#x bully reader

Yandere!Loser who lets out weak moans, when you kick and punch him. His body trembles from excitement, not form fear but excitement.

Yandere!Loser who can feel his pretty dick twitch in his pants, he moans when his dick rubs against your shoe when you kick his crotch. It feels pain but damn does he love it.

Yandere!Loser who looks up at you while you stare down at him, making him lick your shoe. His tongue slurping up the dirt off your shoes, he moans when you press the shoe down.

Yandere!Loser who jerks him off himself off, stroking his dick up and down. His hand furiously moving, his pretty tip leaks out so much pre-cum!

Yandere!Loser who masturbates to you, standing over him, degradating him, living his body, he fucks a fleshlight. Imagining it's you, your hole clench around his dick.

Yandere!Loser who cries, tears streaming down his face. He moves his hips so much, his dick rubbing against your shoe, he loves how it feels when it rubs against your shoe.

Yandere!Loser who video tapes you having sex with other students, he only records you, on your face, on your body. He kills the person and jerks off to the video.

Yandere!Loser who whines and lets out a sob when you finally decide to fuck him, ride his cute dick and make him come so many times, making your walls paint and his stomach white!!!<3

She’s your favourite target. Quiet, anxious, easily rattled. You make her life hell. Every snide comment, every push against a locker just makes her unable to stop thinking about you.

Brigitte pretends to hate you, but secretly she’s obsessed. The constant attention, even if cruel, is more than she gets from everyone else.

She writes about you in her journal like you’re a monster, but the pages become confessions of obsession. Brigitte hates how much she craves your words, no matter if it makes her feel horrible or not.

Sometimes she practices conversations with you in the mirror, but they always turn into arguments where she breaks down. Or, she confesses things she can never say aloud. Things like “I think about you every night” and “I’d let you ruin me if it meant you’d stay.”

One night, she dreams of you crying. Not out of pain, but because she finally made you feel the way she does. When she wakes up, she writes the dream down and reads it over and over, ashamed—but her fingers tremble with excitement.

Brigitte’s fear turns inward. She thinks she deserves it, thinks maybe this is what love feels like. Sometimes she wonders if Ginger is right - maybe it would be easier to just give in to the darker urges growing inside her.

After one particularly cruel encounter, she locks herself in a stall and laughs through tears, repeating your insult like it’s sacred. It hurts, but it’s familiar. Comforting. You see her. stay.”

The hall is nearly empty. The bell rang minutes ago, but Brigitte lingers near her locker, fumbling with her books like her fingers are too cold to function. Her fingers twitch, slipping once, twice, her breathing uneven. She doesn’t have to look behind her to know that you are standing there.

“Still writing about dead girls and dog guts, Fitzgerald? Or just writing about the disgusting way you stare at me?” Her breath hitched, clutching her notebook to her chest. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I-I don’t stare… at you.”

You take a step closer. She hears your footsteps before she sees your shoes beside hers. She doesn’t move. “You do. All the time, like you want me to notice you.”

You tap the cover of her notebook with the back of your hand - then smack it hard enough to make her flinch. The sound echoes down the empty hall. “Bet this is just full of your sick little fantasies. What do you write about, Brigitte? Want me to push you down? Worse than that?”

Brigitte let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her knuckles were white around the notebook, eyes wide. Still, she doesn’t move. “You… you don’t know anything about me.”

You grin. That’s your favorite part—when she tries to lie to herself. “Sure I do.” You pause, your voice dropping again to a razor-sharp whisper.

You lean in, lips inches away from her ear. Your voice drops down to a cruel whisper. ”You don’t flinch when I get close. Your hands shake like you’re scared, but your eyes beg for me. Do you even want me to stop?”

She doesn’t respond. Can’t. Her throat locks up completely. Her jaw twitches, her face flushed red in humiliation. When she finally dares to look up at you, her expression is raw: wide-eyed, ashamed.

You smile knowingly.

Then, you turn around seemingly bored, and walk away. Brigitte stays frozen. She doesn’t cry. She just watches you disappear down the hallway and presses her notebook against her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Ginger truly hates you with burning passion. You humiliate her infront of your friends, mock her insecuritis every chance you get, push every button you can find. Deep down, you awake something in her every time it happens. A hunger for dominance that mirrors your own. 

After she get's infected with the werewolf curse, she doesn't want to kill you, much to her own suprise. She wants you. More than before. To break you like you would break her. 

She finds something you lost—a broken bracelet, a page from your notebook—and keeps it. Sleeps with it under her pillow. At first, it's rage-fueled. But soon, she's breathing it in like it's a scent she can't live without.

She starts to show up in places she's not supposed to be. Behind you in the school halls, the girl's locker room after hours, your bedrom window. She tells herself she wants to make you hurt, but her eyes linger. She hates the way you've made her addicted to your toxicity.

When she starts turning, when her nails sharpen, her hunger changes. She fantasizes less about revenge and more about control. Not killing you. Keeping you. Taming you. Collaring the predator that hurt her and making you hers.

When she stalks you at night, it stops being about fear. She watches you sleep, wonders how someone so cruel can look so soft. Sometimes she gets close enough to touch the glass of your window, as if holding back is some form of restraint.

Ginger starts recognizing your scent. The specific mix of your shampoo, sweat, and something primal underneath. It drives her insane. When you walk by in the halls, her pupils dilate and her breath catches. She starts following it like a trail, craving it, needing it like a drug.

The distant sounds of sneakers and squeaking and the coach's whistle echoes from the track. But inside the lockerooms, it's quiet. Quiet and stuffy. You shove open the side door with your shoulder, already flicking a lighter. A cigarette hangs from your lips. You skip gym often enough that no one questions your absence.

You're halfway through your first drag when you hear the clink of metal—a locker closing, slow and deliberate. You freeze, then you see her.

Ginger Fitzgerald, leaned against the far row of lockers, half in shadow. She wasn't there a second ago. Her arms are crossed, one leg kicked up against the metal behind her.

 "Didn't take you for the 'hide and puff' type. Thought you'd rather suck someone behind the bleachers."

Her voice is low, dangerous. But there's a mocking smirk tugging at her lips.

You scoff, blowing smoke towards her without taking your eyes off her.

 "What, you stalking me now? Jesus, Fitzgerald—go cut yourself or something."

Her gaze is sharp—hungry. You notice the way her fingers twitch at her sides, nails longer than you remember. Her skin looks flushed. Sweaty. Like she just ran a mile with her adrenaline screaming. You toss the cigarette to the ground, crush it under your shoe. She's close now. Too close.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself. You think you’re in control, always pulling the strings. But you don’t even see it, do you?”

She steps forward. One boot echoing softly on the tile.

“I used to lie awake, thinking about ripping your face off. Every time you cornered me. Every time you laughed like I was dirt.”

Another step. You can smell her now - sweat, copper, something unknown . It prickles along your skin, instinct screaming danger, but curiosity keeps your feet planted.

“Still could, Fitzgerald. But you won’t. You talk big, but you’re still the same little freak hiding behind a fake facade of drugs and thinking you’re someone badass.”

She laughs. Low, humorless. 

“You keep saying shit like that. Like you’re trying to get a reaction. Like you want me to snap.”

She’s right in front of you now. Her chest nearly brushes yours. Her eyes burn, hot and golden. Not quite human.

“What if I did? What would you do if I pushed you into one of these lockers, held you there ‘til you begged?”

Her voice has dropped into something husky, dark, like a growl wrapped in silk. Her hand comes up, knuckles ghosting your jaw. Not a touch. A promise.

You don’t move. You hate how your breath hitches.

“I’d fucking kill you..”

Ginger’s lips curl. Half snarl, half smile. Her voice lowers, almost intimate now.

“Good.”

And just like that, she backs off. Two steps. Three. Still watching you like she’s won something.

“Next time you light up, make sure you’re alone.”

She turns, disappearing into the far corridor like a shadow melting into the dark.

Your pulse is racing.