He doesn’t love like anyone else—he loves you like you’re the last thing that matters.
❤︎ Synopsis. In a world where love is a battlefield and possession is a necessity, they will stop at nothing to claim what’s theirs—no matter the cost. Jealousy is their weapon, and you’re the prize.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Boothill x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Blade x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Sunday x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Aventurine x Fem. Reader
♡ Headcanons. Falling Into Darkness – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 5,208
♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non con, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats
♡ Boothill.
Jealousy wasn’t a fleeting thing for him; it was a living, breathing force, as relentless as the sands of a storm-torn desert. Boothill didn’t feel the sharp pang of envy like an ordinary man—his was a slow, simmering rot, spreading like rust through the hollow chambers of his cybernetic heart. It wasn’t enough to possess you; no, that wasn’t nearly enough. The thought of anyone else sharing in your fleeting smiles, hearing your laughter, even brushing against the edges of your shadow—each moment was an act of violence against the unspoken pact between you and him. His jealousy wasn’t just territorial; it was a primal, mechanical hunger, humming beneath his polished exterior, cold and calculated in its intensity.
You couldn’t hide from it, any more than you could run from the inevitable pull of gravity. He didn’t scream, didn’t rage. Instead, his presence itself became the shackle, every inch of him a reminder of your place in his world. When he looked at you, it wasn’t with tenderness, but with the dark, razor-sharp precision of a predator inspecting its prey. He didn’t need words to tell you what you already knew: you were his. Not a woman, not a lover, but his creation, a masterpiece too delicate for anyone else’s hands. And woe to the fool who thought otherwise—because Boothill wasn’t just jealous; he was retribution incarnate, a storm of blood and iron waiting for the slightest excuse to be unleashed.
———
Beneath the sweltering neon haze of a lawless desert outpost, Boothill’s jealousy wasn’t merely a flicker of discontent—it was a tempest that rattled in his chest like the deep, resonant hum of a loaded revolver. It was the kind of emotion that clung to the air, suffocating and stifling, crawling down your spine in invisible, insidious threads. His anger was never loud, never wild; it was meticulous, coiled tight like a rattlesnake poised to strike. That smile of his—a crooked thing that split his scarred face like a jagged wound—never faltered. To anyone else, he was calm, charming even, leaning lazily against a bar or a crumbling wall. But you could see it. You always did. The way his cybernetic hand flexed, claws clicking faintly as if aching to tear through the tender flesh of anyone who dared stray too close to you.
He didn’t need words to make his claim; his presence was enough. Towering, unyielding, the glint of steel in his arm catching the harsh artificial light as he loomed behind you. You hadn’t meant to laugh at the stranger’s jokes. You hadn’t meant to let your gaze linger just a moment too long. But Boothill saw it all, every movement cataloged, dissected, and warped by the dark machinery of his mind. The man who dared stand in your orbit didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. One moment, he was laughing, oblivious, and the next, Boothill’s iron grip was crushing his shoulder, claws digging in with just enough force to promise pain.
“Y’feelin’ brave today, friend?” His voice was a low, whiskey-drenched drawl, tinged with a sweetness so venomous it could make your blood curdle. “Reckon you’ve got somethin’ to say worth dyin’ over? Or are you just too stupid to know when you’re standin’ on someone else’s grave?” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. His words hit like bullets, tearing through the air with a force that made the poor fool stammer, his face blanching as Boothill’s grin stretched wider.
And you, caught in the middle of the storm, felt the weight of his unspoken judgment settle over you like a suffocating shroud. His gaze, void-grey and unyielding, pinned you in place as if daring you to step out of line. You tried to speak, to diffuse the tension, but the words caught in your throat when his eyes flicked to you—sharp, assessing, and brimming with a quiet fury that made your knees weak.
Later, long after the stranger had limped away with a broken ego and trembling limbs, you found yourself alone with him in the suffocating silence of his quarters. Boothill wasn’t loud in his anger. He didn’t yell or throw things. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his presence heavy, like a predator circling its prey. His boots scraped against the floor as he paced, each step measured and deliberate, his eyes never leaving you.
“You know,” he finally murmured, voice dipping into something low and gravelly, “it don’t take much for a man to get the wrong idea. And you… well, sugar, you’ve got a way of makin’ folks think they’ve got somethin’ worth dyin’ for.” The words were sweet, almost tender, but the undertone sent chills racing down your spine.
Before you could respond, he was there, faster than you could blink, his cybernetic hand curling around your wrist with a grip that bordered on painful. “But you know better, don’t ya?” he purred, his thumb brushing over the delicate bones of your wrist. “You do know better, don’t you, darlin’?”
His voice was soft, almost coaxing, but the way his eyes burned into yours left no room for denial. His free hand rose to your face, the cold metal of his claws brushing against your cheek as he tilted your chin up. “Look at me,” he commanded, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. And you did, because there was no other choice—not when he was this close, not when his presence swallowed the air from the room, leaving you with nothing but the oppressive heat of him.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t love. It was possession, raw and bruising, his teeth sinking into your lower lip just enough to remind you of the power he held. Blood welled up, and he pulled back just enough to taste it, his tongue swiping over the crimson bead with a hum of satisfaction. “Sweet,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “Just like I knew you’d be.”
But it wasn’t over. Boothill didn’t let go. He didn’t release his grip on your wrist or his hold over your mind. His hands roamed, rough callouses and cold metal tracing patterns over your skin, marking you in ways that would linger long after the moment ended. “You’re mine,” he whispered against your ear, the words more a promise than a declaration. “Ain’t no one else got a right to even look at you, let alone touch.”
And you believed him because the alternative was unthinkable.
Boothill’s jealousy wasn’t just a fire—it was a storm, all-consuming and devastating, leaving nothing untouched in its wake. And yet, there were moments, fleeting as they were, when you saw the man beneath the monster. The way his hand would linger against your cheek, the soft hitch in his breath as he pulled you closer.
“I lost ‘em all once,” he’d admit in a rare moment of vulnerability, his voice raw and broken. “Ain’t lettin’ it happen again. Ain’t lettin’ you slip away.”
But that vulnerability never lasted. It was always swallowed back up by the dark, unrelenting tide of his obsession. Because to Boothill, love wasn’t soft or tender—it was a battlefield, and he was determined to win, no matter the cost.
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♡ Blade.
Jealousy, in Blade’s hands, was not a fleeting emotion but a weapon, sharp and unrelenting. It seeped into his veins like a poison, festering in the cracks of his broken mind, where logic had long ceased to exist. His obsession was not a gentle yearning but a violent demand, carved into the fabric of his very existence. To him, your every smile, every fleeting glance at another, was a betrayal—a sacrilege against the sacred bond he believed tethered you to him. His rage didn’t boil over; it simmered, slow and calculated, until it bled into his every action, a quiet storm with the promise of devastation.
Blade’s jealousy was not human—it was monstrous, a beast as endless and unyielding as the mara coursing through his veins. Where others might have seethed or sulked, he consumed, destroyed, claimed. To love him was to exist on the edge of a knife, suspended between reverence and terror, and his jealousy was the cruel edge that cut deepest. He didn’t merely want to own you—he wanted to erase the thought of anyone else who dared to desire what was his. It was in the way his crimson eyes burned when they found you in someone else’s orbit, in the way his touch bruised not just your skin but your soul, a suffocating reminder that you could never, would never, belong to anyone but him.
———
Jealousy gripped him like an invasive growth, twisting through the cracked foundations of his mind, spreading until it consumed every rational thought. It wasn’t a fleeting pang or a whisper of insecurity—it was a gnawing force, visceral and corrosive, that devoured all in its path. Blade watched you from the shadows, silent but seething, as you stood too close, smiled too warmly, and lingered too long in the orbit of another. His crimson eyes narrowed, burning with something darker than anger—something primal, predatory. The stranger’s presence was an affront, an unwelcome stain on what should have been untouched, sacred ground.
Blade’s stillness was deceptive, like a blade poised above flesh, moments before the plunge. He observed every gesture, every word, cataloging the trespasses with a meticulousness that bordered on cruel. It wasn’t the stranger’s fault—they didn’t understand the depth of what they had intruded upon—but understanding didn’t matter. Mercy didn’t exist in his lexicon, not when it came to you. He didn’t need to speak; his silence was suffocating, a shroud that draped itself over the room, filling every corner with its oppressive weight. Every stolen laugh, every careless brush of hands, was a dagger lodged deeper into his resolve. He didn’t just want the interloper gone—he wanted them erased, forgotten, their very existence rendered null.
When Blade finally moved, it was with an eerie calmness, his steps deliberate, his gaze fixed. He closed the distance between you with the inevitability of a noose tightening. The stranger faltered under the weight of his presence, their words stuttering to a halt as if choked off by an invisible hand. Blade’s voice, low and quiet, carried the kind of menace that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Leave,” he commanded, the word cutting through the air like the edge of a knife. It wasn’t a suggestion, and the stranger—terrified, trembling—obeyed without hesitation, casting one last glance at you before disappearing into the crowd.
Your protest died in your throat as Blade’s eyes turned to you, his expression unreadable, his crimson gaze drilling into yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. He didn’t say a word as he gripped your wrist, his hold unyielding, and led you away. There was no struggle, no chance to resist; his presence alone stole the fight from you.
The room he chose was dim and suffocating, shadows clawing at the walls as if eager to consume the light. He pressed you against the cold surface, his body trapping yours, the air around him crackling with restrained violence. His hands were unyielding, his fingers digging into your chin as he forced you to meet his gaze.
“Do you think I’m blind?” he hissed, his voice venomous, each word laced with accusation. “Do you think I don’t see the way you look at them? The way you let them look at you?” His breath ghosted against your skin, hot and furious, as his grip tightened.
Your attempts to explain, to beg, fell on deaf ears. Blade didn’t want explanations—he wanted submission. His jealousy wasn’t a wound to be soothed; it was a fire that demanded to consume everything in its path. His hand moved to your throat, not to harm but to remind—to possess. His thumb brushed against your pulse, feeling the rapid beat beneath his touch, a silent testament to his power over you.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that resonated in your chest. “Every breath you take, every thought in that head of yours—it belongs to me. Do you understand?”
His lips crushed against yours, the kiss a bruising, violent thing that left no room for tenderness. His hands explored your body with a possessiveness that bordered on cruel, leaving marks that screamed his claim. You could feel his anger, his desperation, in every touch, every whispered curse, every sharp bite of his teeth against your skin.
“You think they could touch you like this?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “You think they could make you feel like I do? You’re a fool if you believe anyone else could ever have you.”
And as much as you feared him, as much as you hated the suffocating weight of his obsession, there was no escape. Blade’s love was a cage, a trap lined with barbs that dug deeper every time you struggled. His jealousy wasn’t just a sickness—it was a method of control, a reminder that in his world, you were his and his alone. You could cry, you could beg, but it only fueled him, your broken pleas a melody that he would hum to himself long after the silence returned.
“You belong to me,” he growled against your ear, his voice a low rumble that made your knees weak. “Every part of you. Your smiles, your words, your breath—it’s all mine. And I will break anyone who dares to think otherwise.”
His kisses moved down your neck, each one a punishment and a promise. He wasn’t gentle; he didn’t know how to be. His teeth grazed your skin, his hands relentless as they claimed every inch of you with a terrifying intimacy. There was no escaping him, no hiding from the all-consuming fire of his obsession. Blade’s jealousy wasn’t just about possession—it was annihilation. He wouldn’t rest until every trace of anyone else had been erased from your mind, your body, your soul.
In the quiet aftermath, as he held you against him, his breath still heavy with exertion, there was a sickening tenderness in the way his fingers brushed through your hair. It was a twisted mockery of affection, a reminder that even in his cruelty, there was a part of him that worshipped you in his own broken, unholy way. “You’ll understand one day,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less chilling. “You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Don’t make me destroy the world to keep you by my side.”
To Blade, love wasn’t soft or forgiving. It was raw, unrelenting, and utterly consuming. It was the blade pressed against your throat, the shadows that swallowed the light, the fire that left nothing but ash. And as much as you longed for freedom, there was a part of you—small and treacherous—that couldn’t help but be drawn to the inferno.
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♡ Sunday.
His jealousy isn’t loud; it doesn’t scream or rage—it festers, a silent, insidious rot that consumes him from the inside out. Sunday’s love is not a flame that burns bright and fleeting; it is a smoldering ember that clings to your lungs, suffocating and inescapable. His obsession is meticulous, scientific in its precision, as though he is dismantling your every interaction and rebuilding it into a grotesque monument to his fears. He doesn’t confront the world around him; he dissects it, carving out pieces of your life that don’t fit within his design. Each stolen glance you cast toward another, each fleeting touch or word not meant for him, is cataloged, studied, and twisted into evidence of your betrayal. And though his expression remains calm, there is a madness simmering beneath the surface—something ancient and immutable, as if jealousy itself has chosen him as its vessel.
His jealousy is not born of simple insecurity but a near-divine entitlement, a conviction that the universe itself ordained you as his. To love Sunday is to exist under the weight of his gaze, the constant suffocating pull of his control. It is a love that demands surrender, not reciprocation. He does not just want your heart; he wants your silence, your submission, the death of your independence. And when his hands slide over your skin, they are both chains and weapons, a cruel juxtaposition of devotion and domination. The world itself narrows beneath his possessive grip, and you realize too late that his love is not a sanctuary—it’s a prison, and the walls are closing in.
———
Sunday’s jealousy is a haunting specter, a quiet but consuming tempest that claws its way into his mind with meticulous patience. It begins softly — a glance too long, a word spoken with too much familiarity, or the curve of your lips forming a smile not meant for him. At first, he convinces himself it is mere paranoia, the whispers of his own insecurities seeded in the loneliness of Penacony’s decaying dreams. But then it festers, burrowing deeper like a parasitic symphony resonating in his chest, each note sharper and more discordant.
You remain oblivious, as you often do, to the labyrinth of chaos unraveling inside him. Perhaps it’s the way he hides it so well behind the polished veneer of calm authority, or perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to his silence, mistaking it for indifference. But it is not indifference that keeps him quiet. It is calculation. A predator studies its prey not out of haste but out of necessity, and Sunday, for all his outward gentility, is nothing if not a predator.
He watches you from across the room, his hands folded neatly, his expression unreadable. The dim light of the Dreamscape bathes you in an ethereal glow, and in this moment, he sees not a person but a possession — fragile, exquisite, and wholly his. And yet, the sound of another man’s voice cuts through the stillness, disrupting the delicate harmony he so carefully maintains. That voice dares to address you, dares to invoke your laughter, dares to pull your attention away from him.
Something primal stirs in Sunday. It is not rage, not yet. It is colder than that, more refined — a sickeningly sweet poison that spreads through his veins with deliberate intent. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t storm across the room to stake his claim. Instead, he waits. His jealousy demands patience, and patience has always been his greatest weapon.
When you finally notice him, his gaze roots you in place. There’s something in his eyes — something predatory, something darkly possessive — that makes your breath catch. You see the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but it’s not a smile of warmth. It’s a warning.
“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is calm, almost melodic, but there’s an undertone of something sharp and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface.
You nod hesitantly, unsure how to respond. The other man, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, continues speaking, but his words are nothing more than static in Sunday’s ears. He’s already dismissed the man as insignificant, a gnat buzzing too close to his flame. What matters is you — your reaction, your compliance.
Later, when the world is quieter and the others have gone, he confronts you. There’s no preamble, no polite inquiry. He backs you into a corner, his tall frame casting a shadow that seems to swallow the light. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face upward so that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, “did he make you laugh like that on purpose, or are you just that oblivious to the effect you have on people?”
You try to answer, but the words catch in your throat. His thumb brushes against your jaw, a deceptively gentle gesture that contrasts with the iron grip of his other hand on your waist. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear.
“You belong to me,” he says, the words laced with quiet menace. “Every smile, every laugh, every breath. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you’ve underestimated the depth of his obsession. He doesn’t just want your love or your loyalty. He wants everything — your thoughts, your fears, your desires. And he will take it all, whether you offer it willingly or not.
His jealousy manifests in other ways, too — subtle, insidious ways that you can’t quite put your finger on. He isolates you under the guise of protection, steering you away from anyone he deems a threat to his claim on you. The Dreamscape becomes your gilded cage, its once-vast horizons shrinking until the only safe place is by his side.
“You’re safer here,” he tells you, his tone soothing yet firm. “The world out there is full of chaos and corruption. Stay with me, and I’ll ensure nothing harms you.”
But it’s not safety he offers — it’s control. His control. And as much as you try to resist, there’s something intoxicating about the way he wields his power over you. His touch is both a promise and a threat, his kisses laced with a dark hunger that leaves you trembling.
In the privacy of the night, his jealousy takes on a darker, more primal form. He doesn’t ask for your love — he demands it, pulling you into a world where his touch becomes a means of domination rather than affection. There’s an edge of cruelty in his movements, a reminder that he is not a man to be defied.
“You drive me mad,” he growls against your skin, his voice thick with a dangerous mix of desire and frustration. “Do you even realize what you do to me? What I’d do to keep you?”
And yet, for all his possessiveness, there’s a vulnerability hidden beneath the darkness. His jealousy isn’t born solely out of control but out of fear — fear of losing you, fear of being left behind in the ruins of a dream he can no longer sustain.
“You’re the only thing that keeps me sane,” he admits one night, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t take that away from me.”
But sanity is a fragile thing, and Sunday’s is a thread stretched thin. His love is a double-edged sword, a weapon that cuts both ways. And as you navigate the treacherous waters of his jealousy, you realize that escaping him is not an option. He won’t let you go. He can’t.
Because to Sunday, losing you is not just unbearable — it’s unthinkable. And he will destroy anyone, including himself, to ensure that you remain his and his alone.
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♡ Aventurine.
Jealousy, for Aventurine, wasn’t a fleeting emotion—it was a meticulously crafted masterpiece of obsession and control, painted in shades of agony and desire. It didn’t rage; it coiled, slow and deliberate, wrapping around his heart like a serpent suffocating its prey. To him, jealousy was a science, a formula of cause and effect: the cause was always you, the way you looked, smiled, or even breathed in the presence of another. The effect? A calculated storm of malice, not directed at you, never you, but at anyone foolish enough to stand too close. His jealousy was not borne of insecurity but of entitlement, a devouring conviction that you were his possession, his creation, his alone to destroy if you ever dared stray too far.
But it was the quiet of his jealous fury that was the most terrifying. Aventurine didn’t erupt with rage or childish tantrums; his jealousy was a predator stalking in the shadows, unseen until it struck. There was poetry in the way he dismantled those who dared covet you—an elegant, almost surgical dissection of their pride, their hope, their very lives. And when his cold fury turned to you, it wasn’t with violence but with suffocating affection, a hunger so dark it blurred the line between love and destruction. To be the object of his jealousy was to be bound to his will, shackled by devotion that felt like worship but tasted of ash, an eternal reminder that escape was a fantasy best left abandoned.
———
The veneer of civility Aventurine wore was an art form, a carefully crafted illusion. To the world, he was a man of elegance and charm, a streak of mischief wrapped in opulence, his every move calculated to disarm. His smile—luminous, sharp, disarming—was a masterpiece of deceit, one he wielded with surgical precision. But when it came to you, that control slipped, fractured beneath the weight of his obsession. It wasn’t an overt display of rage or fury; it was subtler, more insidious—a storm with no thunder, only the slow, inevitable crush of a tide that swallowed everything in its path. His jealousy didn’t rage; it thrummed quietly in the dark corners of his mind, a low, vibrating hum of possessiveness that grew sharper with each stolen glance you gave to someone else.
Tonight, it had begun as a whisper—an itch of irritation as you engaged with someone far beneath your notice. But irritation had bloomed into something darker, something electric and alive, as he stood in the corner of the room, watching. His fingers circled the stem of his glass with a gentle, unhurried rhythm, his demeanor as easy and polished as ever, while his mind meticulously cataloged the conversation you shared. Laughter. A tilt of your head. A moment where your hand brushed against another’s. It was a symphony of offenses, a melody he intended to silence. The man before you was nothing—a placeholder, a nameless distraction—and yet, the way you looked at him was enough to set Aventurine’s blood alight.
By the time you slipped away, clearly thinking you had evaded his notice, he was already moving. He didn’t need to trail after you like some lovesick fool; no, Aventurine was far too skilled at this game. He moved with the inevitability of gravity, with the precision of a blade. He knew where you’d go, where you’d end up, and how this would end before you even stepped foot in the quiet corridor. And when you rounded the corner, you found him waiting, leaning against the wall with the same effortless ease as a predator basking in its domain.
His smile was slow, deliberate, and razor-sharp. “Leaving so soon?” His voice was velvet, smooth and cool, but beneath it simmered an unspoken tension. “I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
Your breath hitched, your steps faltering as his words wound around you like a noose. You tried to edge past him, but his arm shot out, his movement as swift and precise as the strike of a viper. The wall greeted your back with a cold, unyielding finality, his arm caging you in without so much as grazing your skin. But it wasn’t the proximity that stole the air from your lungs—it was the look in his eyes, a glint of something feral and all-consuming that burned hotter than any star.
“That man,” he began, his tone casual but lined with steel, “what did he say to make you laugh like that?” His free hand trailed along the wall beside you, slow and deliberate, the motion more for his satisfaction than yours. “Was it something clever? Something charming? Something so important you forgot who you belong to?”
You stammered a denial, your voice trembling as you tried to assure him that it was nothing, but the words faltered under his gaze. Aventurine tilted his head, watching you with the kind of detached curiosity one might reserve for an insect under glass. “Nothing,” he echoed, his voice dipping into something darker, more dangerous. “If it was nothing, why did you let him look at you like that? Why did you let him believe, even for a moment, that he could take what’s mine?”
His hand moved, tracing the line of your jaw with a touch so light it felt like a whisper. But the intent behind it was heavy, oppressive, a warning as much as a caress. His fingers stopped just beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your gaze locked with his. “I could kill him, you know,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Effortlessly. Quietly. He’d vanish, and no one would question it. And do you know why?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Because the universe bends to my will, darling. And you, like everything else, are mine to shape.”
The words weren’t a threat—they were a declaration, a promise etched in iron. He pressed closer, his body a solid wall of heat and power against yours, his scent—smoky, metallic, and unnervingly sweet—filling your senses until it felt like it was seeping into your very skin. “Say it,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “Say you belong to me.”
Your hesitation was a spark to the wildfire of his jealousy, and for a moment, the air seemed to vibrate with the force of his barely restrained fury. His grip on your chin tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse quicken in fear. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said, the softness in his voice a knife’s edge.
“I… I belong to you,” you whispered, the words tumbling from your lips like a prayer.
His smile returned, sharp and triumphant, as if your submission had been a game he always knew he’d win. “Good girl,” he purred, his lips ghosting over yours in a touch that was more claim than kiss. “But don’t mistake my patience for weakness. The next time you forget who owns you, I won’t be so forgiving.”
He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, though his presence still loomed over you like a shadow that would never leave. And as he offered you his arm, the picture of gentlemanly propriety, you realized with chilling certainty that this was only the beginning. Aventurine didn’t simply demand your loyalty—he consumed it, swallowed it whole, leaving no room for resistance or escape.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 