yandereloverwritesstuff

[yandereloverwritesstuff]

Super Psycho Love Part 3

Watch your back, your new stalker admirer didn't get to the top of the food chain by being gentle.

Yandere! Jock x Nerd! Reader

Part 1, Part 2

Content Warning: Stalking, Sexual themes, Manipulative behavior

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that." The stern gaze of Mrs. Eisenhower, the European history teacher, met his, "I'm not going to arrange to have her tutor you. She has too many obligations as it stands and I've never once seen you show an interest in your GPA in all the years you've been here. If you would like to proposition her, you can do so personally." She said with pursed lips and raised, barely there eyebrows. Ms. Eisenhower adjusted her bejeweled bifocals and swiveled her desk chair back to face her desktop.

His blood pressure leaped and his face soured. Any person on campus would and could have predicted the outcome. Eisenhower was the unnecessarily proud sponsor of the speech and debate club and harbored a deep resentment of the politics that gutted their budget. She was a stocky, straight-laced woman with a frizzy ginger bob and a penchant for handing out lunch detentions. He had gotten so used to preferential treatment that some part of him had forgotten teachers could actually use the word no.

"I'm sure coach would appreciate it if you would help me out with my grades."

She scoffed and took a sip from a mug with Catharine the Great's face plastered on it. "I'm sure he would too. That doesn't mean I will."

He shoved the chair roughly as he got up, storming out of the classroom. Students eyed him wearily as he stomped by. He knew you would probably reject him outright if he asked directly and was planning on a teacher to strongman you into interacting with him. It wasn't implausible; he was barely maintaining a 2.0 GPA. Of course, he'd need help from one of the most promising young minds the school had to offer.

He kicked a trash can and it weakly coughed up an apple from the previous lunch period.

The ripe scents of sweat, mildew and too-sweet body spray hung heavy in the girls' locker room. You suppressed a coughing fit as you navigated the perfumed clouds of Japanese Cherry Blossom and Love Spell, looking for an empty bathroom stall. Changing in front of the other girls may have been tolerable if your class was made up of literally any other group of teenage girls. You held your change of clothes to your chest in a death grip.

Bella and Lauren, a fairly-popular junior, were talking in front of the dirty, stained sink mirrors.

"I mean he hasn't asked me officially yet, but we talk all the time." Bella propped a thin, artificially tanned calf on the sink, slathering some fruity lotion on it, "Yeah, no, I think he'll definitely ask me to be his girlfriend soon."

You tried to duck out of their line of sight.

"Didn't he go upstairs with Jordan H. at Connor's party a few weeks ago?" Lauren asked, absentmindedly fixing her strawberry-blonde hair into a messy bun.

Bella frowned, "Yeah well, Jordan's a sophomore slut anyways. He would never be serious with someone like her."

You crept behind the pair quietly, hoping to check the shower stalls. If they were empty you could be in your next class in under ten minutes. She turned abruptly and narrowed her eyes. You never understood the appeal. Sure, she was nice-looking, but in a very conventional cookie-cutter way. There were probably a million girls walking around the western hemisphere with the exact same combination of facial features. Bella had a face one could forget directly after talking to her.

"Hey, you," She eyed the plaid bundle in your arms, "do you dress like that for religious reasons?" Lauren giggled and murmured a weak stooop, lightly swatting Bella's knee.

"I just like the way it looks." You said blandly.

"You do know that it's the 21st century right? It's not a sin to show your kneecaps. They put it in the constitution or something." Bella grinned, and Lauren clasped a well-manicured hand over her mouth to hide her laughter.

"Yeah, something like that." You kept your head down and continued past them. After a minute in the very back of the locker room, where the fluorescents flickered unpredictably, you found an empty shower stall. You ripped back the powder pink curtain, trying not to look too closely for roaches in the dimly lit corners. The mold that grew in the grout of the shower was bad, but it was better than dealing with Bella's snide remarks or complaints about her kinda boyfriend arrangement with one of the school's linebackers.

"What? I was just trying to help her. I don't know since she's probably never seen a cell phone or used the internet. She's totally trapped in the 1950s."

"Wait, do you think that means she's racist?" Their laughter echoed through the locker room.

Just four months and then you'd be done.

He waited for Bella. Really though, he was waiting for her so he could see you.

You were one of the first ones out, briskly walking towards the wide gymnasium doors, boldly painted in the school colors. Your pigtails fluttered dutifully behind you. Adults always made sure to emphatically tell you that you'd find your kind one day – that there's this hypothetical far-off date where you'd magically stumble across people that just got you. It always felt more obligatory than anything.

When Mrs. Eisenhower told you how kids like you were the future, it seemed more like she was assuring herself that there was a way to change the systems made by people like Principal Mulligan, where rewards were distributed among the chosen select few. Or maybe it was the idea that people like her could be a part of those few that motivated her. The chess club had to hold no less than three bake sales on top of selling magazine subscriptions and chocolate bars to get to nationals, but neither the football nor cheerleading team had to worry about anything like that. The school covered it all and even had air conditioning in the buses. They wouldn't want their overly aggressive meatshields to get overheated. Something, something, grumpy 200-pound 'roided teenage boys are a liability.

When you felt the hand on your shoulder your head snapped back.

It was him.

"Bella should be out soon." You mumbled, readjusting your worn leather satchel. It wasn't intentional, your curtness. It just never occurred to you before that he would have any reason to speak to you.

He was surprised that you felt real, that there was soft flesh and fabric underneath his palm. You smelled nice, like honey and a little bit of sweat. He could definitely give you a good sweat if you'd let him be alone with you for a few hours.

He thought of the ice baths Coach made the team take after conditioning. Stinging, numbing, definitely not arousing. Not like your pigtails and flushed cheeks and the way you had to peer up at him because of the height difference.

"Can I help you?" You ask gingerly, warily eying the hand on your shoulder. It was definitely still there.

"Yeah, I need a tutor for European history. I know that you're smart and could probably help me." His brows were lightly furrowed.

"Oh." You said lamely, crossing your arms over your chest, "I don't think I have the time for tutoring this semester. I've got a pretty busy schedule." His hand was still on your shoulder. God is this the lady killer no teenage girl could get over? You briefly glanced at his bicep. He was both bigger and dumber than you originally gave him credit for.

"Wait, you don't understand. I really need this, like really."

"Why? You're set to graduate, right? Just focus on football and you'll be fine." You remove his hand from your shoulder cautiously. It's heavy and calloused and feels unnatural in your soft, pristine scholar's palms.

His face flushed a deep, beet red. You didn't know that it wasn't frustration, but something else entirely.

"It's not about graduating. I'm grounded until I can get my grades up. Mom's worried about me being accepted into her Alma Mater –apparently, just football may not be enough to get a scholarship." It wasn't actually a total lie. It's just that his mom already gave up on getting him to give a shit academically after freshman football season. He never listened to her anyways.

"My schedule won't allow it. I'm sorry." You looked around the gym. Some passing juniors looked at the two of you curiously, equally confused as you. Others, mostly boys snickered to themselves like they were already in on the joke. Either way, you knew deep down that no one was going to help you get out of this one.

"Wait! What if I paid you to help me?" He blurted out. You waited a beat. If he was willing to fork over his (or his daddy's) money, he probably wasn't going to try anything inappropriate. You figured whatever that semi-pained, constipated expression on his face was the closest thing to sincerity he was capable of expressing.

"How much?" You asked sharply.

"So you do have time. " He grinned teasingly.

"Depends on the pay."

"If you can get me a B, 30."

You scoffed, "70".

"60"

"65"

"62"

"65"

"65" He agreed, "So you'll do it?"

"Yes, I can do Sundays and Thursdays – no later than sundown."

"Alright, cool." He nodded and slipped his phone from his back pocket and handed it to you. "I should probably get your number so we can talk to each other and shit."

And shit. God, how was he getting all these girls to sleep with him? You wanted to roll your eyes, but you knew for a fact that Anastasia Beverly Hills was supposed to release a new eyeshadow palette before the holidays, and your Mac quads were almost entirely pan only. You knew your parents wouldn't just hand you money without asking what it was going towards. If you were cautious they were borderline neurotic. But they didn't have to know you were getting paid to tutor...

You hesitated a moment before you entered the digits on his cracked screen. Something in the way he looked at you, focusing intently on your hands as they hovered over the number pad, made you feel uneasy.

"There. Don't text me at weird hours." You unceremoniously handed him his phone back, unaware that his home screen was a photo of you taken the first time he followed you home. Why would you check that? As far as you were concerned, he didn't even know you except for passing each other in the halls occasionally.

He watched you walk off, blood rushing to places that it shouldn't be right now. He didn't plan on attending his next class, but when Bella draped her small, petite arms around his shoulder he suddenly felt deeply interested in hearing what Ms. Donovan had to say about that second act of Macbeth he didn't read.

"Hey handsome." Bella purred softly, before following his line of sight. She frowned when she saw you scurrying away. "What did she want?"

"I need a tutor. My mom's pissed off at me again. I only just got my dad to give me my keys back, but no parties until I bring them up again." He shrugged. "I think all she ever does is school and I have her in European History."

"Hmm," she pouted, "that's bullshit for your mom to do. It's senior year and on top of that, you have to deal with the fundie too. Totally unfair." Bella's arms snaked around his waist. "Maybe I could help take your mind off of it? You always skip English class anyways."

He softly pulled away, "I should go if I want any hope of attending homecoming, sorry."

Bella's frown deepened, but she let him go. "We're still going together, right? Like you said?"

He froze. He forgot entirely about that. In fact, he wasn't sure if he actually did say that; if he did, he must have been wasted.

"If. If I'm going." He corrected, "But I need to fix my grades first."

He'd been talking to her since the summer after sophomore year, but he never enjoyed her presence. She was his cheerleader, in the unofficial pairings the school divided them into, and now he was stuck pretending to tolerate her long after he came on her back.

He'd much rather be stuck with you, or you stuck with him – whatever was more realistic. As he walked to his English class, he knew he'd be jacking off to your shared encounter later tonight. He caught the sly way you eyed his bicep, your shyness. He wanted to see your body drip with sweat, down the valley between your tits and on your thighs. You looked like the repressed librarian type and he could definitely, eagerly help with any curiosity you might have. The thought of you shyly admitting you've never done anything before him while gently stroking his dick with your soft, cautious hands carried him through his last few periods. God, he wanted to break you.

#yandere x reader #yandere jock #yandere x y/n #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere scenarions

[yandereloverwritesstuff]

I, who had forgotten all about this account around midterms finally logging in again: My 99+ notes: My unedited chapter for a story I started when I was horny: Anyways, I'm back and horny for my beloved yandere jock, so expect that.

[yandereloverwritesstuff]

Super Psycho Love Part 2

Poor girl, so clueless and sweet. You really don't know what's coming.

Yandere! Jock x Nerd! Reader

Part 1, Part 3

Content Warning: Stalking, Sexual Themes

It was an overcast Monday the first time he followed you home. It had rained all through the night before and well into the morning so coach had canceled afterschool practice. Instead, they spent their sixth and seventh period in the weight room with the ripe smell of teenage boys and the sound of clanging iron. The academic part of school was only a suggestion for the flock of football players. Generally, as long as their arms and legs were in good enough condition to play, they were in good enough condition to walk the stage come June. They were allowed out of class for any and every reason, and although a few teachers who still believed in silly concepts like fairness fought the special treatment it was an unspoken rule at that point. The coach signs a slip and they're excused indefinitely.

It wasn't supposed to happen. His hair was still wet from the showers when he saw you walk by in the halls, bogged down and almost toppling over with the weight of your bookbag. You looked adorable. You huffed and puffed as you shuffled down the hall and tugged at your pleated skirt to make sure it still covered your ass properly. You were really cute when you didn't look viscerally disgusted with him. He even caught a glimpse of the elastic band of your milky pink panties.

It seemed eerily convenient to him. Earlier that morning his mom confiscated his keys for coming home Saturday with the smell of vodka on his letterman jacket. Even though it wasn't from him but a girl he hung out with at a college party, it brought no comfort to his mother. His point-zero breathalyzer did nothing to convince her that he could be trusted to drive anywhere – especially alone. He knew his dad would come through (as he always did) and reassure her that he was just a boy doing what boys do, but until then he was stuck walking. He wasn't one to contemplate ideas of fate or soulmates or whatever cheap shit they sold to teenage girls to get them to buy cheesy books and movies. However, he did certainly feel lucky.

He watched your braided pigtails bounce as you loaded your books into the plastic milk crate secured on the back of your bike. Through the glass doors of the school's west exit, he could clearly read each cover. AP Biology, Advanced Lit, Human Geography and Calculus all toppled in and the milk crate shuddered under the weight. No wonder you were so disorganized with all those subjects to keep track of. There was something innocent in your movements, something about how unaware and clumsy you were. You weren't paying attention to the way his gaze settled on the back of your thighs, just below the shortest pleat of your skirt. When you were almost out of his sight he slyly tugged his the hood of his grey sweatshirt over his eyes and pushed past the set of doors. He smiled a wry, cynically amused smirk. The irony of it – he was sneaking around to catch glimpses of you when he had a mental list of past conquests he had blocked in his phone and avoided at school like particularly vicious STDs.

You walked along the still-wet sidewalk with your trusty pastel blue bike, letting the seat bounce against your hip every so often. You had a tendency to be overly cautious; after all, bad things happened to people who weren't careful. What if the bike's tires couldn't grip the slick asphalt well enough, your brakes failed and you biked into oncoming traffic? Then what? In your mind, the safest route was the only route worth following. No alcohol, smoking, or boys – the only exception to your little safety bubble was the Mac eyeshadow palette and tinted lip balm you had tucked into your pencil case. That, well that was harmless. You scrubbed it off in the bathroom after chess club with wet wipes and hoped your mom wouldn't notice that your face looked slightly more red than usual. You wondered if moms developed their sixth sense during pregnancy, where they could tell when their kid was doing something they shouldn't.

You didn't mind the walk home, even with the dreary weather. It was a nice enough area with usually well-maintained lawns and gardens. Occasionally, when the opportunity came you'd pluck a particularly eye-catching flower or ripe fruit from a broad, sturdy-looking tree. Not much outside of school plagued your mind. Truth be told, you haven't even thought of him once since your encounter a month ago. You had more important things to worry about senior year; the competition for valedictorian was going to be tough. It was between you and three other people and depended solely on how many AP classes you could cram into the next six months. You absentmindedly wiped the juice from your lip with the back of your sleeve, courtesy of an apple tree Ms. Donovan planted.

A tree branch snapped sharply somewhere in the distance. You whipped your head in the general direction of the sound. The sound was especially loud in the heavy, late afternoon silence. The closer you got to your house, the more quiet the walk was. It was situated on a little side road, past the strip malls and busy main road. It wasn't common for other people to walk about, especially since your nearest neighbors were well into senior citizen age. Your eyes lingered at where the sound should've come from like something would slink out from behind the thick shrubs. A squirrel skittered by your comfortable oxfords and you hesitantly shrugged it off. You didn't see the slight rustle of the dark green topiary.

Maybe there was a chance he would've let you be if it wasn't for today, but after seeing you so vulnerable and sweet looking there was something ravenous and hot bubbling in his gut. The image of you barefaced and wide-eyed looking almost directly at him with clear juice dribbling down your soft lips had his stomach tied in knots. He wondered if you'd make that face for him when you were underneath him too. He wondered if your nipples were the same shade of mauve as your mouth and if you made that face when you play with yourself. If, he corrected. He wondered if you've ever cum before, but you seemed too sweet for masturbation. You didn't even wear lipstick yet.

He knew he wanted you in a way he's never wanted a girl before. It wasn't out of boredom or needing to feel big. He wanted to be around you all the time, even when you weren't aware of him.

#yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere jock #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere scenarions

[yandereloverwritesstuff]

Super Psycho Love Part 1

In which the star of the football team can't understand why you're so mean to him.

Yandere! Jock x Nerd! Reader

Part 2, Part 3

Content Warning: Manipulation, Sexual Themes

His dad had always recognized something off with his son but like most fathers had chalked it up to being a boy. When he was in elementary school his mom would discuss his behavior in quiet, hushed tones while hunched over her baby blue '#1 Mommy' mug – the way he was frequently written up in school for roughhousing and how her fellow mommy friends were hesitant to arrange playdates between the kids. He dismissed it as parents coddling their spineless, sheltered children and pushed her to drop it. It was easy for him. His dad thought all of the world's problems could be fixed with a little less bitchin' and a lot more backbreaking work. It wasn't until eighth grade when he had broken Eric Hartwin's nose in a fist fight and his lawyer parents were threatening to press charges that his dad decided that outlet was going to be good old-fashioned American football.

He loved it, even if he initially resisted and threw week-long tantrums over it. It was his hall pass to jostle and 'play rough' with the other boys without getting yelled at and it teased out an almost childlike glee. His handsome features were perpetually twisted with cruel elation under his thick football helmet. He carried out his job as an offensive lineman with pride. There was never a moment where his smile faltered, even if he walked off the astroturf covered in blood. It didn't matter if it was his; he reveled in the brief warmth on his skin. For the first time in his life, the kids at his school had an equal amount of respect for him as they had wariness. They wanted to crowd around him like moths and be invited to the afterparties, but they also didn't want to be beaten to a pulp by one of the strongest kids on campus. They thought of him like the old testament god – equal parts revered and feared. The football team could invite an underclassman to a party and launch them into popularity just as easily as they could bully one into doing their school assignments. They dominated the school as they saw fit.

With his power came almost unlimited pussy. He admitted that after losing his virginity in sophomore year sex quickly lost its taboo appeal; you see the power itself was the real aphrodisiac. Girls from freshman to senior year (and occasionally college) threw themselves at him. They were willing to do whatever he wanted as long as he gave them occasional attention. Of course, the cheerleaders were the only ones they would be seen with around campus, but that didn't stop any of them from hooking up with other girls at parties. A peppy, too-thin flyer would wear his number at games but at in the strobe-lights of parties he would take girls to bed knowing nothing more than they were there and he was there too and really bored. He probably would have continued living that lifestyle well past the point his hairline receded into the back of his neck had he not met you.

His kinda-girlfriend, Bella, reveled in her status and made sure everyone knew she considered everyone to be less than the grass stains on her uniform. They were cutting Physics (as they frequently did) and she was complaining about this prude in gym who refused to change with the other girls. She had mentioned a name, but he didn't have a face to pair it with. So he nodded along giving little affirmative noises here and there to give the impression he cared.

"She is probably the ugliest girl I've ever met. The only chance she'd have of landing a date was if she put a bag over her head." She huffed, shuffling through papers in her locker. "I swear, half of the girls at this school have never even heard of a diet. Her butt is so big. I don't know how some guys find it attractive. It's so gross. Imagine all the cellulite underneath those gym shorts." Bella turned to him and mockingly shoved a finger down her throat and fake gagged.

He shrugged. A fat ass actually sounded pretty hot, but he knew her standards for big were much lower than any normal person. She thought that anything above 105 was morbid obesity territory. Suddenly Bella shushed him and adjusted her high ponytail.

"Oh, don't say anything. Here she comes," She rolled her eyes, "dressed like goddamn Carrie White. What is she, amish?"

You wore your hair neatly braided around the crown of your head and a tartan collared dress, courtesy of weekends spent at thrift stores and estate sales. There was a steely, fiery look on your face that caught him off guard. If he didn't know any better he thought he could feel heat radiating from you. Your lip curled in a slight scowl. He thought is was kind of funny that someone so harmless looking could be so visibly livid. It sparked something deep in him, something he hadn't ever felt: genuine interest to know the 'why' of a woman. He gave you a once over before making eye contact; if anything your expression got more hostile. Your eyes narrowed further and you scrunched your nose before you opened the locker next to Bella's.

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

An avalanche of the belongings of your locker spilled into the halls; several textbooks, a few bent and frequently dogeared paperbacks, as well as binders, homework and quizzes with A's marked in big red ink piled at your feet. You groaned. It was a free period and you had nowhere to be, so it wasn't a big deal. But the thought of kneeling before Isabella Marsh and scrambling to pick up your things was awfully humiliating. It was your fault though, you had a tendency to throw things haphazardly into it between periods without paying much attention.

"Well, are you going to pick it up?" Bella looked at you expectantly and you chewed the inside of your lip. She crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her fingers on her upper arm. You had looked into transferring out of your shared gym class, but all the other ones were filled and you needed it to graduate. It was one of your worst nightmares to be in the gym with half of the cheerleading team. Despite having never won a single competition since the school's founding, they all had raging superiority complexes over the rest of the female student body. You chalked it up to their proximity to the football team and their status as two-time state winners.

He watched the two of you glower for what seemed like minutes before you slowly squat down, carefully staying on your oxford-clad feet instead of getting on your knees. He thought it was a shame because you'd definitely be cute looking up at him. Taking you in, he imagined that it was impossible for you to have even seen a dick in person. You looked so straight-edge and pure based on your grandmotherly style and A papers. He had never seen girls on campus dress like that, probably not even girls from the last decade.

"Here, I'll help." He announced, startling himself by his generosity.

You shuddered slightly and continued to sloppily bunch papers close to your chest. "I'm okay. Thank you though."

He had never met a girl who rejected his attention outright, much less show such blatant distaste.

"Are you sure?" He knelt down to look you in your face. You had a grimace on your face that didn't quite suit your wide, doe eyes. There was almost a feral dog look to you. It didn't intimidate him in the slightest but his cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. He could still tell that you were cute despite such an ugly expression. Your lips were tinted a rosy red, like you had been picking at the skin. He lamely picked up a copy of 'The Bell Jar' and dumbly pretended to read the back.

"Yes. I'm sure." He didn't need to look at you to feel the intensity of your Kubrick stare on him. It wasn't the 'I want to fuck you' daydream-gaze from starry-eyed women that he was accustomed to, but the 'I want you dead' glare that nobody (especially a girl) would dare give him even as a joke. He limply held his hand out, offering you the book. You took it curtly, your fingers scraping by his. He stumbled as he stood up, trying not to feel awkward.

You hadn't noticed the effect you had on him. Maybe if you did, you would have been more careful after. Before he could say anything, you had stormed off again, clutching the book so tight your knuckles were white.

"God, what a stuck up bitch." Bella commented under her breath.

"I wonder what her problem is." He mumbled. What he really meant though was that he was going to figure out what your problem was.

He had a reputation; he was a bad person who went through teenage girls like tissues to jack off into. He was the antithesis of anyone you'd ever respect, much less date.

You had seen some of the girls. Not that you had many friends to gossip with, but it wasn't uncommon to see a girl or two crying in the bathroom before first period after the weekend of a big game because he never texted them after. It was the first week of autumn the first time you heard about him and it wasn't like you were eavesdropping or being weird about it. You always arrived early to put on makeup in the bathroom, since your parents didn't allow it at home. So you'd stand perched on your tippytoes with a mascara wand in one hand while listening to a small group of girls comfort their distressed friend. She'd weep on their shoulders, barely able to stand because of her burning humiliation. You'd multitask: watching through the mirror out the corner of your eye while applying a thin, barely-there swipe of taupe eyeshadow with your fingertip.

"Shhh," A brunette with braces stroked a redhead's back softly, "It's going to be okay sweetheart. We all make mistakes."

A lanky girl with a small patch of acne on her cheek sighed, "Not to be that person, but we told you that he's not a good guy."

Sometimes you wished you had friends like that. They seemed so supportive and kind and in a way it made you feel like a friend by association. It became somewhat of a routine during football season; you'd take your contraband cosmetics into the bathroom and listen to yet another heartbroken girl recount their time at a party thrown by the football team. It didn't take long before you grew to hate them all, even if you've never interacted with any members of the team. It didn't help that they sucked school funding dry so there was nothing left for the debate and chess team...

When you hurried off, you didn't know that he took it as an invite to chase after you.

#yandere x reader #yandere jock #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere scenarions