#yandere reader

they spot you lingering. locked eyes with your cold glare. reached shaky fingers out in a gesture that you could only decipher as a cry for help.

and only then did you see the deep, dark liquid dripping down their throat. exactly where satoru buried his face into.

the street lamps glinted at just the right angle. showed just enough.

your eyes widened when you realised exactly what it was.

when you saw his fangs. heard him gulping.

without a doubt, that was blood.

satoru's jaw was latched onto their throat. his nails digging into their wrists. his adam's apple bobbing as he. . .

drank.

your mind scrambled. nerves tense. muscles frozen.

you should have ran.

you should have ran, should have screamed, should have jumped out of your very skin because what you were staring at was something that wasn't human.

instead?

you. . . pressed your thighs together.

and vanished from the scene as quick as you could. not from fear, but because of the throbbing dampness in your panties.

you weren't stupid. you knew exactly what that was. what he was.

and it. . . aroused you.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't bat an eye when your attitude problem seemed to grow by the day. he knew you by now. knew what you wanted. you pissed him off to get a reaction out of him. so that he could push you down into a desk in some abandoned classroom and fuck you until your knees jittered and your pretty panties were stained in his cum.

what he didn't realise was that you had another incentive now.

a new obsession.

after that night outside the dorm buildings, you dived head first into research. the biology of it all— vampirism.

folklore, documentaries, myths, whatever you could get your hands on. call it a hypothesis.

and what's the first thing about any hypothesis? field research. so of course you dedicated more hours to your watchful activities over your nerdy classmate.

you saw it again. saw him drain someone dry. saw him clean his fangs in the morning. saw him drink from birds in the night. your theory was correct.

and it fucking turned you on.

made you wanna be in their shoes. the bird in his clawed grasp. the bloodbag clutched in his palms. the victim under his fangs as he drained you dry of everything you had to offer.

for someone who just found out that their hatefuck buddy wasn't human, you sure had your priorities straight.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't quite sure what was going on. lately, he hasn't had to go rob a hospital, catch a bird, or pick out a new classmate to sink his fangs into.

they were delivered right to his door.

dead birds outside his dorm complex. in the gardens. convenient. with finals approaching, he never really questioned it. too buzzed on caffeine and too tired from hours hunched over a textbook to really care.

what did have him questioning, though?

the bodies.

dumped outside where the birds were. on the verge of death. puncture wounds in their throat and bleeding out.

he never could control himself.

feed first, ask questions later.

he'd drag them into his dorm. lay them out on his bed and feast to his heart's content. until his legs were shaking and he was gasping.

only then would he look at the puncture wounds. another vampire in town?

maybe trying to make an ally? he'd have to find them and personally thank them for giving him a little boost for dreadful finals.

little did he know that the "puncture wounds" were inflicted by your favourite pencil.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't question the rise in your sexual encounters. how your attitude seemed solely directed on him. how you bitched more, sneered harder, seemingly did everything in your power to drive him up the wall until he snapped and dragged you off to either finger you in an empty hallway or fuck you in the bathroom stall.

didn't question the way you'd grip his hair and bury his face into your neck. how you'd slip into his lap and smother him in yourself. how you wanted to be as close to him as possible.

he thought you needy.

what you really were was desperate.

desperate for him to lose that pesky restraint you noticed he had around you. desperate to snap his control so that he buried his fangs into whatever part of you he desired and drained you dry.

you wanted it. your blood on his fangs. your hands in his hair while he did it. your cunt clenching around his cock too.

let him shatter you, take you, ruin you— death by his hands started to sound like the sweetest fantasy.

it's what got you squirting around him every time he buried himself balls-deep. what had you sensitive to the smallest touches. with his face buried between your thighs and his glasses fogged.

you'd squeeze around his head. hope you'd allure him enough to lose his mind and bite on your thigh. gorge on your blood like he did your pussy.

if only.

if only.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ swore he tasted blood on your lipstick.

you were starting to get desperate. starting to grow tired of squeezing, and squirting, and sobbing for him— hoping he'd finally lose it. hoping he'd take you in another way that wasn't just fucking you stupid into his mattress.

so that's when you did it. you were already killing off students and dragging their bodies to that same damned garden— would this really make you any more of a sinner?

it was just a few droplets. three to be exact. not enough for you to notice. but enough that he would.

you kissed him at every opportunity you had. pushing him into the lockers in the middle of the hallway. crashing your lips into his and loving the way his whole body ticked up. how he froze.

god, a sick part of you wanted him to drain you in front of everyone.

you kissed him in the library, in the study room, the cafeteria, wherever you could get your hands on him just so you could feel his shake on your waist.

bingo.

you might just be getting this nerd obsessed with you after all.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't like that thought. the idea of needing you more than for just some desperate fuck to keep his mind off of his bloodlust.

now? he was really starting to imagine you in his bed whenever he pushes another body into his sheets and stained them scarlet.

maybe that's why he didn't stop your bolder touches. how you seemed to stop caring about being seen with him in public. how you wanted him at every hour of the day.

maybe, just maybe.

whatever he was feeling was threading a line on something dangerous.

it's why he didn't stop you when you got touchy with him. one late friday night in the lab. jerking him off under the table when you both should be dedicating the time to your looming research deadline.

instead: his head was tossed back. blunt nails digging into the smooth lab table as his glasses fogged and condensed with his heavy pants.

"fuck— fuck. 'm gonna cum if you don't stop—" he huffed, free hand gripping around your wrist as you squeezed him at the base.

your eyes were dilated. dare he say feral. he's been seeing that look from you more and more lately.

it throbbed that prominent underside vein of his.

"yeah, toru?" you cooed, sweet. sweeter than you had been to him all semester.

he wasn't sure why you were taking such a deep interest in him. maybe it was the way he filled you up. the way he fucked you. how desperate he sounded as he fucked his hips up into your hand in a lab where the professor could very well trot back into.

your wrist rotated. something sharp glinted in his peripheral. with his eyes fluttering and his breath heavy, he hadn't had the chance to catch sight of what was happening between his legs before—

he smelt it.

cutting, metallic, oh so fucking sweet.

his stare shot open. wide. pupils and irises shrinking as his eyes snapped down to your hand.

you were bleeding.

worse, you were smiling.

before he could shove you off and scamper away— you squeezed around his tip. harsh. with your fucking.

bleeding hand.

"wait—" he rasped.

your pace turned filthy. squeezing his cock and fucking him with your fist, using your blood as the lube.

your sweet, sinful, sanity-shattering blood.

the gums around his fangs swelled. his nostrils flared. eyes wide and flickering at the ceiling— and yet all he could do was needily buck into your pumping hand and whine from the back of his throat.

"shit— shit, fuck. I'm gonna cum. gotta stop, I'm. . . I'm gonna—"

"c'mon toru."

your thumb shoved to his tip. smearing blood with cum as you rubbed at the slit of his cock. squeezed with your other hand at his throbbing balls until his eyes rolled up.

until his fangs were on full display and he almost.

almost.

lost himself and shoved you to the table. buried his fangs into whatever part of you he found first and drained you dry while your hand went limp around his dick.

"oh my god," he croaked, whispy bangs sticking to his forehead and glasses strewn over the bridge of his nose as pleasure and bloodlust crashed on him in a dizzying, devastating splurge of sin.

and you?

still so sweet. still so fucking insane.

jerking him off with your own blood. even as his hips bucked and he snatched you by the wrist. held you tight. as his cock tensed, and trembled— and finally tipped over the edge.

thick, creamy ropes mixed with the smears of red. pouring down his dick and staining your hand that squeezed him still.

until all that came from his mouth was desperate little whimper.

till all he could think about was—

scarlet consumed blue. swallowing his irises into something carnal. violent.

his hand shot to your wrist. cramped it. with his sheer strength he shot to his feet and shoved you into the desk. dug his thumb into your wound and sneered above you as the scent of your blood finally pushed him over the edge—

satoru's not sure what made him snap out of it.

he was certain that he'd buried his face into whatever vein or artery he could and drank until you were nothing more but a memory on his tongue.

he didn't know when he pulled away.

when he scampered off.

all he knew was that his back was slamming into the locked door of his dark dorm once he was inside. that his pants were still unbuttoned and that he'd haphazardly shoved his cock back into them when he pried himself away from you.

his breathing heavy. ragged.

hand on his heart.

eyes fixed to the ceiling.

cock still stained in your sweet. . . sinful. blood.

a trembling hand raked down his face as he caught his breath.

did you see his eyes? see his fangs? did you understand that he was about to bring you to death rather than an orgasm?

his exhaustion and shock told him you didn't know. that you didn't know a damn thing. that you were just a crazy bitch who was into some freaky blood play.

and that he just overreacted.

yeah. overreacted. he needed a shower. needed to think of anything else but you.

you.

obsessed, crazy, fanatic little you.

still in that lab with his cum mixed with your blood in your hand.

staring at your palm as you breathed, heavy. heated. your free hand slipped under your skirt. between your thighs.

with your mind on him. him. that loser of a nerd. that demon of the night.

your dreadful, dangerous obsession.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/yinartss

Poor Satoru who thinks that if he makes you, a virgin, orgasm hard enough with his tongue, you’ll be too spent to attempt at intercourse again. He awkwardly stumbles and falls face first into your pussy a few times as he sucks and licks fervently, because he has to somehow give you the best head of his life with his hands tied behind his back while he balances on nothing but his knees.

He’s successful that day, you can barely stand up for almost thirty minutes after he works his magical tongue on you. He coos sweet nothings into the side of your head with your slick still fresh on his tastebuds as you cuddle him in the afterglow, soothing you because part of his heart aches in guilt that he made you cum. Somehow, you’re the victim in Satoru’s eyes. A victim to what was likely a harsh childhood, to mean high school and college cliques, to boys your own age who treat women they don’t find attractive like they don’t have a right to exist, and to a lack of a companion you can rely on to never leave you.

Satoru can’t hold back the strangled groans clawing their way out of his throat when you finally get used to foreplay for a few days and have extra energy to spare for true fucking. He found his brows pinched in concern and tried to comfort you when you panicked at the full feeling in your stomach after sliding the entirety of his well endowed cock into you. You almost took off his chains so he could rub your clit to make it go smoother for you when he genuinely offered— saying something about the most important thing being your comfort, no matter the circumstances.

But then, your elastic insides get used to the stretch faster than he expects and Satoru starts to feel like maybe he’s getting a little too old for this type of sex, because you’re akin to a little bunny the way you hump his lap. He just can’t deny how pleasurable it is to be fucked and sucked in by your wet, little pussy. It’s not like he can do anything about this happening, all he can do is attempt to helpfully talk you through this process and hopefully make this easier on you and your body in the long run, fighting to push comprehendible words of advice and genuine inquiries of how you’re feeling out of his lips through the blinding pleasure.

Satoru told you what to do when, and if, the situation ever comes up where he expresses to you that he’s going to ejaculate. 1. Take that deep breath he taught you to stay calm, 2. stop all stimulation, and 3. dismount his penis completely— also! at least wait until he or you has cleaned all traces of sperm from his penis if you wish to have more intercourse after.

But when Satoru shakily breathes out a clear enough warning of imminent orgasm, you do the exact opposite of his little field guide on how to responsibly have recreational sex. You grit your teeth and bounce harder as he frantically attempts at questioning what you’re doing and if you remember what he told you. And when he lets out a particularly loud and aggressive, “fuck!” followed by a deep, primal, involuntary thrust up into what’s milking him, you instantly stop humping so he can properly inseminate you with your eyes absolutely rolling. You can feel the muscle contractions within his cock jerk and twitch inside your repeatedly vacuuming walls, and you can’t feel the sperm, but you just know that his warm cum is filling your cervix.

To an extent, Satoru understood you just wanted to fuck around and have fun like any other young horny college student, I mean, fuck, he actually gave you permission to hump his dick for this exact reason; it’s is why the field guide was discussed, but this? This is real shit, real life, getting pregnant will change your entire life forever.

For the first time since he’s been taken by you, he’s looking at you like he’s horrified as his body breeds your fertile, welcoming cunt. A few whiny grunts slip out behind his unstable breath and his features twitch behind the shocked expression, showing the deep white hot pleasure pushing through. And then you kiss him. Connected at the top and the bottom of your bodies, kissing him with such a clear passion, yearning for love and care, that Satoru feels that sympathetic pang again, the need to nurture your lost soul.

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!