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sojuyae · 7 months

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— BUT WHEN YOU PULL THE TRIGGER, IT FEELS SO RIGHT

RECEIVERS。stalker!nikolai gogol x fem!reader

WISHCARD。He is just watching quietly and does nothing other than keep his eyes still. He is enjoying the sight—you look very his, just existing, standing still like a good baby doll, like you are fucking his, in his room, in his place—“You look so mine.”

BOUQUET。stalker au, 18+ content, dark content, harsh languages, dubious consent, heavy depictions of violence and blood, limbs mutilation, gun violence, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, smell fetish/olfactophilia, male masturbation, cunnilingus, obsessive and possessive behaviour, hints of masochism, anxiety struggles, struggling to breathe, mentions of attempted suicide, heavy hints of stockholm syndrome, intentional repetitive words, everyone has fucking issues, dead dove do not eat (please read this add. notes!)

PRICE。approx. 25.2k

FREEGIFT。hit me right (johnny goth), manipulate (mxze, clarei), bathroom (montell fish), skins (the haunting) — spotify playlist

OTHER SHOP。also available in AO3

❝ Sometimes I wish you are the one who kill me. And perhaps by then, I won't feel regretful about it.

I have tried to push myself to the brink of death. But every time—every fucking time—the sight of you, the vision of our future, the moment of our encounter, all appear in my very fucking eyes, as if I'm living through the whole moment before my brain decides that I need to stay alive although my heart tries to keep me dead.

I can't die. I don't want to die. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to miss everything I can do with you. I do not want you to leave me. You're killing me and yet you're keeping me alive.

I used to say I would choose my own soul over my happiness. But lately, over the year, I find myself choosing you over anything. You are my death who gives me hell and the angel who gives me heaven. It's almost ridiculous how I still fall no matter how hard I try to isolate myself. I tried, my love, I tried to stay away from you. I tried to not chase over you. That is why I don't pursue you, only watching from afar for a year. But indeed, no matter how long I hold myself, you and your beauty, your face, your attitude, your hobbies, likes, dislikes, kinks, quirks, looks, presence and just your mere existence—they all pull me back to you. I swear, my love, I think God has fated you with me, so I would believe Him again. I think God sent you so I would feel something so strongly after I tried my very hardest to dim my emotions and empathy towards another human being. I used to hate you for that—how dare you!

And hereby, my little dove. I declare to you, from the bottom of my heart, I am hopelessly in love with you. I have envisioned our future together—in Hell and Heaven. I will take your hand every time you appear in my dream before I try to push my body to the brink of death. Run as far as you can and I’ll chase you. Hide as quiet as you can and I'll find you. Love as much as you can and I'll love you more.

I will always be with you.

P/S: I won't tell a soul about anything you have written in your journal. I like reading your experiences, your fantasies, your frustrations and your stories. Perhaps by the time you notice this secret note in your little book, we are already one with death. Ah, this is embarrassing to confess. ❞

― ♧

“Vanilla…”

You sniff slightly Nikolai's jacket that you got from your encounter with him in the haunted escape house. It still has his scent, albeit already fading over time. It has been days since that incident though.

Nikolai still ‘visits’ you. He has gotten so good at hiding himself now. Sometimes you do not see him at the window but then he will give you creepy messages about how you look so beautiful in just your skimpy panties. And then it hits you that he has been watching and he is around. He is just not in your sight.

“Come out if you have balls, bastard.” —you remember that message you gave him when he sent you a picture of yourself cooking. But he refused to leave his hiding and just kept bothering you with messages and pictures.

However, yesterday, he did come out. He appeared, sitting at the dining table with a cup of water. He has made himself too comfortable in your own house.

“What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?!”

“You called me.”

And what ends up last night is just you bouncing on his cock shamefully.

Bam! — you slam the washer.

“Fuck you if you're watching me!” you shout out to nowhere. Just loud enough so Nikolai would hear you if he is around. You huff before you put away his jacket and start doing your laundry. It has been hard for you to keep doing your chores when all you can think of is your stalker who still wants to play this hide-and-chase game.

After you start the washer, you grab his jacket and look at the material. You know he is rich, somewhat. His accessories and his shirt are just from a luxurious brand. This jacket is also from a brand you recognise. You wonder if his circus business has been spiking up so much lately that he could afford such things.

Or maybe he does have another job. That would explain his criminal talents.

Suddenly you remember the early memories you had with Nikolai. You noticed him. And then you called the police on him, only for him to kill them. You actually did not know the police were killed until you came back to the station to make another report. The police on duty told you the story and it was easy for you to put the puzzles together.

You feel guilty still. You want to believe that you are not the reason for those police to be killed. But…

Ding! — the doorbell rings and you are snapped out of your daydream. You walk out of the laundry room and get to the door as it rings once more. You put Nikolai's jacket on the couch before you walk to the door. You take a peek through the peephole, expecting Nikolai. But surprisingly, it is a man you do not expect. You open the door, just a little.

“Alex?”

Alex smiles at you, but it does not look like a happy smile.

“May I come in?”

― ♧

“I just wanna ask…”

Alex is in your house now. You two are just standing. You hug Nikolai's jacket close to your body, seeking comfort in it. Alex does not look like his usual shy boy persona.

“Is it about what happened in the haunted escape house?” you cut him off before he could even open his mouth. He looks surprised when he hears that but regardless, he nods slowly.

“Can you… tell me everything?” Alex says. You purse your lips. He then looks at you and steps forward. “Please, I need to know.”

“You know enough.”

Alex brushes his hair back and seems to be frustrated. “That man who chased me with a fucking knife stalked me. He stalked me…! And you know him. I deserve to know everything..!” Alex pursues harder, making you flinch as his voice raises a bit. He takes a deep breath.

“Is he your lover?”

“No… No, he's not…”

Alex looks at you, visibly confused. But you remain silent. You do not want to give him the answers to everything. And this is for his own good too.

But this fucking man is insisting.

He grabs your arm, pulling you closer. You become tense as you eye him in caution. He says your name, softly, as if he is trying to reassure you.

“Listen. Listen to me. You can trust me ‘right? Please, just tell me the truth. I care about you. I know it's obvious already that I like you, in a… more romantic way… I do not try to lure you to like me back. I am genuinely worried and care for you. So please, tell me. Was that man your lover, or just someone you happened to sleep with? Who is he actually? Why did he stalk me? What kind of person you're involved with?” Alex demands as his grip on your arm gets tighter. You frown, starting to get frustrated by his action. He then shakes your arm, stepping closer to you until your body is practically brushing against him. You wince, trying to make a distance as you feel really uncomfortable with him right now.

“Let me go!”

“Not until you tell me the truth.”

I can't. I don't want anyone else to get murdered just because of me.

I don't want to put Nikolai in danger too.

Seeming to have failed trying to get his answers, Alex lets you go and sighs softly. He looks down to the floor, solemn. For a second, he glances at you, which makes you wonder if he has made any assumptions for himself.

“…. Can you leave?” you ask slowly. Alex looks surprised and he sighs once more before he backs away to the door. You trail him at a good distance and finally, he steps out of your house. Alex turns his head to you, eyebrows connected as he whispers,

“I promise I’ll help you.”

You say nothing, only looking at him. In the back of your head, a question pops up—something you have found weird for a while but never get the chance to ask it. It would be rude if you ask him now, expecting his honesty while you're also being dishonest to him. But still, you need to know if—

“I never tell anyone about myself that much, only for a selective few like the higher-ups. A friend from a different department in our office has no right to seek the other’s private confidential information,” you speak and Alex stops in his tracks. He eyes you, confused by your sudden change of topic. You press your lips together.

“Alex, how do you know where I live?”

Your eyes are on the ground, scared to look up to the man in front of you. You hear Alex sighs deeply and you glance at him, seeing that he is avoiding you.

“You were drunk, remember? Your friend told me…”

Is that so?

“Oh… Oh, yeah, that… makes sense, I guess,” you mumble. Alex gives you a small smile, nodding as if to affirm his words. But for some reason, your heart is screaming at you, panicked.

“I… I’ll go first… Goodnight… And yeah, I’ll... I will try to help you…” he says before he walks away, almost trying to leave the area as quickly as possible. You close the door and you lock it. You realise your hand has been shaking terribly.

You turn to the window where Nikolai would always be. But it's dark and empty. He is not here tonight.

Paranoia coursing in your head as you roam around your house, locking all the windows and doors. You turn off all lights and run to your room, where it's the safest place for you to be—well, not anymore. Not when Nikolai admitted he did hide in your closet once unnoticed.

“Get out!” you scream at the closed closet, expecting something but unfortunately, nothing happens. Nothing emerges. It's just you and your heavy breathing in your dark room.

“I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine—” the same words are repeated at the tip of your tongue as you try to make your bed and prepare to sleep. You need to sleep. You need to let your consciousness fade away. You need to escape to dream.

You palm your face, trying to calm your heart that is suddenly fearing everything. You sit on your bed, wrapping your whole body under the blanket, curling inside, legs close to the chest as if there's a monster under the bed.

You wonder what you should do in this situation. There is no normality in your life. Everything seems to flip just a bit when Nikolai gets even closer to you, and everything is turned 180° when he starts to involve your coworkers— Gosh, you cannot even call them coworkers because of how different they treat you after the event at the haunted house.

Of course, you did try to pretend everything was fine after you were practically ‘lost’ in the haunted house. You tried to go to work unbothered. But perhaps Julia and her friends have caught onto something.

Their strange looks, their curious mocking smile, their sarcastic remarks.

“Hey~! Do you wanna go to the haunted fair again? I think we want to try more funhouses!”

“Of course you would like to go again right? Who knows if you could find a boyfriend there?”

“Hey, you know, if you have someone you can introduce to us, we’d be happy to celebrate for you.”

You want to ignore their remarks. So for the past week, you ate alone, you left work five minutes early, and you made yourself busy, adding more tasks to your empty to-do list. You wonder what Julia and the others know. You wonder if Alex tells or asks them anything since he is in a completely different department. What did they think about you suddenly having to leave? What did they think about the mysterious jacket you suddenly possessed? What did they think about your messy appearance?

You feel regretful to not think about the consequences before you ran away from the group—just because you needed to escape at that time. It's your fault that this treatment is happening to you. It's your fault that you decided to stop Nikolai like a fucking hero. It's your fault that you wanted to feel that feeling of having friends enjoying your hobby too.

It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault—

“You're crying.”

Your breath hitches. You feel your cheek, wet with tears. You do not even realise you are crying, too drowned in your thoughts. Your face is also a bit sweaty from being under the cover. Hearing his voice, you slowly pull the blanket off your head. Your eyes meet with a pair of mismatched eyes, staring at you deeply.

“What's wrong, my love?”

Nikolai's voice is sultry and soft as his hands reach out to cup your face. He is crouching by your bed. He is wearing black clothes. His porcelain skin and white hair are glowing under the moonlight shining through the window on the wall.

“Tell me? Who made you cry? Why are you crying?” he asks again. You sniff and shake your head, not wanting to tell but your heart betrays you when it becomes so heavy that you start to sob again.

Nikolai frowns, concerned. He gently pulls you to sit up as he sits right beside you on your bed. His chest is heaving slowly and he looks pained. His hands are still warm on your cheeks, thumb wiping your tears. He scoots closer, leaning forward to kiss your forehead as his hands roam to your neck and back, caressing you gently. He whispers sweet nothings to you, assuring you that you can cry to him.

“It's okay, sweetheart. Take your time.”

“It's been hard, isn't it? You’ve done so well, love. You really did.”

“I'm here for you, alright?”

You feel loved.

It is weird to feel loved by a stalker—a murderer, a dangerous person even. It is something more than just a simple crush indeed. He is too intense, too obsessive, and yet he loves you.

And maybe you are smitten by him too. His weird way of affection, his obsession, his craving, his touches, his attention—they are probably the reasons why you find it hard to pull yourself away from his embrace—secured, safe, loved.

I love him too. — your heart admits.

I do not love him. I do not like him. I hate him. I hate him so much. He ruins me. — your head denies.

“Hey,”

You finally look at him. You find it a little surprising to see Nikolai looks like he is in pain. You wipe your tears with your arms, receiving a chuckle from him. “Adorable,” he whispers.

“What's with that face?” you ask, voice hoarse and slow. Nikolai tilts his head, confused. He touches his own face before he laughs a bit.

“I think I am in pain.”

“Y-You got hurt somewhere..?” you ask, eyes scanning his body. Nikolai chuckles before he touches your chin, bringing your face up to his gaze.

“It hurts me to see you're hurting, love.”

How can he be so sympathetic? How can a bad guy like him feel that?

“I saw him,” your eyes widen. Nikolai's gaze turns serious, emitting danger as his voice drops. “Did he make you cry? Did he hurt you? Do you want me to kill him?”

He holds your face. “Just give me your words, dearest.”

You shake your head. “N-No… No, please just… don't do anything bad.”

“You sure?”

“Yes...”

Nikolai is silent. Then he nods too. “Okay. If that's what you want. But, that does not mean I won't though. If he lays a hand on you, I will gift his head to your door.”

“But why though?” he asks shortly after. You wager your answer silently as your fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt.

“Because it's wrong… and murder is bad.”

“Such a heroic answer. That’s what your head tells you, no?”

You swallow hard, looking at him. He is waiting for a response, so you nod, just once.

“And… what does your heart tell you?” he asks as his finger traces from your collarbone, down to your chest, twirling a circle on your skin. “Does your heart wish the people who wronged you unfortunate? Does it scream death to them and backtrack once you realize, it is wrong to feel so? Do you feel guilty about it?”

Nikolai leans forward, kissing your cheek before he whispers to your ear, “Isn't that caging for you?”

You push him away, just enough to make him pull away his face from you. “W-What’s your point?”

“My point is, if you abandon your morals, maybe you would take my hand right now.”

You look down. You do agree to an extent but still, you wonder if it is the right thing to be with someone like him, knowing that he committed atrocities. Will you be fine, living with the thought of your lover managed to kill a few people because of you?

For a second, you want to ask, why did he fall in love with you anyway? What did he see in you that makes him so hopelessly in love? What is so special with your basic ass that makes him so obsessed?

But your weak heart does not dare to receive any answer regarding that. You are afraid that he would reply with shits like “Because your body is sexy,” “Because your face is cute,” “Because you have the same kinks and fantasies as mine,” —no, no, no you are not ready to hear anything that would crush your already destroyed self-esteem.

Perhaps one day you would ask him—Why do you love me?

“Something in your mind, dear? You starin’ me hard,” he says, shutting your thoughts.

“Just… thinking about something.”

“You ain't telling me?”

“Maybe one day.”

Nikolai's smile widens. He grins. “I’ll wait for that day.”

“You’d wait? What if I take forever to tell you?”

“Then I will still wait.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “I will always wait for you.”

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sojuyae · 7 months

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Foolish

this was a private commission ^^ basically expanding on the royal au with fyodor :^

CW: yandere character, unhealthy relationship, murder, obsessive behaviour, manipulation

Something is not quite right.

It's not so terribly wrong that you immediately notice it, but the unease has crawled over you, slowly. The peculiar feeling of something not being right is lingering right at the back of your mind, forcing you to be far too alert for such an ordinary morning and your hand to be constantly at the hilt of your sword. It must be because of His Highness’s state last night—you were sure that something had happened to him, something that might still be waiting for another opportunity to grab him and finish the job.

If he heard any of this, he’d say you were being paranoid. That nobody cared enough to go through the troubles of hiring an assassin for him, but if that was true, why did he bring you here?

Just as you consider peeking down the hallway—only to be certain that the coast was clear—the large doors swing open and the doctor walks out, a gentle smile greeting you.

"His Highness is fine," she tells you, swiftly taking off her glasses, "it appears that he has not been sleeping enough recently. He needs more rest—a lot more, and I'm sorry to have to trouble you with ensuring that he follows through with my orders—but make sure he eats regularly, and please see to it that he takes a walk outdoors, too. He’s ruining his own health by spending all day locked away in his room."

You register Doctor Yosano's instructions as she rattles them off, already used to the process. This, you were aware, was not part of your duties, but since His Highness refused to trust any of the attendants appointed to him by the palace, you had obediently shouldered the responsibilities. Her requests were nothing unusual, His Highness had always been frail, and prone to exhaustion. He worked himself to the bone despite this, staying up into the darkest hours of the nights with the smallest light to accompany him. He was afraid of anyone finding out that he was studying, and so resorted to these strange habits. He had every right to be plagued by fear—he was well aware that he was only safe as long as he was deemed helpless and foolish; the farthest thing from a threat.

This diagnosis and these orders were nothing out of the ordinary, but this time, you were sure that there was something wrong. Something she was purposefully omitting from her prescription. Her steps were far too stiff as she hastily walked out of the toom, and her smile tinged with an unnatural discomfort. You had even picked up on the slightest strain of her voice as she spoke to you, and you were convinced something had happened. Something she was not telling you.

Was His Highness's illness more serious that she initially believed? Was she not permitted to tell you any more?

"Last night...His Highness looked frighteningly ill. He was cold to the touch, and refused to say a single word to me. I've never seen him look so grave."

Her smile momentarily fades, "it sounds like he was just shocked. It's nothing to be worried about. I'm sure he'll tell you so himself in a moment," she glances back at the room, "you should get some rest too. You’ve been out here all night, haven’t you?”

You shake your head, “I’m perfectly alright. I’m sorry to have dragged you out here at this time.”

This time, you find that her smile feels more genuine, radiating her usual warmth, “It’s no problem at all. I should be leaving now, [Name]. I'll see you around."

Despite Yosano's position as royal doctor and her association with the world that scorned him, His Highness had always trusted her judgement. Perhaps he saw her sincerity, and deemed her not a threat to his safety, but she was one of the very few people to have earned this honor from him, and so, you had no choice but to trust her words too. If it was under his command that she could not tell you any more, then you would have no complaints. His Highness must have a reason to do so, and you were sure that it was not because you couldn't be trusted.

It couldn’t be that. Not after everything he’s asked of you.

You turn back to stare at the tall doors yourself, suddenly realizing that there was an unsettling silence filling the hallway. There was usually nobody else but the two of you in this part of the palace, and silence was expected, though not to this extent. You'd expect to hear some rustling of papers, some soft footsteps. Clothes falling on the floor or running water, at the very least, but it was unbearably silent, and you were again filled with a palpable sense of fear, one that slowly choked your heart.

The Doctor scurried away quicker than usual, and she looked...Did her bag look lighter today? Or did her hands tremble? You can't remember the details now, but you reach out for the door nonetheless, desperately hoping your fears would not be confirmed. Just as your fingers curl around one of the large handles, the door swings open and His Highness stands there, staring back at you.

He blinks, and watches as you step back from the door at once. Despite having just been visited by a doctor, he looks…healthy. More alive than you’ve ever seen him.

"Is something the matter?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of how he fixes the glove on his hand, before looking down at you with his usual impassive expression. You desperately search for the right words to excuse yourself with.

"My apologies, Your Highness."

It's strange, you think, that he's even standing by the door in his robe, not to mention the gloves. It looked like he was waiting for something, or someone, but he wouldn’t leave his room until he was dressed for the day, and you knew better than to impose on him while he was still in a state of undress, despite how unaffected he seemed by your presence.

"I...wanted to ask if you were feeling any better. After last night, I was worried and—"

He chuckles, the sound causing your heart to race, "seeing how you rushed out in the dark to call for help, I gathered as much. But I recall telling you that there was no need to do so, did I not? She came all this way for nothing. I am not ill."

He was definitely feeling alright, if he had it in him to start the morning by reprimanding you.

“As a matter of fact,” he continues, “I’ve never felt better. Last night, It was not illness that plagued me. It was a…revelation. That aside, did it not occur to you that it would have been safer to stay by my side instead of recklessly rushing out and leaving me alone?"

You know he's right, and that only makes your embarrassment worse. Your absence had left him extremely vulnerable—if he had collapsed while you were gone, or were ambushed, you’d have no way of knowing. You might have had a hand in his death.

"I was just worried," you protest, despite knowing you should hold your tongue, "Your Highness had been out alone and you looked unwell. I thought if you had been poisoned, I needed to bring someone over immediately and—"

He laughs again, though the sound is dry, and almost bitter now, "Poisoned? You and I both know very well that there is no need to be concerned over such things. I am no threat to anyone; and even if I was, do you think they would spare any chance of me surviving?"

You shake your head slowly, eyes falling back down to the carpet. It felt like anything you said only earned you more disapproving remarks.

"It’s alright. I did not bring you here for you to use your head, after all," you don't dare look up at him, but it’s painfully obvious that he must be smiling at you. If the humiliation didn't kill you now, the sight of his smile, slightly weighed down by sleep, might, and it wasn't a risk worth taking, lest you anger him in the process.

The prince turns and walks back into his room, the doors left wide open while you focus on staying still until he’s completely out of sight.

“Where were you?”

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Fyodor’s question, his eyes narrowed at your coat, still around your shoulders. You had rushed back when an attendant informed you that he was waiting for you, despite how early it was and how you had yet to get dressed for the day. The prince is across from you in his room, leaned up against the window with his arms crossed, and you almost feel like you’re being studied, or inspected.

“I was asked to escort the Crown Prince today,” you explain, “there was a meeting last night to discuss it.”

Fyodor’s eyes dart up to meet yours, stepping forward, “An escort mission? You agreed to such a thing?”

“I didn’t think I had much of a choice,” you confess, “normally, the guards for missions like this are selected in advance. We are not supposed to say no.”

“You could have,” he mutters, “you’re not just any guard, despite what others may say. Did you accept because you were worried for me?”

“I would have said no,” you wring your hand, “you’ve barely been sleeping these days, and you’re always slipping out alone at night. I worry for you, Your Highness. I wanted to say no, but I did not wish for your name to be slandered any more.”

If it were entirely up to you, you would have rejected the offer. But with his declining health, and Yosano suddenly taking a trip out of the country, you didn’t want to burden him with the stress that a new wave of disdainful rumors would bring. It was best to obey with the requests asked of you, as to not tarnish his name, even if he disliked it. Your own feelings, of course, did not matter at all.

“Nothing they do will bother me,” he always says this, but you can’t sit by and let him be talked about so crudely,and be looked down upon any more than he already is. Protecting his dignity was the least you could do, “you shouldn’t make such foolish decisions for my sake.”

“It is all I can do, Your Highness,” you solemnly admit, “to be of use to you.”

He pauses for a moment, then looks away, the slightest note of uncertainty in his voice, “You’ll be with the crown prince?”

It occurs to you in that moment, that he might be worried for your safety. He must think that the crown prince would treat you cruelly, or use this as an excuse to take out any anger he has for Fyodor on you. You jump up at the opportunity to placate his worries, happy to finally say something that wouldn’t upset him.

“You don’t have to worry,” you beam, the indecipherable look directed at you going unnoticed, “He’s polite enough—”

“Polite?” His Highness echoes, frozen in place.

“—and his attendants are quite friendly, too.”

“Is that so?” His words, and the bitterness that accompany them, again, go unheard.

“And it’s only a short trip, and I should be back by sundown. I won’t get in trouble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “I know you can handle yourself, if anything were to happen. I’m only curious why the crown prince felt the need to ask my guard to go with him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, though your words sound pathetic in face of the true weight of the Crown Prince’s request, “I will only stand by your side, and everyone knows that.”

He hums noncommittally, though you think he might be a little pleased by your statement, and instead reaches over, his hand lingering at your collar for a moment too long, before it falls back to his side, “Come see me when you return. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He’s gone right after, disappearing into the dimly lit hallway like the ghost of a prince the whispers make him out to be.

Despite all the time you’ve spent serving the forsaken prince, much of him is still a mystery to you.

There are some things you’re certain about; Fyodor should be King, though he would not be a kind one—he has made that very clear to you. You know he is smarter than he lets on, and that he has an unexpectedly large number of allies, and even more secrets. You know he treasures you, in the way one treasures a pet. You know it is far better to be treasured as a pet than used as a pawn.

But there are more things you’re not sure about; what role you play in his taking of the throne, and what exactly he’s planning. You do not know why he believes other people to be obstacles and sinners and why he colludes with the strangest individuals. You’re not sure why he chose you to serve him, and why he kept you. You still are not sure why he entrusted his life to you, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking about when he watches you from a window.

You wave at him, instead of looking at the man beside you, and you think he might have smiled back. The crown prince stares in the direction you gestured at.

“He didn’t come to send you off?” Prince Dazai smiles in a way that is simultaneously charming and intimidating, the sharp curve to his mouth softened enough to be disarming to anyone who doesn’t look too closely. You liked that about him, and though you’d never admit it, you thought he, too, would make for a good king. Not, perhaps, a kind one, but a clever one. You’re not sure which one is more important.

“Why would he, Your Highness?” Your own smile is polite, lacking his distinct charm, “I am only departing on a small task.”

He chuckles, his eyes still on the crowd below, “I was expecting something else from him, to be honest. I’m surprised he’s letting you go so easily.”

Unlike some of the other princes, who were snobby and hardly spared you more than a cold glance, Dazai was unexpectedly chatty. It made talking to him easier, but you knew that not everyone received the privilege of meeting his more amiable side, and you weren’t sure what that meant for you.

“I insisted.”

“So this was your doing?” Prince Dazai gasps, his eyes brighter than before, “If you wanted to spend time with me so badly—”

“I did it for His Highness.”

He laughs again, and faces ahead of you once more.

“You didn’t have to come,” he reveals, just as the carriage begin to depart, “I only wanted to see how he’d react.”

At Dazai’s words, you find yourself looking back again, searching for a familiar pair of distant, amethyst eyes. You only catch sight of his silhouette by the window. If you close your eyes and try hard enough, you can pretend you’re back in that room with him, far away from everyone else.

The fragile memory shatters once Dazai speaks again, “I was surprised to learn that you hadn’t been knighted officially yet. I thought Fyodor would have asked for that, at least.”

“I didn’t think there was any need for a formal ceremony. All I needed was the acknowledgement from His Highness, and he knighted me himself,” you don’t have to remind him that the King did not care for Fyodor enough to give you a ceremony.

Your knighting had been a simple affair. An official was seated by the far end of the room, only there as a ‘witness’. Fyodor, however, had decided to dress up for the occasion, in his most extravagant outfit. You looked painfully plain in comparison, but that was fitting for the two of you. He stood by the window, as per usual, your sword—the one he gave to you, hand-picked just for you—in hand. You remember kneeling on the floor, unable to look at the sight of Fyodor with the light behind him, an angel with a sword in hand and pride gleaming in his eyes. The sword lightly tapped your shoulders, and the official had scurried out. He did not care that there was no oath taken by you yet, but you said your vow nonetheless. The words were only meant for your prince, the promise of unwavering loyalty.

“You’ll need a proper one, someday,” he flippantly remarks, “If you wish to remain in the palace.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll still want to remain here if that day comes,” is all you say in response.

His responding smile is far less charming, and all the more frightening, as if pleased that you were challenging a demand from him. Fyodor would often say you did not need to be cunning to be his guard, that you only need to be his sword, but spending as much time as you did with him, you became much better at understanding the implications of words left unsaid.

“Our journey will be longer than planned,” he informs you, as though the previous air of building acrimony had long disappeared, “there has been grave civil unrest in the region, and we will have to move carefully.”

Unrest. Fyodor had said something of the sort before, had mentioned it while sprawled out across his bed, moonlight bathing his lithe figure. You only remember pieces; him saying that civil unrest was a dangerous sign, that ordinary men could pose a huge threat when provoked. He thought a king should be able to make use of such anger, instead of suppressing it entirely. Where this simmering rage will be directed? Who will bear the weight?

If you were with Fyodor, he would look at you, a cruel, conniving smile on his face, and he might say something like this.

“Of course, it will be the one who stands in my way.”

But it is not Fyodor sitting across you.

“Considering all of this, it may not be the best time to be travelling. But I have nothing to worry about with you here, do I?”

You lower your head, “I’m honored that you think so highly of me, Your Highness.”

Your fingers clench around the scabbard at your side, avoiding his gaze for the rest of the trip. The thought of working for anyone else leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Dazai stays surprisingly silent for the rest of the journey.

At one point, as you stand idly by, he turned to his attendant and says something about people and protesting, but all the words he uses only reminded you of Fyodor, and the strange ache in your chest. You don’t have it in you to try and listen closer. You don’t care. Unless they come for Fyodor, you have no reason to fight.

The two of them go back and forth about people and the country, the laws and the demands, but all you can think about is whether His Highness is safe. He’s only human, after all. No amount of studying could defend him against an assassin. Maybe you should have stayed back, just in case. Maybe it was better to guarantee his safety despite the humiliation.

“We need to depart,” Dazai frowns, his attendant scurrying away to alert the rest of the group, “the situation is getting more dire.”

It was hours before you were scheduled to leave, but you hurried to join Dazai without question. You don’t even remove your coat before securing the door to the carriage, just relieved you could return. The crown price stays uncharastically silent, his mouth set in a frown and his eyes impassive.

As you approach the towering walls of the castle, you’re surprised to notice that there’s hardly anyone waiting to receive you. With the crown prince himself returning, it went against protocol to have only one frazzled guard waiting by the gates. Some distance away to the right, there’s a small crowd of soldiers and staff alike, running around while calling out for help. A cold sense of dread washes over you, and you immediately go to stand by the door.

“You need to leave,” the guard by the gate cries, eyes wide and panic-striken, “He’s lost his mind! Take His Highness and leave!”

There’s no details given to you about who all this concerned, who stood at the center of this calamity, but deep down, you had a feeling that it had to be him. You jump out the carriage, ignoring the calls of your name.

You go to his room first.

“Come see me,” he had said. You hoped desperately that it meant he would be waiting for you there, book in hand. As you pushed the door open, you hoped it would be him by the window, sparing you a sulky glare before going back to whatever he was doing.

The room was empty, and your heart felt heavier than before. The candle was unlit, the books untouched, and the window glaringly empty of a familiar figure. There would be nowhere else for him to go, except for…. Before you ran out again, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—clearly shaken and panting. You looked out of place, with the stiff coat and the weary expression, and deciding it would be for the best, you shrug off the coat, and leave it as a heap on the floor.

The hallways are disturbingly empty, a heavy silence sinking into the air and the broken ornaments being the only things that greet you as you run past. Your heart races as you come closer to the heart of the chaos, evident by the growing number of corpses that littered the hallways. There’s so much blood; splattered on the walls, soaking into the carpet, pools forming by the indistinguishable messes of flesh. You’ve never seen such a sight, and the fear begins to creep in, slowly. Your limbs feel heavy and you suddenly wonder if it’s worth it.

You are not much of a knight, you know. You don’t have an official title or a respectable position. You don’t have any accomplishments, only ever following in the shadows of your master, and you don’t come from a reputable lineage. All you have to your name is your honor as a knight, the same one that has been trampled on and mocked countless times before. And by that ridiculed honor, by the solemn vow you made, you know there is no other option for you.

The doors are wide open as you approach, and the walls splattered in a foul, dark red.

You can make out the lone figure standing in the center of the disastrous figure, facing away from you.

Your steps make a soft sound as you move closer, and you think you’d take any jarring cacophony over this unbearable silence. It serves as an unavoidable reminder of the reality, that there are no survivors. And it immediately catches his attention.

He slowly turns to take in the sight of you, sweaty and trembling. He looks inexplicably clean, for someone who caused all this chaos. A few splatters of blood, but that’s all. You see him wipe a bloodied hand on a stray piece of cloth, before slipping on a glove again.

There is no weapon in sight.

But you think of the mess of flesh, almost like the victims exploded. And you remember the small changes recently.

“A revelation,” he had called it. He should have said it for what it was, instead.

You still walk up to him, until the two of you are about an arm’s length away. The smile he sends you isn’t pleasant.

“You took longer than expected.”

“There were demonstrations by the people,” you report, “we had to take a different route.”

He steps forward, his smile growing as you tense, “The riots were supposed to come first, in a couple of days. But I got impatient. You forced my hand,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I’ll take care of the rest later.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and hope he won’t comment on the trembling of your voice.

He pats your cheek, “I don’t blame you, not entirely. What do you know, after all? As your master, it is my duty to guide you, isn’t it?”

You nod wordlessly, and it’s all the answer he needs. His Highness steps back again, and walks towards the end of the room, where a small stage is set. A large throne stands by the wall, and he stops to inspect it for a moment. On the seat is a crown stained red, but he does not move to touch it. He turns, and with his arm outstretched, he silently beckons you to the podium. There’s a strange light in his eyes, unlike anything you’ve seen before, as though he was balancing precariously between sobriety and complete madness.

“Come,” he calls you, and the sound of him uttering your name frightens you more than it should, “I will have you sworn in here.”

You glance around you, at the corpses with their bloody mouths and hazy eyes, the drying tears and twitching fingers. You look at the destruction and the carnage and wonder if this was retribution, and if it was supposed to be this horrendous. In one of the stories he liked to tell you, when the candlelight was too faint to be reading besides, divine retribution only came sevenfold. Fyodor’s, however, seemed to come a hundredfold.

You choose your next words carefully.

“I’ve already been knighted, Your Majesty,” he smiles.

“You will be sworn in again by your king,” he says, “and nobody will dare refute this.”

You walk over, steps slightly unsteady and hands shaking. You hand your sword to him, and kneel on the platform. This time, you look at your king, who stands bloodstained and smiling, eyes brighter than you’ve ever seen them. All those years ago, you thought he was some kind of angel; too radiant for your eyes, with his enticing gaze and his unwavering resolve. How did you miss the cruelty in his heart? The sword touches your shoulder; right, left, and then as you open your mouth to say the oath you took years ago, he lowers himself in front of you.

He throws his glove aside, and you are faced, again, with the angel of death.

Beside you, you see what looks like a pair of hands collapsed together. You think someone must be praying, on the brink of death. But who do you have to pray to, except for the master you’ve served so dutifully? Who will hear your voice when it has been drowned out by the deafening silence of death?

You should not have come.

At least he gave you the honor of dying as a proper knight. At least you wouldn’t be disgraced in death.

A cold hand grazes your cheek, but the end you wait for never comes.

Instead, he tilts your head upwards, and places his lips over yours.

It’s cold, and you stay as still as a corpse. His hand presses into your skin,.

It is better, you think, to be a treasured pet than a pawn.

Your eyes close, and you kiss him back, feeling the grip loosen.

You think you will stay by his side regardless.

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sojuyae · 8 months

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"For beggary a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible."

2.6k words ~ yandere fyodor x reader (sequel to this)

tw: torture scene (not incredibly graphic?) general yandere tws, false imprisonment, infantilization, swearing, unhealthy relationships.

Act normal. That was it, all you had to was act normal. For one dinner, you would have to once again act the perfect little victim. He was smart, he was dangerous, you knew that, but he had not yet been given the key to your head. No, your secret would be safe as long as you just acted like you normally would.

Enter the ballroom. Look him in the eyes, you can't seem like you're avoiding him. Accept the restraints. Look between him and the food nervously, just like always. Wait for him to make some off-hand comment. Bring the water to your lips, drink it just as you would have on any other day. Don't say too much. Don't be quiet.

It should have been your easiest performance yet, you assumed. Though, in reality, very little of this was a performance was it? No, your submission, your trembling fear, the snakes that wound up your legs when he even acknowledged your presence, that was all genuine. As much as you tried to deny it, you had yet to lie to the man. The same man who did nothing but steal and slaughter. Either way, it should have been easy.

That thought left your mind the moment you stepped foot into the makeshift dining room once again. In retrospect, it was silly, wasn't it? With a glance, the man could make you feel like you were being endlessly drowned by thorns, twisting through your muscles, endlessly contracting and expanding within you. It made your knees weak as you walked closer. It made you want to fall to the floor, but... that would be quite unusual behaviour.

The moment the doors banged shut, echoing throughout the massive hall, Fyodor fixed his gaze on you intently. Even from across the length of a massive dining table, you couldn't help but flinch back, closing your eyes to silence the holes his irises seared into yours.

He didn't hesitate like he usually did. He didn't take even a second to allow you to adjust to his overpowering presence, no, not at all.

”My dear.“ Despite how soft his voice was, it echoed throughout the ballroom like he was screaming.

A few, horribly tense, horribly uncomfortable, moments passed. Yet he refused to speak, and he began to look at you like he hadn't before. The way he focused on you, was now not like one would look at an ordinary notebook or other object, but more like how one would look at a disobedient child. Strangely, you didn't flinch.

“My dear.” He repeated, his tone more firm.

You drew in a sharp breath, the only other sound being the quiet rattling of your restraints as you shook.

”Yes?“

”Before we truly begin the next phase of this relationship,“ He leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin on them, ”I would like for you to fully understand one thing.“

You pause, ”Which is?“

”I would like for this relationship to be consensual,“

It took a moment for the words to register in your mind, ”This relationship?“

“Yes, whatever we may become, I would like for you to enjoy my presence just as I do yours.” He sighs.

That took even longer to register. Why in the world would he have any reason to care about what you thought now? Sure, it was a nice sentiment- but if he had wanted a normal relationship, kidnapping was not the first step.

But really, was it kidnapping? He didn't force you into the car. He didn't force you to follow him out of the cafe. He didn't force you to grow accustomed to his surveillance. You hadn't asked for any of this... but it's not like you hadn't been... in the slightest, most minuscule way complacent in it. He was to blame... but so you were you... right?

You had barely even attempted escape-

“Something you would like to say, my love?” He shocked you out of your thoughts once again. He had impeccable timing with that.

“N-No, not really... but if you wanted something like most people have... why did you start us off like this? Why didn't you try doing something normal with me?”

For that, he seemingly had no response, only sighing. Slowly, he poured his glass full of blood-red wine, swirled it around between his fingers, and took a sip. Then, like he had suddenly remembered you were sitting in front of him, he spoke.

“There are some questions I do not believe you need answers to right now.”

“Wha-”

He cut you off sharply, “You do not need to worry so much.”

He began to look at you, his head cocked lazily to the side as if he was waiting for a response. Yet, you could tell he wasn't waiting for one. Another word from you when he didn't want it would only get cut off once more.

“I am willing to give you plenty of time to process this arrangement, my love. In my personal opinion, I have already given you enough. But in your fragile mental state, I'm sure you will need much more. Am I correct?”

Fragile mental state- Who does he think caused that mental state? God, talking to him felt like being caught in an endless whirlpool, every second of air only replaced by another period of your head being pushed underwater.

But you can't say that. Maybe someday- but not tonight. Tonight... you have to act normal.

”You're correct.”

He made a small condescending 'hm' in response, taking another sip of his wine.

”Then I am sure that together... we will be alright.“

”I just have one more question, Fyodor,“ You sputtered out, not realizing what you were saying until the words had left your mouth.

Seemingly, he noticed your surprise at your actions, slightly raising one eyebrow.

”Speak.“

”If you wanted a consensual relationship, why can't you let me go?“

In an instant, all the air was sucked out of the room. As he leaned forward only slightly, it felt as if he instantly became larger, a towering, destructive, strong monster of a man-

”You are not to leave this home.“

”Why?“ You demanded, instantly wincing at your audacity, on the ONE NIGHT you were supposed to play it cool-

”Because I say so.“ He insisted, his voice eerily calm for the conviction that was dripping from his words.

”I'm not a child-“

”You're not a child. Yet, you still cannot be trusted in the outside world.” He scoffed.

“If-”

“What, you think I brought you here for only my own pleasure? No. Your life, when you ran it, was nothing but a disaster wasn't it?”

Where does this man get off-

”That is why you are here. You don't deserve that life, at least, that is what I believe. If you had continued living your way, I'm sure you would have been found dead in some gutter a week ago.“

“Wh- Why do you think that?!”

“Because I am privy to information you are not, my dear. ”

Your vision turned red, muscles tensing like a cat about to pounce, jaw set to unhinge and swallow him whole.

“Then... then tell me that information,” You said softly through clenched teeth forcing a smile.

“And risk your safety once again? No, no-”

“If I'm safe here, why is it a-”

“Do not interrupt me.” He said forcefully, his voice even but deadly as he gripped his wine glass with clawed fingers.

“I-“

”You cannot be happy being safe? You must tempt fate? Yet, you say you are not a child...“ He scoffs before continuing, ”You are not to leave here, not until I say you can. I owe that to your poor, disparaging parents, don't I? To keep their child alive? Of course, I do.“

All you could do was sit back in your chair, not daring to break his harsh gaze, watching and waiting as he rambled on. He scolded you like a father. He had done that since you arrived. Every opinion shared was met with a snide remark, a veiled insult, or simply silence. Yet, he says he wanted a consensual relationship.

Hypocrite. He's nothing but a stupid fucking hypocrite.

“I'm doing this for you, my love. This is all to keep you safe. Do you understand?”

You nodded. In a split second, he had made everything clear as day. You understood. Soon, he'd understand too.

That's what you promised yourself that night. The hours spent silently sitting against the wall, watching in wait for the light under the door to finally turn to black. That was it. One single light, one single reflection under the door, and you could run. You could run without restraints, the endless hallways becoming your poppy field, hair blowing in the wind like a horse breaking the new frontier.

One single light. One single light and this would all be over-

Click.

In a moment that made your heart beat like a drum, the light turned to black. A second later, the footsteps of the man guarding your room began to fade into the darkness as well.

You shot out of bed, your hands shaking as your animalistic ferocity took over. Turn off the lights. Act normal. Grab your notebook. Act normal. Take out the wire. Act so normal. Run up to the door. Act so normal he wouldn't suspect a thing.

Twist the wire into the door handle, and keep twisting, endlessly filling the murky whirlpool, until that wonderful sound- oh that wonderful sound! That relieving, assuaging, palliating sound rings out in the room, filling the void, filling the endless pit in your stomach once and for all.

Click.

You flung the door open, nearly slamming it into the wall, running to the wall in front of you. As your eyes adjusted to the dark, you could barely make out the outline of a sign. It was simple, bearing only three arrows.

Number one, directly to the right, reading... well... something... like… “nnot“?

Number two, to the left, reading something that looked like... ”banhi three-an“?

The third one, to the far left, which read... English! Beneath the Russian, it was ENGLISH! Clearly marked, Elevator to the downstairs lobby.

You didn't dare to take more than a second to read, instantly spinning to your right and taking off. Faster than you thought you could run, faster than you'd ever run in your whole life, faster than your feet could keep up, faster, faster, FASTER!

Faster than the wind, the stars, the moon, the sky; faster than you could handle, tripping over your own feet over and over again, drifting and hitting the walls, only to keep going. Where your slippers had fallen, you had no idea, but they were only slowing you down. Your bare feet padded against the vintage carpet, a rhythmic thumping whose volume was only beaten out by the beating of your heart.

The elevator. You could see it.

It was coming closer, but not fast enough. FASTER! You screamed in your own ears, RUN! RUN BEFORE THEY MAKE THIS THE LAST TIME!

The doors were opening for you, slowly, like the gates to heaven, the warm light embracing you, wrapping you in hope, because now- unlike then, back in that room, you had fr-

The doors were opening.

You instantly slid, burning the back of your legs as you tried to turn the other way desperately. No, maybe they didn't see you, maybe they didn't see you.

You spun around, only to be face to face with Fyodor's enforcers.

You spun around. There was Fyodor, stepping out of the elevator. Time moved in slow motion as he raised his hand to flip the light switch. One light, illuminating the 6 of you. One single light.

”Did I not just tell you were never to leave this place, little mouse?“ He chided. You could hear the grin through his teeth, even as you cowered and covered your eyes from him. You couldn't help it. He made your knees weak, like always. But this time... you couldn't hold back your draw to the floor.

”Cat got your tongue?“ He continued.

”No...“ You mumbled weakly.

”Then what has it, my love?“

He stepped forward, the sounds of his boots quiet compared to those of his men. The heat of his body covered yours as he leaned over your crumpled form.

As more and more time passed without your response, he simply sighed.

“Whatever the case may be, it doesn't matter.”

You shook, your teeth chattering against your skull, gripping the carpet up off the ground just to keep yourself upright.

“Vy mozhete vzyath ikh, gospoda.”

Gospoda, what he always called his men. Where were they going to leave to? For what, for him to do what? To kill you finally? So he can be honest with you? What, what, what?

You waited for the sound of the enforcer's footsteps to fade away, yet they only grew louder. Louder and louder until they met you.

In a flash, your hair was being pulled from your head. You kicked. You screamed. But that didn't slow them even a bit.

No, they never stopped. No matter how much you screamed and wailed like a banshee, the harsh hands tightening around your arms didn't stop.

Even as you begged for mercy in the seconds between your head being forced underwater, they didn't stop.

Even as your lungs burned. Your knees felt like fire. Your throat was scratched from screams, the scorching rust mixing with the acid of bile threatening to force its way out of your mouth.

All you had heard for what must have been... hours, was the sound of water hitting the dingy bathroom tiles, the foreign chatter of the enforcers, and your cries.

As a child, you had scraped your knee. Fallen out of a tree. Broke your arm on a bike. As an adult, you had broken your knee. Hit your head. Cut your hand. Experienced a head-splitting migraine.

Nothing hurt like this.

Nothing hurt like how the men's hands contorted you against the bathtub. Plunging you back down into the water for minutes at a time, barely allowing you a breath before pressing your burning face back into the tub.

They laughed at you. They laughed as your dinner forced it's way out of your stomach. You felt like laughing when that didn't stop their thrusts. Because it didn't matter what was in that tub... not to them.

No, you were stuck in this whirlpool for good. There was no pulling yourself out of this water.

it was difficult to tell how much time had passed when you came back to. Maybe days, maybe hours. What's the point in counting? It wouldn't matter.

All that matters is that Fyodor was standing in front of you. Your eyes turned limply back to the tile, trying in vain to ignore the vines wrapping around your stomach once again. Even if you hadn't, it wasn't like he could make you anymore sick than you'd been. Your body felt as if it couldn't put down food for weeks from how forcibly it'd been emptied.

“Those bad men are gone, my love,” He says softly, his voice sounding distant and faded.

The bad men were gone. You were alone... alone and cold without arms tearing you in every which direction.

“I'll take care of you now. Don't you worry,”

He kneeled in front of you, the sound almost inaudible to your waterlogged ears. Gently, as if he were petting a wild animal, he wiped off your face with a warm washcloth.

It was soft. Relaxing, almost. But... but a reality in which you could be comforted right now was far from your own.

“That was truly horrible, wasn’t it, dearest?”

“Let’s make sure we don’t have to repeat it.”

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sojuyae · 8 months

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Violently Yours

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, stalking, mentions of abuse and murder

Chuuya can’t stop looking at you. Can’t stop thinking of you, thinking of all the things he could do to you.

He wants you so bad, it frightens even himself.

And the worst part is that you don’t even know it. You only know him vaguely as some guy, some guy who lives nearby because he stops by the convenience store almost every night. What you don’t know is that he lives almost on the other side of town, far from your crappy little neighbourhood, and that it takes him an extra hour to make a detour to your place of work.

Chuuya doesn’t know what to do. His usual bravado deserts him when in your presence, and he can’t help but slink between the shelves, sneaking peeks at you as you work behind the counter. Surely you must have noticed him - he’s not bad looking, after all, and he puts a lot of effort on his appearance - but you don’t treat him differently than any other customer. He hates it a little, but also finds it oddly exciting, because you treat him just like any other human being. You banters back when he makes small talk, smile at him when you ring up his purchases, and wish him a good day when he leaves. For someone used to being treated with fear and awe, it was a welcome change.

You, on the other hand, are effortlessly beautiful. You wander around the store, hair tumbling to your shoulders from the messy bun atop your head, looking as though you’d just stepped out of bed yet gorgeous enough to put any model to shame. Chuuya doesn’t get how other people don’t notice, how they don’t writhe and die from sheer envy of your being. It fills him with rage when your boss berates you, when your coworkers leave you the hardest tasks, how you’re forced to work holidays and late hours to pick up their slack. It makes him want to murder them, for daring to make your life more difficult than it is. Because it is difficult. You have no parents, and a history of priors from being shunted through a series of fosters. Chuuya knows, because he’s found out everything about you, right down to the day you were born. The man who abused you when you were thirteen lies at the bottom of the river, feet encased in cement; the woman who forced you to spend a night out in her yard as punishment for some childish mistake had her home burned down. Chuuya’s been debating whether or not to go after your old case workers, but he’s been holding off because if he murders your coworkers, the police will focus on you as the central link to all the crimes.

Some part of him hates himself for these thoughts. He’s never liked killing; unlike Dazai’s lack of regard for human life, Chuuya always tried to avoid killing people if he could help it. It was messy and inconvenient and more trouble than it was worth. Violence was fine, but dead bodies brought too much attention. Besides, someone with a broken leg could learn from their mistakes, and Chuuya was all for second chances.

But not for the people who messed with you.

You were special. You were his. Chuuya’s own little angel, tainted and yet pure.

And so he watches you from the shadows, from around corners and darkened doors, waiting for the day he will make you his.

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sojuyae · 9 months

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the new layout of tumblr on my pc is making me dizzy WHERE ARE MY DRAFTS PLACED

#my head is hurting #ive been looking 4 it like #the past 10 minutes #I CANT FIND IT???#icbelieve i have to write on my phone #sighs

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sojuyae · 9 months

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Sphinks!Xiao, who finds you stranded in the desert after your research group gets separated. A pack of wild coyote hybrids thought to be amicable, if not friendly towards humans attacked your camp in the middle of the night and sent you running aimlessly into the sand plains without time to gather food or water, let alone distress flares. By the time you stumble onto a wind-beaten temple, you're freezing, dehydrated, and exhausted. You barely have the strength to drag yourself up the meager steps and through the degraded doorway before you collapse on the sandstone floor, only able to hope that, by some miracle, a search party would be able to find you before you died of exposure. A search party doesn't find you, obviously, but Xiao does.

Sphinks!Xiao, who refuses to show himself for days. You only know he's there by the gifts he leaves you - cactus pears, palm dates, flasks of water and bitter wine that burns your throat as it goes down. It's not much, but it's enough to keep you alive, and you're too desperate to turn down anything he gives you. He's generous, too, giving you more than enough to get by while you're still in that state of bleary half-consciousness. You think he can tell that survival's not your area of expertise, that if you were left to your own devices, it'd only be a matter of time before you ate something poisonous or wandered into a bobcat den. That, or you're just pathetic enough to earn a few sand-covered blankets on top of the bare necessities.

Sphinks!Xiao, who lets you fawn over him with a purse-lipped scowl when you do finally manage to corner your elusive savior. You honestly just want to thank him, but once he's in front of you, you can't help grinning as you rake your fingers through the ivory feathers of his massive wings and scratch at the bases of his rounded ears. You've never so much as heard of a creature with both the wings and eyes of a bird-based hybrid and the legs, tail, and fangs of a cat-based hybrid, so you can't stop yourself from treating him like the eighth wonder of the world (unintended affection a touch-starved Xiao secretly basks in, not that you notice the pale blush painted across his skin while you're performing a remarkably thorough investigation on the color of his paw-pads).

Sphinks!Xiao, who stand-offish at best, reclusive at worst. He's clearly not used to having someone to talk to, his voice rough and his dialogue usually limited to one-word phrases or barked orders, but you can usually manage to string along your brief conversations on your own, either wondering aloud when you might be rescued or telling him about all the things you're going to do when you make it back to civilization. For every hour you spend fantasizing about baths and take-out and air conditioning, he spares a few words about himself. From what you can gather, he's a guardian of-sorts, meant to protect people like you from a threat he claims you couldn't begin to understand. You're not really in a place to question him, considering you didn't even know a hybrid like him could exist a few weeks ago.

Sphinks!Xiao, who also claims he's not allowed to 'meddle in human matters', meaning he can't help you beyond making sure you don't starve to death. You've asked him if he's seen anyone looking for you while hunting, but he's never given you a straight answer, and when you suggest that he just, say, put that twenty-foot wingspan to use and drop you off on the edge of the nearest town or village, he just scowls, rolls his eyes, refuses to say anything at all. You want to press the subject, sometimes, but you really can't afford to annoy him, to make yourself even more of an irritation to him than you already are. You wouldn't survive a day out here, on your own. You wouldn't survive without Xiao.

Sphinks!Xiao, whose gifts have been getting more... modern, recently. Luxuries are still few and far between, but you have a small store of canned food, now, a couple fleece blankets that don't seem at least a decade old, bits of scrap metal and glass that must've caught Xiao's eye. You try not to pry, not to turn down anything he gives you, but his most recent gift - a half-crushed, silver wedding band with an odd, scarlet stain you can't seem to polish away - hasn't seen the light of day since he dropped it into your hand.

Sphinks!Xiao, who keeps his wings wrapped around you as you sob into his shoulder and beat your fists against his chest. You're not in the temple anymore, dilapidated and open, but his den - a hellish, lightless cave filled to bursting with golden jewelry and century-old artifacts and scraps of metal and clothing that couldn't have come from anything but human travelers, from dozens upon dozens of people who could've saved you if he hadn't gotten in the way.

Sphinks!Xiao, who hums and coos and purrs as he rubs circles into your back, as he promises that he's not going to hurt you, that he's not going to let anything hurt you ever again.

Sphinks!Xiao, who's always been a guardian, first and foremost. It's just that now, he's decided it's his responsibility to guard you.

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sojuyae · 9 months

Note

Hello lock <3

Today I bring you Yan Scaramouche with darling who keeps poking at the electro mark on his back, right above his shoulder blades. Poking it with a finger is bound to get you zapped a little painfully with a grumble from scara of how insolent you're acting with a divine being. However, a kiss on the mark somehow doesn't do anything. The zap was on purpose, wasn't it?

Do with this information what you will. I have converted to a Scara enjoyer

hi zuri!!!

SCARACHU AGENDA YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

him and his little zaps. he's probably scrubbed the skin of his nape raw, hoping that it might erase the proof of the divinity fate has doomed him incapable of achieving, only this desperation never worked. it's a sensitive spot and subject. he snickers at you demanding privacy if you wish to get changed when he's around, yet for the longest time, slinks off elsewhere when he has to. don't mistaken this as the behavior of a prude. scara wants you to exalt him, to consider him a being worthy of your praise and infinite adoration, so the mark threatens this esteemed image. bitterly, he'll liken it to the trademark details blacksmiths etch onto the weapons they forge, as proof that they were the ones who created it.

this due diligence cannot last forever. eventually, you happen to spot the electro mark, much to his chagrin. what a grating pest you are, buzzing around with your questions as he tries to wave you off. you've always been irritatingly persistent about how he can channel elemental energy without a vision — he'd pridefully remark that it's proof he's of superior quality compared to mortals, who must have power bestowed upon them — but this never sat right with you. who is your oppressor, exactly? or, to be more specific, what is he? he freely gloats that he's (essentially) immortal, but from what you can tell, he isn't a youkai, adepti, or any other mystical being that should have such a long lifespan. it's very perplexing. while he normally enjoys conversing with you, he closes up like a clam whenever you approach this taboo topic.

eventually, you will get to learn the full extent of his story. for the time being, your pointer finger traces the lilac lines, following the ebb and flow. should you linger for too long, then expect a warning buzz. it's reminiscent of getting shocked by metal from static electricity. enough to ward you off, by his estimation. except it doesn't, because the one he's chosen to give his adoration to is nothing if not tenacious. every synthetic fiber in his body goes taut when impishness leads you to brush your lips against the nape of his neck. his voice raises in pitch as he demands to know what you're doing, acting brazen like you're the one in charge here and not him.

(he says that as if you both don't know that he's under your thrall, beneath all the posturing).

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sojuyae · 9 months

Text

yan enabler ranpo send tweet

#srry for not posting i am in indescribable pain (we r planning on #going in a fam vacation but everyone knows how hectic planning is) 😭😭😭😭#but i will be back with this prompt #amongst many others #i believe

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sojuyae · 9 months

Text

OLD HABITS DIE HARD, EVEN WITH MONEY

summary: Reo cannot live without his girlfriend like the flowers wither with no sunlight; however, you could live with for once buying a new item instead of gluing together an old, broken one

Money, mentality, skills — he has what it takes to conquer every challenge the world can hurl towards him. Every obstacle can easily be crushed into dust by The Reo Mikage.

Apparently, he did not account for an anomaly — you.

He is not sure whether to laugh or cry with the way your eyebrows are stubbornly drawn together as you scoff loudly to make sure he understands your disdain for the currently ongoing discussion between you two.

"See, I told you it's nothing super glue cannot fix!"

Following the movement of your triumphantly raised head with nose pointed at the ceiling, Reo offers you a long groan as he supresses a small smile. Is he about to rip out his hair from frustration? Absolutely; however, his heart softens as you continue to ramble about your methods for repairs of everything the humankind has had ever invented. Reo is pretty sure even NASA would fall short when faced with your inextinguishable drive to patch up anything broken. There is no doubt you would find a way to fix a damn nuclear plant. Maybe he should get you a career in engineering.

Your lovely, patient boyfriend has already tried explaining to you again and again that not every piece of clothing should be mended, not every pot can be rescued after you set it on fire and certainly not every thing that is falling apart should be pieced back together with that beloved super glue of yours.

Whenever Reo attempts to convince you to use his money to replace some of your old, well-worn items, it only ends up with more long evenings full of angered words and, following right after, loving, hushed whispers and apologies. Because no matter how many times the same quarrel repeats, you both are aware of how utterly stupid it is to fight when both of you mean well.

Reo would simply love to spoil you stupid, show you how material possessions pale in comparison to your visage, how, in the end, neither luxury goods nor the most beautiful metaphors he can muster up are enough to showcase this growing ache his heart feels both when he is around you and when he is alone — because even then, he is only capable of thinking about you.

He wants to offer every piece of himself at the altar of your love.

And your refusal wounds him, even when it is accompanied by such delicate touches and sweet words speaking of your affection for who he really is as a person, not his financial background.

He has a black card, strong will and talent.

In this world nothing can make Reo Mikage feel helpless.

Except for his girlfriend — his one and only goddess, his sun without which he would wither, the very person that owns his body and soul.

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sojuyae · 9 months

Note

ooohh could i have a and e for ranpo?

warnings: physical abuse, disrespect of boundaries.

yan alphabet prompt.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Ranpo is very touchy, but in the way a clingy cat is almost. He hugs you as if he's trying to break your ribs and fuse your flesh to his. He can and will lay on top of you for hours so that you won't get up and leave him. I can see it going into a slightly violent territory where he'd bite you a little too hard, squeeze your wrist to the point of bruising, etc. Ranpo also does not give a single fuck about your feelings and boundaries so he'll rarely apologize. If he hurts, he'll just let you patch yourself up when he's bored and then do it again all over again. Ranpo prioritizes his appetite over your comfort.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

I think Ranpo is willing to let you see the "cuter" or more acceptable parts of his vulnerability but the really scary and important stuff, he reserves for himself alone. He doesn't want you to see too much of his weaknesses or else you might exploit it. Or worse, you could lose any respect you still have for him.

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sojuyae · 9 months

Text

COMMON ENEMY OF DECEPTION

。°˖ ʚɞ ꒦꒷⩩ Ft. Edogawa Ranpo & Edgar Allan Poe x gn reader

At this point I'm just promoting the ship www :33

°°``Marked as and not excluding: Yandere (many gaslight 🔥, obsessiveness, manipulative, breach of privacy/confidentiality hints, heavy dependence indications, overprotective, gatekeeping you), kind of angsty having a friends-to-enemies dynamic with Ranpo, messy plotline going on idk anymore my brain just shrunk writing this

°°``Recommended to read for those 16+, please proceed with caution.

↪What starts out as a mere fascination descalates into a mixed up dedication.

❇✧ You're a fun little enigma which is like that of a stimulating Rubik cube. Always determined, Ranpo successfully manages in getting your true best outcome from all the possibilities he could show for you to be amazed at. Sometimes, the fact that he can be stumped figuring you out frustrates him to no end, but he's proud to be the one doing it to you overall! After all, there's no other person more capable and fitting than him to 'solve' all of your worries, problems, or low level predicaments so you should be at ease if you just leave them to the greatest detective ever!

❇✧ Whenever you would feel like you're hitting a dead end in a seemingly neverending maze, he can easily show you the way out of that maze—no, miniature garden! It's only a simple and rewarding trade all in all, you need his point of view towards the solution and Ranpo will receive your praise as the reward (+ your cleared up face out of recognition, breaking to a smile <- he considers it a bonus even though he would expect for that view to keep coming, reserved for his eyes only!).

❇✧ The very few moments though, you wish for a comfort or time in facing a dilemma instead of being shoved a cold revelation like what he usually does. But why, he thought, why wouldn't you just walk the rest of your way out of the maze even with him graciously leading you onward? What's the point of standing around and mulling it over? The answer is already right there, it's obvious and even you could see it. He knows the reason, but he can't really do anything about it if you don't move yourself, can he? He hates being incapable in these kind of situations.

❇✧ You might get some of his snacks instead and something along the lines 'I guess I could do it, just doing something so simple by being here for you if that helps you'. He would pout and everything if he sees your gloom face isn't going away any soon.

❇✧ Your praise and smile are his daily dose of dopamine (healthy ofc, totally not addicted) at this rate and he demands more! He becomes very prying... of your matters which aren't that easy to deal with and even the touchy subjects you wouldn't dare speak out loud, it's as if you're being exposed to the core and then poked at for him to nitpick about certain parts you really have difficulties with.

❇✧ Anytime, any day, his words slowly plague your mind; you should do things this way or you should follow what he say that way you don't regret it, are you sure you should be doing this? He's getting persistently clingy while his minor tantrums increase more often whenever you don't approve his presence, you should've admit you need him any moment now!

❇✧ A bad move on your part, he takes that as a sign it's not enough so you just... avoid him altogether, explaining about his behavior and that you need space from him on text to refrain from losing control over your emotions if you face him. You figure you should do something about this, then you finally go to seek out his rival—no, the closest person he's to and the one you're comfortable with asking for help; Edgar Allan Poe.

❇✧ ...that's what he expected. When Ranpo realized all his efforts would backfire him, he have created a plan with Poe in advance way before you do. He won't let you escape him! Not when he has Poe by his side; his most trusted aid.

❇✧ The moment you take a step back, he instead sees it as a challenge he should take so he will come out victorious; as the one you would admit to be right, backed up by Poe's statement about him. Ranpo won't back down... So you shouldn't go down easily and cower away! Things wouldn't have to be this way if you were just of one agreement with him from the beginning.

❇✧ To Poe, even if through complaints only, Ranpo accidentally makes you out to be more of a formidable foe and villain than you actually are in this case that Poe doesn't hesitate at all lending him a hand. Fueled by jealousy—the moment you step into Poe's room—he welcomes you as his most dangerous rival at the highest priority who needs to be handled in his own hands now that Ranpo leaves the rest of the plan to him.

✏✉ It was needed as a convincing prove for Poe that you're worthy of his help. It was supposed to be like that right before... you are trapped within Poe's book. And out of all people, it's with Ranpo, where almost all (under influence of Poe wanting you to think of them as such) the puzzles are designed in such a special mechanism needing two certain people to be solved at the same time. But, the puzzles put you at a disadvantage more, highlighting Ranpo's ability instead whenever you can't solve them. Your intentions to work together with him in peace and solving some riddles on your own—are outweighed in the end. 'If you want this to be easier for both of us, you should just count on me more!' stated Ranpo.

✏✉ Compared to Ranpo, you know you're not that smart, but you can still stand up by yourself very well even without his help and so, you show it to them. Oh, what a bold and risky action you took, with that being out of their predictions as well... You have Poe enthralled, in awe towards your efforts as if you're under a spotlight—like him—the past him trying hard to win against the same once 'enemy'. With Ranpo getting worried sick of you now and Poe feeling guilty as well, he ends the story on that note before releasing you both out very soon.

✏✉ After Ranpo throws an outburst for your idiotic reckless stunt you pulled and he gets a childish tantrum trying not to mind a particular stupid person whenever he meets you, Poe have since become your wingman for both of your happiness. He's sad seeing the state of relationship you have with his best rival (lie) is turning tense. Poe has been also the mediator from then on who presents Ranpo's good qualities he's proud of. It's as if he's his defender, apologist more than someone who supports both side to make peace rather.

✏✉ Poe would be able to make you feel bad, because maybe you are just being too stubborn surely? Things would go smoothly on your end once you understand Ranpo if you were in his shoes and he would then forgive you. At some other times, Poe is just a walking contradiction, taking your side and discussing about his plans of deduction game to go against Ranpo and with your help, you two might even win past his level of intelligence together.

✏✉ Truthfully, Poe is just playing a devil's advocate card and you might realize it sooner or later since he can't help but rant more than he needed when you push the conversation a right way. You play along with him, admitting you're wrong in some cases related about Ranpo, and even acknowledging Poe's skills because he must be on the same level as him when they managed to get closer than ever~ Poe would be all flustered being treated like that by you.

✏✉ In that moment, Ranpo unexpectedly appears and gets along with you well enough as if nothing ever happens between the two of you, teaming up to tease Poe together. Karl also takes the chance to be his savior by obstructing his own face. All is well that ends well. Not long after, Ranpo admits his fault from before. Your trust in him wouldn't be able to return the way it was, though. Poe is now the one you would confide in, his awkward gestures supported by Karl's help mostly becomes your comfort and they're more heartfelt genuine. In return, Poe would need your feedback and opinions for his stories from time to time.

✏✉ Poe starts glorifying you as his most precious friend, even comes a few lavish gifts he give to you along with a letter he writes for a special occassion. That recent development of you getting closer with him doesn't seem to bother Ranpo much, the detective would simply come and borrow you at appropriate times, sharing stories about his accomplishments of usual and extraordinary cases strewn about in the city or coming to talk in private with Poe or, sometimes have you all hang out together to some place he's interested in.

✏✉ Things seem normal as if you're just spending time together with your close friends(?). Well, besides some claims from Ranpo's co-workers about how he seems to like you very much and he's really insistent of scolding and demeaning anyone who would be having the slightest interest in you. Ranpo is completely honest about it, telling you they're all just creeps or someone you wouldn't want to get involved with. And right he is, when you find out, even if some of them may be your acquintances or friends, Ranpo just knows to get the dirt on expose them and you would thank him for just looking out after you.

✏✉ Although rare, things would escalate further until one of those people is desperate enough to hurt Ranpo with you or Poe having to stop it and that only make his point more clear, sealing the deal. Meanwhile, Poe is absolutely secretive of mentioning about your presence to anyone, surprisingly capable of not letting them know more about you. He would tell the reason is for protecting you since he must have many enemies, or dangerous people meeting him. Before you know it, you're always with the two of them more often. And will always have been.

✏✉ There's a silent agreement going on between them and it would make you feel left out sometimes because it couldn't be easily guessed. Even though you're actually their very solidarity, it's a sign they're doing a good job hiding their intentions you wouldn't guess that they would secure you within their own length of distance only. A triangle fixed towards you; it's two against one. The winner is decided.

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sojuyae · 10 months

Text

Forced Photography; Nikolai Gogol

Format: Oneshot

Possible warnings: Yandere content, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, violence, manipulation

Click!

The sound of a professional camera pierced through the normally quiet atmosphere. For some reason unknown to you, today was special to Nikolai. The clown never voiced why it was special to him, but he seemed adamant on staying with you the entire day.

Click!

The camera shuttered once more, leaving a slightly bitter taste in your mouth. You always hated it when Nikolai took pictures of you. It made you feel antsy, twitchy, discombobulated… many negative emotions.

Click!

You were currently dressed up in a rather fancy outfit. You would have never worn something so… expensive in your old life, but because of your captor constantly stealing from high class stores, your wardrobe only consisted of classy clothing.

Part of you thought it was a nice gesture, but the other part of you argued that it was disgusting that he’d just so casually commit a crime for your sake. Your internal debate was surly going to drive you mad sooner or later.

Click!

You forced yet another smile as you sat still on the bed you were situated on. You didn’t dare more in fear of angering your captor.

Click!

“Oh! This one has to be my new favorite!” Your captor exclaimed to you as he looked at the camera screen. “You look stunning, dove!”

You remained silent as Nikolai fawned over your appearance in the photograph. One of the many lessons you learned while staying with Nikolai was to remain quiet when he was gushing about how much he loved you.

If you ever told him to stop or told him that you found it weird, then you would be punished. You unfortunately found this out the hard way.

“Ah, can’t I just take one more? Please? Pretty please with sprinkles on top?” Nikolai asked, giving you puppy dog eyes.

You looked at him and gave him a fake smile. “Yes, of course. Take as many as you want!”

Your words made your captor smile rather largely. You could see majority of his teeth, his canines sticking out to you the most. They were sharp and on the bigger side, but they were nowhere near the size of a certain vampire’s you know.

…Click!

The shudder of the camera sounded once more. Nikolai looked at the picture of you on the screen with the same sickening smile on his face.

“Ah, you look so lovely, my little birdie! I wish you could look like this forever and ever!” Your captor exclaimed in a slightly chilling tone, insinuating something sinister.

Was he going to kill you?

No, no. Nikolai has stated that he could never bring himself to kill you.

He said that the feeling of guilt would be far worse than the feeling of love.

…But could he have lied to you?

You weren’t sure.

You doubted that you would ever be sure.

“You already have me, so you might as well doll me up as much as you want. I’ll stay lovely, just for you, Kolya,” you spoke with a sickeningly sweet tone of voice.

Nikolai suddenly wrapped both of his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your neck. He then started to giggle like a schoolgirl. It honestly disturbed you to think that despite everything he has done to you, he can still laugh. Maybe he’s not as sane as he says he is.

“Ah, thank you, thank you! You’re so sweet, my little birdie! I love you so much!” He said, continuing to giggle into your neck.

“I love you too,” you murmured.

Nikolai practically squealed at your response. “Really?! You love me back?!”

You nodded, forcing a fake smile onto your face. “Of course I do. You’ve done so much for me.”

“Ah, that makes me so happy!” He exclaimed. He then started to pepper your face in soft butterfly kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you! Oh, please never leave me! I would never forgive myself if I ever let you escape my grasp! My wonderful little birdie, never leave my side!”

“I would never leave you,” you spoke in an almost robotic tone.

Nikolai never did like it when you lied, but he did like it when you lied about your love for him. Maybe it was some sick way of him feeding into his delusions of you loving him back, or maybe it was because he thought he could condition you into loving him. Either way, it was still off putting.

Nikolai continued to giggle and press small kisses all over your face. “You’re so sweet! My sweet little dove, I cannot wait for the day the both of us become free! Nothing will stop our love from blossoming even further! Oh, I’m so excited!”

You stayed silent. It was best to let him bask in his own delusions.

Your captor kissed your cheek one last time, then pulled away. He looked at you with his same old large smile, and let out a small giggle.

And then he stopped.

He put a stern expression on his face.

It was chilling.

“Hmm… I think my birdie lied to me!”

You tensed up. “What? No, I would never lie to you…!”

“You lied again!” He sighed. “Haven’t I told you about how I absolutely loath lying? I can’t stand it!”

“I know you hate it. That’s why I don’t lie to you,” you spoke, trying to keep a level head.

“You’re lying yet again! I thought I taught you better than that, my beloved!”

You gulped. You knew what was coming now.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” You started to plead. “Please forgive me!”

Nikolai sighed and put his hand into his overcoat. He then drew out a knife that he had placed across the room earlier.

“Hm… Do you deserve it?” He said as he pointed the knife to your face. “I don’t think you do. My little birdie has been trying to butter me up so I can lower my guard. Then you’d escape from me! We can’t have that, now can we?”

“That wasn’t my—“ you stopped yourself for a moment. If you lied again, it most likely wouldn’t have ended up pretty. “Yes. That was my intention. I’m sorry!”

Nikolai gave you a suspicious look. He then lowered the knife, putting it adjacent to his right thigh.

He suddenly smiled once more.

“You’re learning! Good!” He spoke as he threw the knife away to the other side of the room. It now rested by a nearby boarded up window. “I’m so proud of you!”

You stayed silent as your body shivered. You could feel your breath getting shallower and shallower, most likely from you starting to panic from his sudden mood swing.

Nikolai took note of this and continued to smile at you. You knew he was a clown and a terrorist, but you were starting to think he was bipolar as well. No normal person could suddenly change their mood so quickly.

“Oh, is my dove scared?” He asked you as he hugged you. You could feel his muscular arms squeezing your body. It made you feel sick. “Im so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you! Or maybe I did! Who knows…”

You stayed silent. Nikolai sighed as a result of that.

“No more lies, okay? I don’t like it when my dove lies to me. It makes me really sad!” He said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Understand?”

“…I understand.”

“Good! Now, can I get back to taking your pictures?! They make me so happy!”

“Fine. Go ahead…”

Nikolai giggled yet again and grabbed his camera once more. He then put it into his overcoat and had it appear above of you.

Gold swirled around his wrists as he used his ability. It was very pretty, but you wouldn’t allow yourself to willingly compliment your captor. If he forced you to compliment him though, that would be a different story.

“Look up and smile!” He laughed.

You did just as you were told. You looked up into the camera’s lens and forced a weak smile onto your face. You current expression seemed to please Nikolai to some extent since he didn’t tell you to smile… “better.”

Click!

Nikolai brought the camera back out of his overcoat and looked into the screen of the camera. He made somewhat of a happy sound then looked back at you.

“This one has to be my new favorite! You’re so cute, my dear!”

this is unedited. apologies for any errors

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sojuyae · 10 months

Text

modern au where dazai is a frequent flyer at the hospital you work at, constantly getting into street fights or falling off his motorcycle, just anything that could warrant a quick ER visit so he can see his favorite nurse (you). he’s come in enough times to get a general vibe of your schedule and only comes in on the weekdays he knows you work. you roll your eyes each time, whispering to your coworkers that dazai’s back yet again, but you couldn’t quite help the lingering gazes and fight a smile any time he winked or smirked at you.

dazai wasn’t shy about showing very preferential treatment for you - you were the only one he’d ever let unwrap his bandages and treat the new wounds, also running your delicate fingers over the old scars. he never took his eyes off you as you wiped away the blood and spotted antibiotic cream onto his marred fists and glued together his busted lip after a fight, even memorized the same tune you’d hum each time you got ultra focused on the task at hand - patching him back up yet again.

one night when dazai comes in to the hospital shitfaced drunk and is acting extra belligerent and threatens staff, he’s assigned a sitter for the night - you. you’re the one he likes, and is the least likely to get decked in the face if you get on his nerves. he takes advantage of the fact that you’re stuck with him for the next 12 hours. he slowly pulls you apart, asking way too many personal questions about your relationships and love life, until he has climbed his way all the way to the top.

what began as a somewhat innocent “you’re gorgeous, ya know” turns into “i bet your pussy feels fucking amazing.” and you can reprimand him all you want, deny deny deny all you want, but dazai notices the way you have to cross your legs even tighter in the chair you’re sat in. dazai always notices.

it takes approximately 6 hours, dazai can barely remember how it even unfolded, but now you’re on top of him, blinds shut and a chair shoved under the doorknob of his room, hands wrapped tight around the bedrails as you fuck yourself on his cock over and over and over. scrub pants thrown to the floor and panties pulled to the side, dazai clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from moaning out at how fucking good you feel, what a little slut you are to let your favorite patient have his way with your cunt!

and if you’re walking funny for the rest of the shift, constantly checking the crotch of your pants to see if the cum dripping out of you has finally soaked through the fabric, none of your coworkers say a word. and neither does dazai. until next time :)

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sojuyae · 10 months

Text

distracted

CW: yandere character + themes, obsession, jealousy, stalking, parasocial relationship, unhealthy dependency, implied kidnapping,

set during the perfect crime arc. omg hi how long has it been since i wrote a oneshot. this one was . a little unplanned but there is a severe lack of content for my fav pathetic criminal </3 i have another fic planned w the whole meeting on a forum thing bc come on. you know yokohama's forums were going Wild with all the crazy news

'i think the 'murder' may have more to it than how it appears, especially since it was done in a way to replicate the novel.'

mushitarou's cursor hovers over the paragraph displayed on the screen, his eyes flitting over every word as his heart pounds in his chest.

'the situation matched up entirely, suggesting whoever murdered kindaichi may have read the novel, but there was no reason for someone to harbour such hatred against him. he wasn’t a controversial figure, and chose to stay mostly private. on top of that, there was no evidence left at the crime scene....'

his mouth feels painfully dry as he attempts to type up a defence for himself. but what could he say, other than scoff at your theory, or offer rebuttals for each of your points, and ultimately risk sounding like a fanatic? what would convince you otherwise?

'i’m aware that the cause of death doesn't match up with any possibility of it being a suicide—self strangulation without the use of other tools would not only be excruciatingly painful, but near impossible. but considering the lack of evidence, cctv footage, signs of forced entry, defensive wounds, and so on, i think there's something suspicious behind this whole 'murder'.

what would yokomizo want?

it was, as much as he hated to admit it, a good theory, one crafted out of careful thought and meticulous observation, sprinkled with just the right amount of self-suspicion that would make this a convincing, and logical argument. you hadn't been fed any hints from him, nor had you even glanced at the original manuscript (he had looked into it, and confirmed that the man who was buying it from him was a writer from america), making your hypothesis one that had just happened to consider the inconsistencies that was so easily overlooked by everyone else, and therefore bringing you agonisingly close to the truth.

it was the perfect investigation into the perfect crime; or what should have been the perfect crime. the perfect crime, as he knew it, was not a crime at all—it was the final request from a dear friend, it was the final promise mushitarou made to yokomizo—but he couldn't let anyone find that out. however, this...this was as natural as things could be, and yokomizo never advised him against letting things take its course. what should he do if someone came close to the truth? should he try to stop you, or let you discover the terrible truth behind it? was the ultimate mystery even supposed to be solved, or only revealed?

rationally, mushitarou knew that you'd likely never find out about his ability and his role in the crime, even if you were an ability user. you'd have to know that an evidence suppressor was out there, and his identity was known only by particular circles, none of which he thought you'd be, especially if you were so invested in solving the mystery behind the death of an author when there were far more pressing matters. but mushitarou knew that your words would spark more discourse, and more people would begin to see your perspective. more studying, more theorising, more chances to unveil the truth. if one of those pesky detectives came across your words, it may inspire them, too, and that would put everything he had worked for and yokomizo's sacrifice at risk of being for nothing. it would ruin everything.

he lays awake at night, worrying over the words you’ve typed and the questions you’ve started. the comments aren’t nearly as exciting as he’d feared, but there are talks about cover ups and conspiracies and even yokomizo faking his own death for publicity—that had his blood boiling, absolutely livid that anyone would dare suggest a thing. just as he scrolled down to reply, to his surprise, he found that you had already beaten him to the chase with a concise, but very eloquent reply. something he, as much as he hated to admit, couldn’t have dreamed of replicating.

still, he needed to find a way to take your post down. he did try reporting your post, but what good would it do when technically you hadn’t done anything wrong? he couldn’t hack into your account—that was more of dostoevsky’s forte. unsure of what else to do, he immediately started typing out a message for you.

you were surprisingly non threatening, for someone that worried him so much.

"you came here about my post, right?" there's not a hint of suspicion or discomfort in your eyes, unlike his clearly nervous demeanour. you're frustratingly relaxed, unaware of just how much trouble you were causing mushitarou.

he’s not sure what it is about you that has him so on edge. even from the moment you introduced yourself, he found himself being annoyed by everything—the cake you had ordered, the way you said his name—though, a small part of him thinks, it has been a while since anyone has said it with such sincerity—and especially how effortless you made it all seem. as though talking to him was something you had looked forward to all the while. he didn’t want to be reminded of just how long he had gone, uncared for and invisible.

"yes," his lips twist into an awkward attempt at a smile, and he internally grimaces, "thank you for accepting my request, by the way. i expected you to block me when i reached out—i would have done that if i was in your position."

it’s so clear what you see when you look at him, that it makes it difficult to talk to you. when you look at him, you don’t have any of the disdain anyone else has. you look at him like you would a friend, warmly, slightly endeared, and with a familiar air. mushitarou hasn’t been looked at like anything other than something to be used in so long that some part of him had forgotten that he was mushitarou oguri before he was the user of the perfect crime.

he’s not sure if he likes being reminded of that.

you cock your head to the side, a laid-back grin on your face, "why would i? you were really polite about it, and from your profile, i figured you were just really invested in the case, too."

mushitarou's ears burn when he recalls the things he's posted with his burner account, mostly aggressive comments and snarky remarks defending yokomizo's writing and legacy. no wonder you were so at ease around him; you obviously believed that he was just a starry-eyed fan of yokomizo, and nothing more, at least, nothing that posed a threat.

"i don’t have anything to say about it, honestly. i was just pointing out some inconsistencies in the details," you say, and mushitarou can feel something inside him snap at your casual nonchalance towards the situation, "there's clearly something more complex behind his death, but regardless of what happened, a life was still lost, and i'm sure it caused great pain to the people who loved him dearly, as well as his fans," you glance at him, "i never wanted to investigate his death, so i’m sorry if you came here because you were hoping i would.

"actually," mushitarou swallows hard, his palms beginning to clam up from where they were fisted under the table, "i'm not really a fan of him, just...his writing. you know...separating the art from the artist. i could hardly care about—"

your pointed look tells him all he needs to know, "i'm sure it devastated you to hear the news, but taking internet theories and speculation so seriously isn’t going to help your grief. there's no point searching for answers like this—i'm no detective, and neither is anyone else on that forum. i just wanted to talk about some things that were bugging me about the crime, but if details were purposely being omitted by investigators, it’s probably for a reason.”

"but what if..." mushitarou inhales sharply, "what if you were right? what if there’s more to it, and he wanted to perplex everyone? what if he wanted his death to be studied and observed and discussed—"

"mushitarou," your voice is painfully soft, laced with sympathy and something warm that sends his heart pounding—he regrets telling you his real name now, hates the way you say it—so tender and cautious—but a small, pathetic part of him yearns for your attention, "it seemed like you really looked up to him. i’m sorry, but if you came here looking for an explanation, i don’t think i can offer it.”

mushitarou clenches his fist until he can feel his nails digging into his palms, "did you just call me here to pity me?" bitterness was evident in mushitarou's voice, hating the thought of you treating him like a heartbroken child, like he was a fool clinging onto the last straws of hope, "did you accept to meet me just to say this?"

you shoot him an apologetic look, "i really was hoping that we could be friends, mushitarou. i like mystery novels, too, and...you sounded like you needed someone to talk to."

mushitarou stands up abruptly, ready to walk out despite how the disappointment in your voice pierced his heart. everything about you infuriated him, the kind look in your eyes, the sincerity lacing your words, the way you spoke about your stupid mystery novels, it drove him insane. he doesn’t want to think about how long it had been since someone looked at him—really looked, and saw him as a person; more than just his ability, more than just a pawn.

before he can take another step forward, he clears his throat, "for the record, i do not like mystery novels."

he regrets the words almost immediately, but doesn't need to look back to know you have a smile on your face.

mushitarou oguri refuses to be your friend.

he’s given it some thought, now that he has all the time to do so (unfortunately, there’s not much else to do when he’s in hiding and waiting for to execute his plan, especially with dostoevsky hovering over him), and has come to the conclusion that he doesn’t want to be your friend, nor does he need your companionship.

he doesn’t reply to your numerous messages checking up on him and asking him if he had read a particular novel, which, of course he hadn’t. he did not have dostoevsky’s men go out and bring a copy for him, scouring through the pages with fervent determination to find whatever it was about this book that had you so interested the moment you messaged him. he doesn’t care about you and your thoughts on the mystery, and he doesn’t think of you ever again. he doesn’t waste a single moment on you.

he tells himself that you’re inconsequential in his life, unimportant in the grand scheme of things and soon to be forgotten once he executes his greatest cover up yet, but he can’t stop himself from looking through every single one of your posts and comments on the site, breaking it down in his mind and storing the key pieces of information. from a post titled ‘review #19’, he learns your latest favourite book is not a mystery, and instead a gothic horror from an american writer (he recognizes that name, and curses it out loud, was he still in yokohama? did you know he was in yokohama?), which makes him feel betrayed—and he doesn’t let himself think more about why that is. you asked him if he liked mystery novels, but not gothic horror, and mushitarou happens to heavily dislike gothic horror, moreso after this post. he also doesn’t like poetry, as you’ve mentioned in ‘review #15’, and he doesn’t stop to zoom in on a picture of a poem that you’ve annotated besides to study your handwriting, analysing every slanting letter and every light stroke.

he hates it.

he hates the effect you have on him. he wonders if your ability can manipulate the minds of your targets, because you plague him, the sound of your laugh and the picture of your little smile, the way you say his name—he shudders when he first recalls it, the way you navigated each syllable and how you managed to make it sound so special—even the rings on your fingers and the shoes you were wearing are etched into his memory, and no amount of distraction or force can make him forget. he wants to erase every trace of your presence from his life, but at the same time he wants you to possess every thought he has and linger constantly in the back of his mind, and he wants to hear everything you have to say about the books you read and he wants to know if you’d, also, laugh when he scowls and tells you that you have no taste in literature, like someone he used to know, someone who also haunts him.

…no. this was different; you were different. he finds himself thinking that he doesn’t care if you don’t laugh; even if you roll your eyes or just shrug off his comments, he’d want to see it. he wants to know how you’d tuck yourself under his arm, and how you’d smile at him, and how you’d feel beside him. he wants to know what you’re like outside of the single encounter he’s had with you, he wants to explore every crevice of your mind and he wants to know if he’d find a trace of himself there.

even just a momentary stray thought about him would have placated the inexplicable ache inside.

following the revelation, mushitarou is filled with sudden rage.

he glares at your username on his screen, and immediately goes to block your profile, hesitating when he catches sight of your messages. it had been a while, he grudgingly thought, since someone had checked in on him, and asked him how he was feeling. it was an oddly reassuring sensation, to know you remembered him—cared about him enough to remember.

deep down, he was so desperate for such concern that it was pathetic.

you must think of him as a loser; someone so pathetic and lonely and—he tells himself it doesn’t matter.

none of it matters—shouldn’t matter. what were you but a temporary character in his life in yokohama? what would it matter when he was packed up and gone and you were still here, left to suffer the coming disasters? there was no space in his dreadful life for someone like you, no part of his plan that involved dealing with your inescapable presence.

the feelings wash away, and he clicks the button anyway, forcing shut any doubts before going back to the novel he was supposed to be writing. surprisingly, the words come out fluidly and faster than ever before, the scene coming together almost perfectly.. he fills in line after line, burning with excitement the more pages he finishes. but when he’s finished and reading over his work, the excitement from before slowly ebbs away as he tries to make sense of the words he scrawled and the lines that litter the page, and the dawning realisation fills him with dread.

his writing, or attempt at it, is merely an amalgamation of all the things you’ve mentioned liking before—his protagonist has made a jarring change to fit the the type of character you’re fascinated by, there’s a sudden attention to detail to satisfy your curiosity, and even his style has transformed to suit your tastes. a deep sense of frustration bubbles inside him, and he puts aside the manuscript before walking away, infinitely annoyed with just how you managed to seep into every corner of his life. how have you already got him wrapped around your finger and yearning for more?

how dare you reduce him to this?

mushitarou wallows in his loathing a little while longer, allowing the simmering rage to slowly consume him before he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. without waiting for an answer, dostoevsky lets himself in, assessing the room, and then mushitarou himself, with his usual calculating gaze.

there were few people mushitarou could say he liked, but fewer that instantly unsettled him. dostoevsky was the latter kind. he invoked a strange kind of fear, one that one bore its teeth when faced head on, but left enough hints, reeked of enough malice and stirred in enough venom to immediately set his alarms off.

his eyes linger on the laptop, shoved to the side, and the abandoned manuscript, his lips curling with slight distaste, “that,” dostoevsky states, “is a distraction. one you cannot afford.”

mushitarou hates the way he speaks. his voice sounds soft and unsuspecting, but there’s a subtle emphasis on each word, the kind that only men who think themselves to be superior speak with. but dostoevsky’s pride isn’t unwarranted, and mushitarou knows just how easy it is to die from an utterance by that very voice, so he clears his throat and feigns nonchalance.

“good morning to you too,” he replies, “how has your week been?”

dostoevsky stares at him, clearly unimpressed, “very well, so far. i hope our meeting today doesn’t change that,” he raises an eyebrow, “now, about this issue?”

“don’t worry. it won’t get in the way of my work.”

dostoevsky smiles. the sight is so chilling that even mushitarou is filled with a palpable sense of fear.

“good,” his contractor says, somehow managing to make the singular word sound like a threat.

he places some papers down by mushiataro’s desk, and goes to leave, but pauses as his hand wraps around the doorknob.

“you haven’t asked for much, aside from a way out of the country,” dostoevsky muses, “perhaps, if you do your job well, i may be willing to accommodate for one more.”

mushitarou pales, wondering if the sudden generosity was genuine, or just a cruel trick, “who?”

dostoevsky glances back at him, a knowing look in his eyes, and says the words he was dreading to hear, “your distraction.”

the door closes behind him, and mushitarou can finally relax, exhaling as he sits up on his chair. he wonders, for a moment, how dostoevsky knew about you before it occurs to him just how stupid that question is. it would be hard to believe that he didn’t already know; there was very little that escaped his watchful gaze. given how he found mushitarou, finding a random civilian would hardly take any effort. it would have only been a matter of time before he learned about you. how fitting a title for you—a distraction. it was exactly what you were, getting in the way of his plans to freedom and threatening to destroy everything he had worked for. the best course of action now, to subdue the risk of you ruining things any further, would be to terminate any lingering thought about you…

mushitarou knew better than to let his feelings control his actions.

but pretending to forget you was an impossible task. how could he, when you were already everywhere he looked? he could find you in the book neatly placed in a corner of his desk, in the mess of a manuscript sprawled across the surface, in his phone and even in his mind.

though he knows he shouldn’t—mushitarou can’t help considering the option he was given.

how long has it been?

it’s not because it’s you, he thinks, in a futile attempt to convince himself otherwise.

anyone would do the same if they were as terribly alone as he was. anyone would cave at the slightest warmth after such a miserable, cold existence. the fact that the warmth came from you had nothing to do with it.

his eyes drift away, landing on the laptop he hastily shut, and before he can think it over, he finds himself back on your profile, clicking the unblock option.

he wakes up to a single message. he had expected more, but he supposed his coldness deferred you from bombarding him with questions.

did you block me?

he rolls his eyes, scoffing to himself before typing out a derisive ‘yes’ in response. your reply is immediate, to the point he wonders if you’re actually waiting up by your screen for his reply. he’s not sure why the thought makes him falter.

why?

i thought we were friends :(

‘no’, he sends, going back to his meagre breakfast instead. the hard toast is hardly appetising, but what he really needs is a distraction from you. a reason to not glare holes at the screen and regret every word he sent before.

okay.

he pauses mid-chew, staring at the screen as though your message would suddenly develop into something else. he had just admitted to blocking you, and your response was…this? it was unexpectedly lukewarm, but what was he expecting? a long string of messages, perhaps, demanding an explanation, or frustrated venting. he ponders over a suitable response for a few more minutes before deciding on a simple, ‘would you like to travel outside of yokohama someday?’

you don’t ask him any more questions, and he thinks you must understand him and his reasons, somehow. he doesn’t ask why you waited, either, because he thinks he can understand you, too. your answer is quick and unaffected. yes. you don’t emphasise further, but he thinks he already knows what you’d say if you were to. perhaps you, too, find yokohama a dreary place to be. maybe you have ghosts of your own that you’d like to forget about, or pasts you want to run from. maybe you’re held back by an unprecedented intruder, too.

the last thought leaves a bitter taste in his mind.

‘me too,’ he types, ‘i’m leaving soon.’

you reply, ‘sounds nice’. it does sound nice, but a small part of him thinks that leaving the country with you sounds better. it might get lonely, after all, starting over in an unfamiliar place. lonelier than it is here with the ghosts and his dreadful colleagues. it would be nice to have someone to tell him about the books they’ve read and the sights they like, but really, he just wants someone to be there with him. a friend—and who better than you?

isn’t that what you were hoping for, too?

mushitarou scans your profile, and contemplates what to say next.

‘can we meet up later this week? i want to apologise for everything before i leave.’

the problem, mushitarou decides, with concocting the perfect plan is that not everything can be accounted for. variables; anomalous factors with unpredictable outcomes can topple a carefully crafted scenario. variables that in his plan were all tracing back to you and your thoughts that mushitarou could only hope to dissect.

this plan of his was admittedly lacking compared to his elaborate and almost certainly foolproof ones. a large part of it depended on you, and the slightest miscalculation could blow apart everything. unfortunately, most of his plan relied on assumptions; whether you’d accept his offer, whether you’d bring a bag of your own, whether you had an ability to counter his, and so many more questions that he realised the chances of him actually succeeding was…frighteningly low.

he did, however, have a backup plan. only that involved a lot less restraint and a lot more force from the get-go, and would likely leave you terrified of him. he didn’t want to have to resort to it, but if he had to…

it was difficult setting up all the extra details and dealing with any other variable, but the good thing about having dostoevsky as a boss was that he found all of mushitarou’s requests amusing, when anyone else would have been rightfully worried. it was the only reason he could make all the necessary arrangements.

you were hesitant about accepting his gift, despite how mushitarou insisted multiple times that it was the least he could do. even now, you were still a little unsure, standing awkwardly by the aisle of books with a curious look in his direction.

“it’s no trouble,” he tells you again, “your words that day really helped me realise that i was losing myself, and…i really hate owing people.”

“i didn’t take it to heart,” he knows you didn’t—he was only trying to convince you to pick something, “but if you’re sure…”

“yes,’ his smile feels almost strained now, “really.”

your smile, on the contrary, is far too lovely to be spared on him. he’s envious of anyone else who gets to bask in your warmth on the regular. at least his words convinced you—that was the first variable taken care of.

you take your time, dragging a finger against the spines of the books, staring intently at each title while humming under your breath. you didn’t seem to have something in mind as of yet, but you taking your time was doing him a favour. he glanced around to locate the key to the first phase of his plan.

you turn around a few moments later, a mystery novel in hand. he has to bite back a stupid smile.

“i heard the author almost got sued because the story resembled a real life case too closely,” you say, “i was curious about it since then.”

he doesn’t recognise the title or the author, but inspects it closely nonetheless, “so, that’s the one?”

you nod, and he takes it from your hand, rushing to the counter. by the time you reach him, he’s already got it wrapped for you and watches as you slip it into your bag with a soft smile. he lets you walk ahead, and while you’re facing ahead, mushitarou carefully grabs two pocket books from a display nearby, slipping one inside his coat and the other one into your bag, which you had left conveniently open. your steps don’t falter—that was two more variables taken care of.

he activates his ability, and watches as the cameras get wiped and the traces of the two of you from a few minutes ago get erased. done.

nothing could go wrong, after this. his ability had never failed him.

so why was he so unsure of everything now?

“mushitarou,” you say, once he’s beside you, “thanks a lot. if you suddenly feel interested in mysteries one day, i’ll lend this to you.”

his half-hearted glare falls completely at the sound of your laughter.

would you still tease him like this once you found out what he had been planning?

it occurs to him then, that maybe all this wasn’t worth the outcome, the most certain part of his plan—your hatred.

at least your hatred was definite. your love, on the other hand, was the outcome with the lowest chance; below zero. he thinks he’d rather have your anger, rather shoulder your resentment and your anger than suffer the potential indifference. most of all, he did not want to see you forget him. he knew the pain that followed would be unbearable. he would do anything, take any chances, if it meant you would look at him more.

regardless of how you looked at him.

you’re still talking, by his side, and your presence next to him feels…right. the world feels simultaneously brighter and more dangerous, but something about having you here feels like you’ve always been there. you ask him about your next destination, and in the distance, he catches sight of a car, waiting by an empty road.

“there’s a restaurant nearby,” he finds himself saying, “i thought we should go there.”

“we’ll need to take a taxi. there’s one already here,” he thinks he sounds more and more stilted, despite your unsuspecting show of agreement.

while he walks, his feet feel heavier, and his breathing shallower. even his heart feels like it’s beating slower, and as he climbs into the car, the driver nods at him, sealing your fate.

you’re still talking about the sky and the building nearby, the driver offering an explanation for your comment on the sudden arrival of police cars to a nearby building. mushitarou himself stays unusually silent, riddled with a sudden sense of panic. yet another variable has followed his plan, and by now, he should be more excited than ever.

but the final variable is still waiting to be expressed.

he’s sure, in the back of this cold car, unable to make out any of the words you’re saying, that the outcome will be glaring hatred.

you place a hand on his shoulder and ask him if he’s feeling all right. he manages a tentative smile at your concern. for someone who likes mystery novels so much, you were terrible at realising that you had walked into a trap. he’s reminded, again, of your warmth.

hatred, he thinks, can be taken care of with enough time.

he’d rather be hated than forgotten, and left alone.

“you might want to get some rest,” he instead says, “looks like the drive will be taking longer than expected.”

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