SassyBearFire 🐻

❝ 𝐂𝐖: obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies, ❞

summary - professor Y/N’s life is unraveling—one glass of wine, one fake smile, one cheating husband at a time. The last thing she needs is her top student getting too close. But Satoru Gojo isn’t like the others. He sees the cracks. He watches every shift in her voice. And after the career fair, he knows her weakness: her silence.

He’s not going to stop. Not when she’s married. Not when she’s hurting. And definitely not when she looks like she needs to be ruined.

professor reader x yandere! college student gojo ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7

He watches. He waits. And when she breaks, he’ll be there—on his knees or on top of her, it doesn’t matter. So long as she’s his.

The classroom is quiet now. Chalk dust lingers in the stale afternoon light, and the ticking of the wall clock pulses like a countdown. Your hands are still trembling beneath your desk, but you make no move to still them.

You haven’t slept much.

Not since you found the messages.

Not since Hiromi started coming home with perfume on his collar that wasn’t yours.

He says it meant nothing.

He says it only happened once.

He says he’s sorry.

But the image is burned into the backs of your eyelids—his voice soft, pleading, the weight of your children’s laughter echoing down the hall while your heart shattered in the kitchen.

Your marriage is bleeding at the seams.

Hiromi’s been doting lately—too doting. Flowers on your desk. Coffee brought to the department. Voicemails at all hours with soft-spoken promises of counseling and change. But it all feels like a performance. Or worse, a punishment. Because even when someone begs for forgiveness, they rarely consider the part where you’re still bleeding.

And divorce?

Not in your family.

Not with your children involved.

Your mother called it selfish. Your father called it a phase.

Your in-laws are praying it away like some storm that’ll pass.

So here you are—Professor Y/N. Doctorate in philosophy, lectures on moral ethics and the illusion of truth.

And yet… somehow, you’re the one lying every day.

Smiling through the burn.

Nodding like your wedding ring isn’t an iron shackle.

You haven’t told your students. Of course not. You keep your private life sealed behind tempered glass. But that doesn’t stop him from noticing.

Gojo Satoru.

Top of the class. Too smart. Too pretty. Too focused on you.

He’s always watching.

Asking personal questions under the guise of intellectual curiosity.

Staring a little too long when you grade his papers with red ink.

Lingering after lectures—just him, and that stupid cocky grin, and those ice-blue eyes like he sees something no one else does.

You should shut it down.

You should remind him of your title. Your boundaries. Your marriage.

But lately, even you forget you’re still married.

Because Hiromi’s presence has grown so heavy, so absent, so cold.

And Satoru?

He makes you feel like a woman again. Like someone worthy of being wanted. Desired. Seen.

And maybe that’s why you’re staring at your reflection in the office mirror now, adjusting the neckline of your blouse like it matters. Like someone might notice.

You jump when there’s a soft knock on the door.

Three knocks.

Slow.

Measured.

You already know who it is.

Gojo doesn’t make appointments.

He doesn’t ask to see you.

He just shows up.

Like clockwork.

Like fate.

Like he’s been waiting for your world to fall apart—so he can crawl into the cracks and make a home out of your ruin.

The knock came, but he didn’t wait for permission.

The door cracked open slowly, deliberately, as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Afternoon, Professor.”

His voice was like velvet twisted around something sharp. Light, teasing—just bordering disrespect. But charming enough to make you pause before reprimanding him.

Gojo Satoru stepped in like he owned the place.

Like your office hours were created just for him.

And maybe they were. At least, that’s the illusion he liked to project.

He wore that same smug grin. White dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Thin silver chain visible just above his collarbones. He didn’t sit across from your desk. No. He leaned against the windowsill instead, hands in his pockets like a student waiting to be praised.

“I graded your midterm,” you said, keeping your tone even. “Highest in the class. Congratulations.”

He tilted his head. “Mm… I’m guessing not surprised?”

You sighed. “I’d be more surprised if you actually started following the assignment guidelines for once.”

That earned you a low chuckle. “But then I wouldn’t stand out.”

You didn’t smile—but something in your chest shifted. You gestured toward the chair across from you. “Sit.”

Instead, he moved.

Not to the chair.

But toward your bookshelf.

And then to your side table.

And then…

To the framed photo on your desk.

His fingers brushed against it like it was dust he meant to wipe away.

“Cute kids,” he murmured, gaze lingering. “This your family?”

You inhaled. “Yes. That’s private.”

His head tilted again. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“But you are.”

“Only a little.” He picked up the photo, flipping it in his hand, eyes drifting across the image like he was looking for something buried beneath the surface. “You never mentioned you had a husband.”

You pressed your lips together. “It’s not relevant to your coursework.”

He set the photo down gently, almost too gently. Like it was fragile. Like you were.

“But you used to talk about him,” he said.

That made your spine stiffen.

He looked up at you slowly, the grin fading. “In the first few weeks of class. You mentioned him in passing once or twice. ‘My husband always says—’ or ‘We had this ridiculous thing happen over the weekend—’” He watched you closely. “You don’t do that anymore.”

A pause. Heavy. Charged.

Your throat tightened. “Mr. Gojo. Your grade is exceptional. You don’t need to be here unless you have a real academic concern.”

He smiled again—this time smaller, meaner. “Maybe I just like talking to you.”

“That’s not appropriate.”

“Neither is being married and miserable.”

Your heart stopped.

And then stuttered violently back to life.

His eyes were unreadable—icy and burning all at once.

You stood, sharply. “I’m ending this conversation now. I suggest you—”

“Don’t worry, Professor,” he interrupted, rising slowly to his full height. “I’m just observant. That’s all.”

He moved toward the door. Hand on the knob.

But just before stepping out, he turned his head slightly, just enough to let his voice slither back to you like silk and smoke.

“For what it’s worth… he’s an idiot.”

Click.

The door shut behind him.

And you were left alone in your office. Breath shallow. Fingers clenched around the photo frame.

The glass was cold.

But your skin was burning.

The sound of the kids laughing in the backseat should’ve made you smile.

But today, it just hurt.

“Mom! He won’t give me the charger!”

“Because it’s mine!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

You exhaled slowly, turning down the radio. “Guys. Relax. We’re home in five. Both of you cool it or no iPads tonight.”

A chorus of groans. A stomp. A whine. Typical chaos.

But even in the noise, your mind wasn’t fully here.

You were still in that office.

Still watching Gojo’s fingers brush against the family photo like he wanted to smudge himself into it.

Still hearing his voice—he’s an idiot—playing in your head like a song you didn’t ask to remember.

You blinked back into the present just as your car turned onto the familiar street.

Same houses. Same maple trees. Same stupid driveway you used to love pulling into.

But now?

Now you felt your chest tighten at the sight of the car parked out front.

Hiromi’s car.

You rolled your eyes. “Of course.”

He was home early again.

You pulled in behind him, parked, and braced yourself.

The moment the engine shut off, your kids exploded from the backseat like soda cans under pressure.

“Race you inside!”

“Wait for me!”

“Don’t slam the—” SLAM.

Too late.

You grabbed your bag and moved slowly toward the front door, giving yourself a few seconds. A breath. A reset. Anything to soften your expression before you stepped inside.

The smell of pasta sauce hit you first. Tomato, garlic, overcompensating.

“Hey.”

His voice came from the kitchen.

You pasted on the smile. Thin. Brittle. “Hi. You’re home early.”

“Yeah.” Hiromi wiped his hands on a towel, stepping around the counter. “Slow day. A couple cases hit back-to-back this morning, but I cleared the worst of them. Burned out, honestly.”

You nodded absently. “Mhm. Sounds exhausting.”

There was a pause as he studied your face—searching for something. Recognition? Warmth?

You gave him none.

“I made dinner,” he added, as if that mattered. “Figured we could all eat together.”

You heard the kids arguing about math problems in the dining room, paper rustling, pencils tapping.

“Sounds good,” you said flatly, dropping your bag by the stairs. You turned to walk past him.

“Y/N…”

Your name came softly.

Too softly.

You stopped mid-step.

“I—I’ve been thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes downcast. “About us. About… what I did.”

You swallowed.

Not here. Not now.

“Hiromi.”

“I know I’ve said sorry. But I need you to know I meant it. I wasn’t myself. I was stressed, I—”

“Stop.”

Your voice cracked like a whip.

He blinked. “What?”

You turned to him slowly. Calm. Cold. Controlled.

“The kids are in the next room.”

A beat of silence.

And then he nodded. The air grew thick with unsaid things.

“They think you’re sick,” you said quietly. “That’s what I told them. Daddy’s very, very sick.”

Hiromi’s jaw clenched. His eyes shone with something—guilt, maybe. Regret. But you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Because no amount of “I love yous” could erase the lipstick on his collar.

The texts from someone named “Marie.”

The way your children had cried the night you locked the bedroom door behind you.

You walked past him, brushing his shoulder without meaning to, like a ghost brushing against a memory.

“I’m going to change,” you said.

And you climbed the stairs with the weight of a thousand unspoken arguments pressing between your ribs.

It was nearly midnight.

The house was quiet now—save for the hum of the dishwasher downstairs and the occasional creak of the pipes adjusting to the night.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, pajama shorts brushing against cool sheets, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder. A half-drained glass of merlot rested beside your laptop, the edge of the glass smudged with a faint lipstick print.

Your legs were sore. Your head heavier than usual.

Still, you scrolled.

Assignments.

One after the other.

Feedback. Grading. More red ink. Your eyes burned from screen glare, but your fingers kept moving. Mechanical. Mindless. You were on autopilot these days—just enough energy to function, never enough to feel.

Until his name appeared.

Gojo, Satoru.

Creative Writing Submission.

You paused.

Just for a second.

Then clicked.

It opened slowly, like a secret.

The first line hit you like warm water on cold skin:

“There’s something beautiful about a woman who forgets she’s being watched.”

Your stomach fluttered.

You shifted slightly, brushing your knee with the edge of your blanket.

“Not the kind of beauty you can capture on film. Not the type to be acknowledged in polite conversation. But the raw, unraveling kind. The quiet panic of restraint. The soft violence of silence.”

You blinked.

Reread the sentence.

Was this… about you?

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

You scrolled further. The prose bled intimacy—lush, poetic, and haunting. His writing wrapped around you like a whisper down the back of your neck. Soft. Unsettling. Deliciously inappropriate.

“I wonder if she knows how easy it is to love her. How unbearable it is to see her smile at people who don’t deserve it. How maddening it is to be invisible when you’d burn the world just to hear her say your name like it means something.”

Your hand curled into a fist on your lap.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach. You hated that.

You hated that you felt seen.

You slammed the laptop shut.

“Not today,” you muttered to yourself.

You stood up, the floor cool beneath your feet. Quietly, you padded across the room, tugging the chain from your neck, undoing the clasps of your earrings, unhooking the small bracelet your daughter had gifted you for Mother’s Day.

And then, finally, you slid your wedding ring off.

No ceremony.

No hesitation.

Just… quiet.

It clinked softly against the marble countertop.

You stared at it for a moment. Silver. Hollow. Still.

Another day done.

Another boundary blurred.

Another secret you didn’t want to name.

You climbed into bed and turned off the lamp, darkness swallowing you whole.

But even with your eyes closed, those words stayed.

Burning.

Etching.

Tattooing themselves somewhere deep inside.

—

THE NEXT DAY… 

The clock above the whiteboard ticked quietly, each second dragging its heels through your lecture like wet footsteps on tile.

You stood at the front of the room, voice steady—measured—but your hands betrayed you. One of them rested at your side while the other twisted your wedding ring round and round your finger. Over. And over. And over.

A tic.

A nervous tell.

You hoped no one noticed.

“Remember,” you said, scanning the room, “your creative writing assignment is due tomorrow. The topic should blend academic theory with emotional reflection—think applied philosophy meets narrative voice.”

A few heads nodded. Some scribbled it down. One girl yawned into her sleeve.

And Gojo Satoru?

Front row. Elbow on the desk. Chin in his hand. That grin again. Always that grin—like he knew the punchline to a joke no one else had heard yet.

He raised a hand lazily. “Professor, do you want us to make it personal or just convincing?”

A few students laughed.

You didn’t.

You gave a small smile, cool and unreadable. “That depends. Are those things mutually exclusive?”

The class murmured in response—some amused, others intrigued.

Gojo’s grin widened. “Not for me.”

You moved on. You had to. “This is your final creative component before your comparative analysis. Treat it with care. I expect authenticity, not performance.”

The bell rang shortly after, and the room stirred with motion—zippers, rustling papers, the creak of backpacks hoisted onto shoulders.

You exhaled, brushing your thumb once more across the edge of your ring.

Then—

The door creaked open again.

“Delivery for Professor L/N?”

A young man with a university lanyard held a bouquet. Bold reds, soft creams, white accents. Delicate and dramatic all at once.

You blinked, startled. “Oh—uh—yes, that’s me.”

Whispers flared instantly among the students still gathering their things. You stepped forward, taking the bouquet and tugging the little envelope from the plastic pick tucked inside.

“Still trying. Love, Hiromi.”

Your lips parted slightly in the shape of a sigh.

“Thank you,” you said softly, not to the sender, but the delivery boy—then set the flowers on your desk like they weighed too much.

Gojo hadn’t moved.

He stood now, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. Everyone else was halfway out the door. He remained still.

“Didn’t seem like they were the right flowers,” he said finally, voice laced with observation, not judgment. “Too loud. Not your style.”

You arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer.

“Just saying,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You looked like you wanted to throw them in the trash.”

“I didn’t,” you lied, fingers gripping the edge of your desk.

“You sighed.”

His voice dropped an octave. “You’ve been fidgeting with that ring all class. You barely made eye contact today.”

You met his eyes sharply then. Instinct. Challenge.

But you held it too long.

And he noticed.

He smiled slowly. “Rough morning?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

He studied you for a beat longer, then gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “Right. Totally fine. Nothing says ‘fine’ like gripping your own hand so tight it turns white.”

You stepped back, drawing a professional line in the sand. “You’re crossing boundaries again.”

“But I’m curious, Professor,” he said, voice honey-slick and dangerous. “Isn’t that the whole point of learning? Getting close enough to understand what you’re not supposed to?”

Your breath caught—barely—but you managed to swallow it down.

“Office hours are over,” you said softly. Firmly. “I suggest you enjoy your afternoon.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging across your face like it was a text to be deciphered.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

“See you tomorrow, Professor.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there, surrounded by flowers that didn’t move you, and words that did.

And even though he was gone…

His eyes stayed.

Gojo Satoru’s POV

There she was.

Again.

Like fate just kept handing her to him.

A hoodie. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Sneakers scuffed. She looked realer like this. Softer. Less like the professor behind the desk and more like the woman she probably forgot how to be. The kind of woman who bought granola bars in bulk and snapped softly at her kids in the snack aisle like she was just barely holding the day together.

Gojo leaned on the cart, watching her from behind the cereal display. He didn’t stalk her. Not really.

Not today.

It was luck.

Or coincidence.

Or maybe something better.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here—Geto sent him out with a list of nonsense he could’ve Instacarted, but now Gojo was grateful for the dumb errand. Flour, garlic, shallots—none of it mattered anymore.

Not when she was here.

She didn’t see him yet. Too busy keeping her kids from turning aisle seven into a WWE arena.

“I said one snack, not five.”

Her tone was sharp but loving. Exhausted but clear.

He could’ve listened to her scold someone all day. The power in her voice made his stomach ache.

He slipped into the aisle like smoke, pretending to scan the spice rack.

She turned and froze.

He grinned.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor.”

Her brows lifted. “Mr. Gojo?”

Her voice held a surprised laugh, light and confused, as her eyes darted toward her sons—both currently comparing cartoon gummies like it was life or death.

“I promise I’m not stalking you,” he said smoothly. “Just here for Geto. He’s the domestic one. Sends me on errands when he’s elbow-deep in some sauce that takes four hours and three types of cheese.”

“You cook?”

“Absolutely not,” Gojo said. “Unless cereal counts.”

She smirked faintly. Her arms were crossed over her chest, cart full of juice boxes and a box of wine tucked in the corner. Her hair was falling out of its tie. There was something so achingly human about her in this light.

“Geto, though,” he continued, “he made this ginger soy soba thing last week that literally cured my hangover.”

“You’re not supposed to tell your professor you were hungover.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “But you’re my professor. Makes it kind of special, doesn’t it?”

She shook her head—gentle dismissal—but the color in her cheeks betrayed her. It wasn’t embarrassment.

It was warmth.

Before she could speak again, two boys thundered back down the aisle.

“Mom! Can we get these? Please?”

The younger one stared up at Gojo like he’d just realized there was a giant standing beside his mother.

Gojo smiled down. “Hey, little man.”

The older boy narrowed his eyes. “Who’s that?”

You crouched between them, fixing their cart placement and adjusting the snacks in your arms. “He’s one of my students. Say hi, and let’s keep it moving.”

“Hi,” they mumbled, unimpressed.

You stood, brushing your hand down your side. “Thanks for the grocery talk, Gojo. I’ll see you in class.”

You turned to go, pushing the cart away. Your kids were already racing toward the frozen section.

But Gojo didn’t move.

He watched you walk off—quiet, thoughtful, predatory in the most beautiful sense.

And just as your figure curved around the corner, he muttered under his breath:

“…I’d make a great stepfather.”

The overhead music switched to something mindless. A pop song about summer.

Gojo smiled to himself, then picked up the box of salt he didn’t need, tossed it in the cart, and made a mental note:

The boys like fruit snacks.

She prefers dry red wine.

She doesn’t wear her ring on the weekends.

All useful things to remember.

After all…

Love is in the details.

And he was taking notes.

The house was dim, quiet again—just the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of paper bags being unpacked.

Y/N moved around the kitchen with tired hands, slipping fruit into the bowl, sorting snacks into drawers, and placing boxed juice in the lower fridge shelf where little hands could reach. Her sons were finally asleep upstairs, their room a mess of Legos, blankets, and quiet breathing.

She paused as she unwrapped a package of cherry tomatoes, catching sight of herself in the microwave’s reflection.

The same sweatshirt from her grocery run. Her wedding ring still on.

For now.

The sound of keys unlocking the front door made her shoulders tense. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Hiromi entered like he belonged here.

Like nothing had changed.

Like he wasn’t the reason she drank wine in the kitchen after midnight.

“Hey,” he said casually, loosening his tie and tossing his bag by the door. “Late deposition ran over.”

She didn’t respond. Just reached for the corkscrew.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” she said flatly, popping the cork from the wine bottle with one hand. The red poured smoothly into her glass. “Leftovers from yesterday. You can warm it up.”

He exhaled slowly, pulling off his blazer. “Y/N, can we talk?”

“No,” she said immediately, turning her back to him and taking a long sip of wine.

His voice tightened. “My parents think we should try counseling.”

She paused, the glass still at her lips.

When she turned, her face was blank—but her eyes were sharp enough to cut.

“Counseling?” she repeated bitterly. “Your parents think we should talk to a stranger about your dick being somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be?”

Hiromi winced. “Don’t do that.”

“No, Hiromi,” she snapped, placing the glass down too hard on the counter. “Don’t you do that. Don’t walk into this house like you haven’t detonated everything we built. Don’t talk to me about counseling like I didn’t already look up divorce lawyers six weeks ago.”

Silence.

She stepped closer, voice low and vicious. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw the papers in your face first.”

His jaw tightened. “I made a mistake—”

“You cheated on me.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry—”

“I don’t care if you wrote it in the fucking sky.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” he snapped, stepping toward her. “I’m trying. For us. For our family.”

She scoffed. “No—you’re performing. You’re playing house and hoping I forget what you did.”

“You think I don’t hate myself for it?”

“No,” she said, voice suddenly quieter—icier. “I think you hate the consequences.”

They stared at each other. The overhead light flickered slightly. The fridge clicked off.

And just like that, her body shifted.

She turned.

Walked away.

“I’m done talking,” she muttered.

“Y/N—”

“Sleep on the couch.”

She disappeared down the hallway, her glass of wine still in hand.

The bedroom door closed with a gentle click—but the silence afterward was louder than any slammed door ever could be.

Hiromi stood in the kitchen, the untouched leftovers cold behind him. The scent of wine still hung in the air.

And in her bedroom?

Y/N sat at the edge of the bed, staring into the deep red swirl in her glass.

Her phone buzzed.

A new email.

From: Satoru Gojo

Subject: Tonight’s Assignment – Extra Notes

Her heart skipped.

She didn’t open it.

Not yet.

But the ring on her finger suddenly felt suffocating.

The wine sat untouched now.

Y/N’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, heart thudding too loudly in her ears for the stillness of the room. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, casting shadows across the tired lines beneath her eyes. The subject line was innocuous enough. Plain. Academic.

“Tonight’s Assignment – Extra Notes”

From: Gojo Satoru

But Gojo didn’t do anything plain.

She clicked it.

Professor,

Thank you for today’s lecture. I found the topic of “authenticity vs. performance” particularly fascinating. I’ve been thinking a lot about which version of ourselves we choose to show people… and which version they fall in love with.

I attached my revised draft. I took your advice to make it more personal.

Hope you’re not grading too late. You deserve a break. A real one.

Sincerely,

Satoru

The file glared up at her from the bottom of the email.

CreativeAssignment_Revised_Gojo.docx

She didn’t click it.

Not right away.

Instead, she stared at that one sentence:

“…which version they fall in love with.”

Y/N let her fingers slowly fall from the keyboard. Her breath felt tight in her chest—like the room was closing in just a little. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way Hiromi’s voice still echoed behind her ribs like a bruise that hadn’t faded.

Or maybe it was Gojo.

The way he looked at her like he saw straight through the layers. Like he wanted to peel them back—slowly. Carefully. Obsessively.

She clicked the document.

And as the first few lines appeared on the screen… her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

A flush. A skip in her pulse.

His words weren’t just personal.

They were intimate.

Possessive.

Crafted with the kind of hunger a student should never direct toward their professor. But it wasn’t crude. No—it was worse. It was thoughtful. Every sentence a thread of temptation pulling tighter and tighter.

You should stop reading, she told herself.

But she didn’t.

And when she finally closed the laptop—fingers shaking, wine untouched, the ring burning on her finger again—she didn’t feel disgusted.

She felt wanted.

And that scared her more than anything.

—

The classroom had cleared out, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee, ink, and the low hum of the projector cooling down. Y/N stacked a few stray papers, organizing them into a neat pile, when she noticed someone hadn’t left yet.

Gojo.

Leaning against the front-row desk, arms crossed, bag slung lazily over his shoulder, he looked like he had all the time in the world.

“Professor,” he started, his tone lighter than air, “do you know anything about the internship program for pre-law students?”

You glanced up, arching a brow. “Thinking of becoming a lawyer, Gojo?”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin, though something in his tone hinted at sincerity. “Figured I should explore my options. Can’t rely on just being devastatingly good-looking forever, right?”

You almost laughed. Almost. “Well, it’s a rigorous route. The school partners with a few law firms to give students hands-on experience. It’s… interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” He tilted his head. “Do you know any of the firms?”

You hesitated for a moment, then answered without thinking, “My husband’s firm actually has a partnership.”

The word husband slipped out like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

Gojo didn’t miss the subtle change in your tone, the way the word fell flat. “Your husband, huh?” His grin softened, almost wicked. “Lucky guy. I mean, must be nice to come home to you after a long day of winning cases.”

Your throat tightened. “Something like that.”

He leaned forward just slightly, enough to feel intrusive without touching you. “You don’t sound like you mean it.”

You froze, caught off guard by his bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“You just… don’t talk about him like you used to. Not that I’m keeping track or anything,” he said with a sly smirk, “but when you first mentioned him in class, there was this… light in your voice. Now? It sounds like you’re talking about a stranger who lives in your house.”

The words hit too close to home.

You forced a boundary back into place, straightening your posture. “Gojo, I think you’re reading too much into my personal life. Let’s focus on your career goals.”

He watched you for a long moment, and though his grin remained, his eyes burned with something quieter. Darker.

“Fine,” he said lightly, “but you know, if I were him, I wouldn’t give you a reason to talk about me like that.”

You ignored the shiver that ran down your spine, picking up your pen to end the conversation. “There’s a career fair on campus tomorrow. Go to it. They’ll have more information on internships and networking opportunities. It’s worth your time.”

Gojo’s grin widened, but he nodded. “A fair, huh? Guess I’ll have to impress someone else tomorrow then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Class dismissed, Gojo.”

But as he walked out, he glanced over his shoulder, gaze lingering just long enough to make your chest feel tight.

The kitchen smelled like butter and burnt garlic.

Hiromi was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan with too much focus—like if he just seasoned it right, it would fix everything between them.

Y/N sat at the kitchen island, watching him with tired eyes, glass of water cradled in her hand instead of the wine she really wanted.

The boys were upstairs finishing homework. It was the only reason she was still here. The only reason she hadn’t left the moment he said, “Dinner for two?” like they weren’t strangers sharing a last name.

“So…” Hiromi began, not looking at her, “you have the career fair tomorrow, right?”

“Mhm,” she replied absently, picking at a hangnail.

“I might stop by. Shake a few hands, give the school something polished to look at. PR stuff, you know.”

She looked up at that. “You think showing up for a few hours fixes anything?”

His brow twitched, jaw flexing as he turned the burner down. “It’s not about fixing things. It’s about supporting what matters.”

You. The kids. My marriage.

He didn’t say any of it—but she could hear it in the silence.

Y/N offered a tight-lipped smile. “Right.”

She didn’t argue.

Not because she agreed.

Because the boys were just upstairs, and their laughter still echoed too sweetly in her chest to spoil it.

Dinner was plated. They ate in silence, minus a few harmless observations about the boys’ math assignments and the weather. He asked if she wanted to watch something afterward.

She said she had papers to grade.

Another lie.

⸻

Later that night, Y/N lay on her side in bed. Alone.

The sheets were cold, but her skin was flushed.

Her eyes scanned the dark ceiling, blinking slowly. Trying to forget. Trying to feel something.

But it wasn’t Hiromi’s arms she imagined around her.

It was Gojo’s voice she heard—low and teasing in her ear.

“If I were him, I wouldn’t give you a reason to talk about me like that.”

She clenched the blanket tighter.

Her mind betrayed her.

She pictured him again. Gojo. In the same room. Standing at the foot of her bed, eyes molten, mouth curled into that dangerous smile.

The thought hit her like a spark.

She blinked hard, heart thudding as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden—even in her own head.

“No,” she whispered, rolling onto her back.

But her body didn’t listen.

The warmth didn’t leave.

And long after her eyes closed, long after her body finally drifted into sleep…

It was still him.

Not her husband.

Just the student who looked at her like she was the only thing he wanted in the world.

-

CAREER FAIR

The mirror didn’t lie.

You looked composed. Crisp blazer. Pencil skirt. Neutral lipstick. Hair pulled back neatly. Every detail carefully curated, like you were dressing for an image you were still trying to protect.

The professional. The professor. The wife.

But underneath it?

Cracks.

Hairline fractures in your resolve that even concealer couldn’t cover. You hadn’t slept well—Gojo’s words had made a home in your head last night, curling into your dreams like silk and smoke.

You told yourself today was about the students.

Not about him.

You buttoned the final clasp on your blouse with a sigh and grabbed your badge, tossing it over your neck as you stepped into the hallway. Hiromi had already left. A polite post-it on the coffee pot said “See you there.” You didn’t reply.

The campus auditorium buzzed with ambition. Booths lined both walls. Banners boasting firm names, foundations, fellowships. Students filtered in like a current, all nerves and suits and hopeful smiles.

You adjusted the clipboard in your hand, trying to focus.

And then— He walked in.

Effortlessly late. Unapologetically confident.

Satoru Gojo.

You saw him before he saw you—but somehow, it still felt like he knew you’d be looking.

He wasn’t in a suit, not really. Slim black slacks, fitted turtleneck, long coat slung over his arm. A silver watch gleamed on his wrist like he wore it for your eyes alone.

And when his gaze met yours across the room— He smirked.

Like he knew.

Like he always knew.

Your breath caught.

He started walking toward you, slow and smooth, weaving through booths and students like he didn’t belong to any of them.

And the worst part?

You didn’t move.

You didn’t stop looking.

Gojo’s POV

She looked like a fucking dream. Lips soft. Eyes sharp even from across the room. Professional, yes—but fragile around the edges, like one wrong word would crack her open.

Gojo licked his bottom lip slowly as he watched her watching him.

She looked like she wanted to run.

But didn’t.

That was always his favorite part.

He reached her like gravity had pulled him there.

“Professor,” he greeted, voice lower than necessary, letting the sound sit between them. “Didn’t think I’d see you so early.”

Her throat bobbed. “You clean up well.”

Gojo tilted his head. “You noticed.”

Her eyes flicked away. Boundary. Defense.

But she couldn’t hold it long—not when his presence pressed like heat against her skin.

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her thumb brushed absently over her wedding ring like it didn’t belong.

“Big turnout,” he said casually. “Should be a productive day.”

“For students who take it seriously,” she said.

“I’m serious about a lot of things,” he replied smoothly, voice darkening just enough.

Her lips parted—then closed again. As if her body answered before her mind caught up.

Gojo leaned in ever so slightly, just close enough to make her heartbeat spike. He saw it. Felt it.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case no one told you.”

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp as glass.

“Be careful, Satoru,” she warned.

God, he loved the sound of his name on her tongue.

He smiled—slow, unbothered, electric.

“Always.”

But even as she turned away to check another student’s progress, Gojo stayed rooted in place, eyes never leaving her silhouette.

He wasn’t here for the internships.

He wasn’t here for the firms.

He was here for her.

And sooner or later…

She’d be his.

The career fair was a success on paper.

Professional suits. Smiling students. Polished booths and clean banners. Catered hors d'oeuvres. Complimentary champagne flutes gliding through the air on silver trays.

Y/N had been keeping to herself. Mingling. Advising. Floating.

And sipping.

Glass after glass.

She wasn’t counting until glass four. Now she was on her seventh.

It dulled everything. The buzz of conversation, the ache behind her eyes, the simmering knot in her stomach that tightened the moment she saw her.

Hiromi’s secretary.

The secretary.

The same one whose texts she had found. Whose name was saved in his phone as “Minako (Work)”. The one who once brought “extra files” over to the house on a Sunday in a fitted pencil skirt and too much perfume.

She was standing just a few booths away, chatting politely with a group of students, wearing the same firm badge as Hiromi. Pretty. Poised. Harmless-looking.

Y/N’s fingers clenched the stem of her champagne glass.

She took another sip.

No—this was her event. Her campus. Her title.

She straightened her blazer and moved into the crowd, feigning interest in résumés and portfolios as her gaze occasionally flicked toward the firm’s booth. Toward Hiromi, who was now walking toward her… and toward him.

Gojo.

The moment they made eye contact, her breath hitched.

He wasn’t smiling this time.

He was watching.

Tracking.

Reading every inch of her like he could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. The hurt she was trying to drown in bubbles.

And when Hiromi finally stopped beside her, placing a hand on her lower back like he still had the right—

Gojo moved.

He slid into their space effortlessly, plucking a flute from a tray and sipping without breaking eye contact.

“Nice turnout tonight,” he said coolly.

Hiromi blinked. “You’re one of the students?”

“Yes, sir.” Gojo offered a lazy grin. “Satoru Gojo. Professor L/N’s class.”

Hiromi extended a hand, always the politician. “Hiromi. Good to meet you.”

They shook, but neither looked away.

Gojo’s smile was polite. Too polite. His grip lingered just long enough to be felt.

“You’re with the law firm?” he asked.

“I’m one of the partners.”

“Ah.” Gojo’s head tilted slightly. “Makes sense.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, her head swimming.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gojo added, voice velvet-lined but sharp.

Hiromi smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “All good things, I hope.”

Gojo sipped his drink again, his gaze flicking to Y/N—lingering. “That depends on who’s talking.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Hiromi tensed.

“Excuse me,” she cut in, stepping between them. “Satoru—why don’t you check out the foundation table? They’re looking for applications.”

Gojo’s gaze dropped to her mouth. Then to the deep blush in her cheeks. Then to her glass—empty again.

“I’m good,” he murmured. “Besides… I prefer to observe.”

He turned without another word, disappearing into the crowd.

Hiromi stepped closer. “Is that kid obsessed with you?”

Y/N didn’t respond.

She lifted the glass again.

Empty.

“Excuse me,” she said, barely holding composure, “I need some air.”

And just like that, she walked off—heels clicking across marble, champagne bubbling in her blood, shame and heat crawling up her spine.

But behind her?

Two men.

One with a ring he didn’t deserve.

And one with a smile he shouldn’t wear like a promise.

The night had quieted.

The clinking glasses, the soft hum of ambition, the low buzz of background music—faded.

The champagne haze lingered in her bloodstream, but clarity struck like a cold slap the moment she walked through the front door.

The career fair was over.

And so was her patience.

She kicked off her heels in the dark hallway, dropped her bag with a thud, and made her way into the kitchen where Hiromi stood at the sink, rinsing out his thermos like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just bring her into Y/N’s world like it was casual. Harmless.

“Was it worth it?” she asked, voice low and sharp.

He looked up, blinking. “What?”

“You really brought her,” she said, stepping into the room, arms folded across her chest. “To my event. Where I work. Where I teach.”

Hiromi’s jaw clenched. “Minako is my assistant. She came with the firm.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“It wasn’t my call,” he said, suddenly tired. “It’s not like I asked for her specifically—”

“But you knew she’d be there,” she cut in. “You knew. And you still showed up with her. You let her walk around my space, smiling at my students, like we’re just a normal couple with a stable life and no one hiding skeletons in their phones.”

His silence was louder than any apology could’ve been.

She stepped closer, voice trembling now—not from fear, but fury held in too long.

“I watched her standing there like everything was fine. Like I wasn’t the woman whose home she walked into while she was fucking her boss behind his wife’s back.”

Hiromi flinched. “Y/N…”

“And don’t you dare tell me you didn’t know what that would do to me.”

His hands tightened on the edge of the sink. “I’m trying to fix this—”

“You’re not trying—you’re performing,” she snapped. “Dinner. Post-it notes. Empty apologies. And now what? You want credit for showing up to an event you tainted the second you walked in the door?”

Hiromi stepped toward her, exasperated. “You’ve been drinking. Let’s talk about this when you’ve cooled down—”

“No.”

The word stopped him cold.

She was shaking now—but it wasn’t weakness. It was restraint.

“I’ve been cooling down for months, Hiromi. I’ve been swallowing my rage, faking smiles in front of the kids, pushing down how it feels to be married to someone I don’t recognize anymore. And tonight? Watching her follow you around like a shadow?” Her eyes narrowed. “That was the moment I realized something.”

He stared at her. Waiting.

“I’m not angry anymore,” she said.

“I’m disgusted.”

The words hit harder than she expected. The silence after them stretched like a knife’s edge between them.

She turned.

And without waiting for his response, she walked away.

He watched her leave.

Not just the fair. The moment.

The shift.

The unraveling.

She left her lipstick on the rim of her seventh glass and her dignity somewhere in the silence between “That’s my husband’s firm” and that woman’s smile.

And Gojo saw it all.

Every twitch of her mouth. Every swallow of pride. Every moment she held her body still like a bomb that knew exactly when it planned to go off.

And when she stormed out of the fair, blazer slightly askew, heat in her cheeks, fire in her eyes?

God, he wanted to follow her home.

Not to fuck her.

Not yet.

But to watch her.

To see how she moved through her house in silence. To see how long it took her to rip that ring off. To hear the fight he knew would follow. He wanted to hear her scream at that man. Her husband.

That man didn’t deserve her anger.

He didn’t deserve anything.

Gojo had stood just behind one of the booths as it all unfolded. The stiff greetings. The tight smiles. The way her body reacted to that woman’s voice like a cold hand down her spine.

It made him hard.

Not just physically. Obsessively.

Emotionally.

Primally.

He wanted to be the one she snapped at.

The one she broke down in front of.

The one she let go with.

Because she held everything so tightly. All her pain. Her strength. Her silence. And Gojo?

He would make her unravel.

He wanted to watch her cry and bite back her pride. He wanted to drag every breathy moan from her throat until she forgot the sound of her husband’s name. Until the only name that lived between her lips was his.

“Satoru.”

He could already hear it.

He pictured her in her bed, alone—just like she’d been every night lately. Sheets tangled around her thighs. One hand clutched in the fabric. The other between her legs. Eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted, and no one to admit it to.

He’d be in her thoughts tonight.

Not Hiromi.

Not anyone else.

Him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at her contact page. He hadn’t messaged her tonight—not yet.

He wanted her to think about him first. Crave him.

But he knew she would. She already did.

Gojo leaned back against his headboard, palming himself slowly through his slacks, eyes heavy-lidded, pulse drumming in his throat.

He imagined her voice—

Shaky. Tired. Needy.

He’d be gentle at first. Slow. Patient. Worshipping. But the moment she said his name like she meant it, like she finally broke—he’d ruin her.

He'd take his time teaching her how to forget the man in the other room. The one who never truly saw her. The one who let her go without even realizing it.

And when she shattered?

When she moaned into his mouth, nails in his back, ringless hand clenching his hair?

He’d whisper against her ear—

“You were always mine.”

CLICK HERE FOR PART 2

-

yandere ! prince gojo x mermaid reader x yandere ! siren choso pt 4

"you know, i'm getting really tired of my little mermaid running run me..."

summary ; in a world split between sea and land, a forbidden rescue binds a human prince to a defiant mermaid princess. prince gojo tears through oceans in a frenzy to claim the mysterious woman who saved him, while princess y/n is chained to an arranged marriage with the sadistic king choso of the abyssal reach. caught between a predator above and a predator below, her rebellion sparks a dangerous obsession that could drown kingdoms in lust and blood.

cws: obsession, violence, threats, possessive behavior, political manipulation, implied blood/gore, dangerous romance, power imbalance, sexual tension.

playlist

previous pt

the ocean groaned with the weight of a storm that had not yet touched the surface. in the black court, choso sat slumped upon his throne of coral and bone, his body no longer his own. scales crept up his arm, black and sharp like obsidian, curling over his chest and shoulder—each patch of hardened flesh a testament to loss, to the gaping wound left by his vanished queen. the more the scales spread, the more of him the sea devoured, dragging him further from the man he had once been.

his eyes glowed faintly, wild, ringed with sleepless red.

yuji, his most loyal aid, approached carefully. the young siren clutched a crystal orb carved from the heart of the deepest trench. its surface shimmered with trapped currents, colors spiraling like storms beneath glass. bowing, yuji lifted it high with both hands.

“my king,” he murmured, “the crystal calls for you.”

choso’s trident scraped against the stone as he let it fall aside with a low clang. his long fingers, scaled and clawed, reached for the orb. he set it at the centerpiece of his throne, the cavern falling into silence, the only sound the hiss of his breath and the mournful hum of the sea outside.

he stared into the orb until his reflection warped, until it was no longer his face he saw but shadows of the past, and of her.

then, without hesitation, he took up the ritual blade.

the knife was jagged, carved from a leviathan’s tooth. with one swift slice, he opened his palm, dark blood welling thick and slow, blacker than the water itself. the droplets hissed against the orb, and the sphere began to glow with an otherworldly pulse.

his hand, slick with his own lifeblood, pressed firmly against the crystal.

his lips parted, trembling, and in the abyssal tongue—an ancient language forbidden to all but kings and widowers—he whispered your name.

the syllables were drowned in sorrow, each one heavy enough to crush the sea around him.

his eyes fell closed as the current rose, as the orb lit the chamber in a stormy glow. the sea itself seemed to answer, shifting, stirring, listening.

“y/n…” his voice cracked, low and guttural. “my queen… my heart.”

and with each repetition, the scales on his chest seemed to shimmer darker, spreading like a curse.

the crystal pulsed once—then bloomed with color.

choso’s breath caught as the swirling water inside shaped itself into vision. there you were, bathed in moonlight, kneeling at the edge of a river. across from you shimmered a mermaid—her scales glimmering like pearls, her hair cascading like liquid silver. the sight made the throne room tremble.

the voices echoed through the orb, soft at first, then piercing, as if they were whispered directly into his ears.

“you carry the sea in your blood,” the mermaid told you, her tone warm, knowing. “he does not know… she is a mermaid.”

choso’s grip on the orb tightened until his claws threatened to crack it. his lips curled back, baring his teeth. “he does not know,” he repeated, a low growl, his voice breaking into a hiss. “she is mine.”

the vision shifted suddenly, violently—like the sea slamming a ship beneath the waves. the image of the river disappeared, and instead, he saw you.

asleep.

your body curled delicately on silken sheets, hair sprawled across the pillow, your lips parted in soft breaths. innocence radiated from you, untouched, unaware of the eyes upon you.

choso’s body trembled. the scales along his arm glistened as he leaned forward, dragging his claws against the orb’s surface. and then—he was there. or so it seemed. his reflection spilled into the vision, until his shadow loomed at the side of your bed.

he reached, his scaled hand pressing to your cheek. wet. cold. the touch lingered, traced, worshipped.

his lips brushed your temple though you did not stir.

“you know…” his voice bled into a whisper, sweet and venomous, low enough to vibrate the crystal, “i’m getting really tired of my little mermaid running from me.”

the orb’s glow flared with each beat of his pulse, his black blood seeping deeper into its veins. it trembled violently on the pedestal, as if resisting him, as if the seas themselves knew this ritual should never have been awakened. but choso did not stop.

his claws dug into the crystal’s surface until the tips shrieked across it, leaving faint lines, cracks blooming outward like spiderwebs. his breathing grew ragged—hungry. inside, your image shifted again. you stirred in your sleep, a small, unconscious motion, lips parting with a sigh as you turned onto your side. the sheets slipped lower, baring the soft slope of your shoulder to the pale light spilling through your window.

choso’s chest heaved. the scales spreading over him rippled with heat, and his pupils dilated wide, swallowing the whites of his eyes. he pressed his forehead to the orb, as though pressing it to you. “so fragile,” he whispered, voice trembling between reverence and rage. “so close. so far.”

a jagged crack split across the orb, a thin line of light leaking out like the first fracture in a dam.

choso’s lips curled into something feral. he slid his scaled palm down the surface, following the outline of your cheek within, tracing it with the tenderness of a lover and the violence of a predator.

“my little mermaid…” his voice broke, hoarse with yearning, “you don’t understand. i hear you. i feel you. every ripple of your heart against the water finds me.”

the orb convulsed, images within spiraling—your face, your voice, your laughter with the river mermaid—until finally it fixated on you asleep again, glowing with impossible softness.

his voice dropped to a whisper, husky, almost prayer-like, as his teeth bared in a smile that was anything but holy:

“and i will never let you run again.”

the orb shattered.

black shards rained across the throne, scattering like pieces of a broken star. seawater burst outward, flooding the chamber floor with a violent surge, carrying the echo of your name in its tide.

choso remained unmoved on his throne, his body drenched, his hand bleeding freely, scales gleaming dark. he closed his fist over the bloodied remnants of the crystal, raised it to his lips, and dragged his tongue slowly over his palm.

the taste of iron. the taste of you.

you jolted upright, lungs straining for air, your nightdress clinging damp against your skin. your heart slammed against your ribs so violently you thought it might break free, and your vision swam red as if blood still clouded your eyes.

his voice lingered in your skull—low, dark, salt-bitten. you’re already mine.

you stumbled out of bed, bare feet smacking against the polished floor, and tore the balcony doors open. the night air rushed in, cold and sharp, but the sea below churned deceptively calm under the starlight. not a single ripple betrayed him. not a single shadow gave him away.

you gripped the stone railing until your knuckles whitened. “it was just a dream,” you whispered to yourself, though your pulse betrayed you—racing, frantic, hunted.

but when you backed away, your spine collided with something solid. not stone. not shadow.

a wall of warmth.

“are you okay, y/n?”

his voice—gojo’s voice—smooth and startling, cut through your haze. you spun, breath caught in your throat, staring up at him with eyes still burning.

you swallowed hard, forcing a smile, forcing the lie. “yes… i’m alright. i just had a bad dream.”

he tilted his head, watching you carefully, his pale eyes too sharp to be fooled yet too gentle to call you out. instead, he stepped closer, arms enveloping you. his embrace was broad, unshakable, the kind that dared you to feel safe even when you knew you shouldn’t.

then, with a suddenness that left your stomach lurching, he lifted you. your gasp broke into the night as he spun you in his arms, a playful twirl against the edge of your fear.

“well,” he murmured lowly, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, “if you’d like, you can sleep with me. i’m sure i’ll keep the bad dreams away.”

his kiss was featherlight, warm, grounding—yet you flinched, body tensing against him. because even with his lips on your skin, choso’s voice still echoed in the back of your skull.

mine.

and no amount of sunlight, no amount of gojo’s warmth, could make the dream feel less real.

 “shall we eat? i have a boat ride prepared for us,” gojo said warmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. you nodded, forcing your lips into a soft curve, and almost instantly the maids came bustling in—eager hands reaching to dress you, drape you, polish you until you shone like a bride already promised.

gojo lingered only long enough to steal another glance at you before striding from the chamber, his long robes trailing behind him. his footsteps carried him down the corridor to his study, where a firm knock echoed against the polished door.

“enter,” he called without hesitation.

geto slipped inside, head bowed just enough to honor formality, but his dark eyes sharp. he waited until the doors closed with a click before speaking.

“sire… if i must.”

gojo looked up, raising a brow. “must what?”

“must speak plainly.” geto’s voice was steady, his arms folding across his chest. “that girl is not ordinary. she came out of thin air. i’ve spoken to every residence along the shore—none of them know her. not a name, not a sighting, nothing.”

gojo exhaled through his nose, clearly uninterested in playing detective. “geto—”

“no,” geto cut in, his tone dropping, more forceful. “something is wrong here. something does not feel right. she healed you with a potion. and only merfolk could craft a remedy as potent as that.”

the word merfolk hung heavy in the air, unspoken danger curling around it.

gojo’s jaw tightened. he turned, running a hand down the front of his uniform as he prepared his military suit, gold fastenings glinting in the candlelight. his tone was calm, but iron lay beneath it.

“she told me she used to live among them,” he said evenly. “perhaps she has knowledge of their ways. perhaps she could even serve as an aid when we launch our attack on the abyssal reach.” he paused, adjusting his collar, eyes flashing dangerously. “that woman saved me, geto. there is no doubt about it. now—” he smoothed down the lapel of his jacket, voice cutting sharper— “are you done wasting my time?”

the silence stretched.

geto’s mouth pressed into a thin line. he reached into his sleeve and produced a scroll, the wax seal marked with warnings of old. he extended it with both hands, gaze unreadable.

“don’t say i didn’t warn you, your majesty,” he said softly.

gojo took the scroll, his fingers brushing the seal, but his eyes never left geto’s face.

for a flicker of a moment, it was not the loyalty of advisor and king that hung between them— but the cold certainty of hunter and hunted.

the dining hall was sunlit, awash in pale gold through the tall windows. you entered quietly, skirts rustling, the pink silk of your dress catching the light with every step. the white bow tied neatly at your back swayed like a ribboned secret, and when gojo lifted his head to see you, his entire face softened.

he smiled—genuine, boyish, the kind of smile that could disarm an army—and his hand reached instinctively for yours as you sat beside him.

“i wish my mother were alive to see how beautiful you look,” he murmured.

your lips curved faintly, sadness swimming beneath the sweetness of his words. “she would have been proud,” you whispered, even though you’d never known her, never known his mother. his grief brushed yours like two ghosts meeting in the space between you.

breakfast passed in quiet ceremony, silver forks against porcelain, the murmur of servants stepping in and out. it might have been peaceful, if not for the shadow lingering behind the walls.

maki appeared then, her presence sharp as drawn steel. she bowed quickly before speaking.

“sire, the ship has been prepared.”

your brows knit together as you glanced between them. “ship?” you echoed, head tilting. “i thought… we were going on a boat.”

gojo only smiled, boyish charm twisting into something more mysterious. he squeezed your hand once more, his lips brushing across your knuckles.

“we are,” he said, “but not a simple one. today we retrieve an old, ancient pearl hidden near the abyssal rivers. a ship is needed for this.”

you blinked. “a pearl?”

his grin widened, pride flickering in his pale eyes. “for your ring, of course.”

the words hung heavy, like a promise, like chains wrapped in velvet.

gojo stood, chair scraping against the floor, his tall figure radiant in the morning light. you rose as well, ready to follow, but before you could step, maki’s hand darted out, firm around your wrist.

you froze.

her eyes were fierce, her grip iron. she leaned close, her voice low enough to keep from echoing beyond the gilded walls.

“child,” she hissed, “you must not reveal yourself. for if you do… your death will be gruesome.”

the weight of her warning sent a chill through your spine.

maki released you just as quickly, her fingers sliding away as if nothing had happened. she bowed to gojo, who hadn’t noticed the exchange, then swept out of the hall as though her message had been nothing but the brush of air.

you stood rooted to the spot, heart thudding.

“come,” gojo called, already several steps ahead, light catching in his white hair like a halo.

your lips parted, but no words came. maki’s whisper was still curling in your mind.

once this ride is finished… you must meet me by the library.

and so you followed, caught between the warmth of gojo’s smile and the cold coil of prophecy snaring around your throat.

the ship ride was calm at first—eerily so. the ocean stretched endlessly, the sky washed in muted gray, and the only noise was the rhythm of oars cutting into the water and the calls of shipmen barking orders across the deck.

you tried to steady yourself, crouching to toss a ball of knotted rope for the great hound that lumbered by your side. the beast, all teeth and muscle, bounded after it with surprising eagerness. his heavy paws thudded against the wooden planks, his tail lashing with delight. for a moment, it almost felt safe. almost.

but when the game ended and your breath steadied, you drifted to the front of the ship. your fingers curled against the railing as you leaned forward, staring at the endless sheet of blue.

then you saw them.

in the distance, jagged black spires broke from the sea like a crown of thorns. your heart sank into your stomach. a chill slid down your spine when you caught sight of shadows darting beneath the waves—slick tails slicing the water before disappearing again.

“sirens ahead!” a sailor bellowed.

panic rippled across the deck. men scrambled, shoving earplugs deep into their ears, faces pale with practiced fear.

you gripped the railing tighter, leaning closer despite yourself.

the water frothed.

and then they rose.

women—if you could call them that—surfaced in eerie unison, hair slick and glistening, pale throats stained with blood. their mouths curled into sharp smiles, crimson still dripping down their chins.

“the prince…” one sang, her voice high and sweet, cloying as honey. “…is here.”

another joined, her melody twining around the first like a serpent. then another. and another. a chorus of voices so haunting it made your chest tighten, urging your body to move toward them, to lean farther, to fall.

your knuckles whitened on the railing.

but before you could slip, gojo’s arm wrapped tight around your waist. he yanked you back hard against him, his chest solid against your trembling frame.

“you cannot be so close,” he hissed, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it.

without another word, he tore his bow from his back. his pale hair whipped in the sea wind as he nocked an arrow, drew it taut, and aimed down at the black waters.

the sirens’ song only swelled.

the first arrow flew.

the water screamed.

 the arrows whistled through the air, slicing down into the water with sharp cracks. one siren shrieked, her body writhing before slipping back under the surface in a swirl of red foam. the others hissed, their voices breaking from harmony into discord, rage boiling through their songs.

you staggered back against the mast, your ears ringing—not from the noise of steel or men, but from something deeper. something that burned inside your chest.

the song wasn’t just music. it was inside of you.

your veins thrummed with it, each note clawing through your blood, demanding you answer, demanding you remember. your nails dug into your palms as a sharp pain bloomed behind your eyes.

then—clearer than any human tongue—came a voice that struck like lightning.

“traitor.”

your head snapped up, eyes wide. one of the sirens broke through the waves, her skin gleaming with scales like wet obsidian, her mouth stretched too wide. her eyes—dark and fathomless—locked on you.

“you dare side with him?” she screeched in the abyssal tongue, the words lashing into your bones like barbed wire. “sister of the sea—liar. deserter. filth.”

your stomach lurched. the world spun. the words weren’t foreign. they weren’t strange. you understood them. and they tore into you like knives, exposing a truth you couldn’t keep buried.

you stumbled forward, clutching your chest, gasping as though the very air refused to fill your lungs.

gojo caught your arm instantly, his grip firm, protective. “what is it?” he demanded, though his eyes never left the sea, another arrow already drawn.

but you couldn’t answer him. not when the siren’s song bent around your ribs, suffocating.

the voices of the others followed—chaotic, furious, all blending together.

“traitor—” “return—” “the abyss remembers—” “blood for blood!”

you crumpled to your knees, covering your ears though it did nothing to silence them. the connection ran deeper than flesh. deeper than memory. it was the bond of blood and salt, of scales and bone.

“stop it—please stop—” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were begging the sirens or yourself.

above you, gojo’s voice cut through the madness, sharp as his arrows. “do not listen. they cannot touch you here.”

but you knew better.

they already had.

the world blurred as their song wrapped around you like a tide, tugging, pulling, coaxing you closer. your knees scraped against the wooden deck as you crawled forward, body trembling, every nerve alight with the sirens’ call. the salt-heavy wind whipped your hair into your face, but you didn’t feel it. you didn’t feel anything except the ocean’s summons.

the edge of the ship rose to meet you, and without hesitation, you leaned forward, fingers grasping for the air just beyond, as if you belonged in the depths.

“y/n!” gojo’s voice cracked like thunder. the sharp twang of his bowstring ceased. no more arrows. no more fight. he lunged instead, his boots pounding across the planks.

just as your bare foot slipped against the railing, strong hands seized your ankle. he yanked you back hard, slamming your body against the deck. the shock rattled you awake, eyes widening, lungs heaving as though you had been drowning already.

“what the hell are you doing?!” gojo snarled, face pale, breath ragged, his hands refusing to let go of you even as you thrashed. “they almost had you—”

but you weren’t listening.

because your gaze—your soul—had already locked onto one of them.

not like the others, not shrieking in a frenzy or gnashing bloodied teeth. this one lingered. unmoving. waiting.

his eyes—amber, sharp, strange—burned up through the waves like fire beneath glass.

you froze. your lips parted on instinct, the words spilling from you in a tongue that was not taught, not remembered, but inherited.

“move.”

the command rippled across the surface like a shudder through the sea itself.

in an instant, the chorus shattered. every siren’s head snapped toward you, their mouths snapping shut. then, like fish scattering from a predator, they vanished beneath the waves, leaving only silence and the sound of your ragged breath.

only one remained.

the water lapped against the hull, dark and endless—and there, lurking just below the surface, a shadow lingered. scales glinting like knives, his form too broad, too still to be mistaken.

yuji.

the male siren.

the others fled because you told them to. but him?

he stayed.

he watched.

and the connection between you throbbed with a heat far too close to recognition.

the ship groaned as it slowed, anchors grinding into the riverbed below. smoke and mist thickened the air, curling around the sails like ghostly hands, the abyssal river stretching out before you—dark, endless, and hungry.

gojo’s grip was iron on your arm as he yanked you back against him, his chest heaving as though he had fought off the devil himself. his pale hair was damp with sweat, his bow still clutched in one hand, and his eyes—normally so light, so teasing—were wide and unblinking, filled with something you’d never seen in him before. fear.

he grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. “are you insane?” he hissed, voice breaking with both rage and panic. his thumb dug into your jawline as if to anchor you to reality. “do you have any idea what you just did? you could have died!”

your throat closed. trembling, you shook your head, voice small, cracked. “i’m sorry… i didn’t know i could be… tempted like that.” the lie stung your tongue, but it spilled so easily, cloaked by the way your body still shook from the sirens’ pull.

gojo’s nostrils flared, disbelief and worry twisting together. then, without warning, his arms wrapped around you, crushing you to his chest. “you cannot scare me like that,” he growled into your hair, his breath hot, uneven. “if you do again—i’ll have no choice but to lock you up.”

the threat was raw, unyielding, and yet—gentle hands smoothed down your spine, and the press of his lips against your forehead burned like both punishment and vow.

around you, the shipmen began to move, preparing to disembark. the heavy thud of boots echoed on the planks, orders barked as they lowered ropes and gear into the black waters. still, you stood frozen in his hold, gulping down the thick smoke as your pulse rattled against your ribs.

his touch was suffocating, his words branding you, and yet—you found yourself melting into it, letting his warmth mask the truth you dared not speak.

because even as you clung to gojo, even as you fell into his touch, you could still feel eyes watching from the water below.

yuji had not left.

he lingered, unseen, his presence pulsing at the edge of your mind like the tide, waiting.

the ropes creaked as the men lowered smaller boats toward the abyssal waters, their voices swallowed by the fog that pressed in on all sides. the river reeked of salt and something coppery, and though no siren song hummed in the air, unease crawled over every skin.

gojo’s hand never left your waist, his body a shield in front of yours as he gave sharp orders to the crew. but then—a splash, sudden and violent, broke the silence.

“sire—!” one of the shipmen cried, too late.

a shape shot from beneath the waters, faster than any human eye could follow. scales flashing, claws catching the wood of the railing—yuji. his dark hair plastered to his face, his gills flaring with hunger, his eyes wild with bloodlust.

with a guttural snarl, he lunged—dragging gojo down with inhuman strength. the prince’s body slammed against the edge, bow clattering uselessly to the deck as the siren tried to pull him into the river’s black maw.

“your blood will stain the river!” yuji roared, voice a distorted blend of water and song, sharp enough to rattle the ears of every man aboard.

“no!” the word ripped from your throat before you could stop it. instinct overtook reason—you surged forward, your bare feet pounding the soaked deck.

gojo’s body was halfway over the railing, his knuckles white as he fought against yuji’s grip. the water churned with unnatural force, waves climbing the hull as though eager to devour him.

you threw yourself forward, grabbing hold of his arm. “hold on!”

yuji’s gaze snapped to you, his claws tightening. for a fraction of a second his expression shifted—not fury, but recognition. his pupils dilated, and his lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

“traitor,” he hissed in the forbidden tongue, the word slithering into your bones. “protecting him? when you know who he is?”

the language thrummed through you like fire, threatening to expose you. you flinched, but you held fast, dragging at gojo with every shred of strength you had.

“let him go!” you shouted, voice cracking.

and in that moment—without glowing fins, without revealing your scales, without singing a single note—you did something dangerous. you pushed back, eyes locking on yuji’s, letting your will clash with his.

his fingers twitched. he faltered, as if struck, his grip loosening just enough. gojo tore free, stumbling back into your arms. the deck exploded into chaos—men rushing forward, weapons drawn, ropes swinging, arrows notched. but yuji only lingered for a breath longer, his gaze locked on you, his smile sharp with promise.

then, with a hiss, he let the river swallow him once more.

you clung to gojo’s chest, his heart hammering as he cupped the back of your head. his voice was ragged, furious. “are you out of your mind? you could’ve gone over with me!”

but you weren’t listening. because even through the smoke, through the shouting, you could still feel yuji’s voice coiled like a serpent in your mind:

“you can’t hide from what you are forever.”

the deck was in chaos—men barking orders, ropes being hauled, arrows still dripping seawater. gojo’s bow lay abandoned at his feet, but his grip on you was the only thing that mattered. his hands shook as he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so hard it almost hurt.

“you don’t move again without me,” he hissed, eyes blazing. his breath was ragged, wet strands of silver hair clinging to his cheek. “do you understand me? you stay exactly where i tell you, or i swear—” his voice cracked, something frantic bleeding through his anger. “i’ll tie you to the damn mast if i have to.”

you blinked up at him, trembling. “i—”

“no excuses.” his thumb pressed against your lips, silencing you. “i almost lost you. do you get that? lost you.” he dragged you closer, so near that his forehead pressed against yours. “i can’t… i won’t let that happen. not to you.”

the shipmen pretended not to hear, but you could feel their stolen glances, the unease lingering like fog.

“from this moment on,” gojo continued, his voice lower, harsher, “you don’t go near the railings, you don’t wander the deck, you don’t breathe without me knowing.” his hands slid down to your waist, caging you against him, possessive to the point of suffocation. “you’re mine to protect. mine to keep.”

he kissed your forehead, rough and desperate, as if sealing the vow into your skin.

then, snapping his head toward the men, he barked: “triple the watch. no one takes their eyes off her. if she so much as leans over the side, you drag her back.”

you froze, the heat of his words sinking in. trapped between his arms and the crew’s silence, you swallowed hard, your heart pounding—not just from fear of yuji’s parting words, but from the way gojo’s grip promised something even more dangerous than the sirens.

the river swallowed their ship in heavy smoke, but the pearl was retrieved with almost insulting ease. no grand battle, no catastrophe—just a few lower sirens hissing from the depths, quickly dispatched by gojo’s arrows and the steel of his men. their blood slicked the surface in faint ribbons, vanishing beneath the black water.

the real battle was in the silence that followed.

you sat curled in the corner of the deck, your head resting against the beast they called a dog. its chest rose and fell steadily, the deep rumble of its breathing a comfort against your ribs. your eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards, the world around you muffled, distant.

gojo stood apart. hands on the railing, hair catching the fog, his body was still but his mind was anything but. he had seen it—the way you leaned too far, the way your gaze had gone glassy, the way the sea had almost stolen you. not once. twice.

his chest ached with it. guilt. fear. obsession all bleeding into one.

he turned his head slightly, eyes dragging to where you sat tucked into the animal’s fur. you looked small like that. fragile. and he hated it—hated that he’d let you be touched by danger, hated that his own men saw you stumble toward the water like a child enchanted.

never again.

gojo’s jaw clenched as he slid a hand over the bow slung at his back. the pearl was safe. the kingdom would rejoice. but none of that mattered. the only thing that mattered sat a few feet away, shivering against a beast for warmth when it should’ve been against him.

he’d keep you safe. even if he had to lock you away in the highest tower, even if you hated him for it—he’d rather your hatred than your absence.

as the ship groaned against the current, his eyes never left you.

not now. not ever.

the palace glittered that evening, but you hardly noticed. gojo had excused himself, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaving in haste to meet with one of his closest aides. the pearl was to be refined, polished, set into a ring worthy of you. his excitement had been boyish, disarming. but when the doors shut behind him, a chill swept the corridors.

you wandered, restless, until your steps drew you to the library.

the doors creaked as you pushed them open, and your breath caught. rows upon rows of books towered into shadow, ladders leaning against carved shelves, candlelight licking at their spines. it smelled of parchment, ink, and something older—salt and iron, like the sea.

your fingers grazed along the edge of a table as you entered, eyes wide, heart fluttering at the thought of a place like this hidden in stone walls.

maki sat in a small study alcove, posture sharp, expression unreadable as her eyes lifted to you.

“you really did love him,” she said softly.

your body stilled, throat tightening. “h-how do you know?” you whispered, terrified—half expecting your legs to melt away, your secret to betray you here of all places. but nothing changed. no tail. no scales. only silence, thick and heavy.

maki’s gaze flicked to your arm. “your arm bore an ancient flower. one only merfolk carry. it blooms in those chosen by the gods—princesses, blessed with power greater than the tides themselves. you used it… to save someone you loved.”

your breath hitched, memory flashing hot behind your eyes.

she leaned forward, sliding a worn book across the table toward you. its cover was bound in deep blue leather, etched with symbols that seemed to shift like currents.

“your mother,” maki said, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “she was one of the most powerful mermaids to ever live. sharp, clever, and strong. she carried the gods’ blessing in her blood. as do you.”

your fingers trembled as they hovered over the book. “then why… why can’t i remember? why does it feel like i’m only pieces?”

maki’s jaw tightened, her eyes shadowed. “because you made a deal.”

the word hissed between you like a curse.

she leaned back, folding her arms, voice steady but low. “a deal with the warlock siren. the god of curses himself. sukuna.”

the name thrummed in your chest like a wound reopening.

your fingers hovered over the blue-bound book, the symbols pulsing faintly like veins of light beneath the leather. but already, even as you stared, your mind felt hazy—like water rushing over stone, erasing edges.

you pressed your palms to your temples. “i… i don’t remember. there was something i promised. i know i did. i made a deal with him—” your voice cracked, whispering the name you feared, “with the god of curses.”

maki’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as she stood, eyes flashing. “don’t you dare forget,” she snapped, voice slicing through the quiet. “if you forget what you promised him, you’ll betray yourself. and the moment you betray yourself—” she stepped closer, lowering her tone into a deadly whisper, “you will reveal what you are. and when that happens, the prince will not hesitate. he will kill you without remorse.”

you trembled, throat dry, the truth lodging like glass behind your ribs.

“w-why are you helping me?” you managed, voice hoarse.

maki’s eyes softened, just for a moment. she glanced down at her hands, flexing them as if remembering something once hers. “because i was like you,” she said. “i was born of the river. a mermaid of its winding veins. but i chose wrong. i trusted geto—the dark priest who served as advisor long before gojo’s reign. he offered me freedom, a life above the water. i took it. he transformed me into this.” she gestured bitterly to her human body. “a body of bone and flesh, but never whole. i can’t go back.”

her eyes met yours again, sharp but full of something heavier than pity. “so i’ll keep your secret. but only if you swear—to protect him. the prince is more fragile than he looks. his parents…” she trailed, then sighed, voice dimming. “they were the only shield he had. not from enemies beyond the walls, but from the one enemy closest to him.”

“what do you mean?” you asked, your pulse loud in your ears.

maki’s gaze grew distant, almost reverent, as though speaking of something half-sacred and half-terrifying.

“when gojo was a boy, he wasn’t like other children. his eyes… the six eyes, they called them. a gift from the heavens, but cursed in equal measure. they saw too much. power bled out of him without restraint, splitting the air, crushing walls, bending the very sea around him. it terrified the court. terrified his parents. but they were kind, and they were wise. they swore to protect him—by hiding him from himself.”

her voice grew hushed, as though afraid the walls themselves would listen.

“but nothing hidden stays hidden forever. word of a child with limitless power spread. and it reached the ears of the abyssal king. a tyrant of the deep, older than stone, whose crown was forged from drowned stars. he wanted that power. wanted to chain it, wield it.”

you leaned forward, breath caught. “what happened?”

maki’s jaw tightened. “he came for the boy. stormed the palace with his armies, the sea itself trembling in his wake. gojo’s parents fought—bravely, fiercely. but they were only human. they bought enough time to spirit the boy away, to seal his awakening once more. but they paid the price. the abyssal king killed them before their son’s eyes.”

a chill rippled down your spine. you could almost see it—white halls collapsing, waves blackening with blood, a child screaming in the wreckage of his family.

maki’s gaze pinned you, firm and unyielding. “that is why you must protect him. because the one who threatens him most is not the abyssal king, nor the sirens, nor even sukuna. it is himself. the power inside him is bound now, but if it ever shatters free again…”

she closed the book with a snap, the sound echoing like a coffin lid.

“…no cage in heaven or hell will hold him. and no one—not even you—will survive him.”

you dismissed yourself with a bow of your head, clutching the book as though it might shield you. maki didn’t stop you—she only watched as you slipped from the library, her silence heavier than any words.

your chambers felt colder when you entered, the hush of the palace pressing against your skin. you slid down the door, the wood hard against your back as you pressed the book tight to your chest, your breath shaky, uneven.

closing your eyes, you let the thought come—the one you always wished for in moments like this. mother… if you were here, what would you tell me?

you remembered her voice like the sea’s lull, remembered her stories of stars and foam, of gods who whispered through currents. but all of it was slipping, trickling out of your mind like sand through your fingers. the more you tried to hold onto her words, the more they scattered.

you opened your eyes to the room. the mirror caught your reflection in fragments—the pale shape of you against the gold-threaded curtains, the book pressed against your ribs like a wound.

and then the ache came.

the man you loved—the one you had stared at from the sea’s shadow, your heart thrumming every time his laughter rang over the deck—was the same man who had been raised to hate your kind. to hunt you. to tear your people from the water until their songs turned to screams.

gojo satoru. the curse and the light.

you pressed your forehead to your knees, trembling, whispering into the silence: how can i love someone who would see my family dead? how can love make me risk my soul?

because that was the strange thing about it, wasn’t it? love made no sense. love made you climb from waves into fire, knowing you might burn.

you lifted your head, staring at the mirror until your eyes blurred. your voice cracked, breaking into the empty room:

“if i were exposed to him… if he knew the truth… what would happen to me?”

your hand went slack, the book slipping onto the floor with a thud.

your lips parted on a softer whisper now, a confession not meant for any ears, mortal or god:

“my soul… who would it belong to again?”

the ceiling loomed above you, the shadows long and sharp. your reflection swam in the glass, distorted by tears.

your chest tightened. something pulsed in your skull, sharp, then gone.

you clawed at the fabric over your heart.

“…i cannot remember,” you rasped. your own voice sounded far away.

you looked at yourself in the mirror one last time—your eyes, wide and wet, lips trembling.

“i cannot remember… again.”

the night felt heavy, pressing against your skin like the sea when it’s too still. no matter how you shifted beneath your sheets, no sleep came. only the echo of maki’s words, the ache in your chest, and the lingering whisper you couldn’t remember.

finally, barefoot and restless, you slipped from your room. the marble floor was cold beneath your steps as you padded through the dim corridors, clutching your pink gown close to you. you didn’t even know where you were going until you found yourself before his door.

you hesitated—just a breath, just long enough to wonder if this was madness—before your knuckles tapped softly against the wood.

the door opened, and there he was.

gojo stood bare of his shift, his white hair falling loosely into his eyes. but it was his gaze that stopped you—those startling, endless blue eyes, locking on to yours like they’d been waiting.

“is everything okay?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

you tilted your head up, lips parting, but all you managed was a whisper: “i cannot sleep.”

his expression softened, though his jaw tensed, like your tears pulled at something deep and dangerous inside of him. before you could say more, his arm slid around you, strong and sure, pulling you into his room. the door closed behind you with a soft click.

his scent wrapped around you—warm, sharp, undeniably him—as he lifted you with ease, setting you down on the silken sheets of his bed. his thumb brushed against your cheek, chasing a tear before it could fall.

“what’s wrong?” he asked again, softer now, as though your answer might break him.

your hands trembled in your lap. you looked up at him, the words tearing themselves free. “i want to be with you.”

he froze. then, slowly, a low chuckle escaped his throat—dark, but sweet, laced with disbelief and something more. his shoulders dipped, and he sank down onto his knees before you.

the prince of the realm, kneeling at your feet.

he took your hands in his, holding them like they were relics, brushing his lips over your knuckles. his gaze never left yours, his smile achingly soft, though his grip on you was firm.

“you already are, y/n,” he murmured, reverence in his tone. “in fact, we are to be wedded next month.”

his hands slid up, slow, purposeful, resting on your thighs now. his thumbs stroked lightly against the fabric of your gown, a quiet claim in every touch.

his head tilted, lips brushing close to your knees, his blue eyes glinting up at you with hunger and devotion tangled into one.

“you belong to me already.”

his thumbs pressed firmer into your thighs, tracing small circles that left your skin tingling beneath the thin gown. he didn’t move quickly, didn’t rush—he only looked at you, studied the tremble in your lips, the way your breath came shallow.

“say it again,” he whispered, leaning closer, his hair brushing against your knees. his voice was desperate, stripped of the prince, stripped of the heir—just a man who needed to hear you.

“i want to be with you,” you repeated, your words quivering, and his jaw clenched like it wasn’t enough.

he dragged himself higher, his chest pressing between your knees, his breath ghosting over your stomach. his hands framed your waist now, holding you steady, as though afraid you’d slip away even here, in his bed.

“do you have any idea what that does to me?” his voice cracked with quiet intensity. “to hear you say you want me. gods, y/n… i’ve been waiting for you to need me like this.”

you swallowed, your hands rising tentatively, brushing against his jaw. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, but he leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes fluttering closed.

“look at me,” he urged, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again. his hands slid beneath the hem of your gown, resting on the bare skin of your hips now, warm and reverent. “i need to know it’s real. i need to see it in your eyes. because if i lose you—” his breath hitched, almost unsteady—“i won’t survive it.”

you whispered his name, soft and shaky, and that was enough to undo him.

gojo pressed his forehead to your stomach, his grip tightening as though anchoring himself. when he looked up again, his blue eyes were glassy with raw hunger and something deeper—love so consuming it bordered on madness.

“then show me,” he breathed. “show me you’re mine as much as i’m yours.”

he guided you back into the pillows, his lips trailing up your thighs, your waist, your chest—slow, worshipful, every kiss a vow. he wasn’t afraid of how much he wanted you; he wanted you to feel it, to drown in it, until there was no part of you untouched by him.

(yandere! choso x reader) chapter 2

Summary: Y/N only wanted Choso to love her back. So, heartbroken and desperate, she makes a wish for him to love her more than anything in the world. At first, it feels like a dream — he finally sees her, wants her, needs her. But Choso’s love quickly becomes something darker, deeper, and impossible to escape. Y/N wished to be loved. She never wished to be free.

✧˖° ⚠️ c/w ˖°✧ this series contains dark yandere themes — obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk ♡

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇

For a moment, Y/N forgot how to breathe.

Across the street, beneath the broken streetlight, Choso stood completely still.

The rain had thinned into a mist, delicate and silver, catching in the weak glow above him. It softened the world around his body until he looked like something half-real, something the night had dreamed up and placed there just to see what she would do. His dark hair hung loose around his face, damp at the ends, framing the pale sharpness of his cheeks. Shadows cut across his eyes, hiding them from her, but Y/N could feel his gaze anyway.

She felt it on her skin. On her throat. On the place where her pulse had started to panic. He was smiling.

Not much. Not wide. Not with teeth. Just enough for her to see the slight curve of his mouth from where she stood frozen on the sidewalk, her phone clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingers had gone numb.

It was Choso.

Of course it was Choso.

The same black jacket. The same broad shoulders. The same tired posture she could recognize from half a block away. The same man who had looked at her beneath a streetlight less than an hour ago and told her, gently, devastatingly, that he could not love her the way she wanted him to.

Only now he was here.

Waiting.

Watching.

Smiling.

Y/N’s breath came back in a sharp, painful inhale.

No.

No, no, no.

This was not happening.

The wish could not have worked.

Her mind grabbed onto that thought with desperate force, holding it so tightly it almost hurt. It was impossible. Ridiculous. A stupid local legend. A tree in an old park with ribbons tied to its branches. Heartbroken girls probably went there all the time and cried dramatic things into the dark. That did not mean the universe listened. That did not mean something under the bark of an ancient willow had heard her ugly little prayer and decided to answer.

It was coincidence.

It had to be.

Choso had followed her because he felt guilty. That was all. He had seen her run off crying and decided, too late, that maybe letting her walk home alone was cruel. Maybe he had taken a different street. Maybe he had called until she ignored him enough times to make him worry. Maybe he had come looking for her because that was the kind of thing Choso did.

He cared.

He always cared.

Just not enough.

A shiver crawled down her spine.

Because that thought did not feel true anymore.

Choso stepped away from the streetlight.

Slowly.

Y/N’s stomach tightened.

The light above him flickered once, buzzing weakly before dimming again, and for a second his body disappeared into shadow. Only the outline of him remained, tall and still and moving toward her with unhurried certainty. His footsteps were quiet against the wet pavement. Too quiet. The city continued around them in distant little pieces—cars rushing through puddles, sirens whining somewhere far off, the low electric hum of buildings breathing in the dark—but around Choso, everything felt muted.

As if the night was making room for him.

Y/N did not move.

She wanted to. Her body screamed at her to step back, to cross the street, to turn around and walk home like this was normal, like her hands were not trembling, like her heart was not beating so hard she could feel it behind her teeth.

But she stayed there. Rooted. Like the willow had followed her out of the park and wrapped its thin, invisible roots around her ankles.

Choso crossed the empty street without looking both ways.

A car turned the corner too fast, headlights sweeping over his body in a sudden wash of white. For one brief second, Y/N saw him clearly.

His pale skin shone almost unnaturally in the moonlight, cold and beautiful, rain clinging to his lashes and cheekbones. His expression was soft. That was what made it worse. There was no anger there. No panic. No wildness she could name. Just tenderness, stretched thin over something deeper. Something watching from underneath.

Then the headlights passed. His face slipped back into shadow. Y/N’s mouth went dry. He was closer now. Only a few steps away.

Close enough for her to see the slow rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to smell rain on his clothes. Close enough to remember what his voice sounded like when he had said her name earlier, heavy with warning, heavy with regret.

Now he said it again. “Y/N.”

Her name came out quiet. Almost affectionate. Almost hungry. She swallowed. “Choso.”

His eyes lowered briefly to the phone in her hand. Then back to her face. “You didn’t text me,” he said. Y/N’s fingers tightened around the device.

The words should have sounded normal. They were normal. He always asked her to text when she got home. That was their routine, their soft little almost-intimacy, the thing that made her feel cared for and pathetic all at once.

But tonight, the sentence landed differently. Not like concern. Like accusation. “You didn’t text me that you got home safe,” he continued.

The mist drifted between them. Y/N forced herself to breathe. “I know.” Choso tilted his head slightly. The movement was small, but it made her skin prickle. “What are you doing here?”

She glanced past him, toward the dark mouth of the street leading away from the park. Her apartment was not far. She could still leave. She could tell him she was tired. She could laugh this off. She could pretend she had not stood in front of a cursed tree and asked for him to need her so badly that nothing else mattered.

“I just…” Her voice caught.

Choso waited.

Patiently.

Too patiently.

Y/N tucked her phone into her coat pocket, mostly so he would stop looking at it. “I needed to take a walk.” His eyes did not leave her.

“At night?”

“I needed air.”

“The park is closed.”

Her pulse jumped and she looked at him. Something about his face remained unreadable in the dark. His brows were relaxed. His mouth still had that faint softness to it. But his stare had sharpened, fixing on her with a focus that felt too intense to be natural.

“How did you know I was in the park?” she asked. For the first time, Choso’s smile faded. Only slightly. “I saw you come out.” Her stomach turned.

“You followed me?”

“No.”

He answered too quickly.

Then, softer, “I came to find you.”

Those should have been different things but they did not feel different. Y/N took a small step back without thinking and Choso noticed.

His eyes dropped to her feet. Then rose again, slowly, as if tracking every inch of distance she had tried to create.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked. The question chilled her more than the rain.

“What?”

“Are you waiting for someone?” he repeated.

His voice stayed gentle. That was the horrible part. He did not sound jealous. He did not sound angry. He sounded genuinely curious, like there was an answer he needed from her before deciding what the night would become.

Y/N shook her head. “No.”

“Then why didn’t you go home?”

“I told you. I needed space.”

Choso went still.

The word seemed to settle between them.

Space.

Something moved across his expression, so fast she almost missed it. A flicker. A tightening near his mouth. A shadow passing behind his eyes. The kind of reaction someone had when you touched a bruise they had not told you about.

He repeated it softly. “Space.”

Y/N’s fingers curled inside her coat sleeves. The way he said it made the word sound strange. Not like distance. Not like breathing room. Like an insult. Like a threat. Like something alive he wanted to crush in his hands.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “Space.”

Choso looked down for a moment. Rain dripped from a strand of his hair onto his cheek, trailing slowly like a tear. He did not wipe it away.

When he looked back up, his eyes were clearer. Darker. “From me?” Y/N’s heart stumbled.

“Choso…”

“Did you need space from me?”

She wanted to lie. Everything in her wanted to lie, because honesty had already ruined enough tonight. Honesty had put her beneath a streetlight, begging without begging. Honesty had led her into Willow Park. Honesty had made her tie a red scarf around a branch and pour the ugliest parts of her heart into the dirt.

But Choso was staring at her like he would know. Like the truth had already crawled out of her mouth and into his hands. “I needed space from what happened,” she said.

His gaze softened. “What happened?” Y/N stared at him.

For a second, the fear slipped, replaced by disbelief so sharp it almost made her laugh. “What happened?” she repeated. “You rejected me.” Choso’s face changed.

Pain. Confusion. Something darker. “I hurt you,” he said. It was not a question. Y/N looked away. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

His voice dropped.

“I hurt you.”

The way he said it made her chest tighten. Not with hope. Not exactly. Something about the weight of his guilt felt too heavy, like it had grown teeth. He looked at her as if her pain had become physical to him, as if he could see it hanging off her body in bloody strips.

Y/N shook her head. “I’m not doing this right now.” She turned slightly, ready to leave.

Choso moved.

Not fast.

Not aggressively.

But enough.

One step forward.

Y/N froze.

He had not touched her. He had not blocked her fully. But his body had shifted into the space between her and the sidewalk home, and suddenly the street felt much narrower than before. “Y/N,” he said again.

Her name was softer this time but too soft. She slowly looked back at him. Choso’s head was bowed, the upper half of his face shadowed, but his mouth was visible. That small, almost tender curve had returned.

Then he asked, “Do you like me?” The question slipped into the night with the quiet precision of a knife. Y/N’s entire body went cold. It was such a childish question. So simple. So almost sweet.

Do you like me? As if he did not know. As if she had not torn herself open in front of him earlier. As if she had not looked at him with her heart sitting plainly in her hands. As if every breath she took around him did not already answer that question.

She stared at him, barely able to speak. “What?”

Choso stepped closer.

Just one step.

“Do you like me?”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

The air smelled like rain and asphalt and something faintly green underneath it. Something damp. Something earthy. Like Willow Park had not let her leave after all.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I want to hear you say it.”

The answer came immediately. Y/N’s pulse jumped too high. Choso lifted his head, and the light finally caught his eyes. They were the same eyes she knew. Dark. Tired. Beautiful in the saddest way.

But something in them had shifted.

Before, Choso always looked at her like he was holding himself back. Like wanting anything too much was dangerous. Like she stood on one side of a locked door and he had swallowed the key out of guilt.

Now there was no door, no guilt, no restraint, just focus. A terrible, intimate focus that made Y/N feel as if every secret want inside her had been exposed beneath his gaze.

“I…” She swallowed hard. “You already know.”

“I want to hear it.” His voice was quiet, but there was something underneath it now.

A pull. A command disguised as a plea. Y/N hated that part of her still responded to it.

She hated that even afraid, even cold, even with her mind screaming that something was wrong, her heart still tripped over itself at the idea that Choso wanted something from her.

A confession.

Proof.

Permission.

She looked at the ground. “Yes.”

Choso did not move.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, then opened them again.

“Yes, Choso. I like you.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Deep.

The kind of silence that made every sound after it feel forbidden.

Choso inhaled slowly.

His shoulders rose with it, then fell.

For one strange second, he looked relieved. Not happy. Relieved, like something inside him that had been suffering for years had finally been given air. Then he smiled again. And this time, Y/N’s blood ran cold.

Because it was beautiful. Because it was wrong. Because Choso almost never smiled, and when he did, it was faint, reluctant, half-buried under sadness. But this smile came easily. Too easily. It spread over his face with a softness that did not belong to the moment, did not belong to the man who had rejected her less than an hour ago.

He stepped fully out of the shadows.

Moonlight washed over him.

He looked like himself. He looked exactly like himself.

That was the most horrifying part.

There were no black veins crawling beneath his skin. No unnatural glow in his eyes. No monstrous thing standing where Choso should have been. It was just him—pale, damp, quiet Choso, with rain clinging to his lashes and tenderness painted across his mouth.

But Y/N knew.

Something was different.

She felt it the way animals felt storms before they arrived. In her bones. In the soft, vulnerable places of her body. In the old instinct that told prey when a predator had stopped pretending.

Choso looked at her like he had never seen her before. No. Worse. Like he had finally seen her exactly right.

“I like you too,” he said. Y/N’s breath caught. The words should have saved her. They were the words she had wanted for so long that she had imagined them in a hundred different ways. In a hallway. In his apartment. Over dinner. In the middle of a fight. Whispered against her mouth. Said softly with his hands shaking as he finally let himself have her.

She had wanted those words so badly they had become embarrassing.

Pathetic.

Sacred.

But now that he had said them, they did not feel like a dream.

They felt like the first lock clicking shut.

Y/N forced herself to laugh, but it came out weak. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You literally told me earlier that you couldn’t love me the way I wanted you to.”

Choso’s expression flickered.

For a moment, he looked almost confused, like the memory belonged to someone else.

Then his brows knit together.

“I was wrong.”

Y/N stared at him.

“You were wrong?”

“Yes.”

His answer was too calm.

Too simple.

Like rejecting her had been a minor mistake. Like he had taken a wrong turn on the way home and corrected himself. Like the man who stood under the streetlight earlier, full of guilt and distance and restraint, had been peeled away from the inside and replaced by someone who knew only one thing.

Her.

Choso stepped closer again. Y/N stepped back. This time, he stopped immediately. His eyes dropped to the space between them. A soft frown tugged at his mouth. “Don’t do that,” he said.

It was barely above a whisper. Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Do what?”

“Move away from me.” Her skin prickled.

“Choso…”

“I don’t like it.”

The words were simple. Almost gentle. And that made them so much worse. Y/N stared at him, her breath shallow now. “You’re scaring me.” The moment she said it, something broke across his face.

Not anger. Hurt. So sudden and raw it almost made her feel guilty. Almost. “I’m scaring you?” His voice sounded wounded. Y/N took a careful breath. “You’re acting strange.”

“I came to find you because you were alone.”

“You came to find me because I didn’t text you.”

“Because I was worried.”

“You’re never like this.”

Choso’s eyes darkened.

“Maybe I should have been.”

The words slid into her chest and stayed there.

Y/N did not know what to say.

The rain misted around them, catching in his hair, on his face, along the collar of his jacket. His attention never wavered. That was what made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Choso had always looked away first. Always. He would glance down, turn his head, let silence save him from feeling too much.

Now he looked at her like blinking was a sacrifice.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

Y/N’s lips parted.

“After you walked away,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I tried to go home. I got halfway there.”

He swallowed.

His gaze moved over her face slowly, almost reverently.

“And then I couldn’t breathe.”

Y/N went still.

Choso’s brows drew together, like he was trying to understand it himself. “I kept thinking about you walking alone. Crying because of me. I kept thinking about someone else finding you before I did.”

The last words were quieter.

Darker.

Y/N’s stomach turned.

“Someone else?”

His eyes lifted back to hers.

“Were you waiting for someone?”

“No… you asked me this already.”

“Did you want me to think you were?”

“What? No.”

“Did you want me to follow you?”

“No.” She says her hands starting to shake nervously. He stared at her.

For a second, his expression was unreadable.

Then he smiled faintly.

“I would have.”

The words were so soft she almost did not hear them.

But she did.

And once she did, she could not unhear them.

Y/N took another step back.

This time, Choso did not tell her not to.

He only watched.

The disappointment in his eyes was almost unbearable. Too heavy. Too intimate. Like her distance had physically injured him.

“You should go home,” Y/N whispered.

Choso tilted his head. “With you?”

“No.” The word came out too fast. His face fell. Y/N immediately felt horrible, which made her feel even more afraid. “I mean… I’m tired. I need to be alone.”

“Space,” he said again. This time, the word sounded colder. Y/N’s mouth went dry.

“Yes.”

Choso looked past her toward the park gate. For one second, his gaze lingered there. Y/N’s blood turned to ice. Had he seen?

Had he seen her tie the scarf? Had he heard her wish? Had he stood somewhere in the dark while she cried into the willow and asked for him to love her more than anything on earth?

No.

No, impossible.

He could not have.

He looked back at her.

“What did you do in there?”

Y/N stopped breathing.

The question was quiet.

Too quiet.

“I told you,” she said. “I took a walk.”

“In the closed park.”

“Yes…again.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.”

“Crying.”

Her throat tightened.

He had seen.

Or he knew.

Somehow, he knew.

Y/N forced her voice to stay steady. “I had a bad night.”

Choso’s expression softened again.

A terrible softness.

“I know.”

She hated the way he said it.

Like he knew more than he should.

Like he had felt it.

Like her grief had reached into his chest from across the city and squeezed until he came running.

“I can make it better,” he said. Y/N shook her head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“That doesn’t mean you can.” His eyes lowered to her mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.

“I can try.” The words should have been sweet. They would have been sweet yesterday.

Yesterday, Y/N would have gone home and replayed that sentence until sunrise. She would have pressed it between the pages of her heart like a flower and convinced herself it meant something. She would have wanted him closer.

But tonight, beneath the moon and the broken streetlight, with the willow’s whisper still crawling at the edges of her mind, Choso’s tenderness felt like a hand around her throat.

Not squeezing.

Not yet.

Just resting there.

Waiting to see if she would let it.

“I need to go,” she said.

Choso nodded slowly.

But he did not move.

Y/N’s body tightened.

“Choso.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“No.”

His jaw tensed.

There it was again. That tiny fracture in his expression. That flash of something not quite him. Then it vanished.

“Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

The silence after that was sharp.

Y/N had never spoken to him like that before. Not really. She had been sad with him, honest with him, frustrated in careful little doses. But she had never put a wall in front of him and forced him to see it. Choso stared at her. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Okay.”

Relief rushed through her so quickly her knees almost weakened. “Okay,” she repeated.

He stepped aside. Just enough. Y/N moved past him carefully, every nerve in her body awake. She could feel him beside her as she passed. Not touching. Not blocking. Just there. His warmth cut through the cold air, and for one awful second, she wanted to lean into it.

Then his voice stopped her.

“I do, you know.”

Y/N froze. Her back was to him. She should have kept walking. She did not. “What?”

Choso’s voice came from behind her, low and intimate.

“Like you.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

A tear slipped down her cheek, hot despite the cold.

“Choso, please don’t.”

“I like the way you look at me,” he said.

“I like the way you pretend you don’t wait for my messages.”

Y/N’s eyes opened.

“I like when you get quiet because you’re afraid you said too much. I like when you talk too fast because you’re nervous. I like when you laugh at your own jokes before anyone else does.”

He paused. His voice softened further. “I like that you remember things I forget telling you.” Y/N turned around slowly. Choso stood exactly where she had left him, moonlight cutting his face in half.

His expression was calm. Too calm for the words coming out of his mouth.

“I like that you get jealous and try to hide it,” he said. “I like that you want more from me than I know how to give. I like that you looked hurt tonight because it meant you cared enough to be hurt.”

Y/N felt sick.Not because the words were cruel. Because they were everything she had wanted.

Twisted into something that made her want to run. “Stop,” she whispered. Choso’s eyes softened. “I don’t want to.” A chill moved through her.

The wind picked up behind him, rustling the trees beyond the park gate. For a second, Y/N swore she heard ribbons fluttering.

Hundreds of them. Whispering. Choso took one slow step toward her. “You asked me earlier,” he said, “why I cared if you got home.”

Y/N could not move. His gaze pinned her in place. “I care because I don’t like not knowing where you are.”

Another step.

“I care because when you’re away from me, something feels wrong.”

Another.

“I care because I think I’ve been trying not to want you for so long that I forgot what wanting you was supposed to feel like.”

He was close again.

Too close.

His face was no longer hidden now. She could see every detail. The rain on his skin. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The parted softness of his mouth. The impossible tenderness in his gaze.

And beneath it all—

The wrongness.

Quiet.

Patient.

Blooming.

He looked down at her like she was something holy. Like something doomed. “I like you,” he whispered. His eyes drifted over her face with slow, devotional focus. Then he smiled. “I think I like you more than anything.”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

The words slammed into her with such force she almost stumbled.

More than anything. Her own voice echoed in her skull.

I wish Choso loved me more than anything on this earth.

The street tilted beneath her. No. No, she had not said love. He had said like.

That was different.

It was different.

It had to be different.

Choso’s smile deepened, but his eyes stayed sad.

“I should have said it earlier,” he murmured. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Y/N stared at him in horror.

Because she knew why.

She knew exactly why.

Because before tonight, he had not felt this.

Before tonight, Choso had been guarded and distant and painfully careful with her heart. Before tonight, he had cared in small ways, quiet ways, ways that hurt because they were never enough. Before tonight, he had been able to let her walk away.

And now… Now he looked like letting her go might kill him.

Y/N backed away. This time, Choso did not follow. But his eyes did. They stayed on her with a devotion so intense it felt physical, wrapping around her ribs, pressing between them, making it harder to breathe.

“I’m going home,” she said, voice shaking. Choso nodded. “Text me when you get there.” Y/N almost laughed.

It came out as a broken little sound. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No.” His voice sharpened just enough to make her freeze. Then softened instantly. “I mean it, Y/N.” Her fingers trembled at her side.

“You need to tell me when you’re safe.”

She nodded once.

Quickly.

Then turned and walked away. Every step felt wrong. Too loud. Too slow.

Too exposed. She could feel him watching her back, and this time there was no comfort in it. No secret thrill. No pathetic little warmth blooming in her chest because Choso cared enough to make sure she got home.

Now his gaze followed her like a shadow with hands. Y/N did not run. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But she forced herself to walk calmly down the sidewalk, past shuttered storefronts and parked cars slick with rain, past the puddles reflecting yellow light in broken pieces. She did not look back.

Not once. Even when she felt him still there. Even when the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Even when her phone buzzed in her pocket before she had made it half a block. She stopped beneath a dark awning. Slowly, she pulled it out.

A message from Choso.

You’re walking too fast.

Y/N’s blood went cold.

Her head snapped up.

The street behind her was empty.

No Choso.

No figure under the streetlight.

No footsteps.

Nothing.

Only rain.

Her phone buzzed again.

Be careful. The sidewalk is uneven near the corner.

Y/N looked ahead.

Near the corner, the pavement cracked upward beside a tree root.

She lifted her eyes slowly. Across the street, reflected in the dark window of a closed shop, she saw him.

Not clearly.

Just a shape.

Tall.

Still.

Watching from somewhere the glass could see but she could not. Y/N’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her phone buzzed one last time.

I don’t want anything to happen to you.

She stared at the message until the letters blurred. Then, from somewhere behind her, soft as a prayer and close enough to raise goosebumps along her neck, Choso’s voice whispered into the rain.

“I love you so much.”

———————————————

Y/N did not remember unlocking her front door.

One second, she was standing under the awning with rain crawling cold down the back of her neck, staring at Choso’s message until the words blurred into something that no longer looked like language. The next, she was inside her house, the door slammed shut behind her, the lock turned, the chain dragged into place with trembling fingers.

For a long moment, she did not move.

She stood in the narrow entryway with her back pressed against the door, her breath coming too fast, too shallow, too sharp to count as breathing. The house was dark except for the faint amber glow of the hallway nightlight plugged into the wall near the kitchen. It cast long, weak shadows over the floorboards, stretching the furniture into strange shapes that seemed to lean toward her when she blinked.

Her phone was still in her hand.

The screen had gone black.

Y/N stared at her own reflection in it.

Wide eyes. Damp hair. Lips parted. Face pale with a kind of fear she did not know how to name.

Then the phone buzzed.

She screamed.

It slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet house. Y/N slapped both hands over her mouth, heart slamming so violently that for one terrifying second, she thought she might actually be sick.

She looked down.

The screen lit up against the floorboards.

Choso: Are you inside?

Y/N’s body went cold.

Her fingers shook as she crouched and picked up the phone, staring at the message like it might change if she looked at it long enough. She swallowed once. Twice. Her throat felt too tight.

Yes, she typed.

Then deleted it.

Then typed again.

I’m home.

She hit send before she could overthink it, before she could ask him how he knew, before she could demand where he was, before she could admit to herself that some part of her was afraid he was close enough to see the porch light spilling through the curtains.

The message delivered instantly.

Three dots appeared.

Y/N stopped breathing.

Then:

Choso: Good.

Nothing else.

Just that.

Good.

It should have calmed her.

It did not.

Y/N locked her phone and set it facedown on the small table by the door as if putting it there could make the night stop touching her. Her hands were still trembling. Her skin felt too tight over her bones. The house around her was familiar in all the ways that should have made her feel safe: the old couch with the blanket thrown messily over one arm, the shoes by the door, the family photos on the hallway wall, the faint smell of lavender cleaner her mother always used.

Her mother.

Y/N’s eyes flicked toward the empty living room.

Right.

Her mom was gone this week. Some overnight business trip several towns over, something about training, meetings, hotel breakfast, and calling when she could. Y/N had barely listened when she told her. At the time, being alone had sounded peaceful. Private. Normal.

Now the silence felt enormous.

Now the house felt like it had too many corners.

She took a breath, held it, then let it out slowly.

“You’re fine,” she whispered to herself.

Her voice sounded small.

She hated that.

“You’re home. The door is locked. You’re fine.”

The words did not settle. They floated uselessly around her, thin and breakable, unable to cover the image of Choso under that broken streetlight. The way he had smiled. The way he had asked if she liked him. The way his voice had wrapped around those words.

I think I like you more than anything.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

No, she was not doing this.

She was not going to spiral in the hallway at midnight because of a tree, because of a wish, because Choso had suddenly decided to act strange after rejecting her. There had to be an explanation. There had to be something reasonable underneath all of this. People changed their minds. People got guilty. People said things they did not mean when emotions were high.

The willow had not done anything.

It was a tree.

Just a tree.

Y/N forced herself to move.

She walked through the house turning on lights as she went, refusing to look too long at any window. The rain outside began to fall harder, tapping against the glass with quick little fingers. By the time she reached the bathroom, the soft mist from earlier had become a steady downpour, drumming against the roof, rushing through the gutters, hissing over the street outside.

The sound should have been soothing.

Instead, it made everything feel hidden.

Like the world beyond the walls had disappeared.

Y/N shut the bathroom door behind her and locked it.

Then she stared at the lock.

A tiny, flimsy twist of metal.

Useless, really.

She turned away quickly before her thoughts could finish.

The bathroom light was too bright, making her reflection look harsh and exhausted in the mirror. Her makeup had smudged beneath her eyes. Rainwater clung to her hair and made the ends curl against her neck. She looked like a girl who had been crying in the dark. She looked like someone who had asked for something terrible without understanding the cost.

Her stomach twisted.

She undressed quickly, dropping her damp clothes into a pile near the sink. For one awful second, as she peeled off her shirt, she got the sudden, crawling sensation that something was watching her from behind the mirror.

Not someone.

Something.

She froze.

The bathroom hummed quietly around her. The vent. The light. The pipes in the wall. Rain striking the small frosted window above the tub.

Nothing moved.

Y/N swallowed and looked at her reflection.

Her own eyes stared back.

Just her.

Only her.

“Stop,” she muttered.

She turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it.

Steam bloomed fast, clouding the mirror, softening the room until the edges disappeared. Y/N stepped beneath the spray and let the water hit her face, her shoulders, her chest, trying to scrub the night out of her skin. She washed her hair even though she had no energy for it. She rubbed soap over her arms until her skin flushed. She stood there too long, head bowed, hands braced against the shower wall as the water pounded over her.

But no matter how hot the shower got, she could still feel the cold.

The cold of the park.

The cold of Choso’s gaze.

The cold of that last message.

I don’t want anything to happen to you.

Her eyes snapped open.

For half a second, she could have sworn she heard something outside the bathroom door.

A soft sound.

A shift.

Like weight settling on old wood.

Y/N turned quickly, heart lurching.

Water streamed down her face, blurring her vision. The shower curtain hung still. Beyond it, the bathroom glowed bright and empty.

She listened.

The rain hammered harder.

The house creaked.

Nothing else.

Old house, she told herself.

Just an old house.

Still, she finished quickly after that.

When she turned the shower off, the sudden absence of water was almost violent.

The bathroom fell into a silence so thick it made her ears ring.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Water fell from the showerhead into the tub.

Y/N stood there, wet and shivering despite the steam, listening to the sound of her own breathing.

Then the floor creaked.

Not in the bathroom.

Outside it.

Her whole body stiffened.

The sound had come from the hallway.

One slow wooden groan, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to the other.

Y/N stared at the closed door.

Her towel hung on the rack just beyond the shower. She reached for it without taking her eyes off the door, wrapping it around herself with clumsy hands. Her heart began to climb again, each beat harder than the last.

“Mom?” she called.

Her voice cracked on the single word.

No answer.

Of course there was no answer.

Her mother was out of town.

Y/N waited.

The rain beat against the roof.

The pipes ticked softly in the walls.

The hallway stayed quiet.

She hated herself for it, but she grabbed her phone from the counter and checked the time.

12:03 AM.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

She had work in the morning.

A normal thought. A boring thought. A human thought.

Somehow, it nearly made her cry.

Because tomorrow still existed. That was the strange, cruel thing. No matter what had happened beneath the willow, no matter how Choso had looked at her beneath the streetlight, the world still expected her to wake up, get dressed, show up, smile at people, answer questions, act like she was not slowly coming apart from the inside.

Y/N dried off fast, pulled on pajama shorts and an oversized shirt, and twisted her damp hair into a loose bun. She brushed her teeth with the bathroom door open because somehow open felt better than closed now, even though every second she expected to see a shape standing in the hallway.

There was nothing.

Only the dim hallway.

The shadow of the banister.

The family photos staring from the wall.

Y/N walked to her bedroom with the light on her phone shining ahead of her like a weapon.

Her room looked exactly as she had left it. Bed unmade. Laundry chair piled high. Books and lip gloss scattered across her desk. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. The familiar mess should have comforted her.

Instead, her eyes went straight to the window.

The blinds were open.

Not all the way. Just enough that a thin gap showed the rain-dark glass beyond them.

Y/N stopped in the doorway.

Had she left them like that?

She stared at the gap.

The window reflected her room back at her in dim, warped layers: the bed, the dresser, her own pale shape standing frozen near the door. Beyond the reflection was only darkness, slick with rain.

Still, the feeling returned.

That crawling sensation.

That awful, intimate certainty of being seen.

Y/N crossed the room quickly and yanked the blinds shut. The plastic slats clattered together, too loud, too frantic. She twisted the wand until they closed completely, then pulled the curtains over them too.

Only then did she breathe.

The house answered with another creak.

This time from downstairs.

Y/N turned around sharply.

Nothing.

No footsteps.

No voice.

No movement.

Just wood settling. Rain swelling. Her pulse roaring in her ears.

She went to her bedroom door and looked into the hallway. The light from the bathroom spilled across the floor, cutting the darkness in half. At the far end, the stairs descended into shadow.

Her throat tightened.

“Hello?” she called.

The house did not answer.

Y/N shut her bedroom door.

Then she locked it.

Then, after a second, she pushed her desk chair beneath the handle.

It was ridiculous.

It was childish.

It made her feel better for exactly three seconds.

She turned off the overhead light, then immediately turned on the lamp beside her bed because the dark rushed in too quickly. The room became soft and amber, shadows pooling in the corners, rain sliding down the window behind the curtains in endless streams.

Y/N climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chest.

Her phone sat beside her pillow.

She did not want to look at it.

She looked anyway.

No new messages.

That should have relieved her.

It did not.

She opened the thread with Choso before she could stop herself.

You’re walking too fast.

Be careful. The sidewalk is uneven near the corner.

I don’t want anything to happen to you.

Y/N stared at the messages until her vision blurred.

How had he known?

How had he known about the sidewalk?

How had he been behind her and ahead of her and nowhere at all?

She clicked the phone off and shoved it under her pillow.

“No,” she whispered into the room.

Her voice trembled.

“No. I’m not doing this. I’m tired. I’m scared. That’s it.”

But her mind would not obey.

It replayed everything.

Choso beneath the streetlight.

The willow’s ribbons shivering though there had been no wind.

His smile.

His question.

Do you like me?

His voice behind her in the rain.

I love you so much.

Y/N turned onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut.

The words would not leave her alone.

They should have been beautiful.

They should have felt like every late-night fantasy finally crawling into the real world. For so long she had wanted Choso to love her openly, desperately, without hiding behind guilt and distance. She had wanted him to want her badly enough to fight himself for it.

But there was a difference, she was beginning to realize, between being wanted and being hunted.

The thought made her eyes open.

The room sat quiet around her.

Rain threw shadows against the curtains.

The lamp buzzed faintly.

Somewhere in the walls, the old house gave a soft, tired groan.

Y/N watched the bedroom door.

The chair remained wedged beneath the handle.

Safe.

She was safe.

She repeated it until the words became dull and meaningless.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged her under.

Not gently.

It took her in pieces. Her thoughts loosened first, then her body grew heavy, then the sounds of the room stretched and warped into dreams. Rain became whispering. Floorboards became breathing. Somewhere between waking and sleep, she thought she heard her phone buzz beneath the pillow, but her hand was too heavy to reach for it.

Then everything went dark.

For a while, she slept.

Not peacefully.

She drifted through shallow, uneasy dreams of pale ribbons wrapped around wrists, of a willow tree growing through her bedroom floor, of Choso standing at the foot of her bed with rain dripping from his hair onto the carpet. In the dream, he did not speak. He only watched her with that sad, terrible smile.

When Y/N woke, it was sudden.

Her eyes snapped open into the dark.

For a moment, she did not know why.

The room was almost black now. The lamp was off.

Y/N’s breath caught.

She did not remember turning it off.

Rain still battered the window, harder than before, the storm grown violent while she slept. The curtains moved slightly with the draft. Shadows trembled over the walls. Her room felt colder than it should have.

She blinked slowly.

Her eyes struggled to adjust.

The digital clock on her nightstand glowed red.

3:00 AM.

Y/N stared at the numbers, sleep-thick and confused.

Three in the morning.

The worst hour.

The hour every strange sound became a warning.

She shifted under the covers and realized her mouth was dry, her skin prickling with sweat beneath her pajama shirt. For a second, she thought the anxiety had simply woken her. A nightmare. That was all.

Then she heard it.

A soft sound.

Inside the room.

Y/N went still.

Not the rain.

Not the house settling.

Something else.

A slow, faint drag.

Like fabric brushing against fabric.

Her eyes moved carefully toward the foot of the bed.

Darkness gathered there, thick and shapeless.

Nothing.

She held her breath.

The sound came again.

Closer this time.

A barely-there shift near the corner where her laundry chair sat piled with clothes.

Y/N’s heart began to pound.

She wanted to sit up.

She wanted to turn on the lamp.

She wanted to scream.

But sleep still clung to her body like wet hands, weighing down her limbs, blurring the edges of fear until she could not tell if she was awake or still dreaming.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Open.

Closed.

Open again.

The corner of the room seemed darker than the rest.

Y/N swallowed, throat clicking softly.

“Mom?” she whispered.

Nothing answered.

Her eyes slipped shut again against her will.

No.

Stay awake.

Stay awake.

Something creaked near the door.

Y/N forced her eyes open.

The chair was still beneath the handle.

The door was closed.

But the handle looked different.

Lower.

No.

That did not make sense.

She blinked harder.

The chair was still there.

The handle was fine.

She was tired. Half-asleep. Panicking over shadows.

That was all.

Then came another sound.

Soft.

Slow.

A breath.

Not hers.

Y/N’s body went rigid.

The room seemed to hold still with her.

Her eyes moved toward the side of the bed.

The darkness beside her nightstand was empty.

At least, she thought it was.

Her vision swam.

The clock glowed red.

3:01 AM.

Her phone lay near her pillow now.

Not beneath it.

Y/N stared at it, confused.

Had she pulled it out in her sleep?

The screen was dark.

Then it lit up.

No buzz.

No sound.

Just light.

A notification appeared.

Choso: You’re awake.

Y/N’s lungs stopped working.

Her fingers twitched under the blanket.

She did not touch the phone.

She could not.

The screen dimmed.

Then lit again.

Choso: Go back to sleep.

Y/N stared at the message, every nerve in her body screaming.

Outside, thunder rolled low and long over the roof.

The room flashed white for half a second.

In that half second, she saw the shape by the closet.

Tall.

Still.

Facing her.

Then darkness swallowed it again.

Y/N’s eyes flew wide.

A sound tried to leave her throat, but it came out small and broken, barely more than air.

No.

No.

No.

Her body refused to move.

The shadows near the closet were empty now.

Maybe they had always been empty.

Maybe the lightning had made the laundry chair look taller. Maybe the coat hanging over the back had become shoulders. Maybe fear was building monsters out of cotton and darkness.

Her eyes burned from staring.

The rain pounded.

Her phone glowed again.

Choso: You looked scared.

A tear slipped silently into her hairline.

Y/N’s breathing hitched.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

This was not real.

It could not be real.

She was asleep. She had to be asleep. Maybe she was still beneath the willow, maybe none of this had happened, maybe she had collapsed in the park and dreamed the whole thing while rain soaked through her clothes.

The mattress shifted.

Barely.

Just enough.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open.

Her body went ice cold.

For a second, she felt it clearly.

Weight.

Not on top of her.

Not beside her.

But near the edge of the bed.

Like someone had sat down very carefully.

The blanket tightened across her legs.

Y/N did not breathe.

The room was black.

The clock read 3:02 AM.

Her eyelids began to flutter again, panic and exhaustion warring inside her body. She wanted to stay awake. She had to stay awake. But the fear was so huge, so impossible, that her mind tried to protect itself by slipping away from it.

The last thing she felt before sleep dragged her under again was warmth near her ankle.

Fingers, maybe.

Or a dream of fingers.

A touch so light it could have been imagined.

Then a voice in the dark, soft as rain against glass.

“I’m here.”

Y/N tried to wake herself up.

She tried to scream.

But sleep swallowed her whole.

And somewhere very close, someone whispered like a promise, like a prayer, like a curse answered too well:

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”

tag list;

(yandere! choso x reader, psychological thriller/romance series)

f.a: @/xhealer_

summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.

previous chapter

✧˖° ⚠️ c/w ˖°✧ this series contains dark yandere themes — obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk ♡

The gym smells like sweat and metal but tt’s quiet now almost too quiet for how loud his head is. Choso’s fists slam into the heavy bag again. And again. And again. Each hit lands harder than the last, the chain above rattling with the force of it. His knuckles sting through the wraps, shoulders burning, lungs pulling in sharp breaths that don’t feel like enough.

He doesn’t stop. Because if he stops, he’ll think. And if he thinks— He’ll hear it.

You’re losing her.

The voice isn’t real. But it’s there. Low. Persistent. Crawling in the back of his mind like something that won’t die. His jaw tightens. “She’s fine,” he mutters under his breath, stepping back before driving his fist forward again. “She’s better with me.” The bag swings violently.

“She was spiraling.” Another hit.

“She was going to hurt herself.” Another. “I fixed it.” The words come out sharper now, almost defensive. Like he’s arguing with something invisible.

Because he is. You drugged her. His fist stops mid-air but just for a second. His chest rises and falls heavily. His eyes flicker then harden. “I stabilized her,” he corrects, voice low. Controlled. “There’s a difference.”

He rolls his shoulders, pacing once in front of the bag. Sweat drips down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His thoughts don’t slow. They just reorganize. “She doesn’t know what’s good for her right now,” he continues under his breath. “She’s confused. Emotional. That’s not her fault.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it means she needs someone who does know.” Someone steady. Someone who won’t leave. Someone who won’t let her run back to things that broke her.

His jaw flexes. “I'm not the problem.” The words sound almost final, like a conclusion he’s reached a thousand times before. Behind him, the gym door opens.

“Choso.”

He doesn’t turn immediately. “Yeah,” he calls back, grabbing a towel and dragging it across his face. “Coach wants you. Management’s here.”

That makes him pause. Now he turns. Two men stand near the entrance, dressed sharper than anyone else in the room. One of them gestures toward the back office. “Now,” he adds.

Choso exhales once, steadying himself. Finally, work. The perfect distraction. 

Focus. Something he can control. He tosses the towel over his shoulder and follows them. As he enters the office, it feels smaller than usual.  Too many people. Too much tension in the air.

His coach stands against the wall, arms crossed. His manager is at the desk, phone in hand, pacing once before stopping when Choso walks in. “There he is,” the manager says.

There was no small talk, no buildup. Choso already knows what was going to happen.  He can feel it. The room is too tight. Too expectant. “What’s going on?” he asks anyway. The manager glances at the others, then back at him.

“It’s official.” Choso’s expression doesn’t change. But his pulse does. “They signed it this morning,” the coach adds. “No more rumors.” The manager steps forward, voice dropping slightly. “You’re fighting Toji Fushiguro.”

Silence. It hits like a dull impact to the chest. Not explosive. Not shocking. Just… heavy. Choso doesn’t react right away.

He just stares, processing. Toji. The name alone is enough to pull something dark up from deep in his chest.

Older.

Bigger.

Established.

The man who already has everything Choso is clawing toward. The man who—His jaw tightens.

“Date?” Choso asks flatly. “Six weeks.”

“That’s quick.”

“That’s the point,” the manager says. “Momentum. This fight? This is your launch.” He steps closer. “If you win this, you’re not just another prospect anymore. You’re the guy.”

The room feels smaller and the air thicker. “You beat him,” the coach adds, “you skip years of grinding. You go straight to the top.” Choso’s mind doesn’t go to the rankings.

Or the money. Or the fame. It goes somewhere else. To a girl in a white dress standing in a garden. To red roses blooming too fast. To a house that now belongs entirely to him. To a past that still isn’t fully buried. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Toji Fushiguro. The name sits in his chest like something unfinished. Like something that was never properly taken from him. Until now. He exhales slowly.

Then nods once. “I’ll take it.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. No doubt. Just quiet certainty. The manager grins. “Good. Because this is the one.” Choso doesn’t smile back. Because this isn’t just a fight. Not to him.

This is something else entirely. Something personal. Something that’s been building long before contracts were signed. Long before cameras got involved.

Long before anyone else even knew there was something to fight over. His gaze drops briefly to the floor. Then lifts again. Sharp. Focused.

Unforgiving. Six weeks. That’s all it’ll take. To finally put something in the ground and make sure it stays there this time.

———————————————————

A few weeks pass quietly. Way too quietly and the argument about the attic never comes up again. Neither does the hospital paperwork.

Choso becomes softer after that night. More attentive. More present. He remembers little things now — the way you like your tea, the blankets you prefer when you sleep, how headaches make you sensitive to bright lights. He kisses your forehead constantly, like reassurance has become instinct for him.

And somehow… That almost makes it worse. Because your doubts never fully disappear. They just settle lower. Quieter. Like something sleeping beneath your ribs. You still catch yourself watching him sometimes.

Studying him when he isn’t looking. Wondering whether the gentleness is real… or practiced. But then he smiles at you. Touches your waist absentmindedly. Looks at you like you’re the center of gravity itself. And your chest aches all over again. Because despite everything—You love him.

Or at least… you think you do.

Tonight, Yuji invited both of you over for dinner.

Yuji loved to cook.

You learned that almost immediately.

He moved through the kitchen with bright, chaotic confidence, sleeves pushed up, apron tied crooked around his waist, talking over the sound of sizzling pans like the whole house belonged to his voice. He tasted sauces from wooden spoons, argued with Eso about seasoning, laughed when Kechizu quietly stole something from the cutting board, and somehow managed to make the whole thing feel warm.

Too warm.

Too normal.

By the time everyone sat down, the table was full. Steam rose from bowls and plates, rich smells of garlic, ginger, rice, and roasted meat curling through the air. Yuji sat across from you, grinning proudly as everyone started eating. Eso leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, pretending not to be impressed. Kechizu ate quietly beside him, occasionally nodding when Yuji asked if something tasted good.

Choso sat beside you.

Close.

His knee brushed yours beneath the table. His hand rested on the back of your chair, not touching you exactly, but close enough that you felt the weight of him there. Present. Protective. Watching.

“So,” Yuji said, pointing his fork toward you with a playful smile, “what do you think?”

You blinked. “Of the food?”

“Yeah. Be honest. I can take criticism.”

“You cannot,” Eso muttered.

Yuji shot him a look. “I can.”

You smiled faintly, glancing down at your plate. “It’s really good.”

Yuji’s face lit up. “See? She has taste.”

Choso’s thumb brushed once against the back of your chair. “She likes lighter flavors,” he said calmly. “Nothing too spicy right now. Strong spices trigger her nausea sometimes.”

Yuji’s expression softened. “Oh. Got it. I can make something different next time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say it was fine, that you could answer for yourself, but Choso had already reached for your glass of water and nudged it closer.

“She’s okay,” he said. “She just has to be careful.”

The conversation moved on, but only barely.

Eso studied you from across the table, his sharp gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to read something beneath your skin. “How’s recovery been?”

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Choso answered before you could.

“Better,” he said. “Still has headaches. Some confusion when she pushes too hard, but she’s improving.”

You swallowed.

Kechizu glanced at you, voice softer than the others. “Do you remember anything yet?”

Your stomach tightened.

Choso’s hand finally settled against your thigh beneath the table. Gentle. Still. A warning disguised as comfort.

“Fragments,” he replied. “Nothing stable enough to trust.”

The words made your chest pinch.

Nothing stable enough to trust. You looked down at your plate, suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes near you, around you, on you, but somehow not fully with you. The questions were being asked in your direction, but Choso stood between you and the answers like a locked door.

Yuji noticed. At first, you thought he didn’t. He was smiling, still bright, still trying to keep dinner easy. But his eyes shifted between you and Choso once. Twice. Then his grin turned awkward around the edges.

“So… did you like baseball before?” Yuji asked you directly. “Or was that your first game?” You inhaled. “I think—”

“She didn’t go much,” Choso said. “Crowds were never really her thing.” Yuji’s smile faltered. You felt your face grow warm. Eso’s gaze sharpened. Kechizu stopped eating for a second.

The room didn’t go silent exactly, but something changed. The air around the table tightened, invisible but undeniable. You could still hear forks touching plates, the hum of the refrigerator, the soft clink of ice shifting in someone’s glass. But all of it felt far away now.

Yuji let out a small laugh, trying to make it sound harmless. “Damn, Choso,” he said lightly. “Why don’t you let your wife talk?” The words were meant as a joke.

Everyone could tell. But they landed wrong. Choso went very still beside you. Not visibly angry. Not embarrassed. Just still in that particular way he had, like every part of him had gone quiet at once. His hand remained on your thigh, but his fingers stopped moving.

Your stomach dropped. Yuji’s smile twitched, like he realized too late that he had stepped on something buried. “I just mean,” Yuji added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, “I wanna get to know her too, you know?”

You forced yourself to smile. “It’s okay,” you said softly. But your voice sounded small. Too small. Choso turned his head slightly toward you, his expression gentle, almost painfully so. “You okay?”

There it was of course. That question. Always soft. Always careful. Always asked like the answer had already been decided. You nodded, though your chest felt tight. “Yeah. I just… I need to use the bathroom.”

His eyes searched yours. For one terrifying second, you thought he might offer to walk you there. Instead, he nodded. “Down the hall,” Yuji said quickly, pointing. “Second door on the left.”

“Thank you,” you murmured. You stood carefully, pushing your chair back. Choso’s hand slipped away from your leg, but you still felt the ghost of it there as you stepped away from the table.

No one spoke as you walked down the hall. Not until you were far enough away. Then, behind you, Yuji’s voice dropped lower.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” You didn’t hear Choso’s reply. You reached the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it with trembling fingers. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at your reflection.

Your face looked calm. Almost normal. But your heart was pounding.

You gripped the edge of the sink, breathing slowly, trying to steady yourself. Trying to convince yourself that nothing had happened. That Yuji was joking. That Choso was just protective. That you were still recovering, still fragile, still easy to overwhelm.

But the words kept replaying. Why don’t you let your wife talk? Your throat tightened. Because for the first time, someone else had said it out loud. And now that they had— You couldn’t unhear it.

You take a few minutes to collect yourself.

You run cold water over your hands until your fingers stop trembling. You press your palms against the sink, staring at your reflection with the kind of focus that feels almost desperate. Your face looks normal. A little pale, maybe. Your eyes too wide. But normal enough that no one at the table would know how hard your heart is beating.

You inhale slowly. Then exhale.

You’re fine.

The words don’t feel true, but you say them to yourself anyway.

When you unlock the bathroom door and step back into the hall, the noise from the dining room reaches you in muffled waves—Yuji’s laugh, Eso’s dry voice, the low clink of glass against wood. You pause in the darkened hallway, letting your eyes adjust. The warm light from the dining room spills across the floor in a golden rectangle, but Choso’s seat is empty.

Your brows furrow. Before you can take another step, hands slide around your waist from behind. Your body freezes. The touch is familiar. Warm and firm, it’s Choso.

“You okay?” he murmurs close to your ear.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. For a split second, the hallway feels too narrow, the air too thin. His chest is against your back, steady and solid, his hands resting at your stomach like he’s holding you together from the outside.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t move right away.

“You were gone for a while.”

“I just needed a second,” you say softly.

His thumbs move once, slow and soothing, over the fabric at your waist. “Yuji talks too much.”

You let out a small laugh, but it sounds weak even to you. “He’s sweet.” Choso is silent for a beat too long. Then he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Come on.”

He guides you back toward the table with his hand at your lower back, gentle enough to look caring, constant enough that you feel it with every step. When you return, Yuji immediately brightens, either relieved or determined to force the mood back into something cheerful.

“There she is,” he says, standing from his chair. “Okay, good. Perfect timing.” You sit back down beside Choso. This time, his chair feels even closer than before. Your knee brushes his under the table, and he doesn’t shift away.

Yuji disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of champagne tucked proudly against his chest. Eso raises a brow. “You had that this whole time?”

“Obviously,” Yuji says, grinning as he starts peeling the foil. “We’re celebrating.” Kechizu looks up from his plate. “Celebrating what?”

Yuji points the bottle toward Choso. “His first huge headlined fight.”

The room erupts into warmth again. Eso gives a low whistle. Kechizu smiles. Yuji shakes the bottle slightly before Eso snaps at him not to spray it all over the food. Choso only exhales through his nose, looking almost annoyed by the attention, but you can see it—the pride tucked carefully beneath his restraint.

Your lips part. “A headlined fight?” you ask. Choso turns to you. Something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise exactly. More like he forgot you didn’t know.

“It was finalized recently,” he says. You blink, then force a smile. “That’s amazing.”

And it is. Or it should be. Your husband is being celebrated. His brothers are proud. Yuji is practically glowing as he wrestles the cork free with far too much enthusiasm.

You should feel only happiness. But something small and cold settles beneath your ribs. Why didn’t he tell you?

The cork pops. Yuji cheers too loudly, pouring champagne into glasses while Eso mutters about him being dramatic. He fills yours only halfway after Choso gives him a look.

“So,” Eso says, leaning back in his chair, eyes on Choso. “Who are you fighting?”

Yuji answers before Choso can.

“Toji Fushiguro.”

The name strikes you like a hand around your throat.

Toji.

Fushiguro.

Everything goes cold. For a second, the dining room disappears. Rain. A porch light. A black car. A hand extended toward you. A man’s chest beneath your cheek while you sobbed hard enough to break. A bar. Glasses. His voice saying he couldn’t keep doing this.

A school hallway. Girls laughing. Megumi’s dad. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. The champagne bubbles quietly inside it.

You don’t breathe. The name keeps echoing.

Fushiguro.

Your spine prickles. Your stomach twists. Something deep inside you stirs awake, not fully formed, not clear enough to understand—but powerful enough to hurt. Unfortunately, your husband notices.

Of course he does. Choso’s gaze shifts to you slowly. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a slight turn of his head. A quiet narrowing of his eyes. His hand slides under the table and rests over your knee.

Still.

Heavy.

Grounding.

Claiming.

“Y/n are you sure, your okay?” he asks.

The table quiets just enough. Yuji looks between you both, confused. Eso’s eyes sharpen. Kechizu lowers his gaze to his plate like he can feel the tension even if he doesn’t understand it.

You force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice comes out too thin. “Just… surprised.” Choso’s thumb presses once against your knee.

“Why?” he asks softly. The question is gentle. The room hears concern. You hear the warning beneath it. You swallow, gripping the glass tighter. “I don’t know. The name just sounded familiar.” Choso doesn’t blink.

Yuji, oblivious and eager, leans forward. “Oh, yeah, he’s kind of a big deal. Older fighter. Crazy strong. Used to be connected to some school programs too, I think. Boxing clinics, mentoring stuff—”

“Yuji,” Choso says.

One word. Quiet. Yuji stops immediately. The silence after it is awful.

You stare down at your glass, the bubbles rising and bursting one by one, your reflection warped in the pale gold surface.

Toji Fushiguro. The mysterious man finally has a name. And judging by the way Choso’s hand tightens slightly over your knee, he knows exactly what that name just did to you.

—————————————————

The car ride home feels wrong from the start.

Not loud. Not angry. Worse than that.

Silent.

The kind of silence that crawls into the space between two people and sits there, heavy and breathing. Choso keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw set so tightly the muscle jumps once near his cheek. You sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, staring through the windshield as streetlights streak across the glass in thin gold lines.

Neither of you mentions the name. Toji Fushiguro. But it sits in the car anyway.

You can feel it pressed against your throat. You can feel it in the way Choso hasn’t touched your knee since you left Yuji’s house. He hasn’t asked if you’re okay again. He hasn’t explained why the name made the room go cold.

And you don’t ask. Not yet. By the time the car turns onto your street, your stomach feels tight from holding too much in. The house comes into view, dark and still behind its neat front lawn. But then your attention shifts.

Red and blue lights flash against the windows next door.

Cop cars.

Two of them parked outside the neighbor’s house. Your brows pull together as Choso slows the car and parks in your driveway. The engine cuts off, leaving only the distant crackle of police radios and the low murmur of voices drifting through the night.

“What’s going on?” you ask quietly.

Choso doesn’t answer right away.

He gets out first, moving around the car with that controlled calm that always makes him look like he belongs in every situation, even the ones he shouldn’t. You step out after him, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself, eyes fixed on the house next door.

A police officer starts walking toward you.

“Ma’am, do you live—”

Before he can finish, Choso steps slightly in front of you.

“Officer,” he says.

The cop’s expression changes instantly. Recognition. He reaches out, and Choso shakes his hand with a familiarity that makes something cold slide down your spine.

“Choso,” the officer says. “Sorry to bother you this late.”

“No problem,” Choso replies smoothly. “Everything alright?”

You look between them. They know each other. Not casually, either. Not the way neighbors might recognize a local officer. There’s comfort there. Ease. The officer’s gaze flicks briefly to you, but Choso turns his head before the man can speak again.

“Go inside,” he tells you.

Your lips part.

“I can—”

“Inside,” he repeats, softer this time, but there’s no room in it.

You swallow your irritation, nod once, and walk toward the front door. Every step feels like obedience wearing the costume of safety. You can feel Choso watching your back until you enter the house and close the door behind you.

But you don’t walk away. You stand near the window, hidden slightly behind the curtain, watching.

Choso and the officer speak in low voices. You can’t hear the words. Just fragments of posture. Choso’s arms crossed. The officer nodding. Another cop near the neighbor’s porch shining a flashlight through the front window.

The old woman’s house looks empty. Too empty. No movement behind the curtains. No porch light. No shape in the garden. Eventually, you pull away from the window.

Your skin feels cold.

Upstairs, you move through your nighttime routine like your body is doing it without you. Wash face. Brush teeth. Change into pajamas. Pull your hair back. The actions are familiar enough now, but your mind is elsewhere.

Toji Fushiguro.

The neighbor. The attic. The missing folder. The missing woman. The pills. You open the bathroom cabinet and reach for your medication.

The bottles sit in a neat row, labels turned forward, organized too perfectly. You pick up the one Choso usually hands you in the morning and at night. Your thumb brushes over the label.

For the first time, you actually read it. The name is unfamiliar. So is the dosage. Your stomach tightens. You twist the cap open and shake the pills into your palm. They look the same as always. Small. Ordinary. Harmless.

But your body goes still. Something in the back of your mind rises up—not a memory, not a voice, just instinct.

Don’t. Your fingers curl slightly around the pills. You stare at them for a long moment, heart beginning to pound.

The bathroom door is open. The hallway beyond it is quiet. Choso is still outside. You lift the glass of water from the sink and bring the pills toward your mouth. Then you stop.

Slowly, carefully, you tip your head back as if swallowing. But the pills stay hidden in your palm. You drink the water. You lower the glass. Then you turn, kneel, and drop the pills into the toilet.

They hit the water soundlessly. For a second, you just stare at them. Then you flush. The sound roars too loudly in the small bathroom. Your heart hammers as the water spins, taking the pills down with it. You stand quickly, wiping your damp palms on your pajama pants just as the front door opens downstairs.

Choso is back. You close the medicine bottle and put it exactly where it was. By the time he enters the bedroom, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to look tired instead of terrified.

He pauses in the doorway. His eyes move over you once. Your face. Your hands. The nightstand. The bathroom behind you. Then he steps inside. “You took your meds?” he asks. You nod.

“Yeah.” The lie leaves your mouth more easily than you expect. His gaze lingers for one second too long before he accepts it. You pull the blankets back slowly. “What happened next door?”

Choso exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Her daughter filed a missing persons report.” Your body goes very still.

“The neighbor?” you ask. He nods. “Apparently no one’s seen her in weeks.” Weeks. The word lands like a stone dropped into deep water. You think of the drawn curtains. The empty garden. The roses blooming red and full under the summer sun. You force your face to stay neutral.

“That’s… unfortunate,” you say softly.

Choso watches you. You don’t look away. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah.”

He changes for bed without saying much else. You climb under the covers and turn onto your side, facing away from him. The mattress dips behind you when he joins you, his presence warm and close but not touching.

For the first time, that distance feels like relief.

You stare into the dark, breathing evenly, pretending sleep is already pulling you under. But your mind is wide awake. Tomorrow morning, you think. Bloodwork. You’ll get bloodwork done. Quietly. Without telling him. You’ll write down the names on the bottles before he notices.

You’ll find out what you’ve been taking.

You’ll find out what’s inside your body.

Behind you, Choso shifts slightly. His hand settles near your hip over the blanket, not gripping. Just resting there. Like he’s making sure you’re still where he left you. You close your eyes. And for the first time in weeks, you don’t let yourself lean into him. You count your breaths instead.

One.

Two.

Three.

And somewhere outside, through the bedroom window, red and blue lights continue flashing over the neighbor’s empty house.

The hospital smells exactly the way you remember.

Sterile. Cold. Too clean.

The second the automatic doors slide open, nausea crawls up your throat. It isn’t strong enough to make you sick, but it lingers there, bitter and familiar, pressing against the back of your tongue like your body recognizes this place before your mind does.

You keep your head down as you walk to the front desk.

No Choso.

No hand at your back.

No voice telling you to slow down.

Just you.

Your phone is off in your purse, the screen black, silent, unreachable. You turned it off before leaving the house, your fingers trembling as you held the power button down. A small act. A simple act. But it felt like rebellion.

If he checked your location, he would see nothing. That thought scares you. But it also makes your spine straighten.

The nurse at the desk smiles politely when you tell her you’re here for bloodwork. She asks for your name, confirms your date of birth, gives you a clipboard. Everything is routine. Normal. Nobody stops you. Nobody asks where your husband is.

For the first time in weeks, the world does not require Choso’s permission to let you move through it.

You sit in the waiting area, bouncing your knee, trying not to breathe too deeply. The smell of antiseptic keeps dragging pieces of memory loose from the back of your mind.

White ceiling.

Bandages.

Choso’s hand wrapped around yours.

His voice saying, You’re safe.

Your stomach turns. Then another flash. Rain. Grass. Blood.

Not enough to understand.

Enough to know something is wrong.

When they call your name, you stand too quickly and almost expect dizziness to knock you sideways. But it doesn’t. Your balance holds. Your head feels clearer than it has in days.

You think of the pills dissolving in the toilet last night. Your heart begins to pound.

The blood draw is quick. A rubber band around your arm. A pinch. Dark red filling the tube. You watch it with a strange fascination, as if the truth might already be visible inside the glass.

The nurse presses cotton to your skin afterward and wraps it with tape.

“When will the results come back?” you ask.

“Usually within two to three business days,” she says. “You should be able to view them through the patient portal once they’re processed.”

You nod slowly. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “Of course. Take care of yourself.”

The words follow you out. Take care of yourself. Not let him take care of you.

Not ask your husband.

You. Outside, the air feels different. Fresh. Warm. Alive. You stand on the sidewalk for a moment, letting sunlight touch your face, letting the city move around you without swallowing you whole.

For once, your head doesn’t split open. For once, your body doesn’t feel buried under fog. You decide to walk home.

It takes longer, but you don’t mind. Your legs feel stronger today. The rhythm of your steps steadies you. Storefronts pass. Cars hum. People walk dogs, drink coffee, argue into phones. Life keeps moving, indifferent and loud.

And you feel almost part of it.

By the time your street comes into view, your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. Not healed. Not safe. But awake. Then you see the driveway. Your steps slow. Choso’s car is there.

Parked perfectly. Waiting. Your pulse stutters. He was supposed to be at training.

You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the car as if it might move on its own. The windows are dark. The house is still. The curtains are drawn halfway, just like they always are.

Your mouth goes dry. Maybe practice ended early. Maybe he came back for something. Maybe he knows.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your purse, feeling the dead weight of your phone inside. Still off. Still hidden. Still evidence of a choice you made without him.

You force yourself forward.

The path to the front door feels longer than usual. Each step sounds too loud. Your hand reaches for the handle, but you pause before touching it, listening.

Nothing. No voices. No movement. Just the house. Quiet.

Waiting. You wrap your fingers around the handle and turn it slowly. The door opens. Cool air spills out. You step inside, heart climbing into your throat, and close the door behind you.

Choso is pacing when you step inside.

Back and forth. Back and forth. One hand gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles have gone pale, the other dragging through his hair like he’s been doing it for a while. The second the door clicks shut behind you, his head snaps up.

For one brief moment, relief breaks across his face so openly that it almost hurts to look at.

Then it hardens.

“Where were you?”

His voice is quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s something strained underneath it, something stretched thin enough to cut.

You close the door slowly behind you, keeping your movements gentle. Careful. You know that look now. You know the shape of panic when he tries to dress it up as concern.

“I went to the hospital,” you say.

His whole body stills.

The silence after that feels sharp.

“The hospital,” he repeats.

You nod, slipping your purse off your shoulder and setting it on the table like nothing is wrong. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like your phone isn’t still dead and dark inside your bag on purpose.

“My phone died,” you add quickly, before he can ask. “I didn’t notice until I was already there.”

His eyes flick to your purse. Then back to your face.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

You swallow, forcing yourself not to look away. “The doctor’s office called after you left. They said they wanted me to come in for bloodwork. Just to make sure my levels are okay because of the dizziness and nausea.”

The lie sits between you.

Clean.

Simple.

Almost believable.

If Choso can keep secrets, you think, then fine. So can you.

His jaw tightens. “They called you?”

“Mhm.” You nod again, softer this time. “They said it was routine.”

He studies you.

Too long.

His gaze moves over your face, your mouth, your posture. He notices everything, and you feel him noticing the differences before you even know what they are. You are standing straighter today. Your eyes are clearer. Your voice doesn’t tremble the way it used to. There’s color in your cheeks that wasn’t there weeks ago.

You look more awake.

And Choso sees it.

That’s what scares him.

“You should’ve told me,” he says.

“I know.”

You step closer before he can retreat further into suspicion. You let your shoulders soften, let your expression fold into apology. It’s almost frightening how easy it is to become what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His face shifts.

Just slightly.

There.

You see the exact moment the anger loses its footing.

You step closer again.

“I know how much you worry,” you continue, voice soft and careful. “I know you’re only trying to keep me safe.”

Choso exhales through his nose, but his eyes remain sharp. “Your phone was off.”

“I know,” you say again. “That was stupid. I should’ve charged it.”

You hate how natural the words sound. How easily they slip out. How well you know where to press.

You reach for his hand.

He lets you.

His fingers are warm, tense, curled like he’s trying not to grip too hard. You lift his hand gently between both of yours and rub your thumb across his knuckles. The same way he does to you. Slow. Grounding. Reassuring.

His eyes drop to the gesture.

“I didn’t want to make your day harder,” you say, looking up at him. “You have so much going on. Training. The fight. Your brothers. Me.”

His expression flickers at that.

You step closer until there’s barely any space left.

“You’ve been carrying everything,” you say softly. “And I don’t say thank you enough.”

Choso’s throat moves as he swallows.

The suspicion doesn’t leave completely, but it shifts. It loosens around the edges, softened by praise, by devotion, by the sound of you making him necessary.

You can almost feel how badly he wants to believe you.

So you give him more.

“You’re the reason I’m still standing,” you whisper. “I know that.”

His eyes darken.

Not with anger this time.

With hunger.

Not physical, not only. Something deeper. Something starved.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmurs.

“I want to.”

Your hand rises slowly to his chest. His heart is beating hard beneath your palm, faster than you expected. He was scared. Really scared.

Good, some quiet part of you thinks.

Then you bury that thought so deep it can’t show on your face.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you say.

And that’s the line that does it.

His shoulders drop by a fraction. His fingers slide around your wrist, holding you there against him, anchoring your touch to his body like he needs proof that you’re still choosing to stand close.

“You scared me,” he says, voice low.

“I know.”

“You can’t disappear like that.”

“I won’t.”

He searches your face again, but this time you’re ready for it. You make yourself look open. Tired. Loving. A little guilty. Everything he expects. Everything that makes sense.

He lifts his hand and cups your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “You look different.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes narrow faintly, not cruel, just unsettled. “Clearer.”

You force a small, fragile smile. “Maybe that’s good.”

“Maybe.”

The word is quiet, but it isn’t agreement.

You lean into his palm before he can keep thinking. You close your eyes as if his touch steadies you, as if he is still the safest thing in the room.

“I felt better after the walk,” you say. “Fresh air helped.”

He watches you.

“You walked home?”

You nod carefully. “Just wanted to clear my head.”

His jaw tightens again, but before he can turn that into another reprimand, you shift closer and wrap your arms around his waist.

It works. He goes still.

Then his arms come around you. Firm. Protective. Possessive.

You press your face into his chest, breathing him in like you need him. Like you are relieved to be home. Like you did not spend the morning getting blood drawn because you are afraid of what he’s been putting inside your body.

“I’m here,” you murmur against him. “I came back.”

His hold tightens. For a second, neither of you moves.

The house is silent around you. Too silent. But this time, you don’t let it swallow you. You let him believe he has. You let him cradle the back of your head, let him kiss your hair, let him calm himself down with the weight of you in his arms.

“I don’t like not knowing where you are,” he says.

“I know.”

“You’re still healing.”

“I know.”

“You need me.”

You pause.

Just long enough to feel the room hold its breath.

Then you tilt your face up toward him, eyes soft, voice gentle enough to make it sound like truth.

“I do.”

His expression almost breaks. Almost. There is something devastating in the way he looks at you then. Like those two words are the only prayer he has ever needed answered. He bends and kisses your forehead.

Slow. Lingering.

“You should rest,” he whispers. You nod. But as he guides you toward the stairs, his hand steady at your back, you keep your face calm. You keep your breathing even. You keep your body soft against his.

And inside, quietly, carefully, something in you stands upright. Because for the first time, you understand the shape of the game. Choso knows how to make you doubt yourself. But now you know how to make him believe you still do.

(yandere! choso x Reader, psychological thriller/romance series)

summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.

✧˖° ⚠️ c/w ˖°✧ this series contains dark yandere themes — obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk ♡ (one shot posted on tumblr, series will be on wattpad! follow @yanderslutt)

Graduation day was supposed to be about freedom, but for him it was the opposite. It was the day he chained himself to you. Everyone else was celebrating, but Choso barely noticed the noise, the shouts, the caps thrown in the air. He only saw you. Standing beneath the tall cherry blossom tree, pink petals falling in your hair, you looked untouchable. Sacred. His.

You laughed, asking him to take a picture with you, and when you leaned into him for the shot, your shoulder brushing his arm, he nearly stopped breathing. The camera flashed, capturing a moment you’d forget by tomorrow, but he wouldn’t. No, he couldn’t. That single photo was proof. A contract. A vow.

When you ran off to join your friends, he didn’t follow. He stayed, staring up at the blossoms until the field emptied and silence pressed in around him. Slowly, carefully, he plucked a petal from the place your head had been, tucking it into his pocket like a relic. His fingers brushed the bark where you leaned, tracing the exact spot as if he could burn your shape into his memory.

This is where you belong. With me. Always with me.

The world would try to scatter you away like the drifting petals, but he decided long ago... he’d collect every piece of you before that happened. No matter how long it took.

The hallway was nearly empty, the last echoes of graduation fading away. Your locker clanged open one final time as you searched for the forgotten book inside, the scent of dust and cherry blossoms still lingering in the air. When you shut the door, he was there.

Choso.

He stood too close, eyes fixed on you with a stillness that felt unnatural, like he’d been standing there for hours just to catch you. In his hands was a bouquet — wildflowers, half-wilted, clutched too tightly as though he didn’t know his own strength. The petals were crushed at the edges, but it didn’t matter. To him, they were perfect, because they were for you.

“I wanted you to have these,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. His gaze never wavered. “A graduation gift. For.. you.” The words hung heavy, sticky in the air. You laughed it off nervously, unsure if you heard him right, but he didn’t smile back. His face was unreadable, except for the sharp glint in his eyes—possessive, hungry, unblinking.

When you reached for the bouquet, his fingers brushed yours and lingered too long, curling almost like he wanted to catch your hand and never let go.

You smiled softly as you accepted the bouquet, the petals trembling in your hands. “Thank you, Choso… that’s really sweet.” Your voice was gentle, casual, but the way his dark eyes followed every twitch of your lips made it feel heavier, binding. He opened his mouth, words balancing on the edge of confession—I love you. You’re mine. You always have been. "Y/n.. I...I need to tell you something."

But then you gasped.

A familiar pair of hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against a tall body that smelled of sweat, smoke, and something dangerous. Toji Fushiguro. His deep chuckle vibrated against your spine as he looked down at the flowers Choso had given you, amusement curling his lips.

“Well, well… who’s this punk?” Toji tilted his head lazily, eyes cutting into Choso like knives. The older man stood effortlessly dominant, his hand resting far too possessively on your hip, thumb brushing the fabric of your gown like he was reminding Choso that he’d already claimed you.

Choso felt his heart stop. The world dimmed, leaving only the sight of Toji’s hand on you. Older. Bigger. Already graduated. A man who had what Choso wanted—what Choso needed. His fists trembled at his sides, nails biting into his palms. All the words he wanted to give you turned to ash on his tongue.

You shifted, caught between their stares, your cheeks warming in embarrassment. To you, it was just an awkward overlap of your boyfriend and your friend. But to Choso, it was worse than betrayal—it was theft. You didn’t even realize you were being stolen right in front of him. And in that moment, as Toji smirked and tightened his hold on you, Choso made a silent vow under the hollow bloom of cherry blossoms: If I can’t have you now, I’ll wait. I’ll watch. I’ll take you back when the time is right. You won’t belong to him forever. You’ll be mine. No more words were exchanged. Toji rolled his eyes, grabbing your hand walking you out of the school leaving Choso alone with his thoughts.

Choso’s gaze dropped to the floor, but the world tilted violently, spinning out of control. His chest heaved, vision blurring as hot tears stung his eyes. The bouquet you held blurred in his sight, pink petals swimming with red. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened—and then he snapped. BANG. The lockers shuddered as his fist slammed into them with bone-breaking force, the echo ringing down the empty hallway like a gunshot. Steel groaned beneath his rage, a dent caving in where his skin split wide open. Blood smeared across the metal, sliding down in thick, sticky trails. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop.

He hit it again. Harder. Until the sound of flesh tearing and bone grinding cut through the silence. The bouquet slipped from your hands, petals scattering across the blood-streaked floor as Choso’s voice cracked out in a strangled cry.

Then, he dropped.

On his knees, he collapsed to the tile, shoulders shaking violently. Blood poured from his ruined fist, dripping onto the petals like a grotesque imitation of ink staining paper. His breath came in sharp, guttural gasps, a broken animal sound that crawled up your spine. His head tilted back slowly, eyes glassy with tears, face smeared with streaks of blood where he’d dragged his trembling hands up into his hair.

“But you belong to me...,” he rasped, voice raw, unhinged. His head snapped toward Toji with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—wide, cracked, terrifying. "You belong to me.."

The hallway seemed to close in, suffocating, as Choso rocked on the ground in his own blood and tears, mumbling feverish promises to himself. His stare locked on you—hungry, desperate, terrifying—as he pressed his bloodied palm to his chest like he was swearing an oath with every heartbeat.

“You’ll see,” he whispered, voice breaking into a laugh that was half-sob, half-scream. “You’ll see. You’ll always be mine. Even if I have to burn the whole world to prove it.”

-

Two years later . . . .

Two years had turned Choso into something unrecognizable. The boy who once broke down in a blood-soaked hallway had hardened into a predator. He’d carved discipline into his body, fists wrapped in the calluses of endless boxing sessions, every strike thrown with one image in his head: Toji’s face, the smug smirk that haunted him, the hand that once held you. He swore he’d reach that level—no, surpass it. And now, he had.

But he didn’t go looking for Toji. No, Toji didn’t matter anymore. You did. You hadn’t seen him since graduation day. He made sure of that. He vanished from your world, shadows at the edge of your life, training in silence, watching from a distance, waiting until the timing was right. Because patience was power, and obsession demanded precision.

And tonight, the timing was perfect. The bar lights buzzed weakly overhead, a sad yellow glow pooling across your slouched figure. Toji had left you—dumped you without care, discarding you like nothing. Choso knew. He’d been waiting for this moment, watching the pieces fall into place. And now, here you were: alone, broken, fingertips tapping absently against a glass you hadn’t even finished.

He watched from across the street first, leaning against the shadows, his chest swelling with twisted satisfaction. You looked small in that booth, vulnerable in a way that made his blood rush hot with possession. This was what he had trained for—not for Toji, not for revenge, but for you.

Choso stepped into the bar, the scent of sweat and alcohol mixing with the copper memory of blood in his mind. The moment he walked in, his eyes locked on you—nothing else mattered. His stride was deliberate, his body filling the room with quiet danger, with a presence you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to.

Tonight, he thought, his lips curling into a slow, obsessive smile. Tonight, you’d finally understand what he’d been trying to tell you under that cherry blossom tree. You were always meant to be his. And now, you would be—forever.

The night air was cool against your skin, sharp with the faint scent of rain as you walked the cracked pavement back to your house. Your tears hadn’t fully dried; you wiped them with the back of your sleeve, trying to shake off the weight in your chest. Toji’s words still echoed in your skull, cruel and final, but at least home wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just a few minutes alone with your thoughts. But you weren’t alone.

Every few steps, the hairs on your neck prickled. The quiet of the street pressed down too heavy, too still. You slowed once, glancing behind you—nothing but the empty hum of streetlights and the flutter of a stray newspaper caught in the wind. You told yourself you were imagining it, that weird feeling settling like a stone in your stomach. So you pressed on, clutching your bag tighter, until finally, mercifully, your house came into view.

Inside, you locked the door with shaky fingers, the metal bolt clicking into place like a fragile promise of safety. The familiar space wrapped around you, dimly lit and cluttered with the quiet chaos of your life. You exhaled, shoulders sagging as you tossed your bag and jacket onto the couch. The silence felt heavy but safe, and you let yourself believe—for a second—that the feeling outside had been nothing.

But he was already there. Somewhere in the dark corners of your home, Choso lingered like a shadow given flesh. He had followed at a distance, patient, silent, and when you slid the lock into place, he smiled to himself. Locks didn’t matter. Distance didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He could hear you moving—soft steps across the floor, the faint shuffle of fabric as you wiped your face, the small broken sigh you didn’t think anyone could hear. He drank it in, every sound, every vulnerability. Two years of waiting, of training, of restraining himself had all been for this exact moment. You thought you were safe. But tonight? Tonight, Choso would finally take back what was his.

The lock clicked, your bag hit the couch, and for a moment you thought the worst was behind you. But the silence wasn’t comforting. It pressed against your ears, thick, unnatural. You rubbed your face and muttered something to yourself, your own voice almost foreign in the stillness.

From the kitchen came a creak.

You froze. Heart slamming once, twice. You told yourself it was the pipes, or the old wood settling. But when you walked past, the lights were off—like they had been. And the chair you swore you’d tucked neatly under the table this morning now sat slightly pushed out.

You shook your head and kept moving, trying to ignore the growing chill in your chest. You slipped off your shoes, padded toward your bedroom. Another sound followed. A faint scrape. Like something brushing across the floor behind you.

You spun around. Nothing. Still, the feeling crawled up your spine. Someone was here. You bolted to your room, shut the door, and leaned against it. Deep breaths. Just nerves. Just the echo of Toji’s rejection rattling in your skull. You locked the door, convincing yourself it would be enough. You turned toward the mirror—

And there, faint, in the condensation where you’d forgotten to wipe it this morning, was a message scrawled in shaky lines of your own breath: M I N E.

Your lungs locked. Before you could scream, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then off. You were drowning in black. From somewhere in the dark house, low and guttural, came a laugh. Not loud, not forced. Just… patient. “I told you,” a voice whispered through the walls, close and far all at once. “Tonight is the beginning.”

Your hands shook as you fumbled for your phone, the dim glow of the screen the only light left in your room. You swallowed hard, fingers hovering over a friend’s contact when a notification popped up before you could type.

Unknown Number: Don’t lock me out, sweetheart.

Your breath caught. A chill raced through your veins as you stared at the message. Another ping followed, the vibration rattling in your palm.

Unknown Number: I’ve been waiting two years for this.

Your pulse hammered so hard it felt like your ribs would snap. You dropped the phone onto the bed, hands clamping over your mouth as if silence alone could make you invisible. Then— thud. A heavy sound from the living room. Something falling. You crept to the door, ear pressed to the wood. The faint creak of floorboards. A low hum. Like someone was… humming a tune to themselves.

Petals. That thought tore through you as the sound of something scattering across the floor reached your ears. You cracked the door open just an inch, just enough to see down the hall. Pink cherry blossom petals—fresh, impossible—streaked the carpet like a trail leading back to the front door.

The door you locked. You backed away, chest tightening, trying to convince yourself you were dreaming, that exhaustion had twisted the world into something unreal. But then your phone buzzed again. Against your better judgment, you looked.

Unknown Number: Don’t cry. It ruins your pretty face. You know I hate when you cry.

Tears slipped anyway, hot and silent, as another sound filled the house. A slow, deliberate knock on your bedroom door. Tap… tap… tap. Not hurried. Not desperate. Patient. “Open up for your husband,” a voice rasped softly from the other side, trembling with a twisted kind of excitement. “It’s time you finally came home.”

The knock faded into silence, but silence was worse. Silence meant he was waiting. Listening. You backed up until your legs hit the bedframe, your chest rising and falling so fast you thought you’d suffocate. Then— click. Every light in the house cut at once, plunging everything into suffocating black. Your phone screen glared too bright in the dark, and you killed it quickly, terrified he could see the glow from beneath the door.

Then came the footsteps. Slow. Measured. Circling the hallway. His shoes dragging deliberately against the floorboards. Every pass made your breath hitch tighter. Sometimes they stopped right outside your door—so close you swore you could hear him inhale, like he was breathing you in. Then they would retreat again, padding toward the living room, only to circle back.

He’s playing with me. Desperation clawed at you. You slid to the window, fumbling with the latch. Your fingers slipped from sweat, nails scraping until finally, finally the lock gave way. You shoved it open, the cool night air washing over you like a fleeting salvation.

One leg out—then buzz. Your phone vibrated violently in your hand. Against your better judgment, you glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number: Where are you going, baby?

Your blood turned to ice. You twisted around—tap. A soft knock against the glass. You hadn’t even heard him move, but now a handprint smeared across the outside of the window, fresh and bloody, the palm pressed firm against the glass right where your face was. You screamed, slamming the window shut, tripping back across the room. You bolted for the door, wrenching it open—empty hallway. The lights flickered once, twice, then died again.

“Run,” his voice echoed low, distorted by the dark. Not angry. Not rushed. Amused. You stumbled down the hall, bare feet slapping against the floor. Every shadow seemed to shift, every corner a trap. You reached the front door, clawing at the locks—when suddenly you froze. The cherry blossom petals. They were gone.

Instead, a single trail of red streaks led from the door, dripping across the floor, pooling in the shape of a heart. And at the center of it sat the crushed bouquet he’d given you two years ago, shriveled and blackened with time, bound with a ribbon stained dark. You turned, chest heaving, and there he was.

Choso stood at the end of the hall, shirt half-unbuttoned, fists wrapped in the stained tape of a boxer, blood still dripping from his knuckles. His eyes were wild, fever-bright, locked on you like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.

“I told you,” he rasped, taking one slow step forward, then another, the sound of his boots echoing through the house. A smile curved sharp and trembling across his face. “Two years I waited. Two years I tore myself apart. For this. For you.”

Your body moved before your mind did—pure survival. You shoved past him, shoulder colliding with the wall as you bolted down the hall, the sound of your panicked breaths echoing louder than your footsteps. You threw open the back door, the cool night air flooding your lungs as you sprinted barefoot into the grass.

The forest loomed just a few strides ahead. If you could just reach the tree line, maybe—

CRACK.

White light exploded behind your eyes. Pain seared through your skull as the world spun violently, grass rushing up to meet your face. Your body hit the ground hard, a muffled cry breaking from your throat before everything bled into disorienting silence.

Behind you, Choso stood over your limp form, chest heaving, the metal bat sliding from his bloodied knuckles onto the grass with a dull thud. His face twisted—not in rage, but in something far worse: relief.

He dropped to his knees beside you, fingers trembling as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. Blood trickled from your temple, staining the petals that clung to your skin. His lips parted in a shuddering breath as his eyes softened, trembling between devotion and madness.

“You almost left me again,” he whispered, voice cracking as he cradled your face. “But not this time. Never again.”

Then—he reached into his pocket. A phone.

He dialed with steady fingers, forcing the tremor from his hands, and when the line clicked, his voice changed. Softer. Higher. Panicked.

“H-Hello? 911? Please—” his tone cracked, feigning desperation, mirroring the terrified cadence he’d used years ago the first time he let you slip away. “My wife—she’s hurt! She fell—oh God, there’s so much blood—please, please hurry!”

His hand smeared your blood across his cheek as he rocked back and forth, clutching you tighter, his false panic bleeding into a chilling smile you’d never see.

Because tonight, no matter what anyone else believed, he wasn’t just saving you.

He was claiming you. Forever.

next chapter

-

Post Apocalypse AU with Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, and Choso all reluctantly working together in a settlement.

The dynamic is so interesting cuz on paper it should not work….yet it does??? Choso is gathering food and equipment. Sukuna is the weapons expert and is usually the one leading the raids on other settlements. Geto is the pseudo-leader and mostly holds things together. Gojo also helps in with raids and whatever else.

They aren't a found family at all. Choso barely speaks and acts more animal than human somedays. Sukuna mostly keeps to himself. Gojo and Geto are the ones who act the most friendly towards one another but everyone is constantly on edge. Peace on the settlement is nothing more than a fragile truce, but it works. On the settlement, everyone earns their keep.

And then you come along, stumbling in the sand, desperate for any type of relief from the blistering hot sun. Sukuna and Gojo are the ones who find you. They haul you on their truck with barely a fight before rushing back to the settlement. Geto and Choso expect them to come back with more supplies and food, but they are far more pleased when they discover you in the truck.

It's been awhile since any of the men have touched something soft. They all thought whatever softness the world had left had blown away in the airy desert wind, but you proved them wrong.

Choso falls first. Being with you reminds him of those green summer days before the downfall of humanity, back when he was a good big brother and loved his family. You're his family now, and he'd shred everything who comes between the two of you.

Sukuna will never admit it, but he'll sit by your cot when youre asleep. He'll keep vigil, paranoid something may take you away when the others aren't watching. Somedays, you being here really feels like a dream and he doesn't ever want to wake up.

Suguru acts the most normal. He converses with you and laughs with you. He makes himself seem the most safe. He doesn't want to stir any turmoil within the settlement, but it would be nice if you preferred him over the others.

Satoru is the least overbearing, but that doesn't say much. He never had much faith in god, but after they found you, only good things have happened. things are finally turning up in his miserable life. he calls you his lucky star, though you never discover how serious he means it.

For years, they just survived, but now they're finally living.

Meanwhile, you are so grateful the men found you when they did. You truly are. No amount of thanking them will ever be enough repayment. Still, you can never find yourself truly comfortable in the settlement. The way they stare at you is always so intense, like they're daring you to run, just so they'd have the excuse to chase you. Anytime you even mention leaving, one of the men are quick to change topics.

You aren't an idiot. You see the changes they're making here. Choso keeps building the surrounding fences higher and higher, like hes trying to keep something in. Satoru keeps installing more locks and bolts. You caught Sukuna smuggling in a ragged nursery book a while back. There's something in Suguru's room that eerily resembles a bassinet.

On the settlement, everyone earns their keep.

Pairing: Soft!Dark Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: A relaxing getaway in the woods may become your permanent home when you catch the eye of a lumberjack.

Part 2 | Series Masterlist | Part 4

Chapter Summary: Tension is thick with you and Bucky as you two have lunch together.

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.2k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, bits of MCU canon, grumpy x sunshine trope, invasive behavior, bits of insecurity, sexual tension, kissing, reader ignores red flags like she's colorblind, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: Next part of our lumberjack is here! ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Since Bucky already unpacked the food, you helped set everything on a couple of plates. He said he was starving, and you didn't want to keep him waiting. You also didn’t know what kind of plans he had for the rest of the day. He could eat what you brought and send you on your way if he wished.

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x fisher!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”

a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!

word count: 11.4k main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event

synopsis: After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

Warnings: this fic could include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Character: mob!baker!Steve Rogers, reader with arthritis

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

You’re distracted as you get to the front of the line. You feel bad to have caused all that drama. You can sense the woman who came in with Devin glancing at you as you roll up to the counter, turning the wheels to get close. You didn’t even think of what you wanted.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 4th’s fic!

Charles Blackwood + “Don’t you realise how much I want you?” (Regency AU)

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

Countess Drayfort, nee Locke, now Blackwood, reclines against her pillows as you enter with a tray. You bring the porcelain tea set right to her bedside as she soothes herself with a painted fan. Her once rosy cheeks are pallid. You wonder if at least age has broken through or if this is a summer ague come to fester.

Chapter 8 - Cracks

Warnings: dark and possessive Yoongi, kidnapping, captivity

Masterlist

After that night, Yoongi stopped touching her almost entirely.

No casual hands against her waist while passing in the hallway.

No brushing hair away from her face.

No absentminded fingers against the small of her back guiding her through rooms.

Nothing.

The distance should have relieved her.

Instead, the absence became noticeable everywhere.

Especially because Yoongi still looked at her the same way.

That terrifyingly focused attention never changed.

If anything, it grew worse.

Like he was constantly thinking.

Calculating.

Monitoring himself as carefully as he monitored her.

And she realized something slowly over the following weeks:

Yoongi was afraid of himself.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not because he thought he would hurt her physically.

Because he knew exactly how deeply obsessed he’d become.

Knew how fragile his self-control actually was beneath all the calmness.

So now he compensated by tightening control elsewhere.

More cameras appeared around the property.

The guards rotated more frequently.

The gates required multiple access codes now.

And every single male employee disappeared from the mansion completely.

At first she didn’t even notice.

Then one morning she looked around the breakfast table and realized every staff member in the house was female.

Every maid.

Every cook.

Every assistant.

Every cleaner.

She laughed in disbelief.

“You cannot be serious.”

Yoongi looked up from his coffee.

“What?”

“You replaced every male employee.”

He continued stirring sugar slowly into his cup.

“Yes.”

“Because of what? Jealousy?”

“Partially.”

The honesty stunned her every single time.

“Yoongi, that’s insane.”

“No,” he said calmly. “It’s preventative.”

She stared at him.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“I don’t want strange men around you.”

“They weren’t strange men! They were employees.”

Yoongi finally looked at her properly then.

Dark eyes steady.

Sharp.

“They looked at you too much.”

Heat crawled unpleasantly up her neck.

“What?”

“The cook especially.”

The bluntness caught her off guard completely.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“They knew you were vulnerable.”

“I’m not vulnerable.”

“You are here.”

“You don’t get to decide who’s dangerous to me.”

“Yes,” Yoongi said softly. “I do.”

The conversation ended there.

Like most conversations with him did.

Not because he shouted her down.

Because once Yoongi decided something, it became immovable.

Absolute.

The psychological exhaustion started affecting her more around the second month.

Not acceptance.

Not affection.

Just exhaustion.

Living in a constant state of fear and anger took energy she eventually no longer had.

Especially because Yoongi remained relentlessly consistent.

He never hit her.

Never screamed at her.

Never retaliated when she lashed out emotionally.

He simply endured her hatred with horrifying patience while continuing to care for her anyway.

And slowly that consistency began wearing cracks into her anger.

Not because she forgave him.

Because human beings weren’t built to sustain that level of emotional intensity forever.

One night she woke from a nightmare screaming and gasping hard enough to make herself dizzy.

For several confused seconds, she thought she was back home.

Then reality returned all at once.

The room.

The house.

Him.

Panic surged immediately through her chest.

Before she could fully calm herself, the bedroom door opened.

Yoongi stepped inside instantly, hair messy from sleep, concern obvious across his face.

“You okay?”

She stared at him silently, still breathing hard.

Of course he heard.

Of course he came.

Yoongi moved closer carefully.

“You were crying.”

“I’m fine.”

It was obviously a lie.

He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, keeping distance between them.

Not touching.

Never touching unless invited now.

“What was the dream about?”

“You.”

The answer slipped out before she could stop it.

Pain flickered across his expression immediately.

Still, he stayed calm.

“What happened in it?”

“You wouldn’t let me leave.”

Silence settled heavily between them.

Then he said quietly:

“That’s not a dream.”

Something about the honesty shattered her composure unexpectedly.

Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes again.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

Yoongi looked down at his hands for a long moment before answering.

“I know.”

“You ruined my life.”

Another pause.

Then:

“I know.”

God.

Why did he always do that?

Why did he never defend himself properly?

She wanted him to justify it. Argue back. Give her something clean to fight against.

Instead he accepted every accusation while still refusing to let her go.

It was maddening.

“I don’t understand you,” she said shakily.

Yoongi’s jaw tightened faintly.

“That makes two of us.”

She wiped angrily at her face.

“I don’t even know why you want me this much.”

That made him go very still.

For a second, she thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.

Then finally:

“Because you saw me correctly.”

The room felt heavier immediately.

She frowned slightly. “What does that even mean?”

Yoongi hesitated.

Like he was deciding whether to say anything at all.

“Everyone else,” he said finally, “sees pieces of me.”

A pause.

His fingers flexed once against his own palm.

“The idol. The producer. The celebrity. The version they need.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“No one really listens past that.”

Her expression shifted slightly. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said simply.

That made her go quiet.

Yoongi’s gaze lowered briefly.

“Telling people you’re tired gets old. After a while they stop hearing it.”

Silence stretched.

“But you didn’t.”

That landed differently.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

“That fansign conversation?” he continued quietly. “You didn’t treat me like something to consume. You actually understood things I’ve never explained out loud.”

He glanced at her then.

Not intense.

Just direct.

“You listened like it mattered.”

She swallowed.

His eyes finally lifted to hers again.

“It felt like finding oxygen after years underwater.”

The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch slightly.

There it was again.

That unbearable sincerity.

Not manipulation.

Not performance.

Real feeling.

Raw enough to make her uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know what to do after that,” Yoongi admitted softly. “I tried thinking rationally about it. Tried giving you space.” A humorless smile flickered briefly across his mouth. “Didn’t work.”

She stared at him silently.

Because for the first time since being taken, he sounded tired of himself too.

“I knew I was becoming obsessed,” he said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Then why didn’t you stop?”

The question hung heavily between them.

Yoongi answered immediately.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

The honesty stole the air from her lungs.

No excuses.

No denial.

Just truth.

“I could’ve let you leave Korea,” he continued quietly. “I could’ve convinced myself texting was enough. But eventually you would’ve moved on.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “And I couldn’t tolerate that outcome.”

The terrifying part was how logically he framed it.

Like he had genuinely evaluated every possibility before deciding this one was preferable.

“You say that like it’s reasonable.”

“No,” Yoongi corrected softly. “I say it because it’s true.”

Silence stretched between them again.

Then finally she asked the question she’d secretly wondered for weeks.

“Do you ever feel guilty?”

His expression changed immediately.

Not defensive.

Worse.

Sad.

“All the time.”

The answer stunned her.

“Then why—”

“Because guilt isn’t stronger than my feelings for you.”

His voice stayed calm.

Certain.

“And if I let guilt decide things,” he added quietly, “I would lose you.”

Something painful twisted unexpectedly in her chest.

Because she believed him completely.

Yoongi stood slowly from the bed then.

“I’ll leave you alone now.”

He turned toward the door before she spoke again suddenly.

“…Wait.”

He stopped instantly.

The single word affected him visibly.

She noticed that too.

Her throat tightened slightly.

“I…” God, why was this difficult? “Can you just stay until I fall asleep?”

Yoongi went completely still.

For one terrifying second, she thought maybe she’d made a mistake.

Then he answered softly:

“Of course.”

He sat back down carefully beside the bed, keeping the same respectful distance as before.

Neither spoke again.

But long after her breathing finally evened into sleep, Yoongi remained awake beside her, staring quietly into the dark with something dangerously close to happiness settling inside his chest.

I seriously need to start reading more fics 💔 but I do have a few.

Nemesis recs pt. 1

love lockdown by @personasintro — this deserves a special place on this list because, without it, I probably wouldn't be here writing today. The lack of updates inspired me to come up with my own version of zombie apocalypse Yoongi 😭, and without that, none of my stories would probably exist. I'm still waiting for an update!!!

basic needs & self fulfillment needs by @gggukniverse — also still waiting for an update 💔 This is genuinely one of the best smut fics I've read so far that I keep coming back to

hot & bothered by @ktownshizzle — I don't read this type of stories often, but it was really sweet <3

snowball series by @werezmastarbucks — the one that inspired me to write my own psycho stalker!

moon dreams by @kikiskook — freaky, but surprisingly sweet in the end. I actually reread it a few days ago

Word Count: 5,885 // angst (toxic relationship, friends to lovers, yandere behavior, possessiveness, jealousy, mention of physical harm, mention of neglect), smut (rough sex/slight dub-con, fingering, omorashi, asphyxiation, forced creampie), no fluff

Childhood friend!Taehyung X Childhood friend!Reader

Summary: You and Taehyung were inseparable once. When you come back to your hometown after three years, fate pulls you back to him. And this time, Taehyung won’t ever keep his eyes off of you. 

Music: X

Pairings: Dark!Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is a ballerina who has a personal stake in politics for the working class. Having come up from poor roots, she hasn't forgotten the struggle of the working class and uses her spare time and influence to try to push agendas for them. Her efforts catch the eye of Tommy Shelby. And once he sees her dance, he is eager to preserve that beauty for himself.

Warnings: Stalking, emotional abuse, confinement, yandere behavior, alcoholism, dubcon -> noncon, drugging

Part Twelve || Current fics

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark-ish!Billy (just the tiniest bit tho), Virgin!Reader, Dub-Con, P in V, Hate Fucking (kinda but not really lol i tried), Fingering, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Mentions of a gun shot graze, Talk of tying up/restraining/bondage, Slight Dirty Talk, Rough Touches (he grabs her face & throat), Use of the word “drawers” instead of panties cause I'm cringey like that lol

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: Dedicated to my anon who sent in this ask and put the thought of hate fucking in my head. I tried, hun lol. Didn't turn out how I thought it would and it's not my best work, but it did help me get out of my writing slump a bit sooooo i hope you enjoy it.

A/N 2: Please accept this supposed to be drabble that turned into basically a fic length thing as compensation for not having Godless Part 2 out yet. Hoping to finish it up within the next couple of weeks 🤞🏻

Summary: Jesse's younger sister is a pretty problem for Billy.