The Journal(Yandere Boys x Reader)

12

In a swift motion, a flick of his finger, Noel had pressed the omnipotent "publish" button; the satisfying ding (meaning the publishing had gone through) sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. He elongated at the sensation; back arching and his head thrown forward; the silhouette of a mad man. He laughed. He laughed so that it sounded like the barks of hell hounds, echoing as soon his "assistant" had joined in the fun. He soon ceased such an activity.

The musty room now had the metallic taste on one's tongue of a certain vermeil substance. In your best friend's half dead and somnambulist state, they emitted a groan of pain.

Noel whipped his head at the sound, seemingly confused.

He bent down, his knees coming into contact with the crown of your best friend's head, neck stretching so that it twisted in a wide eyed stare, with vehement in his stare, and he did not blink.

He flicked their head, and a small thuck of flesh on flesh was heard. They almost yelped in pain at the sensation. 

This noise seemed to snap something within Noel (if not everything had been yet broken). He abruptly stood up, longingly staring for an era at the blood stained and peeling wallpaper, nacreous pale forcefully pulled into a thoughtful frown.

"I do not intend to kill you, yet I never gave you permission to keep your consciousness!" His foot flew out towards  of your unsuspecting best friend, who only clutched their stomach a moment too late. Ack!

Blood.

"Charlie!" Noel stared into his companion's expressionlessly violent eyes. "You have not finished yet."

The slow screech of chairs filled your best friend's senses as they shook, shook, shook their head; wriggling desperately; writhing with arithmetic despair...

"No—!"

•

Freddie had a sinisterly calm expression. He knew his friend. He knew his best friend, Wade. He knew what he had most likely done, just as much as he had always known (his own self awareness of his self assured state of madness, as well as the identity of the Author). The torment he inflicted made he elated, as he craved the words that were resulted from it.

What he didn't know was the feeling surging within his throat, chest and heart like the seas of despair and emptiness: waves that washed him a pure slate of unease and uncertainty.

As he strode the large halls, he felt his heart leap, lurching into a heightened rest. He wanted and wanted nothing more, than to see his master (to which he was the muse) in the flesh and degrade the possibilities just to receive a later elation.

Pleasure.

It felt like a warm dripping within his heart. The furnace roared and ice thawed, not that he had a cold heart—he didn't believe.

He wanted to possess posses posses and take. Take from you your genius yet keep you near. He wanted to harm you, skin you alive and keep your skin in the captivity of the walls of his room—and then you would never leave!

And you would recite to him your despair.

It was such a perfect image. Was it love?

He slumped, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he grinned and grinned with the largest display of affection or amusement, if there was any difference in the world of love.

The arrangement so far had been so so perfect, yet his friends seemed to believe that messing it up was somehow a better solution for him—no! It was pure selfishness.

And he had the means to end it and take for him his object of not exactly desire but object in which he had planted his obsession! If such a thing were possible.

The mission was certain and he ought not to wait. Wade was not safe. None of them were safe.

The rims of his eyes were red with strained tentativeness. He crawled with his arms—as his legs seemed not to work in that moment but he knew he had to go, go go...!

A croaked cry exited his throat.

•

Your phone suddenly pinged.

Your eyes widened at the sight.

"Wade. Drive me to school right now."