Wavering Emotions: A Natsuki x Yuri Fanfic

Chapter Three

"What if she declines it? " Bookbag by her side, Yuri trekked uncertainty; her recent purchase, a manga whose cover incorporated two high school females in tomfoolery, comprised humiliation.

The looks, stares, laughs, the infatuated men: this experience, all for a modified comic book, inflicted memorable trauma, possibly physical or emotional, if the receiver interpreted the gesture maliciously like the doubts inside the purchaser.

Unfortunately, whether they find good, or somehow evil, that's how civilization works: it schemes damnation onto those undesirable; the proposition, which should have happened upon the yandere's entry, deemed that she was unfit for the universe's ideals.

"Um..."

"You take the words out of my mouth." The president directed her voice toward the baffled. Never before had perplexion on this level caused a commotion about a supposed to be member of the recreational club.

"I-I heeded the demands distributed to me..." A quaver mooched onto the speaker's voice; the first conflict renewed itself outside school hours, so what—

"Good job. Want a gold star?" A voice, different from Monika's, whose attitude correlated with a bratty nine-year-old, instructed relief into the club's residents upon interruption from behind. There would be no mistake in identification. That prolonged individual's phrases corresponded to the one who fluttered Yuri's emotions.

"Oh ho, looks like you didn't scare her off!" Profound humor plagued the president's disposition upon her flee. The two before the exit remained; only then: did confrontation commence.

"You weren't about to mention what happened yesterday, correct?" On the verge of declaration, mercy refused to taint the gavel that consoled on Natsuki's side.

"N-Not at all." Yuri molded into submission upon the gavel's slam. It's not every day someone contorts another's emotions upon their arrival, or their own will.

"Better be the truth." The justice and the innocent's eyes darted from one another upon contact until the judge exited the court in favor of the members above her. Finally, the opposite party's heart was able to decompress.

Paper in front, along with her pen in hand: a poem bellowed its creator while their passion diminished. The tenderness, the anguish, these materials imprinted onto the now fulfilled sheet.

Fresh air engulfed, along with the placement of her pen in its case, a white bag familiarized itself, "The After School Series... Maybe you're psychotic." The manga, in all glory, and the harsh comment, publicized itself in the public eye.

"Is she a contentious author?"

"If you mean coo-coo for cocoa-puffs, then yeah."

"How s—" The desk that contained one paperback now possessed four; these works of literature, written by the same author, illustrated vulgar imagery which surpassed even Yuri's dearest Portrait of Markov.

The most conspicuous work out of the bunch shared the same title as the one purchased for a gift: instead of tumbled down girls, a knife colored in red followed by an antagonized corpse on the side. No wonder the clerks, as well as Natsuki, remarked. The author's mind comprised of death do us apart on a different level.

"I believe I've made my point. Now, explain."

"Huh?"

"You didn't buy this for yourself, so who."

The heat of the desert parched Yuri's throat: last time she checked, the acquisition of an item wasn't against the law, nor was the motive any of their business – but technically, the content was for them.

"You want to get into manga? How does that involve me?" The conflicted female, lost within thoughts, sauntered words that piqued the interpreter's appeal; their voice ecstatic yet secluded, elated advantageous.

"Well, the genre you suggested crossed my curiosity... You sound intelligent in this department, so why not?" The now applied leverage persuaded the opinion of the questioner into acceptance.

"That wasn't a suggestion last night, you idiot!" From public view to the clubroom's back: the spot's residents, who harbored pink and purple hair, established their grounds near the closet before the manga colonized between the two's knees.

All the anxiety from before paid off; that shapeable emotion of bliss evolved into a heftier, significant desire within each page turn. Isolation knew no place within the emotionally deprived: only warmth and compassion enclosed enough clearance to the heart.

This sensation, whatever it was, allured the individual into a false sense of hope – hope that approval of someone besides the literature club's president would recognize her futile existence.

In the same sense, hesitation plastered within the entity's heart. The fear of commitment, adoration towards someone you treasured resulted in Yuri's perturbed qualities. Was it time for her heart to open once more to a troubled per–

The puzzled cognition exchanged from self-centered to inquisitive, "Was there always a bruise on her knee...? " The manga, and her consciousness, ceased movement upon inspection.

A graze dabbed middle onto a knee, whose color possessed a purplish-black: while that's the immutable process for bruises, what struck cliché is the size. The proportions compared to physical human hands; marks heeded over from the knee to the victim's lower abdomen, some red, some completely black.

Concerned about these marks, the yandere inscribed a note consciously before the realization of her efforts slammed her like a semi-auto trailer, "I-I'm sorry... The intent of the manga was for us to bond, not for me to violate your body–"A noise ceased the sorrow-filled female.

The peculiar sound, specifically a tranquil snore, ameliorated woes alike. An almost-death experience, averted, all thanks to the sound. Of course, the crisis wouldn't be complete without the intrusion of the literature club's prominent members.

"Remind me, Sayori, when does the snooze club assemble?"

"She's been through a relentless day."

"Unfortunately, that isn't my problem." Monika swooped her hand to awake the dozed member, "Up we go!" She struck, but her entry proclaimed prohibited.

"I said she had a day, which translates into don't disturb her." Passive aggression streamed through Yuri's actions as her hand guided the president's palms off course.

"Yikes... Remind me not to disturb you or your girlfriend." A remark, followed by a color-dampened pamphlet, hoisted itself towards the seated group.

The brochure spouted inventiveness: whether the chess club whose members posed strategically or the culinary club's sweets that swayed members their way, there was something for the now informed.

Regardless, what struck nobody's fancy delivered a concise blow on the fifth page, "You registered the literature club for this year's festival?"

"I did"

"The festival, this Saturday, not next week, nor next year?"

"You bet she did! Way to go, our glorious leader!" Bubblier than a bubble bath, Sayori chimes consisted of approval, whereas Yuri's personified impulsive rationality.

"T-That's too soon! How can the four of us even—"

"It's called 'Sayori, and I work at my house, while Natsuki and you do the same at the respective household of your preference.' " Without notice, both female leads departed from the room; this friendship, plus the pliable emotion built-in, the world truly  those whose emotions couldn't fixate their mind.