#male reader insert

HIS NAME had been Alaric.

Poor, innocent Alaric who had cried and begged for you to spare him. Twenty four year old Alaric who was three years younger than you, who had a whole life ahead of him to lead. His poor sister who had wept piteously when the newspapers spoke of his death; when they put in the details — a suicidal event; falling from a balcony; no, there were no security cameras, and multiple cuts on the deceased’s arms with a history of depressive episodes — and his poor father who had roamed around the streets, bottle in the hand. A string of feverish words had left his mouth in a daze; why, why, why my young son.

You had smiled at first, thinking of the way Alaric’s warmth had left your hands. His blood that had stained your skin, reassuring and sticky in a way that made your cheeks blush. You had caressed his skin as he had twitched, looking at you like you were a monster.

“How dare you.” You had spoke so softly, so sweetly. Two days ago you had caught him with another woman. “I gave you everything.”

“In hindsight, you stalked me,” he had moaned in pain, the clockwork of death ticking closer, “You ruined my life! I never should have agreed to go out with you!”

His hand had tried to slap you, but because of how weak he was — an endearing trait, you thought with amusement — it resembled an oscillating pendulum instead, moving back and forth uselessly. His tone, redolent of desperation and anger, made you laugh merrily; it was the most emotion he had showed you in a while.

“Your life has always been mine,” you had cooed, “you are mine.”

And you hadn’t even — murdered Alaric. You had merely guided him slowly; he had been the one to kill himself, had he not, staring at you with such acrimony and hostility that your heart had skipped a beat. He had rushed to the balcony feverishly, shaking his head, spewing dirty vulgarities at you. They were melodious words to your ears; soft, mellifluous. You had listened, mesmerised.

“Go on, jump,” you had murmured sweetly. You thought he wouldn’t have done so, because dear, pitiful Alaric had been so rebellious in your relationship with him, refusing to do your bidding. He had all this strange paroxysms of weeping, weird times where you would wish to help him but he would merely break down or howl. Ah, the mystery of human minds: Alaric never seemed to understand your efforts.

But he did. At twenty four, right before your eyes, Alaric had stared straight into your eyes, filled with roaring, beautiful anger; and his body had toppled right over the edge.

And you had watched it deadly, in veneration and reverence; that thump sound that followed had been godly.

**

Over the course of a few days that feeling had died, turning insipid and tasteless. You thought of Alaric, who you had goaded into dying. Essentially, you were a murderer. Essentially, you were evil.

You thought of Alaric’s bright laughter. The sallow complexion he had following the days you had become his boyfriend.your breaths coalescing.

Pity, pity, pity.

This empty feeling must be grief, you thought. You were never that good with emotions, naming them after poring over textbooks. Doctors had said you would never understand them, but Alaric had been you understand. Your feelings with him must have been love.

And now there were perforations in your soul. You had longed for the sublime; for the peaceful, tranquil feeling you had gotten when you had let love corrupt you. When you had allowed its brutal nature to swallow you whole.

What did people do when they grieved? You searched it up online. They went to psychiatric hospitals, they went to therapy. You thought those were fancy words for the doctor. You stumbled upon posts explaining how to deal with insurmountable grief and read countless aching stories of people who lost their loved ones in freak car accidents, who lost their husbands and wives and mothers and fathers from old age, from cancer, from brain aneurysms that struck one day have never gave them mercy.

Not one of them had murdered their loved one. Online forums and posts are not helping, you thought, as you shut your laptop down. You clicked your tongue, tapping your table listlessly.

A doctor. A doctor would be the cure. Yes, that would work.

**

HIS NAME was Joseph. You found him on the internet, under glowing reviews that spoke of his honeyed tongue, of how readily he had helped them; of how he was so charming, so gentle. You had studied his profile, deciding that he would do just fine. The expensive sessions were nothing to you; you weren’t particularly rich, but you didn’t have a desire to save money. Life was fickle, and you went about it as you pleased. You didn’t eat much, choosing to opt for a box of cigarettes and perhaps an apple or two. The juices would haemorrhage your tongue, and you would frown in displeasure.

“Expunge this sadness within me,” you had told Joseph during the first meeting with him. He was tall, well built, had brown hair swept into a clean, tidy hairstyle. His features were beautifully handsome, and you suspected they had helped with the numerous of illuminating reviews.

“You say you’re grieving,” Joseph said calmly, studying you with intelligent, thoughtful eyes. “When did the deceased die?”

You thought long and hard. His spirit had died a while ago, but his body had died about two weeks ago. Or was it three? Or four? You couldn’t remember. All you could feel were your feelings, raw and ambivalent, bubbling within you.

“Maybe four weeks ago?” You guessed.

“You don’t know?” He asked, curious.

“Not really,” you shrugged easily. “I saw online that grief does that to someone. Messes with you. Alaric was so precious,” you sighed.

The vestiges of his name lingered in your tongue. It felt bitter. Awful. You frowned again, and your breath rattled.

“Oh, Alaric,” Joseph spoke slowly, “he was my patient. Surely you don’t mean Alaric Rivers?”

“I do.”

“What a small world,” he had smiled pleasantly. “The man you spoke of visited for me for reasons related to depression.”

“Isn’t there a clause for confidentiality?” You asked, mystified, and also rather surprised at this coincidence.

“My patient is dead,” Joseph chuckled.

You thought he was a light hearted doctor. Acquaintances had rushed to wish you condolences, all viewing you cautiously like you were a time bomb about to go off. They told you that they were there for you and they were so sorry and they knew loss could be incredibly hard on an individual — but Joseph did none of those. It was like he had seen death in its very essence; everlasting, forever. It was like he had ripped mortality open and had seen its finite, fickle nature.

You decided he was a doctor that was good. You could rely on him. You did like how he laughed at it, just like how you had smiled so widely when Alaric had first jumped off the building. Who could blame you? Alaric had always been disobedient — and then he had went on to jump. Was there not a touch of mirth in the situation?

At least the doctor could understand!

“I thought it was a coincidence at first, when you said your name was Y/n,” Joseph said, “Alaric mentioned you. You must be the esteemed boyfriend.”

“He talked about me?” You asked, pleased.

“Of course.”

“What did he say?” You asked eagerly, the words tumbling out of your breath, “tell me, tell me!”

Joseph’s eyes softened, and he laughed. “That’s for another day.”

After the session, you booked another.

This man was useful. This man was one of the real doctors, not the ones who prescribed you pills and medicine that only made you throw up.

This man would help you eviscerate the sadness within you. Oh, right. The correct term would be grief.

**

In the next session, Joseph told you that Alaric said that you were an incredible boyfriend. That you clearly adored him.

You nodded. Joseph spoke the truth; you had loved him so dearly. You had gone so far so as to break his legs so Alaric didn’t need to go for that work event he didn’t want to go for, right?

Alaric had always been so ungrateful.

**

“You are one of the most intriguing patients I’ve ever had,” Joseph smiled. He did a lot of those, but they varied. Some were light, charming. The ones that made the nurses at the front desk giggle and fall over their feet. Most were unsettling, but you liked them those were genuine.

This was session six. The grief was leaving you. You thought of Alaric with fondness, and consoled yourself with the fact that he had loved you back. That was what Joseph had said. Doctors could not lie to their patients. Alaric had been swathed in depression and sadness; of course he would jump. Maybe you weren’t a murderer, after all. These sessions really were working; you were grateful to Joseph for everything he had done for you.

“Really?”

“You feel no guilt,” Joseph murmured, “you don’t even know yourself.”

Now, that wasn’t the fairest thing to say, you thought, offended. Where was this even coming from?

“An interesting specimen indeed,” Joseph continued softly, “you said you locked Alaric up, broke his legs, and threatened to kill yourself if he ever left you. You said he would cry and shake whenever you two slept together, and he was constantly ridden with nightmares. You say you gave him sleeping pills which you carefully crushed in his water so he wouldn’t know.”

“He had a plethora of problems he went through,” you said sadly. How upsetting for Alaric. You hoped that in his final comments, he got some peace, some closure.

“No guilt,” Joseph repeated, his eyes gleaming, “none whatsoever. A psychopath.”

“Calling him a psychopath is a little too much,” You said.

Joseph blinked.

Then he broke off into laughter — into peals of laughter that left his body shaking, leaving his body doubled over. He laughed so hard that tears pricked his eyes, and he continued doing so; uproarious, genuine, full of mirth. You wondered if Joseph had gone crazy.

And when he finally looked up at you, his eyes were murky. And so full of — what was that — ah, amusement. Joy. Affection.

And if you had squinted closer, you would have seen something blooming within. Something that, similarly, bloomed in your own eyes.

(Obsession.)

“My darling Y/n,” he laughed and laughed, “I wasn’t calling Alaric a psychopath. My dear, I was calling you one.”

**

How offensive!

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t want to hear it,” you said. “Take your words back, doctor.”

“Y/n,” he cajoled, “this is our sixth session; shall we leave the formalities behind? Call me Joseph.”

Something had switched in his tone, in his behaviour. You ruminated upon it, trying to think. What was it? It mirrored your own behaviour, but then again; you were bad with naming emotions. Whatever; it would come to you later. You would search it up.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Joseph.” You said, chagrined.

“Let me tell you about some things, Y/n,” Joseph said, “I know you killed Alaric.”

**

“He jumped off,” you said, “out of his own will.”

“You brought him to,” Joseph replied merrily, “you murdered him.”

“I didn’t,” you furrowed your eyebrows, “what are you even saying?”

“My darling,” Joseph begun, still smiling, “Alaric came to me about you. The minute I saw your name — and then it was confirmed when his name left your mouth — I knew you were his boyfriend. Well, his ex boyfriend. He did not say he loved you. He was terrified of you, Y/n, he hated you. I lied, Y/n, because I was so amazed at how unbothered you seemed by it all — by his death —"

“I was grieving —"

“You were not,” Joseph said, leaning forward, “here’s what I think. Shall I hazard a guess? You were happy when he died, because it felt like you had control over his last moments. And then you felt emptiness, because you no longer had a victim. You no longer had someone to fixate over. And you mistook that for grief.”

“I did not murder him,” you said at last, your eyes blazing, “I did not do any of those things.”

“I have files, transcripts,” Joseph smiled at you gently, “all of which will point to you as his abuser; and it would reopen the case. You could get arrested. You would get arrested, if I sent them in.”

You looked at him, eerily calm. You tilted your head. “And would you?”

Something within you disappeared, completeiy effaced. The grief, gone. The guilt, gone.

Nothing within you. An empty husk.

Joseph’s eyes glittered. “As it appears, I’ve taken an incredible interest in you. Fondness.”

“Wonderful.” You said dryly.

“We are one and the same,” Joseph said, “twin flames. I have my obsessive tendencies, you have yours. We latch onto something and tear it apart until it becomes ours. Until its ruins belong to us.”

“Is that so?” You looked at Joseph.

“I thought I had gotten over it a long time ago,” Joseph laughed, “but then you came…and something tells me you won’t break as easily. Not that I intend for you to break.”

“Not that you can break me.”

“I’m sure you, even in your unbothered state, would not wish to rot in prison.”

“Are you threatening me, Joseph?”

“I am giving you a choice,” Joseph said sweetly, “choose me; give me the reins of your body and spirit and heart — or I send the evidence in.”

It sounded like a vow, a marriage proposal. And maybe in a way, it was.

“That’s very little of a choice,” but your heart was starting to speed up — thumping wildly against your chest. The feeling of being alive again.

Joseph laughed. “It is.”

And then he had pulled you towards you, and —

**

At home:

Google; what does it mean when someone has an unhealthy or compulsive preoccupation with a single thought, feeling, or person? It completely fills your mind, often making it difficult to stop, think logically, or let go…

The screen loaded for a blip of a second. You thought of Joseph, who had started to fill every inch of your thoughts.

Obsession.

You had gotten the word for it.

You thought of the blackmail; the way his desire reached deep within the roots of your soul, the way it had corroded him. The way his hands had curled around your waist; around the expanse of your skin. It’s unrelenting, brutal, brusque nature.

You traced the marks left on your collarbone; harsh, painful bite marks. The bruises littered on your skin. The way he had claimed you, salacious and wanting, the way you had felt obsession entrench you again, this time all consuming, darker, wilder.

Malicious, malignant, malevolent, you thought. And so the two of you would waltz to death together, intertwined. The inevitable march towards fate, towards hell. Sins layering and building slowly upon each other.

Let’s destroy and tear each other apart.

Two can play the game.

**

hope everybody enjoyed!!! it’s been incredibly long since I attempted any yandere x yandere. hope this didn’t disappoint!

Eyeing you up was basically all Aizawa was doing all night; his main priority was to ogle you, with dancing and getting drunk near the bottom of the list. As you ordered another round of drinks for you and your boyfriend, the hero stood a little further behind you, admiring the way your ass popped out and looked so smackable as you leaned over the bar to shout your order over the loud music. The only thing that snapped Aizawa out of his tipsy admiration of your lower body was your own teasing comments about how down bad the man was for you as you handed him his third double vodka Coke of the night. Diet Coke, duh. For health, y’know. The two of you stood near the bar as you quickly had your drinks, joking and making small talk effortlessly, as most things were the Aizawa. He’d snuck in a few comments about how nicely your baggy jeans framed you, as well as a suggestive joke about your lips wrapping around something else rather than your straw. God damn, your boyfriend spoke his mind a lot more when his brain was running on alcohol. Though you weren’t much better, face flushed - from a mixture of dancing, the drinks, and Shouta’s comments - as you made a flirty joke or two about how Aizawa could make use of his dance moves in bed or something or other. Truth be told, neither of you was flirting particularly skillfully or even making much sense by this point; despite it being your third round at the club, you’d convinced Aizawa to do about 5 shots as pre-drinks.

Once your drinks had been downed, you took Aizawa by the hand and dragged him back to the packed dancefloor. You’d both managed to squeeze into a space near the middle of the floor, surrounded by sweaty bodies jumping and moving around to the rhythm of a current pop song. Your arms instinctively went around your boyfriend's neck, resting on his broad, muscular shoulders as you energetically bounced around to the music; well, more like energetic micromovements, trying to be mindful of others. It was as if the world faded away and all the stress of his career dissolved into the crowd when Aizawa watched you like this. He noticed how your hair bounced along with your movements, how your arms tightened around him a little whenever an intimidating-looking guy would try to get past you, and how your eyes would gloss over and go half-lidded from the alcohol and from getting turned on by your boyfriend. There were so many things Aizawa could admire about you within these moments alone, and he does exactly that; he could never really remember what songs played on a night out, or if it was busy or not, rather, he always remembered what you were wearing and if you looked like you enjoyed yourself.

You were in a similar boat to Aizawa. Let’s not lie now, you very much did pay attention to what songs were playing and focusing on having a good time dancing either with friends or with Aizawa, but you couldn’t deny that the second you were actively drunk, your boyfriend consumed most of your thoughts. You couldn’t get enough of Shouta. The was his strong shoulders and neck felt in your arms, warm and solid like a grounding presence. The way that his black compression shirt showed off your boyfriend's built chest and abs, as well as his muscular arms, veins running up his slightly hairy arms, his biceps and forearms, not incredibly bulky but just muscular enough. Not to even mention the way that Aizawa’s hair flowed as he danced with you, the black locks framing his face; sharp features and eye bags looking so fucking hot in the dim lighting. God damn, this man could get you in the mood just by existing. But the way he would smirk and grin at you, dancing and leaning into him? The way he would mumble compliments into your ear and tighten his arms around your waist? The way he’d make sure you were always doing alright and not on the verge of throwing up? Fuck. Aizawa was just so good.

As the music and liquor continued to flow through you, you cared less and less about the fact that you were in public. It started with pulling Aizawa all the way in and kissing him, pressing your lips against his and pushing your body against his. Luckily, the music was loud enough to cover up any muffled moans, groans, or whimpers as your boyfriend shoved his warm, strong tongue past your lips and played with your own. Your body was enveloped by Aizawa’s, grinding against each other in a way you knew he was doing deliberately slow. As if you would let that man think he had all the power. You pulled away from your boyfriend and danced in a way which turned you around, placing his arms around your waist and pressing your ass against Aizawa’s growing bulge. You brought your hands up and hovered them around your boyfriend’s neck, pulling his head to rest on your shoulder as you both tried to look like you were dancing, but it was so obvious that you were teasing Aizawa’s rock-hard dick by grinding your plush ass against it. Luckily enough, everyone around you was so drunk they either somehow didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Aizawa definitely cared, though. It was quite funny how quickly you started to make the hero crack at the seams. You could tell how much effort it was taking your boyfriend to not pull his dick out right then and there and show you who wears the pants in the relationship. Aizawa instead settled for pressing kisses to your neck and leaving small hickeys and lovebites down towards your collarbone; his hand sliding up your t-shirt and rubbing soothing lines up and down your chest. Eventually, after grinding his dick into your ass some more and drunkenly, sloppily making out with you some more, Aizawa couldn’t wait to have you any longer. Before you’d known it, your fingers were interwoven with his as the man led you through the crowd and towards the exit. The Uber home was tense to say the least. Aizawa was sure that his rating would tank, but he couldn’t care less; all he cared about was hooking his hand under your knee and hiking your leg up onto his lap as you made out in the back seat. Dicks obviously tenting and moans spewing out from time to time. The two of you struggled up the path towards your home, and you continued to make out, Aizawa struggling to blindly shove the key in the hole as he kept making out with you and roaming his free hand up and down your body underneath your clothing. Clearly, he was too focused on putting his key in your hole.

The next morning was the complete opposite of the night before. Instead of loud EDM and pop sounding in your ears, the intro song to a kids' TV show was playing. Despite finally falling asleep around 4am, you and Aizawa had to be up at 9 to pick up Erie and Shinsou from All Might’s place. Neither you nor Aizawa knew why, but the number one hero was very obviously taking a step back from heroism, which meant he kinda just stayed in on weekend nights. Lucky for you and your boyfriend, since that meant the man was free to babysit! As the sound of the TV continued along with Erie’s soft laughs and comments to Aizawa about the show, you focused on plating the eggs, bacon, and toast you’d just whipped up for everyone. A wholesome sight greeted you when you brought the plates over to the living room. Aizawa was sitting cross-legged on the couch with tiny Erie in his lap, his eye bags even more pronounced from barely sleeping the night before; the dishevelled look suited him better than anything else. On the other coach was Shinsou, sprawled out and on his phone as he waited for breakfast, putting the device away and giving you his full attention, and he noticed you in the corner of his eye.

“How come I never get this sort of immediate attention from you, Shinsou?” Aizawa teasingly asked the trainee-hero. 

“Shut up, dad…” Shinsou mumbled back.

It was only recently that Shinsou started calling Aizawa ‘dad’, every time he did so, it just made you both proud, of yourselves and of Shinsou.

“It’s not Shinsou’s fault I’m the favourite parent, ‘zawa~” you tease your boyfriend, and he couldn’t even deny it.

You knew for a fact that it was the other way around. Aizawa had done so much for those two, taking them both in when they had no one else. You knew you could never compete where you didn’t compare; you were satisfied being any other stable presence in the kids' lives. Though Aizawa had a completely different view. He saw how good of a father you objectively made, his relationship and basically infatuation with you not even affecting his judgment in this. You were always there when the kids needed you, sometimes even more than Aizawa if he was stuck at UA. You would do school runs constantly, help the two get ready in the mornings, and you would always handle the cooking. The kids always said it was just the fact that you made it that made it more tasty. You were the one who took Erie back to bed after a nightmare or invited her to share the bed with you and Shouta. You were the one who would drop small compliments towards Shinsou about his quirk and how cool of a hero he’d make, trying your best to improve his self-esteem around his heroism. It was obvious that you were of equal standing to Aizawa as a parent towards the kids, even if you humbly denied the fact every time someone commented on how easily you slotted into the hero’s family.

“Eat up and go change guys, once I finish the dishes, we’ll be going to the park like I promised” you said with a smile as you devoured your plate, still hungover.