✿𝘼𝙞𝙠𝙤愛子

You attend the same private academy he does. He tried not to care too much at first; you were just among the few others lucky enough to have the kind of intelligence eyed by his father's company. But that was the thing—you didn't. You were ordinary.

He wondered if his father made a mistake, choosing to sponsor some no-use nobody. Maybe you were a coal in the rough yet to be a diamond. But weeks into the first year of senior high and you showed no signs of blooming. Hell, you even placed at the bottom list in academic standing. You didn't fail; everyone else were just children of the wealthy who afforded private tutors. Maybe an appropriate scholar would have caught up just fine, but you weren't one.

yandere!bully who decides to approach you, frustrated with your mediocrity. Who is he kidding? He doesn't give two shits if his father made a mistake, he was fascinated with your mediocrity. Greatness no longer intrigues him, having been surrounded with it all his life.

Wow, is this a joke? You really aren't good at anything. Not at math, science, Latin, nada. You just do enough to get by.

He speaks to you about it, about that mediocrity. You interpret it as a threat. You can't lose this scholarship now, you just got it. You beg for his mercy that you may continue studying in this prestigious academy. The whole "I'll do anything!" "anything?" conversation ensues. Now he's got you in the palm of his hand.

yandere!bully who starts it small. Makes you his little errand puppy. To him you were like a little dog running around doing what he makes you do. It can't even be called bullying, everyone else interprets it as acts of gratitude for his father granted the scholarship to you.

But then it escalates. Soon he's making you do things that you hesitate to do. Sneaking into faculty to take a picture of the test answer sheet. Smuggling a bag of "stuff" in school (you aren't dumb, you know what these rich kids got their hands on). Forcing you to skip a day of school so you can be his little errand pup while he did golf, playing truant with his friends.

One time you're asked to kneel before him, right between his knees. You ask why. He tells you not to question him. He only wants to see you that way. He watches you for a moment, unfazed, before telling you to stand back up.

Enter his friends, and things turn for the worse. It's like they've been itching their whole lives to get their hands on a human being to torment. They've got their butlers and maids but they're paid workers; you aren't. Clearly, yandere!bully is dangling this scholarship thing above your head like a golden apple. It's enough to keep you in your place, make you go against your own survival instinct to retaliate against a threat. They can do things to you and not suffer the consequences, and they intend to take full advantage of it.

It starts small, too, this torment by his inner circle, but soon it evolves more than just carrying their shopping bags or retrieving the tennis ball whenever they go play.

Soon they laugh when one of them extends a foot to trip you. They steal the math homework you worked hard on even though they've already completed theirs courtesy of their private tutors. Pour water over your head, pinch your skin for fun with their filed, polished nails.

They heard him call you "errand puppy" once, so they had a collar custom-made with his name on it next to the phrase property of, its buckle 18k gold, leather lined on the edge with lab-grown diamonds. Then they made you drink milk like a mutt out of the cafeteria's metal tray.

The boys cornered you in the locker room once, made you pull down your bottoms. You were crying while they took pictures of your underwear, wet snotty face too. They shared it to the girls and it circulated within their friend group for a while. The next time that those specific guys encountered you, though, they seemed to hold back from picking on you. No one ever made a comment about that incident, not about the photos, the crying, the cheap underwear, and they grew quieter when yandere!bully entered the room.

With his friends it's always physically violent; never with him. You would argue, though, that he is the cruelest. Because he's got the power to make them stop and he chooses not to. He just watches. You gather that he likes watching you a lot.

yandere!bully plays soccer; he's a varsity player of your academy. Every after training you're tasked to carry his school and sports bag back to his luxury sedan which he drives to and from campus. Tonight he makes you stand in front of the goal net. His friends are lined up some meters before you, having gathered all the soccer balls the academy owns.

You're nervous. You know what's about to happen and you should run, but you don't, because you think the scholarship is worth all this.

"Don't let them score and I'll extend your scholarship to college," is all the warning you get.

You're hit everywhere. The arms, shoulders legs, torso—everything hurts. One ball after the other to your head, and you feel dizzy. Of course, you try defending yourself; you yell at them to stop, that it hurts, and all you get is: "don't you want that scholarship?"

What made you cease is the blow to your chest. It's a strong hit, delivering a pain so hot you think it shifted your ribs, and you cough and wheeze and they're still throwing balls at you until your form is thrashing on the grass like fish on land.

Your head feels so hot and prickly from the lack of air, you're sure it's bound to explode. Black spots your vision and you literally can't breathe but all you can think of is: did I get that scholarship?

You're hospitalized that night. Bandages on all limbs, tapes to hold the cuts produced from the skin being hit too hard. Nasal cannula around your face.

You wake up slowly. There's a mildly comforting heat on your bandaged hand that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. yandere!bully is seated by your bed, watching you as always.

His hand touches your face. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by the bandages wrapped around your head, ears included. Then his thumb tenderly brushes over your busted lip.

Finally, he leaves the room, and you're left to stare at the ceiling.

Upon discharge, you don't hear anything about dues from the hospital—a big relief for you. No warnings from the academy either for having missed a week of school. You speculate he's got something to do with it for the sake of reputation. No one is supposed to know that the son of the chairman of such a conglomerate beat its scholar to death's door.

School is different after the incident. You're no longer abused as much by his peers, although you still do their various errands. He still makes you do naughty stuff, like skipping classes when he feels like it. Only this time it seems only he's around to do errands for.

These errands are different now, too. It's not the typical labor-heavy tasks like before, fetching for his tennis ball or carrying his bags. You're more like an actual pet puppy at this point; he just brings you around wherever he goes. Almost like he has to keep an eye on you at all times.

yandere!bully who finds himself missing you during the summer. Everyone left for their own respective vacations, out of the country to Maldives or Monaco or Switzerland or whatever. You're back with your relatives in that quaint little downtown neighborhood of yours. He would know, having hired private investigators to stalk your ass. He is going with his family to the countryside estate.

Father, mother, eldest sister, older brother. He's the youngest. It's a quiet family. Sister grew up just to be like father, cold and austere. It seems he's on the way to becoming just like that, too. Only brother inherited mother's benevolence.

Father doesn't care about anyone and anything but mother. yandere!bully only ever talks to Father whenever it's necessary. Otherwise, both of them are content minding one's own business.

yandere!bully asks Father about you. As he suspected, Father makes no mistake. He says you were really meant for the scholarship.

"I had a feeling," Father says, "that you two would make very good friends."

yandere!bully who's touchier now, second and final year of senior high. Or he's become touchy, since he never was back then. He drags you by your wrist at short distances, a palm on your nape whenever he tells you to look at something. A hand on your lower back, sliding dangerously low every time before letting go. He also often fixes your collar, fingers always ending up brushing your neck.

He tells you to strip one time at some high-end clothing store. You stare at him, dumbfounded, before he gives some silly excuse that it's for a cousin with your same build.

He makes you try on different outfits. At first it's various tops and bottoms that complement your shape, colors that go well with your skin tone, all the like. You glance at yourself in the mirror and wonder if this is how you look born into that top 1%. You look nice.

Then he makes you strip back to your underwear, and lets you try on the white [dress/blazer]. There's a moment of silence before he tells you to come over to him, and he stands up, towering over you with his gifted height.

He looks down at you, seemingly lost in thought, like he's visualizing you in a certain light...

"Do you like it?" He asks.

You tell him that you think his cousin will. His expression is undisturbed, but he exhales almost like a huff. Quite suddenly he grabs you by the waist, thumb gliding circles.

"I asked if you like it."

You stutter out a pathetic 'yes.' Honestly you don't give a damn but you fear his negative reaction your comment. Although if you had to, you'd say it's a bit too fancy for your liking.

He only hums before letting you go. You proceed to wear the next attire.

You shiver to think about how he views this certain cousin of his, having you wear a bunch of skimpy outfits. Some that showed your stomach too much, others exposing your legs. One top you're pretty sure can rival a tape going around your chest area, covering only what needs to be covered. He stays aloof the whole time, jaded eyes planted on you.

After that, things start to get kind of disgusting.

The touchiness escalates tenfold, and he isn't as insecure about it as you are, showing off to his friends. It's like the roles have switched: now he's the physical one instead of them. You're still a slave to their torment, of course, but only he gets to touch you like this. His friends don't find anything odd about it, in fact they look as if they enjoy your discomfort. They egg him on.

yandere!bully who brings you with him to a speakeasy, exclusive only for students of this certain private members club. The top one percent of the top one percent, they would say. It's like a den of iniquities, these kids doing all sorts of nefarious stuff: drugs, dealings, gambling, and most dreadful of all: whores.

Man or woman, they aren't obvious. You only know because they're distinguishable from the rich clients of the club who dress minimalistic. You suppose a more professional term for these people are escorts. They're conversing animatedly with their young clients, some linking their arms with them, a few already making their way to private rooms.

yandere!bully sits on the loveseat across his peer who's got two escorts in his arms. You only stand behind him, listening in on their conversation. Something about stocks and real estate. Networking. If he knew this, what he thinks about that.

You drone their voices out. The smell of weed is getting to you, making you feel all woozy.

yandere!bully tells you to sit on his lap. Dumbed down by the smoke, you comply a little too easily, like the puppy you are. His peer whistles lowly, eyeing you with a predatory glint.

He doesn't do anything about it because he knows they all can only afford to look. The truth is you belong to him, and only he gets to touch you this way, his hand now shamelessly gliding down your rear while you stay pliant. As long as you're after that scholarship, you belong to him.

He shifts you on his lap, his mouth feeling dry as he feels you press against him. You're really just asking for it, aren't you?

yandere!bully: he finds you in the library, when everyone else is in the school gym for graduation practice. This serves as your only safe haven from him, from his friends, from this whole aquarium filled with predatory fish. Oftentimes it feels like you're the only herbivore out there. The library happens to be the oldest part of this castle-turned-campus, which means: no CCTVs.

You scream when he pins you against the table, cut off halfway when he slams a palm on your mouth. The other hand encases both your wrists in one secure grip as his leg forces your knees apart, and he starts grinding against you like a dog in heat.

His eyes are half-lidded as he's watching you with his mouth parted, a sick grin forming. He thinks it's hot when you cry, if he knew this before he would have done better to get you to cry more often.

"Dumb puppy," he sneers, "dumb little errand pup, you're no good for anything at all, aren't you? Only at following your master and fetching balls."

Your panic discourages you from registering all the painful words he's saying, the names he's calling you. You try your best to escape his coil that only seems to get tighter the more you move like a boa constrictor. Arousal seems to give him inhumane strength.

Having had enough, he lifts you up momentarily, before slamming your back against the table, hard.

"Stop fucking moving, you stupid mutt!"

That does indeed get you to stop fucking moving. You even stop trying to scream, and stop... breathing? He pauses his ministrations and looks down at you. You're staring back at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Then you start convulsing for air.

He doesn't know what to do, and for the first time in his life of luxury and wealth he's genuinely terrified. He's always seen you suffering, but this time, this time you're suffering and he can't put a stop to it. He can't control it.

You're grasping the sleeves of his uniform, still spasming. He gets the hint and aids you in sitting back upright on the table. He already has half the mind to pull out his phone and call emergency, but you're already breathing fine, trying to catch your breath.

Your hand moves to deeply rub the center of your chest.

Shit.

Was this... was this the soccer injury? Haven't you already recovered from that? The doctors said you'd heal eventually. The cuts, the deep bruises. Did you turn out to have an unattended rib fracture? Is this... chronic?

It's been almost a year since that incident.

Have you always had this pain, and kept it to yourself?

He's never felt this level of trepidation consume him, shaking him to the core. His heart is in his stomach as he looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the damaged he's done. You're tired. You're scared. You're miserable.

You are readmitted to the the same high-end hospital not long after. This time you're scheduled for surgery. He covers all the expenses, makes sure to get the best of the best of surgeons out there. You don't really have a say in the matter, you're not dumb enough to refuse such an offer just for the sake of your dignity. What left of it is there, anyway?

Father visits him during that period, noting the considerable dent in his son's bank account for that big of a purchase. He meets Father shortly after freshening up, having vomited at the thought of your broken countenance.

yandere!bully tells him everything except the attempted assault. Father only sits and listens, unnervingly silent, like he understands. It's the first time he's ever opened up to his dad. To his surprise, Father does not disappoint.

Likewise, Father also tells him everything. How, in this family, there is the tendency for some members to manifest passionate emotions in various ways. They feel so little they end up feeling so much for very specific things... sometimes persons. And they tend to be violent with it.

You were meant to be the recipient of this violence. Your father owed his father a great deal of debt, and so you were basically sold off, your purpose for him hidden under the ruse of scholarship. Not that you knew.

It all makes sense now, Father's devotion to Mother, and her aversion from him. His sister's fierce attachment to this one specific guy who also just so happens to be a scholar of the company. His feelings for you which he can't seem to make amends with.

"Once you find that someone," Father says, "you sink your claws into them and never let go, even when they bleed."

You're back to school in two weeks. Like back then, you didn't receive any disciplinary actions for your absence. You try not to wonder how you manage to keep your place as a scholar in this prestigious academy despite all the missed assignments on top of your already mediocre grades.

yandere!bully avoids you like the plague, and so do his friends. It seems everything went back to how it once was, how it was supposed to be. Everyone here ostracizes you for your socio-economic standing but it doesn't bother you at all, not when you prefer this over the active bullying.

The next time he interacts with you, it's already graduation. You're wearing the appropriate formal attire under your graduation robes, which you can guess is the cheapest out of everything in this venue where the school-sponsored grad party is being held. There's an afterparty held at some penthouse bar after this, hosted by one of yandere!bully's friends, but you aren't invited.

You exit the venue to begin the 20-minute walk back to your dorm, but someone stops you.

His hand is on your wrist. You get unpleasant flashbacks, but you keep it to yourself. He asks how you're doing, you say you're just fine.

He then asks if you want to celebrate this milestone.

No, you don't. Not with him. But you're not about to lose your diploma when you just got it.

So now you are in his Porsche and he's driving you both to one of his many family estates. It's smaller than most, he describes.

According to him at least. The whole thing is the size of your entire neighborhood. It's a long driveway before he even gets to arrive at the actual building. He parks right in front of the manor.

Inside, you're invited to have dinner with him. It's only the two of you in this large dining hall, where you're seated adjacent to him at the end of the grand table. But the selection of food nearly reaches down to half the long table, as if he had the chef cook every food that could possibly be your favorite.

Still, you end up eating light. He offers you to choose the brand of wine but you refuse, saying that it hasn't been long enough since your operation. A pause, before he nods, instead picking the wine himself.

Instead of alcohol you're served apple juice. It's freshly squeezed, you could tell by the bitter aftertaste.

Glass in hand, he leads you out of the manor and to the rose garden, where you can see the stars so clearly due to the lack of light pollution thanks to the vastness of his estate. There's a small pavilion housing a large couch. He leads you toward it, makes you sit.

You feel yourself deflate instantly on the cushion, exhausted from having your guard up around him at all times. If he noticed he didn't comment a thing about it. He's on his third glass and you're currently nursing the first glass of apple juice you're nearly finished with, when he calls out your name.

"Congratulations."

You congratulate him, too, since he also graduated.

He downs the rest of his wine in one go, sets it on the side table. Then he steps closer to you, fueled with liquid courage, sinking into the space next to you.

You try to sit up and scoot over. You can't.

"I was afraid for a moment," he starts, "that you wouldn't accept my invitation."

Afraid? He put you through hell, and only now has the gall to hesitate on you? A pit begins to form on your stomach.

He turns to you, taking your glass out of your hand and setting it down the ground, before holding that same hand with his own warmer one. He inches closer. You can't move.

You ask, "Would you have forced me to come anyway?"

He smiles at that. "You wouldn't have said no."

He's now hovering over you on the couch, same standoffish eyes tracing your face, your eyes, nose, settling on your mouth. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

He has so much to say to you. You look so pretty right now, basked in the moonlight, not fighting him. He's sorry for all the rough treatment, for hurting you and making you cry. He swears it's just his feelings for you manifested in the wrong manner. But now he knows, after his father explained everything it all makes sense. He's just in love with you.

yandere!bully kisses your trembling lips, tenderly. You try to fight it off but it's no use; you realized too late that he's done something to your drink. You're sobbing when he parts from you, terror and anger evident in your eyes. When he begins to pull off your clothes, he speaks.

"I would never do anything to hurt you." Your stomach churns in resentment. "Never again."

He kisses the column of your neck down to your chest, your surgical scars, where his lips stay longer. When he feels you're sort of hyperventilating, he rises and cups your cheek.

"Breathe. Breathe," he says your name. "Okay? Relax. I've got you. I promise I'll take care of you. You just have to breathe."

He rubs your chest. His own aches just at the thought of your distress. It's his fault you ended up like this, so he intends to make up for it for the rest of your lives.

He makes love to you that night. As promised, he did take care of you. It doesn't hurt when he slides it in, having poured a generous amount of lube all you feel is the pressure instead of the sting of his very well-endowed member intruding you. He's got a way with his hands, too, stimulating all the right parts just enough to get you unfolding beneath him within an hour. He would have done it within minutes but he took his sweet time just to get you so wet and ready for him.

He's so damn gentle with you like he was your lover for the last two years and not your bully. Of course, to you this wasn't 'making love.' For the most part you were delirious both from the drink and his expert ministrations, and are only hit with the the graveness of your reality when he finally spills his essence into you. His body quivers, and right then he pulls you for a deep, tongue-heavy kiss. When he pulls away, he mutters something in his frenzy: "I love you."

yandere!bully doesn't bother you after that. When he wakes up on that couch in the pavilion you're already gone. You left in a rush. A butler drove you off back outside of the estate, having received no orders to make you stay.

You've graduated. Your credentials will surely spark competition among universities for you, being a graduate from one of the most prestigious academies in the world. Still, you ask yourself if it was all worth it.

You aren't the same after those two years. You feel as if you've lost all purpose in life after that night. Like something valuable was stolen from you, and could never be returned. You don't want to keep going.

But reality will always dictate what you do. You can't afford to be like this because you're poor. Mental health doesn't exist to the poor, your father would insist. You've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And you may be mediocre, but you're not dumb enough to seek justice against someone as powerful as your bully. You don't even have the money for that.

So you went on despite grievances to the next stage of your life: college. Countless scholarships from different sponsors. The same conglomerate that covered your senior high scholarship is offering you another full ride—living arrangements and all—to the country's number one university.

You refuse the offer this time. A thousand scholarships from that conglomerate isn't enough to repair the damage that's been done. Besides, you never want to encounter anything associated with him ever again.

Instead you accept to be sponsored by a different company; a smaller one (at least in comparison), but they covered your tuition of four years in the same prestigious university. Sure, no living arrangements, but that's more than what most sponsors give.

You enter the CEO's office, having been invited so she can get to know you more. There are two individuals in the room. She, and...

Your heart drops to your stomach.

The CEO introduces him to you, although there is no need for that. He's standing there in a tux, hair slicked back, jaded eyes glinting with mirth at the sight of you. It seems he's grown taller in the few months you haven't seen each other.

Apparently his dad's conglomerate is the parent company. How could you be so stupid?

Madame CEO excuses herself to take an important call, leaving you alone with him. He doesn't hesitate to walk closer, smiling as fondly as his austere face can manage.

"I missed you." He speaks, voice full of yearning. He takes your hand in his. "How are you after our shared night? Why did you leave so suddenly? Don't do that again, love."

Ripping your hand away, you asked why he was here. If he knew and orchestrated to have you accept this scholarship.

"I don't break my promises. I'd hate to start with you." He explains.

You demanded what he meant by that. He doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying your turmoil, but you can't even find it in yourself to get it together this time.

"No one scored that night." He shrugs. "They were all so focused on hitting you."

...what?

"I promised you your college scholarship, remember?"

yandere!bully who follows you all the way to college.

He would’ve been easily forgotten if it weren’t for his sheer size. He isn’t overly muscular or bulky, but rather tall and slender. And some might even say he’s attractive… in a way. If it weren’t for his eccentric nature, you would understand it.

Some patients even admitted to fake sickness to get an appointment with him. But you’ll never understand. He’s direct and straight-to-the-point, so even if you did somehow get a scheduled doctor's meeting with him, it would be the fastest in and out. 

It’d been only a year since you’d scheduled your first first meeting, only for it to end up with you being stuck in his office for hours and getting diagnosed with an incurable disease. Ever since then, you’ve come to his office regularly for checkups. But the odd thing is… you never knew what it even was.

Whenever you’d ask anything, he’d always end as quickly as possible by ensuring you there was no time and it was too complicated but you should understand the dire consequences if you were to ignore it. Missing an appointment would be shooting yourself in the foot. Although there were no visible, distinct symptoms that signalled your ‘upcoming death’, you still blindly followed him.

You’re stupid for believing in whatever he told you.

Stupid, I say. Stupid.

You’ve spent hours rotting in that cold, leathery chair— waiting for something. Anything. Yet it always ended with the same result. Treatments never did anything. To the point you’ve decided on accepting it over arguing about it.

It never crossed your mind; he didn’t seem like the type.

January 23rd. Officially 1 year and 1 month since you’ve been ‘diagnosed’.

It’s check up day.

Snowing and cold as usual, you put your winter coat on and got on your way to walk, a scarf wrapped comfortably around your neck, yet it still felt cold. He said it was due to your malfunctioning homeostasis, one of the many symptoms that come with your illness. 

With every little step you took, you couldn’t help but feel anxious about the treatment you’re about to receive. It’s been a little over a year now and you haven’t gotten better, despite not feeling even the slightest ounce of change in your body.

It’s awful… isn’t it?

That’s the question he’d always asked you when he showed you what could happen to you if you didn’t take the pills he gave you. Always the same worrying yet cold sentence that shook you to your core. His voice always a flat line, barely emphasising the catastrophe you’ve been at war with.

The hospital he worked at was relatively small, catering only for the people in your small town. There’s only two floors, first being for mild injuries or cases and second for more major ones. You’re usually sent to the second one, where your doctor’s office is. 

“Ahh… good morning [name],” the receptionist calls you, placing the needed files onto the counter as per the usual routine. 

Most of the staff has already memorised your presence, what time you come and how many minutes you’d usually take. It’s pretty much become the norm for you to come and go from the hospital. Everything was routine and you’ve familiarised yourself with it enough to be able to do most of it without any mistakes.

“I hope you get well soon [name].” Her gaze softens as she meets your eyes.

Your hands grab the folder filled with the long history of appointments, and you reply: “Thank you. I hope so too.”

They, as well as you, had gotten so used to the routine it became technically second nature. Even without realising, they’d sometimes grab your folder by accident and placed it onto the counter where you usually grabbed it from on a day when you didn’t even have an appointment.

You took a deep breath before opening the door to your doctor’s office, only able to anticipate what’s coming. 

“Good morning [name],” he greets, not batting an eye but analysing your brain scan. He was taking notes and jotted it all down in his notebook before he would eventually type it. 

“Soo… is it any better?” You ask.

He doesn’t respond. As usual, he doesn’t respond. It’s never struck you the right way with how he barely shares any specific details.

“Your health is stabilising, but it’s not good enough for you to function as well as a normal person.” He states coldly. 

That’s… good… I guess.

“How much longer does this treatment have to be? Is it really wor—” you ask, immediately silenced by the glare he gives.

He adjusts the position of his glasses, pushing it up slightly on his nose bridge with two fingers on the sides, before looking up to see your face. “It’s working; I promise. I know it’s been a long year but it won’t take any longer… I hope.”

“Me too.” you mutter accidentally, but it was too quiet of a whisper for anyone to hear.

He gently and meticulously picks up the syringe before flicking it a couple times to remove the air bubbles from the container. He carefully inspects the syringe for a few moments and when he deems it ready, he uses the sharp part to pierce through and pushes the plunger, slowly injecting the liquid into your bloodstream.

Finally, after the long moments of the needle penetrating your skin, he pulls it out and places it onto a tray. A bandaid is immediately stuck onto your skin the moment the needle leaves. 

“Thanks doc,” you mutter. “I’m really glad I have you, I can’t imagine having to face this with an incompetent doctor.”

His pupil dilates ever so slightly. “You’re welcome. I’m glad too.”

He’s never reciprocated your affection as the usual person. A normal person would’ve been a bit flustered, but he’s more shocked than embarrassed. 

That’s what you find so fascinating about such a man. Maybe he really is just that sophisticated and passionate about his work.

But you’ve never understood the hype around him. He’s stoic and cold; He doesn’t seem to be type to date either. 

There’s only so much you can wonder and never get the answers to. Maybe it’s his attractiveness. He’s got everything that people usually deem to be attractive features like a high nose bridge, hunter eyes or whatever and he’s tall.

The metallic clatter sound brings you back into reality as he starts to look through the metal cart beside you full of medical tools, hands pushing it around to get better angles, and his brows furrow when he realises that what he needs isn’t there.

“Stay here. I need to get something from the staff room.” he orders you, placing down his clipboard onto his desk. 

“Okay,” you respond.

5 minutes pass and he never comes back.

Then another additional 5 minutes pass and there’s no sign of him.

What could possibly take him so long?

You could only wonder. But the sudden curiosity struck you. He’s always so hyper focused on his computer and you can’t help but want to know what it contains. He’s never actually told you what illness or sickness you have, so maybe he stores it inside the computer.

When you sat down on his dark, leather chair, the computer was on the home page. There were several files with many different names and labels. Then you spot a familiar name in the bottom left corner. 

Doctor Malcom Kyren’s

You hovered over the icon, biting your lip as you debated on invading his privacy. But it’s valid if it was just to check your data right… so you clicked on the file with his name. Various unrecognisable names popped up, but you spotted some you knew like your friendly neighbour and teacher from high school. It was lovely to see just how many people came to him for help… but you can’t help and wonder if you were the only one stuck in your position.

“[Name].” The stern voice of your beloved doctor woke you up, making you flinch in response.

“Is this really what you’ve been doing— please don’t tell me it’s all been fake. The treatment, the illness—” you took sharp inhales in between your speech, lips quivering and tears streaming down your face like a waterfall with no end.

You’ve never felt so alone before. Because of your so-called ‘illness’, you can’t go out as much, you can’t interact with others too much or they’ll get infected, you can’t. Everything he told you was a lie. It was all fabricated so he could isolate you from the people you love, only so he could play savior and fill the hole in by himself. So many hours that you’ve wasted on appointments. So many hours he took from you.

The room twisted in your vision, walls warping in and out, tears fogging your eyes. 

“[Name]!” he yelled, gripping your shoulders so tightly they would bruise the skin. “I did this all for you!”

You tried to squirm out of his grasp but he didn’t let go of you, but the look in his eyes scared you to death. “No—! You did this for yourself. To keep me here. Was the medicine even medicine? Was the prescription even real?”

The same blue eyes that everyone adored seemed evil to you. It’s supposed to be a glimmering set but it’s not. “It’s all real. I did this all to protect you— to save you.”

“Protect me from what? The imaginary illness you created in your mind or from your own fantasies?” you kicked his leg and escaped, rushing towards the door to escape, the keys slotted into the keyhole jingling as you tried to twist it. Your hands shook desperately, tears emerging in the corner of your eyes.

He groaned in pain but nonetheless, he got up to retrieve you. You finally got the key open when he was only an inch or two away from you. Dashing out into the hallways, you notice it’s night. Heartbeats thud in your mind, and it felt like something was squeezing your brain so tightly.

There’s no one around. The lights are all off and since it’s not necessarily a 24/7 type of hospital, there’s no workers either. 

From what you remember, it’s supposed to be around 10am in the morning… what? Has time completely sped up? 

The hallways were dark, and you couldn’t see any sign of the end. It only seemed to stretch on longer and longer the more you ran through it. 

Your fight or flight kicked in, adrenaline rushing through your veins, and you continued running, ignoring the cramps in your leg and blisters forming from it. Finally, at last, you saw a light— a shimmery moonlight and you dashed towards it. 

Hands wrapped around the handle, you tugged. Hard. But it was locked. Then you pulled, this time using all your body weight. Doesn’t work either.

The sounds of your doctor’s shoes echoes grew louder and louder as he neared the entrance you were at. 

“HELP!” you yelled as a last ditch effort, slamming your hand hard on the glass door multiple times in hopes that someone hears it. “PLEASE!”

It’s the handkerchief landing on your mouth that suffocates you into unconsciousness. 

~

Eyes fluttering open, beams of light hit your face that force your eyes shut back again. It didn’t take long for you to feel your arms and legs bound to a medical chair. 

You shook roughly in your seat. Then you let out a blood curdling scream, which is only muffled by the gag in your mouth.

Suddenly there’s a hand that places itself onto yours. “Please stay calm [name], this procedure will only take a while.”

You shook your head, eyes shot open in fear. “MMHHHH!”

“I didn’t want to have to do this, but if it comes to it, I will. Close your eyes and forget today [name].” he says softly, as if trying to comfort you.

The injection seems to have heightened your senses before completely turning all of them off in your body. Everything goes black, and you soon pass out on the chair you're bound and stuck to.

“Out.”

A hint of anger and irritation passed his eyes when he heard that. “I fucking know that, but out where?” He asked through his clenched teeth, stepping closer.

“I was out with my friends” you said with an exhausted sigh, “We went out for dinner.”

“With your friends?” he repeated, seething. “You left this house, without telling me, without taking any of my men with you, looking like a fucking whore, to go to dinner with your friends, and that too this late? Do you have any fucking idea what time it is.”

You felt his hands wrap around your wrist as he towered over you, looking down at you but you only avoided his gaze, looking to your side without any response. “I called you like 50 times, you would know if you cared to check your phone.”

You did know and that was the sole reason you had switched off your phone. “My phone died so I am really sorry I couldn't check it.”

You felt his warm breath against your face, as his hands wandered around your waist and hips, as he touched your hair. “And why did you dress so cheaply? Do I get you expensive stuff to decorate your closet?”

“It was a birthday and they had a theme so–”

“I don't give a fuck it was birthday or whatever” he cut you off, his voice gravelly. “If your friends want to celebrate, they can do it without you. And if you wanted to go out, you should have asked for permission like you always do.”

He knew who your friends were, similar wealthy background girls like you, politicians and businessmen daughters and he had no issues with them, most of the time atleast but if you were going to behave like this just to hang out and meet with them, he was definitely going to have problems with them and you would end up suffering instead.

“You don't leave without my say so. Do you understand me? And if not I will lock you in your room, then keep crying.” He said tilting his face to the side to meet yours at your eye level, only for you to turn to the other side again, nodding.

You hated looking at his eyes, they were really sharp, predatory and cold. In the beginning of your marriage when you used to it made you feel so uneasy and scared, slowly you learnt to avoid his gaze and directly looking at his face.

That way it was easier to deal with him, if not whatever you have learnt and kept yourself out together it would come crashing down in one go and you didn't want that happening.

“There are people out there always trying to put a bullet through my head, get me dead, get something they can use against me. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for someone to take you off the street?”

“You're supposed to be where I can see you–”

He stopped abruptly, turning around as the large front door of the estate opened, flooding in the light from the outside as the driver you had taken for yourself walked in, arms full of and laden with things with different colours, gift wrappings, shopping bags from high end boutiques and brands.

He stared at the bags and the gifts as the driver walked towards you two. Slowly, he turned his head back to you.

“What is this now? You went shopping too?”

“No,” you said, rubbing your arm feeling a wave of anxiousness as you took in a breath before speaking “They're from the birthday party.”

“Whose birthday party?” He asked, picking up a small rectangular shaped gift box from the pile from the driver's arms.

“Mine.”

Happy Birthday, my darling. My sweetest, prettiest baby girl in this whole world, dad loves you alot. — Dad.

He read it simultaneously, the card attached to it as that one word left your mouth and everything came crashing down to him as he felt like he was thrown in a cold lake on a harsh winter night.

Fuck.

He had forgotten.

He had forgotten your birthday.

“Today…. today was your birthday?” He asked as if still in disbelief as he looked at you with this weird look which you had never seen on his face and you didn't know if you wanted to deal with it right now. Why did it matter if it was your special day or not, for him it was like any other day.

“Yes” you said simply, turning back towards the stairs, your hand gripping the banister. “I am going to bed, I am really tired also I am sorry I should have told you beforehand.”

“Wait”

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. But he didn't pull you back with his usual rough force. His grip was loose, his fingers gentle on your skin.

“Wait a second’ he said again, his voice getting heavier.

You stopped, looking down at his hand on your wrist, then up at his face, not really knowing what to do and what to say, honestly it didn't hurt you that he didn't remember it, because you never had that kind of expectation from him.

"Baby," he whispered.

The word “baby” came out clumsy and sounded really weird to your ears. The word felt incredibly strange coming from his mouth.

He was not an affectionate guy or the one to use pet names as that, he usually called you woman or wife when he was angry, when he was pulling your clothes over your head in the dark after returning home late and straight up coming to fuck you.

Even when he used words like that, which was a rare occurrence, it was to mock you or try to get you into bed. Right now the way he spoke that word was completely different, it almost sounded affectionate and intimate, like he loved you, his voice had a hint of desperation, which was not like him at all.

“I am…I am–” he stammered trying to get the word sorry out of his mouth which was stuck in his throat, he felt like he should say it but it was not coming out.

He didn't even remember the last time he had said sorry to someone,that too sincerely but right now his heart and mind both shouted together for him to say out that word to you, he didn't know why, he didn't know why this heavy feeling had settled in his chest when he realised he missed such an important day of yours, was this guilt? Is this how it felt like?

Sorry was like a cuss word to him but still he couldn't help himself as those words left his mouth.

“I…” He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. “I forgot. I am ... fuck it. I am sorry.”

You stared at him, completely frozen as those words left his mouth, so strange and awkward.

I am sorry?

Had you heard him right?

He had never said those words to you. Not when he stayed out all night with other women, not when he yelled at you for things you didn't do, not when he forced you to stay home when you wanted to see your family. He never apologized for his actions, never.

So, how could you believe him even if he was standing on the bottom step of the stairs, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes, telling you that he was sorry.

“I didn't mean to, I swear to God” he rambled, his voice growing faster, more frantic as he saw the lack of reaction on your face. He stepped up onto the stair, bringing himself closer to you as he kept rambling.

“It's fine you don't need to worry too much.” You whispered not knowing what else to say.

“No, it's not fine!” he said, his voice rising. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his warm skin touching yours as the breath of you two mixed with each other, the similar way your feelings were tangling with his, messy and unsure.

“It's your birthday. I should have... I should have been there with you the whole day. I should have taken you out. What do you want? Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you right now.”

“I don't want anything” you said, your eyes slipping shut as you touched his face reassuringly.

“Don't say that” he said as his voice sounded pleading, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. His touch was so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Anything you want. Anything, jewellery, bags, anything I mean it, you just name it. Or a trip? We can go to Paris to celebrate your birthday, or anywhere else, wherever you want.”

He was offering you everything he had, trying to buy his way out of the suffocating guilt that was weighing him down in his heart for some god forsaken reason, and because he was feeling like that for the first time he didn't know how to act and what to do or deal with this strange feeling.

But you didn't want anything he was offering to you.

Though you were not going to lie, the word divorce did flash in your mind for a second but even you knew that offer was not on the table.

an; this is a scheduled post!

© darkbirdie 2026

The inhumane working conditions, the pressure and the scrutiny that come with being in the spotlight, the expectations — always in sight but never within reach... There is only so much ‘he’s cute, but the other members look much better’ that he can take before it starts chipping away at his soul, y’know?

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is thinking of quitting altogether. His contract is ending soon, and it’s not like anyone would miss him if he was gone, so...

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is performing on stage when he sees you for the first time. Whilst sweeping his gaze over the audience casually, he locks eyes with you.

In the future, he will mull over this moment for days and weeks and months. In the future, he will swear up and down that it was fate. For now, he is simply caught off guard.

You are staring at him. With sparkling eyes and awe in the slight part of your lips — you are completely and utterly enraptured. By him.

Your smile widens, and the grin that blooms across your face takes his breath away. He nearly stumbles, and makes a mistake in the choreography for the first time since his trainee days. A small one, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but a mistake nonetheless.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose gaze can’t stop wandering back to you. Throughout the entirety of the concert, he keeps on stealing second glances, making sure that you’re still looking his way.

He can’t find it in himself to care when everyone else is screaming the other members’ names.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who suddenly feels reinvigorated. That spark he thought he would never feel again — it returns. It begins in one tiny corner, nestled deep into his heart, then spreads, surging through his veins, until his entire body is set aflame.

It shows in the sharp elegance of his motion, in the power of his voice. He executes each step with impeccable precision, with a vigor he hasn’t felt in years. That ambition — to perform, and to captivate.

Look at me.

(Are you looking at him?)

Look at me.

(He wants you to keep looking at him.)

Look at me.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who pulls all the strings he has just to find you after that concert ends. It takes a while to sift through so many people, even after he narrowed the search down to the ones in your category, but he finally succeeds. He finds you.

He absorbs every single thing he can find about you online. He stalks all your social media accounts. All of them. Even the cringey ones you made as a teen and have long since forgotten about.

He screenshots everything. All of your posts, your selfies, even the random keyboard smashes you put in the tags of a tumblr reblog. His gallery is overflowing with pictures of you now, and he sets one of them as his phone’s wallpaper.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who kicks his feet and giggles like a schoolgirl on his bed as he reads through all the comments you’ve posted about him online. Every compliment has his heart fluttering, and the more he scrolls, the more he believes that the both of you are meant to be. You fell first but he fell harder — you like that trope, don’t you?

In his head, he already considers you his lover. Nevermind the fact that you don’t even know he’s your boyfriend. It’s just... long distance!

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who starts going online more often. He posts more stuff outside of the livestreams he’s contractually obligated to do, and generally improves his social media presence.

Whenever he posts something, he literally won’t stop checking to make sure that you’ve seen it. He won’t be able to sleep if you don’t like or comment on the post, his brain working overtime wondering which part of it you didn’t like, and planning on how he’d improve on the next one.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who trains and practices harder than he has ever done before. He used to strive for perfection, but for you, perfection isn’t enough. He pushes himself past all his limits, surpassing his role as the ‘all rounder’. At the rate he is improving, he will soon become the best not just within his group, but in the whole industry.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose popularity actually increases because of all of this. The change in his demeanor, though subtle, draws many fans in, and he sees multiple posts about how his stage presence has improved recently.

In the past, he would’ve been overjoyed with that. However, now, all he cares about is impressing you.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who performs because of you. He sings, dances, and smiles all for you. It wouldn’t even be a stretch to say that he lives and breathes solely because of you.

The truth was, you had to accept that the internet knew Isagi Yoichi.

They knew the genius striker. The player who dissected his opponents in interviews and left defenders questioning their careers. 

The man whose on-field trash talk had become viral compilations. The one who could stare down another player and make them feel like they weren't worth the grass beneath their cleats.

The internet knew that version of him.

What they didn't know was Ichi.

Your Ichi.

The one who texted you a long paragraph every morning that he had to leave earlier than you would wake up. The one who remembered your favorite snack and bought a whole stock of it when he learned it was limited edition.

The one who made sure to secretly hide a flashlight in his gym bag because you hated walking through dark parking lots. The one who slept with one arm wrapped around your waist because he knew you had nightmares sometimes.

The man who looked at you like you were the greatest thing he'd ever discovered.

You had known each other for years. Long before you realized you were in love with him. Long before the championships he’d played such big parts in. Long before he made the cover of many magazines and got embarrassed every time you bought a copy.

And somehow, despite how long you’d known him, and even if you’d been together for half of that- the way he looked at you had only gotten worse. Or better, depending on who was asking.

There were even die hard sport podcasts that had brought the relationship up more than once, "He's going to get distracted by her. It’s sad man.” They had said, as if you hadn’t been with Yoichi through every win- that they conveniently liked to ignore.

Some even made it out like you had casted some sort of spell on him, simply because they couldn’t imagine their GOAT player could actually be kind and love a women, "I swear he's in a trance."

"Somebody check that man for a chip. She’s controlling." That was your favorite, because you were actually the complete opposite. Why bother trying to control a man who you knew would never hurt you? It just didn’t make sense.

You'd even seen edits of you two. Some were just your pictures where the poster - who you were sure was a twelve year old girl - put flower crowns, hearts, and heavy blush on both you and Isagi. Others were smaller, like someone adding a fake ring to your hand or changing Isagi’s expression so they could accuse him of ‘being tired’ of you.

There were even compilations! Entire videos dedicated to Isagi's inability to stop looking at you. You didn’t realize how often it happened, but it was often enough that there were thousands of clips spread across several videos - one particularly popular one was simply titled:

Isagi Yoichi Staring at His Fiance for Six Minutes

You'd watched it once…okay maybe twice.

Mostly because it was funny.

The footage showed him at interviews, award ceremonies, charity events, and even team gatherings (how they got clips from these, you weren’t sure).  And in every single clip, no matter what he was doing or what he was saying, Isagi’s eyes somehow found you every time.

Like a compass finding north. Like how Lewis and Clark used the North Star on their expeditions. Like he knew where to find you, every time, no matter where you were.

You never really noticed it until everyone else pointed it out to you, but after that you couldn't stop seeing it.

The way his gaze softened when he went from looking at his team or coach then looking at you. The way his shoulders relaxed when you were closer to him. The way his entire expression changed from when he was searching for you in a crowd to actually seeing you.

It was like someone had turned the sun on.

You remembered one particular night from a few months earlier when the two of you had driven nearly two hours away from the city because Isagi wanted to show you a meteor shower.

At least, that had been what you were hoping to do…the reality was that neither of you saw many shooting stars.

Mostly because you spent the entire time talking. Lying together on top of a blanket out in an empty field, far away from the city because “The stars are brighter out here,” he’d said. 

His arm beneath your head.

Your fingers were intertwined as he had his other arm under your head, "You see one?" he asked after hours of seeing…well nothing.

"Nope,” You shook your head. “You?"

"Nope.”

"Wow." You laughed. He couldn’t help but join in on your laughter, “Terrible date, huh?”

Somehow, despite not seeing any shooting stars - or stars in general really - it became one of your favorite nights ever.

That was the night you learned you could probably sit in complete silence with Isagi for six hours and somehow leave feeling like you'd had the best day of your life.

But when people asked how much you loved him…how were you supposed to explain that to strangers?

How were you supposed to explain that watching a soccer game suddenly became exciting because Isagi was excited about it? Or that car races became fun because he spent the entire time explaining things to you with the enthusiasm of a child?

The first race he'd brought you to had been hilarious because he'd been worried sick the entire week beforehand, "What if it's boring?" You had promised him a million times already, "It won't be."

"What if it's too loud?" Another quite strange worry of his, you thought.  "I'll just wear headphones." A simple solution to a simple problem.

"What if-"

"Yoichi."

"Yeah?"

You grabbed his face, "Anything’s fun if I’m with you" He'd turned bright red and then proceeded to keep worrying for ten straight minutes.

The thing was, your love wasn't really measurable.

You certainly couldn’t measure it with money, and yet people still tried to online every day.

Isagiglazer1000: Does she even love him as much as he loves her?

You stared at one comment for nearly thirty seconds and then just had to laugh.

Because how were you supposed to answer that?

How could you explain the feeling of seeing him after a long trip felt like being buried under a blanket that was fresh out of the dryer?

How could you explain the relief of hearing his key in the front door after his location stopped somewhere on the side of the road because he wasn’t on his phone?

No one could understand the way your chest physically hurt whenever he was injured.

And no one knew, not even Yoichi, how every future plan since you’d met him somehow automatically included him?

There weren't enough words - not in any language to explain that to people. So you simply ignored the comment, like always.

The fans could speculate all they wanted.

You knew the truth.

And so did he.

Which was why you found yourself screaming at referees every weekend despite having once hated sports.

Because somehow Isagi had tricked you into becoming the most biased soccer fan alive. "That wasn’t a foul!"

The referee clearly disagreed. The entire stadium clearly disagreed. The replay on the big screen definitely disagreed.

But you didn't care, not even a little. Especially not when Isagi was currently arguing with another player, again, for the third time so far.

"He started that fight." Bachira informed you later.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You watched it happen."

"No I didn't."

"You were literally there." Bachira sighed as he was just met with a shrug from you. "You're impossible."

You smiled, “Mhm.”

Because maybe (definitely) Isagi wasn't innocent.

Maybe he absolutely started some of those arguments.

Maybe he very occasionally deserved those yellow cards.

But he was your fiancé, and because of that, he was wrongly accused every single time in your eyes. Obviously.

Then came the date night that finally convinced the internet that, okay, maybe you two were forever and actually did love each other a whole lot.

The evening had been completely normal.

You had dinner, stealing bites from each other's dessert, and walked through the city while holding hands. The usual for you two.

Then the photos dropped on every news outlet there was, and suddenly everything exploded.

It wasn’t because of the date, no, that was normal. For once it wasn’t because of the expensive outfits you two wore. And shockingly, it wasn’t because Isagi looked incapable of keeping his eyes off you.

No.

The reason the internet lost its mind…was the ring that could be seen in one single photograph. One flash of your hand, and suddenly thousands of people were zooming in.

Researching what it could be. Comparing the price to other soccer wives. Calculating just how much the karats were and how much it would have cost. Until someone eventually identified it.

Then within minutes the jeweler was identified. Then they found the price and the number spread across social media within minutes, followed by absolute chaos.

mamabear2b: that’s a down payment on a house…

d1shidouryuseifan: that IS a house

rinitoshiplsnoticeme:  that’s like…a whole island.

You nearly choked laughing when you read them.

Across from you, Isagi looked mildly horrified as another tweet went viral.

This one was a simple screenshot of one of the many photos from the date off of some news website where the ring was clearly visible.

But it wasn’t the center of attention in this picture, if anyone hadn’t been freaking out over the ring, you would assume it wasn’t important.

Instead, the focus was Isagi looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

chigirislongleghair: you’re telling me ppl are actually shocked they’re engaged? look at that man. whipped. 

There were millions of likes, and for once, nobody had jokes or theories. Nobody called you a witch, and if there was, it was all hidden under the love the internet had for their favorite soccer star and his new fiance.

It was like suddenly everyone understood. That the ring wasn't proof that Isagi Yoichi loved you, it was simply the consequence of it. Like a symptom or side effect.

The real proof had always been in every photograph, interview, and every candid video. Every accidental moment captured by cameras, as much as fans liked to joke about it, showed just how in love you two were.

And later that night, long after the internet had finished losing its mind, you found yourself curled against his chest in bed.

The room was dark and quiet, but you still felt safe.

Isagi had one arm wrapped around your waist, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

You tilted your head, looking up at him, "Hey." "Hm?" He sleepily replied.

"Do you think I'm a witch?" 

That must have woken him up, because after a moment of silence, he burst out with a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest.

Then he kissed your forehead, "No." His hand squeezed yours, the massive diamond catching faint moonlight, "But if you are..."

You smiled, thinking that he was about to be quite the romantic, "If I am?"

His eyes met yours, "I'd let you put me under a spell again." “Yoichi Isagi! I’m not a witch!” You gasped, hitting his chest, which was shaking with his laughter. 

And even if you were, you weren’t sure you’d need a potion. 

You were just as hopelessly in love with him as he'd always been with you.

⁀☀︎ ©airybcby

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