sleeves of his worn shirt, sun-bronzed skin glistening slightly from sweat already gathered across his neck and collarbone. His jeans were dusty, boots caked with dirt, and his hands looked rough enough to split wood barehanded.

And his eyes—

His eyes landed on you and didn’t leave, not for a second.

It was immediate, and shameless—shameless in the way his gaze dragged down your body slowly before returning to your face with a grin that looked far too pleased.

“Well now,” he drawled.

His accent was thick—deep countryside. Words slow and honeyed, vowels stretching lazily off his tongue. “Ain’t ya just beautiful.”

You blinked awkwardly.

Your father didn’t seem bothered at all.

Axilen stepped closer, still staring openly. “Lord above… ain’t got a flaw on ya either.”

His eyes moved again—up, down— slow like he was savoring the sight.

You shifted uncomfortably, offering an awkward nod purely because your father stood beside you and you didn’t want to start problems immediately.

Unfortunately, that tiny reaction seemed to completely charm him.

Axilen grinned wider, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Cute too.”

You hated him already.

The work started immediately after introductions, and somehow Axilen made everything worse.

Everywhere you went—he followed.

Every row you worked on suddenly became his row too. Every basket you carried mysteriously got taken from your hands before you could finish. Every task turned into an excuse for him to hover beside you talking endlessly while you sweated yourself half to death beneath the blazing sun.

“You city folk always this delicate?” he teased while effortlessly lifting something you struggled carrying earlier.

You wiped sweat from your forehead irritably. “No. I just don’t enjoy manual labor.”

He laughed at that, adams apple bobbing, his chuckle deep and loud. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll take care’a the hard stuff.”

You almost rolled your eyes hard enough to collapse.

And the worst part was how persistent he was—most people backed off when you acted uninterested, axilen didn’t.

If anything, it encouraged him more.

You’d ignore him and he’d simply move closer. You’d answer with one-word replies and he’d grin like you’d flirted with him. Every dismissive look you gave him only made his expression soften into something dangerously fond.

It was irritating and weird, especially because he stared at you constantly. And it wasn't like it was subtle either.

Every time you glanced up, he was already looking like he physically could not stop himself.

You bent down to pull weeds from the soil, sweat sticking your shirt against your back while the sun roasted your skin alive. A shadow fell over you seconds later.

Of course it did.

Axilen crouched beside you easily, broad shoulders blocking some of the sunlight.

“Y’know,” he started casually, “never seen someone look so pretty workin’ in dirt before.”

You exhaled sharply.

“get lost,” you muttered.

He grinned instantly, that grin was becoming a problem.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice dropping lower. “Might get the wrong message.”

You frowned up at him. “What message?”

“That yer playin’ hard t’ get.”

You stared at him flatly.

He just looked amused.

But Axilen genuinely didn’t understand why you weren’t warming up to him yet. In his mind, this was practically fate.

The second he saw you standing there beside your father, suitcase in hand and irritation written all over your face, something inside him had latched onto you instantly.

He’d grown up in this town his entire life—seen the same people, same women, same routines, nothing ever changed.

Then suddenly you arrived looking all soft and pretty and completely out of place beneath the country sun, and Axilen felt like someone had slammed a hook straight through his ribs.

He couldn’t stop looking at you, didn’t want to.

The way your face twisted whenever you got annoyed was adorable to him. The way you clearly hated the heat made him weirdly affectionate, even your attitude charmed him.

Especially your attitude.

Axilen always got pissed off when city people always looked down on countryside folk. Yet there you were in shorts that showed off your legs while glaring at him like he was a mosquito buzzing around your head, and he just bit his bottom lip to keep from groaning.

You were cute—so damn cute.

And you smelled good, not like dirt or hay or sweat, you smelled clean and sweet—wrong for this place.

Axilen liked that too.

He watched you more than he worked honestly. He watched the way you wiped sweat from your neck, watched your irritated expressions. He watched your fingers struggle with simple tasks, watched the way you sighed dramatically every five minutes.

And by lunchtime, Axilen had already decided he was gonna keep you.

Not literally, of course.

…Well, actually..

“Yer burnin’ up,” he said later when he noticed your face flushed from heat.

“No shit.”

He laughed again. “Language.”

You glared.

He loved when you glared.

Axilen stepped behind you suddenly, making you tense when his large hand brushed your shoulder lightly before tugging your hat lower over your face to shield your eyes from the sun.

"there." He murmured, and your stomach twisted in annoyance.

“Stop touching me.”

He blinked once, then smiled softly. “Can’t really help it.”

That answer made your skin crawl slightly—not because he sounded threatening, but because he sounded sincere, entirely too sincere like touching you had become instinct already.

The day dragged on endlessly.

At one point your father sent the two of you to repair fencing farther from the main fields, which really meant trapping you alone with Axilen for nearly an hour.

You nearly died internally.

Axilen, unfortunately, seemed thrilled, and the walk there was torture because he refused to stop talking.

“Told yer daddy I’d help out with ya personally.”

“Why?”

“Wanted t’ spend time with ya.”

You exhaled quietly.

He smiled at the sound.

“You always this grumpy?”

“When I’m overheating, yes.”

“Ain’t overheating. Yer just dramatic.”

You shot him a look.

He grinned immediately. “There’s that face again.”

You seriously considered shoving him into a ditch.

When you reached the fencing area, Axilen got to work quickly while you awkwardly attempted helping. Except every few minutes he’d interrupt to hover over you.

“No, no—hold it like this.”

His hands covered yours from behind, warm and huge—rough palms against your skin.

You immediately stiffened.

Axilen noticed, and his expression softened instantly.

“You nervous ‘round me?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“Yes.”

That actually made him laugh hard enough to bend forward slightly.

“Cute little thing.”

You hated how often he called you cute.

Or sweetheart.

Or pretty.

Or darlin’.

Every sentence out of his mouth sounded flirtatious somehow.

Even when he was talking normally his voice carried this low lazy warmth that made everything sound way too intimate.

At some point you sat beneath a tree for shade while drinking water, completely exhausted.

Axilen watched you openly while leaning against the fence.

“You know,” he said eventually, “ain’t never seen someone lookin’ so miserable.”

“Glad I could entertain you.”

“Oh, ya do.”

You frowned slightly.

Something about his tone changed, still warm, and still playful but heavier now.

His eyes lingered on your face too long.

“You got no idea what ya do t’ me.”

You stared at him cautiously.

Axilen smiled again, but this one was quieter, softer.

It should not have looked that intense after one day.

And by evening, everybody noticed Axilen hovering around you constantly. The older workers teased him relentlessly for it.

“Boy’s gone stupid already.”

“Ain’t seen him this lovestruck ever.”

“Careful, kid. He’ll follow ya home.”

They laughed.

Axilen didn’t deny it.

That was the concerning part.

Even during dinner at your father’s house, Axilen somehow ended up there too. Apparently helping neighbors often ate together around here. Unfortunately for you, that meant enduring his attention for another two hours.

He sat across from you staring constantly.

Your father found it hilarious.

Axilen found it mesmerizing whenever you got irritated enough to snap at him.

“You gonna keep starin’ all night?”

“Probably.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Ain’t no point lyin’ ‘bout pretty things."

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning upward again.

His mama always told him to persist when he wanted something—and that was exactly what he was gonna do, just now the goal is you.

Tw : ED, OBSESSION AND PROB MENTAL ILNESS

Kiulyo stared at the lunch sitting inside his hands like it had personally wronged him.

Rice was packed neatly into one corner, sliced fruit his mother cut carefully this morning because she thought maybe if it looked pretty enough, he would finally eat it.

And in the middle was a sandwich wrapped so perfectly it still held the warmth of the kitchen. Everything arranged with that quiet kind of hope parents carried when they didn’t know what else to do anymore. The kind that hurt worse because it was gentle. Because it was patient.

He hated looking at it.

The cafeteria buzzed around him in muffled waves—the entire world sounded underwater. Kiulyo sat curled inward at the edge of the table, shoulders folding into himself like he was trying to physically shrink smaller, disappear between his own ribs.

His stomach cramped so hard he almost doubled over.

Hungry.

God, he was always hungry.

It wasn't the normal kind either, not the kind other people complained about after skipping breakfast.

Kiulyo’s hunger felt ancient, endless. It was something with teeth buried deep inside his body gnawing through him slowly from the inside out. It clawed at his stomach walls until they burned. It slithered up his throat in acidic waves. It made his hands shake and his vision blur at the corners until the world became soft around the edges.

But still—

He couldn’t eat.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the lunch container until the plastic creaked softly beneath his grip. His mother would ask later if he finished it. She always asked carefully, trying not to sound too hopeful anymore. Trying not to sound disappointed either.

He wondered if she noticed how much weaker he’d gotten.

His sleeves hung looser around his wrists now. His collarbones protruded sharply beneath his skin like something trying to escape him. His thighs touched less and less every week. Sometimes when he stood too fast, black flooded his vision so completely he thought maybe this was it—maybe his body was finally tired of carrying him.

Part of him almost wanted it to be.

Kiulyo let out a slow, uneven breath through his nose and looked down at the untouched food again.

Then quietly pushed it away.

The hunger twisted violently in retaliation.

His hands trembled harder.

He pulled his phone out immediately like muscle memory, desperate and pathetic and instinctive all at once. The screen lit up against his pale face. Notifications crowded the top bar—messages from classmates, random people, people who thought he was pretty enough to chase after.

None of them mattered.

Not one.

His eyes darted immediately toward your name, the one that can save him from this endless misery.

Yet nothing.

No message.

No missed call.

No stupid random text. No “good morning.” No “where are you?” There was absolutely no proof you were thinking about him at all.

The ache inside him sharpened instantly.

Did you even care?

The thought slithered through him so naturally it barely even felt dramatic anymore. It was simply part of him now, tangled into his bloodstream alongside every other ugly thing living there. Did you think about him the way he thought about you? Did your chest ache too when he disappeared? Did your stomach hollow out at the thought of losing him?

Or was Kiulo the only one drowning?

He stared at your empty chat until his eyes burned.

Then he opened his camera.

The front-facing lens flashed his reflection back at him instantly and Kiulo physically flinched.

Disgusting.

His hair looked wrong. His eyes looked too sunken. His lips too dry. His skin looked pale in that sickly, corpse-like way he hated. He tilted the phone slightly, scrutinizing every inch of himself with brutal precision.

Too skinny.

Too strange.

Too much.

Not enough.

His gaze snagged on the sharp outline of his collarbone visible beneath the loose collar of his sweater. Bones. Everywhere bones lately. He looked brittle—like something that would snap if touched too hard.

Why did people stare at him?

Why did they call him pretty?

Kiulyo genuinely couldn’t understand it. Every time someone complimented him it felt like mockery. Like they were all participating in some elaborate joke he wasn’t smart enough to understand. Because all he saw when he looked at himself was wrongness, rot—something malformed wearing human skin badly.

He thought he was the most revolting person alive.

And maybe he was.

But its okay, because you—you saw it and somehow stayed anyway.

That was the worst part.

Kiulyo stared at himself for several more agonizing seconds before shutting the camera off abruptly, heart pounding with sudden nausea. He dropped the phone face-down onto the table and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst across his vision.

Why was he like this?

Why couldn’t he just be normal?

Why couldn’t he exist without needing you like oxygen?

It made him feel pathetic and weak and horribly dependent in ways that terrified him if he thought too hard about it. Because before you, the hunger had only belonged to food. Before you, it had simply been an emptiness he learned to coexist with.

Then you touched him.

And everything got worse.

Or better.

He genuinely didn’t know anymore.

All Kiulyo knew was that you ruined him completely.

The first time you held his face between your hands, he thought he might die from it. Your palms had been warm—so unbearably warm—and something inside him simply collapsed, melted like his body had spent years trapped in ice only for you to thaw him apart with a single touch.

You made him feel clean.

That terrified him most of all.

Because Kiulyo had always felt dirty somehow, he was wrong in ways he could never properly explain. He carried himself like someone apologizing for existing, shoulders hunched inward, hands tucked away, eyes lowered. Even when people praised him, wanted him, chased after him—it never reached him. None of it ever filled the hollow inside his chest.

But you did.

Somehow you did.

When you wrapped your arms around him, the hunger stopped.

The gnawing ache in his stomach disappeared beneath your warmth like it had never existed at all. The constant acidic bitterness coating the back of his throat vanished. His body quieted. For once, the endless screaming need inside him softened into silence.

Full.

You made him feel full.

Kiulo became addicted to that feeling almost immediately.

It wasn't only food he had an unhealthy relationship with now—it was you.

He started memorizing every tiny thing unconsciously. The warmth of your fingertips. The weight of your hand against the back of his neck. The exact sound of your voice when you laughed softly at something stupid he said. He hoarded every interaction like a starving person hiding scraps beneath floorboards.

Because the second you disappeared—everything came back worse.

The hunger sharpened until it felt carnivorous.

When you took hours to reply, Kiulo physically felt it. A twisting panic low in his stomach. An unbearable emptiness stretching wider and wider inside him until it consumed everything else. When you vanished for days sometimes, he stopped functioning properly altogether.

Food tasted like cardboard.

Sleep became impossible.

His body ached constantly.

And still, still, still—the second you returned, he forgave you instantly every time like a wounded animal crawling back toward the hand that hurt it because it was still the only hand gentle enough to soothe it afterward.

Kiulo knew your patterns weren’t healthy. He knew the way you came and went damaged him. One day warm, attentive, touching him like he mattered more than anything else in the world—then suddenly distant the next, unreachable, gone without explanation.

It should have angered him.

Instead, it only made him hungrier.

Because every moment you chose him felt catastrophic in its tenderness. Addictive in ways he couldn’t survive anymore. You looked at him and suddenly the ugliness inside him quieted. You touched him and the endless gnawing void inside his stomach finally stopped demanding more.

You made him feel human.

And now he didn’t know how to exist without that.

Kiulyo rested his forehead against the cafeteria table slowly, eyes squeezing shut as another wave of hunger rolled through him. His stomach cramped violently enough to hurt. He almost laughed at the irony.

Starving.

Always starving.

His body wanted food. His heart wanted you. Both demands clawed through him with equal brutality until he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

Maybe that was why he loved you so much—because you replaced the hunger, you became larger than it.

The frightening thing was that Kiulo genuinely believed if you asked him to, he would let himself disappear entirely just to remain near you. Piece by piece. Bone by bone. He would hollow himself out willingly if it meant you’d keep touching him like that.

Keep looking at him like that.

Keep making him feel full.

The thought should have horrified him.

Instead, it wrapped around his ribs tenderly.

Kiulyo lifted his head again slowly and stared blankly at the lunch still sitting untouched in front of him. The food blurred slightly through the tears gathering in his eyes, though he barely noticed them anymore. Crying had become strangely natural lately. Quiet tears slipping free at random moments when the ache inside him became too large for his body to contain comfortably.

He imagined your hands instead.

Your warmth.

Your voice murmuring his name softly.

Instantly his stomach eased slightly.

God.

God, he was ruined.

You had rewired him into something frightening. Something dependent. His body no longer understood survival without associating it with you. Hunger and affection tangled together until one could no longer exist without the other. You soothed him better than food ever could, better than sleep, better than anything.

And you probably didn’t even realize the extent of it.

Kiulo wondered what would happen if you truly left one day.

Would he unravel completely? Would the hunger finally consume him whole? Sometimes he imagined himself years from now still chasing after the ghost of your warmth like some pathetic creature too weak to move on.

Bones and all.

The phrase echoed through him constantly lately.

Because that’s what loving you felt like.

Like stripping himself down to the marrow. Offering every ugly piece of himself willingly despite knowing you could crush it in your hands if you wanted to. Kiulyo loved you in the kind of way that devoured. The kind that hollowed people out from the inside until all that remained was aching devotion wrapped around a skeleton.

And still—

He couldn’t stop, would never stop.

Even now, weak with hunger and exhaustion and self-hatred, the only thing Kiulyo wanted was you.

You, holding him gently while he trembled apart.

You, brushing your fingers through his hair while his stomach finally stopped hurting.

You, making him feel clean again.

Because without you, Kiulyo only had himself.

And himself was unbearable.

His phone suddenly buzzed against the table.

Kiulo froze, and for one horrible second, he couldn’t breathe. Then he snatched the phone up so fast he nearly dropped it.

Your name flashed across the screen, a single message yet the crushing ache inside his chest loosened.

His stomach unclenched, and warmth spread through him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.

Pathetic.

So horribly pathetic.

Yet Kiulyo stared at your message with trembling hands like it was salvation itself, eyes burning, lips parting shakily as relief flooded every empty corner inside him. The hunger softened immediately beneath the simple proof that you remembered him. That somewhere, in the middle of your day, you thought of him long enough to type his name into your phone.

Full.

You made him full again.

And Kiulyo knew then, with terrifying certainty, that he would spend the rest of his life chasing that feeling no matter how badly it destroyed him in the end. Even if it hollowed him out completely. Even if loving you consumed every remaining piece of him until nothing existed except devotion stretched thin over fragile bones.

He would still crawl back.

Still reach for you.

Still love you until there was nothing left of him at all, till he was just skull and bones.

HELLO BABEESS

If any of my wattpad readers are here I wanna say I'm doing fine and working on drafts butttttt I have been dealing with kind of art block and I soon realized bc I was being boring instead of js having fun like instead of js doing what I want to do like I was forcing myself to keep writing which is good but girl I need to teah myelf to take a break !! :(( so yeah until I get motivation Imma do this little oneshots on tumblr !!

Buttt flr any of my tumblr readers hiii I'm back and I hope you enjoy my future fics !! Love yaaa !!<3

It all started with a vending machine.

You weren’t expecting anything special that day. Just wanted a drink — that was all. But, naturally, the vending machine had other plans.

You pressed the button again. Nothing. Slammed it with your palm. Still nothing. Your expression remained blank as your drink taunted you from behind the glass, unmoving.

That’s when he showed up.

Matthew, the school’s golden boy jock. Towering, broad-shouldered, blonde hair tousled in a way that screamed accidental perfection.

He was just passing by with his duffel bag over one shoulder, phone in hand, barely sparing you a glance — until you smacked the machine again.

With a slight frown, he walked over and, without saying a word, shoved the entire vending machine with a grunt.

Your drink fell.

He grinned, wiped his hands like he’d just saved the world, and handed it to you. “Here you go.”

You blinked. “Thanks.”

He gave a nod and walked off again. Just like that. You figured he was just being helpful — a friendly face with no real intention. And for the most part, you were right.

But that changed.

A week later, Matthew got relocated in art class — punishment for being too loud, too distracting with his rowdy jock buddies at the back. The teacher pointed to the empty seat beside you, and he slumped down with a dramatic groan.

At first, he didn’t care. He didn’t even notice you. His attention was elsewhere — doodling stick figures, sighing loudly, tapping his pencil until the teacher yelled at him again.

But then… he started watching you.

Maybe it was the way you zoned into your work, eyes half-lidded with focus as you brushed over canvas, hands stained with charcoal and pigment.

Or maybe it was your laugh when you talked with your friends sitting on your other side — loud enough to hear, but never aimed at him. You didn’t even look at him most of the time. And that did something to him.

He tried small things first.

“You always draw with your wrist bent like that?”

You didn’t answer.

“Is that… a skull with flowers coming out of it? That’s kinda cool.”

You gave a small nod.

That should’ve been the end.

But Matthew wasn’t used to being ignored. He wasn’t used to not being wanted — everyone liked him. Teachers, students, girls, underclassmen, even the janitor smiled at him. But you? You didn’t flinch. Didn’t melt. Didn’t even seem interested.

And that’s when something snapped inside him.

yan jock whose obsession started gradually. Harmless, even.

He would bring snacks to class, placing one quietly on the edge of your desk without looking at you — even though he picked your favorite flavor every time.

He'd hover near your locker, pretending he just happened to be walking by... again. He lingered near your friend group between classes, hoping you'd acknowledge him.

You didn’t.

You were too focused on your friends, too caught up in your own world to even notice how often he watched you now.

His eyes followed you across the courtyard. His steps subconsciously matched yours in the hallways.

When you got sick for a day, he didn’t show up to practice, texting his coach he “ate bad chicken” — but he was outside your house instead, pacing, trying to build the courage to knock just to check on you.

Your indifference drove him insane.

He started turning down party invites. Stopped flirting with the pretty girls who batted their lashes and wore his jersey.

He didn’t care anymore. He only wanted you. No matter how many people wanted him — you were the one person who didn’t, and that made you the only one who mattered.

He’d find himself staring at your desk even when you weren’t in class, tracing the rings left by your water bottle, the little smudges of ink, wondering what your hands had been writing.

yan jock who even stopped hanging out with his friends.

At first, his friends didn’t believe it. “Matt, you’re seriously ditching us again?”

“Bro, it’s just one hangout. You always come to Tony’s on Thursdays.”

“There’s gonna be girls.”

Matthew barely blinked, pulling his hoodie over his head, already walking away. “Yeah, nah. I got stuff to do”

“Stuff” meant stalking you.

He didn’t care how confused or bitter his teammates got. The once-devoted quarterback who used to host parties and show off his roster of flings now disappeared like a ghost — his time swallowed entirely by you.

Every spare second was about you. Thinking about you. Looking for you. Being near you. The girls who used to sit on his lap or flirt after games barely got a glance anymore.

Some tried harder—shorter skirts, longer lashes, louder laughs—but he’d just brush past, muttering something like, “Not interested.”

Because they weren’t you.

They didn’t roll their eyes at him with that flat, unimpressed stare. They didn’t challenge him or push him away or leave him wondering what you were thinking every time you gave him a one-word answer.

They weren’t his favorite person in the entire damn world.

And somehow, soon enough, you started talking to him more. Not much at first. Just a few dry comments during art class.

A low “pass me that brush” or “your drawing sucks” without looking at him.

But Matthew took it personally — in the best way. You noticed him. He started using it as a chance to pull conversations out of you like loose threads.

“Sucks? Please, this is a masterpiece. That’s definitely a dog and not a horse.”

You snorted. “Looks like it got hit by a bus.”

He beamed, like he’d just won the lottery. You talked to him. You laughed. You didn’t shove him off your desk that day when he leaned closer.

Every scrap of attention from you made his whole week. Soon, he was completely attached. Emotionally dependent, even. A walking, talking golden retriever in human form who wagged his metaphorical tail every time you so much as glanced his way.

He became sensitive about everything involving you — if you ignored him too long, he’d go quiet and pouty. If he thought you were upset, he’d panic, buying you things until he saw a flicker of a smile.

yan jock who hated your friends. He wouldn’t say it directly, but he’d glance at them with narrowed eyes whenever they came around during class or lunch.

They were obstacles, stealing your attention. Cutting into his time. He’d scoot his chair a little closer, lean in more, start conversations just to make your friends roll their eyes and drift away.

And if you noticed and called him out? “What? I just wanna talk to you. You’re more fun anyway,” he’d shrug, feigning innocence — but deep down, he wanted you alone.

All the time. In his head, you didn’t need anyone else. You had him.

And when he started hanging out with you after school? That was heaven for him. It started with casual excuses.

“Hey, I can drive you home. I’m heading that way anyway.”

“I can carry your art project—looks heavy.”

“You hungry? I was thinking of grabbing food. Wanna come?”

You said yes once, maybe out of pity, or maybe because you were tired of his constant hovering. But the second you did, it became routine.

He waited for you after the final bell, standing by your locker like a lovesick puppy, always holding something — your drink, your favorite candy, that one sweater he noticed you kept looking at online but never bought.

yan jock who was rich, and he never hesitated to use it. Anything you vaguely wanted? He got it for you. That one book that was sold out? He paid triple online game console you offhandedly mentioned you never got around to buying?

It was wrapped and in your backpack the next day. And honestly… it started wearing you down.

You still found him clingy, kind of dumb, always in your space. But… he was helpful. And oddly sweet. And the way his whole face lit up when you said “thanks” made you feel guilty if you didn’t at least acknowledge him.

So you started talking to him more. Not just in class. But after school. Texts. Small conversations. He’d walk you to the bus stop, or drive you himself when it rained, even if it meant missing practice.

You’d sigh and let him trail after you like the lovesick puppy he was, head tilted with hopeful eyes, just waiting for you to speak.

Eventually, you admitted it to yourself. You didn’t mind having him around, maybe he could be a friend, he was your friend. (In your mind, at least.)

But to Matthew? You were everything. His sun, moon, and stars. His reason to wake up, to breathe, to exist.

The idea of anyone else getting close to you made his stomach twist. His possessiveness only grew stronger every time you laughed at his jokes or leaned on him during a late night drive or accepted one of his overpriced gifts.

And when you finally called him your friend?He smiled.

But in the deepest part of him, behind that golden grin, he whispered silently to himself:

“Not for long.”

Because friends? Friends could be replaced.

But soulmates?

You only get one.

And he was convinced he was your soulmate for eternity, in every life.

yandere taehun who you met originally through school, simply when you were sleepy, as always.

The air inside the classroom was loud, filled with chaos, and the humid heat only made everything feel heavier. You weren’t exactly new to this school—but you might as well have been with the way you minded your own business. You liked silence, naps, and peace.

Too bad you were enrolled at a school with one of the most short-tempered guys in the district.

“Hey, you beat me in the arcade once. You think you're better than me? How about you give me your expensive jacket to make up for it, huh? How does that sound?"

You opened one bleary eye from your spot on the desk, cheek smushed against your hoodie sleeve. Just outside the classroom in the hallway stood a tall guy—tall like a brick wall—with shaggy brown hair and a temper written all over his clenched fists. His voice shook the walls, barking at some poor kid who looked two seconds from bursting into tears.

Taehun Seong, the infamous bully at your school who used taekwondo as an excuse to beat people up.

You'd heard of him in whispers, something about breaking a dude’s ribs because he stepped on his shoe, or using a back kick on someone because they didn’t apologize fast enough.

But right now, none of that registered. All you knew was: He. Was. Loud.

You groaned, barely sitting up, rubbing your eyes as the classroom froze in tension.

“can you shut up?” you muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “You’re so damn loud...”

The air stilled and a second later, the classroom door slammed open.

You blinked blearily as a looming figure blocked the light above you.

You looked up.

He looked down.

“…The hell did you just say?” Taehun’s voice was low now—dangerous, sharp. His teeth were grit, his brow twitching, vape in his hand (the bitch was an addict)

You blinked again. “I said shut up."

Taehun’s eye twitched harder.

He stepped even closer, standing at your desk like a shadow ready to pounce. “You’ve got guts. Big mouth for someone with eyebags like a damn raccoon, always lazing around.”

You raised an eyebrow, not scared, but not exactly trying to make an enemy either. You weren't looking for problems—but your mouth apparently didn’t care.

He reached back slightly, maybe about to grab you by the collar or slap your desk off the floor. His hand flexed.

But then—he paused.

He really looked at you. The groggy expression, the dull blink in your eyes, the way your hair was slightly messed up from laying down. You weren’t defiant like someone trying to challenge him.

You were just… tired

“…Huh?” he muttered again, expression slightly warping into confusion. Then something shifted in his gaze—something a little amused, a little annoyed, a lot interested.

“Eh? Hey… you got 500 won?”

As he waited for a reply, he realized that your dumbass was already asleep, mid convo.

Your head was laid down, rubbing your cheek against your sleeve and your eyes slid shut.

That should have gotten you killed.

You were basically asking to get your head slammed into the table.

His hand actually twitched in the air, hovering over your shoulder—like he was about to slap you awake for daring to dismiss him like that.

But… he didn’t.

He lowered his arm, gritting his teeth.

“Tch.” He huffed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stormed out of the classroom—leaving you completely untouched

Everyone stared at you like you’d just defused a bomb by snoring at it.

“Holy crap,” someone whispered. “He just… let them go?”

“Did he hit his head on the way in?!"

yandere taehun who after that first encounter, he started watching you. Not in the creepy-stalker-from-the-bushes way (okay, maybe, but he wasn't ever gonna to admit it)—but in the "you moved your seat two inches, and he noticed immediately" kind of way.

He learned your routine. When you leave for class. What snacks you buy. Where you nap. If you so much as change your drink order, he glares at the bottle like it personally insulted him.

“Why’d you get strawberry milk instead of banana?” he asked, staring at your drink while you just raised an eyebrow

“…because I felt like it?”

“…Don’t do that again. It threw me off.”

Honestly him hanging around you started small—him showing up at the front gate the same time you did, saying it was a “coincidence.” before calling you an asshole for not complimenting and noticing his brand new shoes he bought. (He didn't even buy it, he stole it from some random dude in the arcade)

Then he started showing up in the library when you went to nap during free period, lounging two tables away, flipping through a manga he didn’t even read.

Then he started showing up outside your club room, pretending he was “just walking by” even though he was sweating from sprinting across the building to get there first.

And soon enough, it started to become everyday where, no matter how much you tried to dodge or reroute or disappear, he’d follow you and bug you.

yandere taehun who honestly to you was a complete weirdo. That was the only real word you had for him, a weirdo with shaggy brown hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of a brawl.

A weirdo who had a black belt in Taekwondo and once broke a guy’s front tooth, a weirdo who followed you around like some cursed shadow that insulted you every five steps and then stared at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

yandere taehun who was obsessed, and not the fun kind, either. The pathetic kind, where he memorized your class schedule, knew your locker combination (he swore it was just coincidence), and made sure he stood close enough to you during fire drills just so no one else could.

Still, he kept the act up. Kept calling you annoying. Kept pointing out your dark circles, calling you “a droopy raccoon” whenever you yawned too hard.

“You dress like a grandpa,” he said once, pulling at the oversized hoodie you wore to school. You deadpanned, “You follow around a grandpa every day, then.”

He stared at you for a second, flushed red down to his collar, and then shoved his hands into his jacket, grumbling, “Shut up.”

You smirked.

He hated that.

He really did.

(Except he didn’t. He really, really didn’t.)

No matter how much he tried to talk shit, he always stood a little too close.

yandere taehun who even when school ended, was already leaning against the front gate, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you.

“Oh, look who finally showed up,” he muttered as if you specifically asked him to stay after school to walk you home.

“You could’ve gone home.”

“Eh.” He stretched lazily, hands behind his head. “I wanted to walk my ugly little grandpa home.”

“…Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.”

You didn’t.

You just sighed and started walking, and like always—he followed.

You could feel his eyes on you every few seconds, like he was memorizing the curve of your back, the rhythm of your walk, the way your head dipped when you were quiet, the way you fumbled to get your phone out of your pocket.

yandere taehun who soon even began dragging along to play at the arcade, the arcade became a weird part of your routine. Or well-his routine that he dragged you into.

Sometimes, he'd show up behind you in class, lean down and whisper, "Don't make plans after school."

You didn't even ask why anymore.

You just sighed, grabbed your bag, and let yourself be dragged off to another 45 minutes of him bitching about not winning and you cheating.

"You cheated."

"You mean I played better."

"No, you distracted me. Your stupid hoodie sleeve brushed my arm and threw me off. Also your face was in my peripheral and it's annoying."

you grinned, "are you saying I'm pretty?"

"I'm saying your face structure is distracting," he barked, ears red.

You laughed.

That only made his blush worse.

Taehun slammed another coin in like it personally insulted him and barked, "Rematch. Right now."

yandere taehun who when he won? Oh. You had to suffer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he’d say, standing up like he was giving a damn press conference, “We’ve done it. I have once again proven that I am, in fact, your superior.”

“You won one round.”

“That’s all I needed.”

Then he’d grin at you, dumb and wide and so obviously proud of himself that you had to hold yourself back from beating the fuck out of him

yandere taehun who it became habit for him—dangerously so to cling onto you. He started leaning into your space like it was his.

Started pulling your hoodie strings, started walking behind you and messing with your hair until you smacked him away.

“God, you’re clingy,” you muttered one day, after he looped an arm around your shoulders for no reason at all.

“I’m not clingy,” he said, voice muffled as he leaned on your back.

“You’re literally clinging.”

“I’m strategically anchoring myself to my favorite girl”

“…?”

He looked up, blinked.

“I said ‘my favorite asshole’ You misheard.”

Uh-huh.

But still… when you rolled your eyes and tried walking away, he grabbed the back of your bag.

“Oi. Where are you going?”

“Home?”

“I didn’t say you could go yet.”

“really dude.”

“You still owe me another round. Best of five.”

"You lost the last three.”

“So I need redemption. Duh.”

yandere taehun who only got worse over time, inviting himself over to your house.

What started with Taehun walking you home "by accident" turned into him casually slipping his shoes off at your front door like he'd lived there all his life.

"Where's your mom?" he asked once, already halfway down the hallway.

"Not home."

"Perfect. I hate being polite." He made a beeline for your room, flopped onto your bed like gravity summoned him there, and spread out like he owned the place.

“This is comfortable,” he muttered, patting the sheets with approval. “It’s mine now.”

You stood by the door with your arms crossed. “What do you want, Taehun?"

He didn’t even look at you.

“Company. "

“I didn’t invite you.”

“You never do."

You sighed.

He really didn’t care about permission anymore. He just picked up your plushie, tossed it in the air, caught it. “You sleep with this? What are you, five?”

You snatched it back. “What are you, still in my house?” He rolled onto his side, smirking as his brown shaggy hair fell over his eyes.

“Yep. Got snacks?"

Asshole.

And worst of all? Whenever your phone was vulnerable (you would step out the room to get some water ), he’d started going through your phone.

One moment he was busy going through your cabinets, and the next, he had your phone in his hands like it was some security threat.

"Who's this guy?" he muttered, scrolling through your messages, not caring that you were back, that you knew he was going through your phone.

"Why’s he got a emoji next to his name? Huh? Who's ‘Minwoo’? Sounds like a loser."

You lunged. “Taehun, give me my phone—!”

“Don’t worry, I’m blocking him for you.”

“Give—”

“Wait, who’s this one??”

You finally snatched the phone from him, glaring as you locked the screen. “Do you want to get kicked out?” you asked, deadpan.

He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows like a little kid disciplined as you glared at him,  “Do I go through your phone?"

“no but thats ‘cause mine’s boring. Yours is suspicious.”

You stared at him, completely unamused. He kicked your foot lightly.

“Come on. Let me see it. I won’t block anyone.”

“…You blocked someone last week.”

“He had too many vowels in his name. I don’t trust that.”

You sighed again and sat on the floor, pulling your phone back out. He immediately narrowed his eyes.

“Are you seriously going back on it? After that whole tug-of-war?”

“Yeah,” you said plainly, scrolling. “You talk too much.”

“Unreal. I should dump you.”

“We’re not dating.”

“We would be if you stopped texting other people.”

yandere taehun who even when you were slightly quiet, would interrogate you.

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Think about me.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re not that interesting.”

He scowled. “You wound me.”

You turned your head. He immediately poked your cheek.

“Still mad?”

“I said I’m not.”

“Okay, but your face says you hate me.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Fix it.”

You didn’t. So he sighed—loudly, dramatically—then slung his arm around your shoulder and leaned all his weight on you like a dramatic cat who decided you were his.

“Whatever. I forgive you.”

“I didn’t ask for forgiveness.”

“Shhh. I’m a bigger person. You’re welcome.”

yandere taehun who at some point, just gave up pretending. He didn’t even bother hiding the way he followed you everywhere anymore. Didn’t hide the clinginess, the comments, the hands always somewhere on you—ruffling your hair, dragging you by the sleeve, throwing an arm over your shoulder like he had a claim.

yandere taehun who even started bringing you with him to taekwondo practice. Not because you showed interest. Not because you wanted to go. But because he decided your presence was mandatory.

“You need to build discipline,” he said one afternoon, already dragging you along by the wrist. “All you do is lay around like a depressed cat.”

“Because I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“Because you waste my energy.”

He ignored you.

By the time you got to the gym, you’d already made peace with your fate—your body going completely limp the second you saw the mats. He tossed you a towel. You used it as a pillow and lay flat on the floor while he did warmups.

“Are you seriously just gonna lay there like roadkill?” he asked, already doing perfect stretches with his jacket tied around his waist.

You grunted in reply. “Unreal,” he muttered, launching into a roundhouse kick that probably could’ve decapitated a dummy.

“I’m a masterpiece, and you’re not even watching.” Another grunt from the floor.

“Oi,” he barked. You cracked an eye open. He stood there, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising with practiced breath, gaze sharp—but somehow still smug.

“Did you see that kick?” he asked.

“Mm.”

“Rate it.”

“Out of ten?”

“Duh.”

“Two.”

His face froze. “Excuse me?!”

You yawned. “Had no flair.”

“I almost broke the goddamn dummy.”

“You didn’t even sparkle.”

He stomped over, crouched beside you, towel slung around his neck, breathing hard but still managing to look like a bratty gremlin.

yandere taehun who had the ego of a celebrity and the attitude of a sleep-deprived delinquent. He walked into school like everyone should clap, like the hallways were a runway and he was the show.

And honestly? The worst part was? He was stupidly good at everything.

He fought well. He kicked even better. He had enough natural charm to make people love him—or fear him—and enough arrogance to act like he deserved both.

“I’m the best,” he’d say without irony, leaning back in his chair with that smug smirk on his face. “Objectively. No bias.”

"definitely not humble,” you’d mutter from your desk.

He clicked his tongue. “Can’t have everything, right?”

He bullied literally everyone. Students, upperclassmen, even teachers if they looked at him funny.

No one was safe.

Except you.

You were the one person he insulted with a filter. He’d still poke at you, sure. Still call you lazy, annoying, boring. Still grab your collar when you tried getting away from him, still made fun of your lack of motivation to do anything.

But when it came to real teasing? He went soft. That one time a guy in your class made a joke about your handwriting being messy, Taehun practically teleported across the room, eyes narrowed and mouth tight.

"Say that again,” he said, tone flat and dangerous. The guy laughed. “Dude, chill, I was just—”

“I’ll break your fingers so you can’t write either. Wanna match?”

You blinked, confused. “Taehun—”

“Shut up, I’m defending your honor.”

“I don’t need—”

“Shut up.” And then he turned to you and muttered: “…Your handwriting is still ugly, though.”

You deadpanned. “and you're still a bitch."

yandere taehun who over time, grew softer with you, even when his face still looked blank and unreadable to others.

He started becoming handsy without realizing—resting his head on your shoulder during study periods, curling beside you on the floor during movie nights, brushing his fingers through your hair when you looked tired and pretending it meant nothing.

He still insulted you. Still mocked you. Still had that signature bratty glint in his eye when he called you names.

But it was different now. You two became practically inseparable. Like best friends, but not. Something closer, something messier.

You bickered and teased and called each other names, but you never drifted far. He knew your routines by heart—knew where you’d be, when you’d leave, how fast he had to walk to catch up.

“Don’t go,” he’d mutter when you tried to leave him early.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll miss you. Dumbass.”

yandere taehun who at some point, things shifted. Not all at once, but slowly—like gravity pulling you closer without warning. Taehun had always been in your space, hovering around like a storm cloud with too much attitude and not enough boundaries. But now? He was practically glued to you.

yandere taehun who treated you like you were his personal comfort zone, his stress relief, his person.

He’d whisper jokes against your temple during long lectures, trace your hand with his finger under the desk when he was bored, and randomly pull you into his chest so tightly they almost knocked you off balance.

And if you ever gave him even the tiniest bit of affection back—like touching his hair or letting him nap against you? He’d act all smug about it for the next week.

“See? You’re getting attached,” he’d whisper, watching you with that slow, half-lidded gaze that made girls all over from the school fawn over him.

“You wish."

IM BACK YALL!! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! BTW THIS IS NOT PROOF READ