Obsession - Blog Posts

I'd love to sleep with his dead body until it rots away...

Who wants to be obsessed with me? I gotta collect ya’ll Like Pokémon and give ya’ll smooches on the forehead <3!

Lovesick

Tw: Yandere themes, noncon, dubcon, lemon, implied death, toxic relationships. If you are under the age of 18 or find this content upsetting, please do not proceed.

Your sore legs tremble as you curl in on yourself. Sticky fluid drips between your thighs, pooling onto the sheets below.

A shame, you just changed them.

You push down your building exasperation, instead, you take slow, steady breaths.

(in, out, in, out).

You listen to the sound of the cars speeding on the damp asphalt outside your window. You listen to the rustle of tree branches in the night’s breeze. You even listen to the foxes mating outside, if you let your mind wander a little bit, it’s like you can imagine someone screaming as they are brutally murdered.

That brings a small smile to your face.

You grip the sheets tighter, you can feel their soft fibres, you can feel the individual hairs sticking to your face, you can feel-

Sharp fingertips tracing the curves of your body.

And just like that, you are brought back to reality. The hot body plastered to your back is impossible to ignore, just as the hands that run languidly along your form are. You lay still as his gaze burns holes into your back, and for a second, you think that maybe if you are still enough, he’ll believe you’re asleep and leave you alone.

(Fat chance, when has he ever left you alone before?)

His nails graze the sensitive spot at the bottom of your spine and you can’t help but shudder under the touch. He chuckles softly in response.

“Love, you know I hate to be ignored, don’t you?” He whispers lowly, his tone deceptively benevolent, holding an implicit warning.

“And after we spent so long apart, you can’t possibly think I’d let our time together go to waste now would you?”

It’s as if he can sense what you are thinking. You feel your previous irritation bubble up, spilling over before you can put a lid on it.

“Isn’t that what this is?” You snap before you can think better of it.

“Hm?”

“A waste-”, you stupidly continue, “a waste of time, for the both of us, I mean, let's face it- this whole arrangement is no longer any fun.” Your words tail off slightly at the end, the weight of your misstep finally hitting you full force. The atmosphere in the room shifts almost instantaneously.

“Fun?” He asks, tone still light, if slightly strained.

If you were anyone else, you think, you would not have even recognised the switch from playful to livid in his tone. If you were literally anyone else, however, you wouldn’t have to.

You think about that sometimes, just how many people have met their end by simply misreading him, misunderstanding him. You used to pride yourself on that, thinking it made you special, immune to his sick desires and tendency to break things too quickly.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Learning to read him does little to save you from his ever changing moods and whims, something that was once both interesting and exhilarating now exhausting and sometimes downright terrifying.

Fun. Your relationship, if you could call it that, used to be fun, didn’t it?

“Yes, fun. Hisoka, you know?” You elaborate, “Ha ha, ‘you make me laugh so much I want to vomit’ fun?, or- ‘lets strip naked and jump into the river kind of fun,” you continue, bitterness clear in your voice. “Not, ‘I want to tear off your skin and wear it as my own’, or-, ‘lets beat each other black and blue until one of us can’t physically stand’, you know? That.. that's not fun at all.”

Realising the futility of your little rant, you cut yourself short, attempting to zone out once again.

You are, however, not given the chance as the Magician manhandles you onto your back and straddles your sides. The sheets silk slip off his form, and the Grecian contours of his naked body are illuminated in the low light.

No more words escape you as his face hovers directly above yours, one arm braced by your head, smile still plastered across his damn face. You stare back impassively into his narrowed gaze, tensing up. He’s pissed, that's for sure.

“Why not both, pet? I assure you, you look as pretty-”, slender digits encircle your neck, ‘‘black and blue’ as you do smiling, my dear.” He grins, cheerfully sinister. Then magician’s grip tightens without warning.

“Fffuck-,yyou.” you barely manage to wheeze out, beginning to struggle in his iron grip. You’re too weak to fight, you belatedly realise, after what he's put you through tonight.

To your dawning horror, you feel his length hardening once again against your stomach.

No way.

After weighing your options, you look up at him with pleading eyes, regretting your words.

You attempt to rasp out a desperate apology, only to be met with lovesick obsession in his honeyed gaze. Knowing begging will only fall on deaf ears, you stay like that, seemingly trapped within it, you fear if you look too long, you’ll be swallowed up by it.

“Your so mean to me, love,” he whines, faux-wounded, “after I left all those presents for you,” he breathes out heavily, his cheeks tinged pink, “and spent so much time making sure people would leave you alone,” he continues, over the sounds of you gasping for air, all the while grinding down onto you, “ and taking care of all your.. needs” he remarks mockingly as he grinds onto your clit, smirk broadening as he relishes your little gasps and shudders under his ministrations.

Ah yes, the presents. Hisoka is like a cat, you think, dropping dead animals at the feet of its owner and expecting a reward.

An extremely persistent, homicidal cat that is.

He releases your neck as you almost begin to pass out, black spots appearing in the corners of your vision. You splutter and gasp for air, having no time to appreciate your ability to breathe once again as he sheathes himself fully into your wet, cum filled cunt.

It’s all you can do to cry and whimper as you clench around his cock, helpless to do anything other than let him do what he wants to your weak mind and body. You take him in completely as he starts up a punishing pace, the redhead gripping your hips harshly, leaving purple, finger-sized indents.

Above you Hisoka moans wantonly, taking in your disheveled state: drool dripping from your chin, unshed tears shining in your eyes, the bloom of angry red and purple hickeys that litter your body. Weakly, you attempt to push him away. That earns you a swift backhand across the face.

“No Hiso… no no” you whine, one hand pressing against the stinging side of your face as the other claws at his back and shoulders desperately. Tears finally spill over. He moans once again as he laps the salty droplets up eagerly, slowing his thrusts in place of marking you more thoroughly.

You cling to him desperately, hoping he'll be done with you soon.

You’ll never admit it, but both of you know he’s correct in the fact that he takes care of your needs. He knows your body too well after all. You sob when he focuses on your neck and jawline, sucking on that spot beneath your ear; he knows every little part of you, all your sensitive spots and how to exploit them in order to make you scream and shudder beneath his touch.

Your mind begins to wonder, about those lonely nights, when he disappears for months at a time; and how you touch yourself desperately, unable to recreate the sensations he creates.

You think about the men you tried to fill that hole with.

You think about the small pieces of them you found afterwards.

His voice breaks you from your musings.

“Where’s that bravado from before, Pet?” He remarks, tone drizzled with condescension, before lavishing more open mouthed kisses along your neck. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers, “that there's someone else you could possibly belong to other than me, tell me you don’t love me.” He coos, stroking along your face, your collarbone, your breasts.

“I- I don’t” you croak out feebly.

Your chest hurts.

Both of you can sense the lack of conviction in your tone. You stare at him in disbelief.

First your body, now has your mind decided to betray you too?

You must not be feeling well.

There’s just no way you could still love him. Not after what he’d done to you, it was impossible, right?

Impossible, just like enjoying being continually fucked against your will by your crazy stalker and ex-boyfriend.

Impossible.

Your chest hurts. Why does your face feel wet?

Hisoka’s eyes widen a fraction, the tense atmosphere from before dissipates. It seems your understanding of each other goes both ways.

You shake your head frantically, willing him to understand, to not take this the wrong way. You weren’t in love with him. Never. Not in a million years.

“No-“ you begin, cut off by the passionate kiss he captures your lips in. He kisses you deeply, less rough than before, more tongue and less teeth.

After what feels like eternity, the redhead detaches from you with a wet pop as his eyes capture yours once again. You pant, your wet cheeks aflame with both anger and embarrassment.

“I knew you would come around my love, I just didn’t expect it so soon, hm?” He says delightedly, the smile on his face abnormally authentic.

Hisoka tilts his head, peering down at you in silent awe, the Magician‘s pace slowing and deepening, just how you like it. You twitch around him in response.

“You must like me an awful lot, considering our history, pet. I have to say, you might be sick in the head.” He whispers almost mockingly. He presses a soft kiss to your temple as he strokes your face, his eyes filled with adoration.

“Although I don’t mind it, one bit”, the bastard remarks, having the audacity to wink down at you as he whispers conspirationaly. Your lip curls in disgust, your anger rising. More tears drip down your face. His thumb comes down to press against your plush lips.

You grit your teeth.

Then you go against what any rational person would do and bite down on his hand. Hard.

He hisses lightly, whether in pleasure or pain you don't care, as you use this distraction to head butt him in the face with full force. Blood gushes from his nose and you take in the sight with glee, hoping to slip out from under him as he's dazed.

Despite the pain you’ve inflicted on him, he remains steady, clutching you tighter as he stares down at you, eyes widened. Some of the blood from his nose drops on to your face as you struggle to no avail in his grip.

You pretty much figured this would be the case. Stil, there's satisfaction to be gained from his shocked expression.

You should be upset by your helplessness. Your inability to harm him properly.

The fact that you might still love him.

Fuck. Fuck

Instead, you laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh. A scratchy, shrill sound aided by your bruised windpipe.

You laugh harder as you feel his cock twitch and harden further inside you, his blood warm and dripping on your face. Hisoka’s expression crinkles into one of delight. Of course he’s aroused by this. Of course.

He joins in too, cackling as he restarts his rough pace from before, and as you smile to yourself, arms looping around his neck, you think he may be right, you must be sick in the head.

You're Still Bleeding

Ⅰ. ⚘ Of Roses & Regrets

Synopsis: Uraraka Ochaco is haunted by the (death?) of Toga Himiko. The war may be over, but her mind is fraying, unraveling into rose-tinted memories and crimson hallucinations. Midoriya Izuku tries to help her move on, but mourning is never linear, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Preview: "Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.”"

Words: 1.9k

Tags: tgchk, not really major character death, midoriya izuku is a good friend, horror, obsession, survivor guilt, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief/mourning, hallucinations, emotional baggage

Notes: if im being honest this has been rotting in my drafts for about a month or so.. i also REALLY need to stop writing horribly miserable queer love stories. hope u liked it just as much as i do!!! if im being honest, i dont know where to take this next lolol pretty please lmk if u have any ideas.. MANY THANKS FOR READING<333 also cross-posted on ao3!!

Blood trickles down her teeth, She smiled like she forgave me. I begged her to stay.

Ochacco doesn’t remember falling.

She remembers Himiko’s face, inches from hers. The weight of her body pressing close as they collapsed together, as if the battle itself had decided they had done enough. She remembers the rain, washing the blood away before it could dry. She remembers reaching out, fingers brushing against skin that had always been just out of reach.

Then—nothing.

And when she wakes, it’s over. The war, the fighting, the girl who had smiled through bloodstained teeth—all of it is over. She hears it in the way the medics talk around her, avoiding her eyes when she asks about the League. She sees it in the way no one tells her where Himiko is.

She doesn’t ask again.

Because she already knows.

And yet, she can’t stop looking.

She lies in bed with tubes in her arms. When she blinks, she half-expects to see red.

Instead, she sees flowers. A vase of them—roses, too bright against the sterile white. Ochacco stares at them without really seeing.

“She’s still asking about her,” one nurse mutters.

“You mean the League freak? The knife one?”

“Shh—don’t call her that. She might hear you.”

“She’s been staring at the same wall for twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, and it's freaking me out.”

Ochacco curls her fingers into the blanket, gripping it tight.

This is how it's been for a few days. People whisper and talk about her, without telling her anything. Like she's not even there. Like she's the one who didn't make it.

The discharge from the hospital is quiet. She’s healed enough, they say. No need to keep her here when there’s so much rebuilding to do. A nurse hands her a folder of papers and a plastic bag of her old belongings. The folder has her name on it. The bag has a cracked phone, scorched gloves, and a single, still-damp hair tie.

Not hers.

She holds it in her palm for a long moment, heart stuttering. Ruby red, stretchy. The kind you’d find on a convenience store shelf. It smells faintly of iron and roses.

She says nothing. Slips it into her pocket.

People talk about healing like it’s a destination. Like there’s a point you arrive at where everything stops hurting.

Ochacco knows better.

Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.

It never does.

But sometimes, she thinks she sees her. Would it really be so wrong to hope?

In a slashed lipstick tube left on a windowsill. In dried rose petals scattered like secrets across alley concrete. In red—always red—smudged across glass like a kiss or a warning. A heart drawn in blood. A name scratched into wood. A flash of blonde hair in a crowd. A shadow ducking around the corner. Red eyes, wide and bright like they were on that last day.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Always gone when she looks.

Always gone.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Izuku asks her one day, gently. He brings her bento boxes sometimes. Tries to smile like he used to.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“You’re... not, though.”

Ochacco shrugs. “Are you?”

Izuku doesn’t answer.

He sets the bento down without a word.

Ochacco doesn’t touch it. Just stares at the chipped edge of her table like it might offer her something.

He breaks the silence. “I passed by the train station last night. Thought I saw her.”

She freezes.

“Wasn’t her, obviously,” he adds. “Just some girl with space buns and a limp.”

Ochacco exhales through her nose. “You still look, too?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Old habit.”

They sit with that for a minute. Then Izuku says, “You know she’s probably gone.”

“Probably,” Ochacco echoes.

“But that wouldn’t stop you.”

She looks at him then, really looks. She doesn't know how to say the things that matter anymore.

He’s thinner than she remembers. Eyes rimmed with something like sleep deprivation or grief, maybe both. 

“You know what’s worse than losing people?” he says, voice low. “Losing the part of yourself that used to care about anything else.”

Ochacco swallows. Her throat burns.

Izuku nods toward the bento. “Eat something.”

She picks up the chopsticks. Doesn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t want her to.

But as he stands to leave, brushing a hand briefly over her shoulder like a goodbye, something settles in her chest.

Not peace, but a weight she can carry.

What would I ever do without him.

She finds an incident report two weeks after returning home.

It’s crumpled at the bottom of a file, misfiled. The date matches the last day of the war. It lists casualties, injuries, environmental damage. One line makes her pause:

Subject: League member (female). Status: presumed deceased. Body unrecovered.

She reads it once. Then again.

The words don’t change, but something inside her does.

Presumed. Not confirmed.

Unrecovered. Not buried.

She stares at the words until they blur. Then reads them again.

The dreams start small.

First, it’s Himiko standing in the rain, smiling. Her head tilted like she’s asking Ochacco a question she can’t hear.

Then it’s her voice. Low, sweet, syrupy. "You're still bleeding," she whispers.

Ochacco wakes up breathless, her hand still reaching out.

The worst part is that for one brief, aching second, she wants it to be real.

Sometimes she dreams in first person—sees her own hands stained with blood. Sees herself cradling Himiko’s face. Sees the moment her eyes closed.

Only... sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes they open again.

Sometimes she closes her eyes on purpose.

Just to see her again.

The dreams rot her from the inside, but she drinks them like nectar.

It’s easier there. 

She starts to visit the alleys. Narrow, winding paths with peeling posters and rusted gates. Ones Himiko would've liked. Places where you could vanish if you wanted to. Places heroes don’t patrol often.

She tells herself it’s nothing.

She tells herself she’s just... curious.

But one night, she sees lipstick smeared on a wall. A deep, wine red.

Next to it, the faint outline of a heart.

Her fingers shake as she traces it. Tells herself it's just graffiti. It could be anyone.

But her chest is tight. Her throat dry.

Please, she thinks.

Just once—let it be her.

But then, she recalls-

There’s talk of a new vigilante. Not quite a villain, not quite a hero. Small-time acts. Petty crimes. Stolen bandages. Blood drained from criminals—but no deaths.

No one knows who it is.

But Ochacco hears the description. Blonde. Agile. Always smiling.

Hope curls inside her like hunger.

She shouldn’t want to believe it.

She does.

She doesn’t say anything. 

But the thought echoes inside her regardless: I hope you're just as eager to see me again.

She starts walking the city more at night.

Her steps feel heavy, like they're someone else's. She thought about how Himiko always stared at her with those gorgeous, ruby eyes, like she was something shiny. Something good.

Ochacco wonders what she looked like to Himiko in those final moments. What did she see? Was there any softness in her gaze? Or was it just a mask, the same one that Himiko wore so often?

She wonders, too, what Himiko looked like to her. Had she ever really seen her? There's so much they haven't shared with eachother. Does she know enough about Himiko to keep her memory alive after all this time? Or was she left with fragments, pieces of who the girl once was?

The first time she sees her, really sees her, it’s raining.

Ochacco’s umbrella is flipped inside out, and she’s muttering curses under her breath when she looks up and—

There.

Across the street.

Blonde hair, matted to her cheeks. A hoodie pulled low. Eyes locked on hers.

Himiko.

It has to be.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

But it's enough.

Ochacco steps forward.

A car blares past. When it’s gone, so is she.

Ochacco stands there, soaked, heartbeat like thunder.

The dreams get worse.

Or maybe they get better.

Because in them, Ochacco doesn’t wake up gasping anymore.

She lingers.

She walks familiar streets dipped in dusk, and every rose she passes wilts in her hands. Red petals stain her palms like cuts. Like kisses. Like guilt.

Himiko waits at the end of the path, always. Leaning against a lamp post, or crouched on a windowsill. Lipstick smeared like war paint, like ritual.

“I missed you,” she says in every dream. Or: “You looked so pretty covered in red.” Or: “I never wanted to hurt you, you know.”

Sometimes she wears a crown of thorns.

Sometimes she wears Ochacco’s old hero uniform, soaked in blood.

Ochacco always reaches for her. And always wakes up before they touch.

She starts keeping roses in her apartment.

Deep red ones. The kind that bruise when you press your thumb in too hard. The kind that rot fast, leaving stains on the wood.

She doesn’t throw them out.

Instead, she lines the petals along her windowsill, like offerings. The smell clings to her clothes.

Once, she wakes up with a thorn scratch on her wrist.

She doesn’t remember how it got there.

In her dreams, a reoccurring symbol: 

Red ribbons float through the air like severed veins.

Red nails tap-tap against porcelain.

Red eyes shimmer like lanterns in the dark.

Red lips curl, open, and whisper her name.

She's seated at the edge of a field that shouldn't exist. The grass is a little too tall, swaying in wind that feels more like breath — warm, humid, close. The sky overhead is black, starless, thick as ink, and feels as if it might collapse onto her at any moment.

The roses beside her bloom with mouths. When she reaches to pluck one, it shudders and sighs—"Why did you let me die?"

She freezes. The voice is hers. Or maybe not. Maybe it's—

Another rose blooms. It laughs. A choked, wet sound.

She stands. The ground underneath squelches like flesh. Her feet sink an inch.

A figure waits just beyond the roses. Himiko’s silhouette. Only her hair doesn’t fall the way it used to. It's soaked. Dripping. Her face is a blur, smeared and obstructed.

The figure tilts her head. A giggle. Then—

The roses begin to bleed. A slow trickle of red pools around Ochacco's shoes.

She blinks.

Himiko’s smile is made of teeth. Too many. Not human.

She starts to run—but the field stretches. The sky groans. Every step feels like dragging her legs through syrup.

And then she wakes. But her mouth is open, and the taste of blood is there. Not hers.

One night, a message is spray-painted across her apartment door.

Messy handwriting. 

COME FIND ME.

The paint is red. Still wet.

Her fingers tremble as she touches it.

She smiles.

I am this close to regressing to my middle school self and becoming a Redwall blog

I need help

Hello, I'll be brief with this, but I've been looking for a One Piece fanfic for a while (I read it on Ao3). It was about Shanks, who was a merman or mermaid, he knew the reader when she was a girl and this is her 'soulmate', there was yandere behavior, and an obscenity, I'm sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors, English is not my first language , thank you very much for your help.

filter: die

Just in case anyone was wondering

Obsession is not cute or romantic

Its dangerous and unhealthy

Its not fun being on either sides

Being obsessed with someone is so physically painful at times and it causes you to lash out and do irrational, unforgiving things

I can't speak for people who have been obsessed over but I imagine it would be an unfortunate uncomfortable thing

Stop using it as a little quirky trait, and if you are going to use it, potray it correctly and do not romanticise it because in no way is it romantic

me: listening to a song that came out 40 years before my blorbos were even a thought

also me: how is this about The Character?!?!