Favorite Fixation (Yandere boys x Reader)

118.) Convivium

(E/c) eyes fluttered open, the world around her a blurry, indistinct mess. Her head felt heavy, the throbbing pain at the back of her skull intense and unforgiving. Every small blink sent a sharp jolt of agony through her. She winced, her breath shallow, her body still groggy and uncooperative as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

As her vision began to sharpen, she realized she was sitting upright. The cold, hard surface beneath her confirmed her position: the dining room table. Her hands felt restrained, tightly bound to the chair, her wrists chafing against the rope that kept her in place. The rough wooden surface of the table was cold against her skin, though it did nothing to offset the heat in her head.

A peculiar mix of smells assaulted her senses, and it took a moment for her to place them. The familiar scent of perfectly cooked food lingered in the air- rich, mouthwatering aromas of seasoned meats, roasted vegetables, and freshly baked bread, but something more foul accompanied it. The sharp, pungent odor of rot. Her nose crinkled involuntarily, and she almost gagged at the mingling stench. It reminded her of something she couldn't quite place, something dark and wrong.

To her right, Asahi's body lay slumped, his face a grotesque mess. His features were distorted, caved in like- no, she didn't want to think about it. A single drop of blood fell from his mangled face, splattering onto the floor below, marking the cold wood with each heartbeat. It was a sickening sight, one that churned her stomach. She could hardly keep her gaze fixed on him.

Next to Asahi, the chair was empty, but the seat beside it was occupied. Yuuto. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him. His glasses were gone, his normally sharp eyes closed. A dark crimson stain marred the side of his face, a jagged gash running from his cheek to his jaw, the blood dried in some places, still fresh in others. The wound looked deep, as if it had been inflicted in the midst of a struggle. The tension in his body - rigid, unnaturally still - spoke of a battle lost.

(Y/n)s's heart clenched painfully as her gaze moved down the table, stopping at the figure sitting to her left. Souta. Her breath hitched in her throat when she saw him. He was wedged awkwardly between two empty chairs, his body crumpled in a twisted, unnatural way. His face was pale, almost ashen, his lips tinged with a faint blue. The stench of rot was strongest here, and it wasn't just the spoiled food that lingered in the air, it was him.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze moving toward the window. Outside, the night sky was pitch black, a stark contrast to the soft light of the room. Flurries of snow drifted down, their delicate dance falling silently on the darkened landscape beyond. There was no movement outside. No sound, except for the occasional drip of blood from Asahi's face. The world seemed unnervingly still as if the night itself were holding its breath.

(Y/n)'s throat felt tight, her heart pounding erratically in her chest as the soft sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Each step that grew louder sent a fresh surge of dread coursing through her. Her body was frozen, her eyes locked on the table in front of her, filled with the grotesque scene of death and decay that she'd only just started to comprehend. But the sound of those footsteps? They were different. Closer. Unmistakable.

She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the panic clawing at her throat. There was nowhere to go, nothing she could do. Her hands were bound tightly to the chair, the ropes cutting into her skin with every small shift. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, yet her movements were stifled, futile.

In walked Keiji.

He was wearing a "Kiss the Chef" apron, the kind that seemed entirely out of place in this gruesome scene. It hung loosely over his frame, a childish touch to his otherwise sinister appearance. His oven mitts were equally ridiculous, big, puffy, and covered in cartoon characters. He was humming to himself as he walked in, completely oblivious, or perhaps pretending to be, of the horror that surrounded him. In his hands, he carried a large, gleaming tray. And on top of that tray, glistening under the artificial warmth of the dining room light, was a perfectly cooked turkey.