noirscript

[noirscript]

[masterlist] seven days of devotion

Every day, you wake to a different kind of devotion. Some call it love. Others call it madness. But in the quiet spaces between reverence and ruin, you begin to understand—this was never about salvation. It was always about possession. And now, during the holiest week of the year, they will each find their own way to claim you.

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✧ 01; the procession

Victor Marlowe’s devotion feels like worship, but you soon realize it is a gilded cage—your name chanted, your presence paraded, yet your freedom slowly stripped away. His whispered promises of destiny aren’t love; they are control, wrapped in reverence.

✧ 02; the withering

You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself.

[noirscript]

02; the withering

Pairing: Yandere!Botanist x Reader Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.

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The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.

He doesn’t say much at first.

You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.

“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”

You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”

He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”

You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.

“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”

“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”

Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”

“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”

Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”

You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.

“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.

It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.

But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.

Until you stop showing up.

It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.

You don’t respond.

Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.

“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”

You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”

Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”

“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

You glance down at your phone. No new messages.

Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.

There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.

There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.

You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But the next morning, your heater breaks.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

It starts slow.

Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.

You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.

But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.

“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”

You freeze. “How do you know that?”

“I keep up with things.”

He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”

He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”

“Elijah—”

He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.

“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.

But the aftertaste is bitter.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You start seeing him more.

Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.

One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.

He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just hands you the spoon.

Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.

You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.

He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.

It’s that you let him.

Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.

He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.

“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”

You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.

He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”

“I… don’t remember who I was before.”

“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”

You start to cry.

He pulls you into his arms.

“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”

You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.

Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.

Afraid that he’s right.

That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.

And now… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

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[noirscript]

I just wanted to say "His Silent Script" was fucking delicious 🙏 thank you for the 5* SSS+ grade meal.

Thank you so much! I really want to play around the idea of a method actor who's very immersive in this particular story that caught his attention. Perhaps I'll expand it in the future. Not really sure at the moment though. ^^

Ask me anything about my OCs!

[noirscript]

I've been following your blog for a while, and I've loved reading your fics so much!! 🥰🥰

I wanted to ask what your yan OCs smell like? What sorts of colognes or scents do they like to use? Do they use a lot or little? Are they stinky lol?

Hi!!! Most of my OCs has this distinct clean smell. I'm not that familiar with scents but none of them are stinky afaik. I mean, even Callixto—in his updated description in the ebook—uses lavender for his baths. Not sure if it lasts though (but maybe he uses some magic to keep himself cool while travelling stalking his darling).

Others, the more modern ones and are working in companies have this manly scent, but not overwhelming. Nicholas used to smell like fresh linen (during his pre-overly-obsessive days), but now, there's something more distinct with how he smells. It's like whatever body spray he's using, it lingers in the air (like he's marking his territory).

(I can imagine how they smell, but can't describe each scent properly T^T Maybe I'd do some research on cologne/perfume for men so you'll be able to imagine them too.)

[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter one

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because your friend said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy the first part of the series. Let me know what you think about it. Also, commissions are open. Links are below. :) Also, tags will be added tomorrow. I'm too sleepy to add them tonight.

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Chapter One | The Pilgrim’s Arrival

“You did not wander here. You were called.”

The journey to Eden’s Refuge starts before the road, before the iron gates and the immaculate gardens. It starts in the cramped, dimly-lit living room of your sister’s apartment. The curtains are drawn, letting only thin slivers of daylight cut through the suffocating air between you.

“You can’t keep living like this,” she says, her voice sharp but threaded with concern. “You’re drowning, and you don’t even see it.”

You cross your arms, the defensive posture a reflex against her words. “I’m fine, Mia,” you snap. “I’m dealing with it.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “Dealing with it? You call this dealing? Skipping work half the time, avoiding my calls, shutting everyone out?” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze burning into yours. “You need help.”

You stand, the motion sudden and jerky, as though you can outrun the weight of the conversation. “I don’t need anything,” you say, pacing to the small window. Outside, the city hums with life—cars honking, people shouting, the world moving on without you.

“You’re not listening,” Mia says, her voice softening now, the sharp edge dulled by something warmer. She stands too, coming to your side. Her hand rests lightly on your shoulder, and you almost flinch. “This isn’t your fault, okay? The world… it’s not kind. It’s broken. And it breaks people like us.”

You glance at her, suspicious. “What are you trying to say?”

She takes a deep breath, her hand dropping to her side. “There’s a place,” she begins, carefully. “A retreat. Eden’s Refuge. It’s for people like you. People who need to get away, to heal.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a retreat.”

“You don’t even know what you need,” Mia counters. “And they can help you figure it out. I’ve been there, and it…” She falters for a moment, her eyes flickering with something you can’t place. “It saved me.”

You stare at her, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread. “You?” you ask, incredulous. “Since when do you need saving?”

She looks away, her jaw tightening. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d react like this. But yes, me. I was lost too, and Father Caelestis—he showed me the way back. He can do the same for you.”

“This is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re talking about some… some cult leader.”

Her expression hardens, the warmth draining from her eyes. “It’s not a cult,” she says, her voice clipped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you do?” you snap, voice sharp with disbelief. “God, Mia, listen to yourself.”

You take a step back, then jab a finger at her. Accusing, trembling with frustration. “This… this…” you drag your eyes over her with a shake of your head, like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. “…isn’t you.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” she snaps, and for the first time, you see a glimmer of something truly unsettling in her gaze.

The conversation ends there, but the seed is planted. Over the next few weeks, Mia doesn’t let up. She calls you daily, her tone oscillating between gentle encouragement and thinly-veiled exasperation. And each time she mentions Eden’s Refuge, the knot in your stomach tightens.

“You need this,” she says over the phone one evening. “I’ve already talked to them. They’re expecting you.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” you protest, but your words feel weak, hollow.

“You don’t have to agree,” Mia replies, her voice calm, almost patronizing. “You’ll thank me later.”

And so, here’s you are, sitting in the passenger seat of her car as it winds its way through the dense forest. The air outside grows heavier with each passing mile, the trees crowding the road like silent sentinels. Mia hums softly to herself, her fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with a tune you can’t place.

“You’ll love it,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “The peace, the quiet… it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you stare out the window, your reflection fractured by the passing trees.

When the gates of Eden’s Refuge appear, your breath catches in your throat. They rise high, ornate and foreboding, their iron surface gleaming in the waning light.

“We’re here,” Mia announces, her tone light, as though you’ve just arrived at a vacation resort.

The gates creak open, and you feel the weight of your decision—or rather, her decision—settle on your chest.

As soon as you step out of the car, you’re greeted by a woman in white, her smile wide and unwavering. “Welcome, beloved,” she says, her voice soothing and strange all at once.

You glance at Mia, but she’s already moving ahead, her expression serene, as though she belongs here.

The others emerge from the shadows, their movements synchronized, their faces glowing with an unsettling mix of joy and reverence. “You’ve finally come,” one of them whispers, and the words send a chill down your spine.

And then, he appears.

Father Caelestis.

He moves through the crowd with an almost otherworldly grace, his white robe billowing around him. His features are flawless, his eyes piercing, and his smile warm—too warm.

“You were lost,” he says, his voice as soft and heavy as a prayer. “But now you are found.”

You feel his gaze lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. His presence is magnetic, suffocating.

You want to run, to turn back to Mia and demand she take you home, but she’s standing beside him now, her expression one of pure devotion.

“The world out there is cruel,” he continues, his voice wrapping around you like shroud. “But here, you are safe. Here, you will heal.”

His hand extends toward you, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm, his touch cold, and it sends a shiver through you.

The others nod, their faces glowing with fervor.

“Come,” he says, and before you can protest, Mia is at your side, her hand lightly resting on your arm.

“Trust me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “This is where you belong.”

You let them lead you deeper into the compound, your dread growing with every step. The air smells of flowers and something else, something metallic and faintly acrid.

Your room is pristine, its white walls bare save for a single verse written in looping script: “Be still, and know that you are loved.” The bed is draped in white linens that smell of floral water, the air thick with its cloying sweetness.

That night, you lie awake, the silence pressing against you like a physical force. You can hear the faint hum of chanting in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the symbol beneath your bed. It’s drawn in ash, its jagged lines forming a shape that makes your stomach churn.

You want to scrub it away, to pretend it isn’t there, but fear holds you back.

At breakfast, Mia sits beside you, her expression calm, her movements deliberate.

“They’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her voice soft but filled with something unsettling. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

You glanced around the room, your unease growing as you notice the way the others look at you—with reverence… with expectation.

Father Caelestis enters, his presence commanding the room without a word.

“The outside world has left its mark on her,” he says, his eyes scanning the congregation before settling on you. “But she is strong. She is chosen. And together, we will help her shed the weight of those lies.”

Mia nods, her expression one of quiet devotion.

You want to protest, to tell them they’re wrong, but the words catch in your throat.

When he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch light but unyielding, you feel the weight of his control settle over you.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “No more noise. No more confusion. Just peace.”

But his eyes betray him. They’re not soft. They’re not kind. They’re possessive, unyielding, and they tell you one thing:

You are not leaving.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

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[noirscript]

01; the procession

Pairing: Yandere!Preacher x Reader Description: Victor Marlowe’s devotion feels like worship, but you soon realize it is a gilded cage—your name chanted, your presence paraded, yet your freedom slowly stripped away. His whispered promises of destiny aren’t love; they are control, wrapped in reverence. Warning/s: Yandere | Manipulation | Religious Themes | Obsession | Stalking | Confinement | Power Imbalance | Cult Note/s: Apologies for the inactivity! Enjoy reading the first part of the Holy Week Special. Also, I just moved out of our house due to some issues (I've secured a place to stay in, but don't have any bed or anything to sleep on). Will still update here though. Also, there's an upcoming mini-series to be posted soon. Will be posted in advance on my ko-fi. Those who have previously supported me will be able to read it in advanced!

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The city had always been a place of anonymity for you—a labyrinth of faces, voices, and routines that you could slip into without a second glance. After losing your family, grief drove you from your small hometown to this sprawling maze, hoping to drown your pain in its indifference. Three had passed, and though the sting of loss had dulled, it never truly disappeared. Solitude became your sanctuary, and your days blended together in the quiet rhythm of survival.

But then Victor Marlowe entered your life.

You remembered that day with unsettling clarity. It was a warm afternoon, and the city buzzed with its usual energy—street vendors calling out, children darting between pedestrians, the sound of distant construction. Amid the chaos, Victor’s voice rose like a beacon, cutting through the noise with its steady, commanding tone.

“Even in the darkness,” he proclaimed, his arms outstretched, “there is a light waiting to guide you home.”

You hesitated, drawn by the sheer magnetism of his presence. He stood on a makeshift platform in the plaza, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his smile serene but purposeful. People gathered around him, their expressions hopeful, their eyes fixed on his every move.

You hadn’t planned to stop, but you did. You lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching as Victor spoke with the kind of conviction that made you forget your doubts, even if just for a moment.

When the sermon ended, Victor’s gaze swept across the crowd, and his eyes landed on you. His smile softened, and he stepped down from the platform, weaving through the crowd until he stood before you.

“You,” he said, his voice rich and soothing, “carry a heavy burden. I can see it in your eyes.”

You blinked, startled. “What? I—how do you know that?”

Victor chuckled softly, as though amused by your confusion. “The divine has a way of revealing pain to those called to heal it. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

His words planted a seed of curiosity—and perhaps desperation—in your heart. Before you knew it, you were attending his gatherings, sitting quietly in the back as he delivered sermons that seemed to speak directly to your soul. The ministry became your refuge, a place where your grief felt less overwhelming.

At first, Victor was simply the leader of the movement—a charismatic figure who inspire hope in everyone he met. But over time, his attention turned toward you with an intensity that unnerved you. During sermons, his gaze would linger on you longer than necessary, his smile sharpening in ways you couldn’t explain. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. After all, you were just one among many in the ministry.

But today, everything changed.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The courtyard of the Celestial Ministry thrummed with energy, the chants of thousands rising in unison. You stood at the edge of it all, hidden in the shadows of the stone archways. This was where you belonged—on the periphery, unseen, unnoticed.

Victor Marlowe stood at the center of the courtyard, his arms raised as he addressed the congregation. His voice carried like a hymn, every word precise and calculated to stir the hearts of his followers.

“Love,” Victor declared, his tone imbued with passion, “is the foundation of truth. And truth… is the foundation of peace.”

The crowd erupted in applause, their devotion palpable.

You watched from the sidelines, as you always did. But today, something was different. Victor’s cadence slowed, his words becoming deliberate, almost reverent. The air shifted, heavy with anticipation.

“And truth requires… balance,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “The light requires the moon, just as the sun requires the dawn. Today, I must share a revelation—a truth that has guided me since the beginning of this ministry.”

Victor descended the dais, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place. Panic clawed at your chest as he approached, his presence overwhelming.

He extended a hand, his palm upturned. “Take my hand, darling. It’s time.”

You recoiled, your voice barely above a whisper. “Victor… what are you doing?”

His smile widened, impossibly serene. “Trust me. You’ll understand soon.”

Before you could protest, his hand closed around your wrist, pulling you into the light. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a deafening eruption of cheers.

Victor raised your hand above your heads, his voice resonating across the courtyard. “This woman has been chosen—not by me, but by the divine. She is my sacred counterpart, my guiding star. Together, we shall bring healing to the world!”

The crowd surged forward, their chants merging into a singular roar. Strangers reached out to touch your garments, tears streaming down their faces as they whispered your name like a prayer.

“Victor,” you said, your voice shaking. “Stop this. I don’t—”

He leaned close, his whisper brushing your ear. “All of this… was always for you.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The procession began soon after.

Victor led you through the streets on foot, his hand never leaving yours. The crowd lined the roads, their chants of adoration weaving a tapestry of madness. Flower petals rained down like a confetti, their scent cloying as it mixed with the heat of the afternoon.

“Victor,” you hissed, your voice swallowed by the noise. “Please, stop this. I can’t do this.”

He glanced at you, his expression softening into something almost tender. “They love you,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“They don’t even know me,” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “And I don’t want this. I didn’t choose this!”

Victor’s grip tightened, his smile fading. “You don’t need to choose, darling. The divine has already chosen for you.”

The procession slowed as you reached the towering gates of the Ministry’s private compound, the iron wrought with intricate designs that glinted in the sunlight. The crowd surged, their cheers reaching a fever pitch as Victor raised your hand one final time.

As the gates creaked open, you turned to him, desperation in your eyes. “Please, Victor. Let me go.”

He smiled again, that same serene, unreadable smile. “Soon, you’ll see. This is where you belong.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Inside the compound, the noise of the crowd faded replaced by an oppressive silence. Victor led you to a sunlit room adorned with ornate furnishings—your room, he called it.

“For your safety,” he explained, his tone gentle but unyielding. “The people’s love for you… it is boundless, but it is also overwhelming. You’ll need protection.”

“Protection from what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Victor stepped closer, his presence filling the room. “From those who might harm you… and from yourself. You’re not yet accustomed to your role, but I will guide you.”

“I didn’t want this role,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just want to leave.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll understand in time, my darling. Rest now.”

You turned to the window, your heart sinking as the reality of your situation settled over you. Beyond the compound walls, the crowd’s chants were faint but relentless, their adoration a chain you couldn’t escape.

Victor’s voice broke the silence, soft and commanding. “All of this… was always for you.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

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[noirscript]

dark roast | chapter four

Pairing: Laurent Delacroix × Reader Description: You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out. Series Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Every Saturday. GMT+8. Note: This is part of a completed ebook available on my kofi shop! Your support is highly appreciated. Now on sale! Enjoy 50% discount by clicking this link! ^^ That being said, apologize for the delay and enjoy!

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The café is busier than usual today. A steady stream of customers filters in and out, filling the space with murmured conversations and the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine. The morning rush has passed, but the late lunch crowd keeps you occupied. It’s just enough to keep you distracted—to keep you from thinking too much.

Your best friend’s words from earlier still linger in the back of your mind.

"Laurent likes you. You know that, right?"

You shake the thought away and focus on the orders piling up on the screen.

Marco moves beside you, effortlessly preparing drinks with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times before. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” he comments without looking up.

You force a smile. “Just trying to keep up.”

He hums in response, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push. Instead, he gestures toward the front of the café. “Heads up. Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”

You follow his gaze.

At first, you assume it’s Laurent again—another unannounced visit, another quiet reminder of his ever-present gaze. But when you turn toward the door, it isn’t him.

It’s someone else.

A man stands just beyond the threshold, hesitating as if debating whether he should step inside. His hair is slightly tousled from the wind outside, and there’s an awkwardness to the way he shifts his weight. He’s tall, but not imposing. Familiar, but distant.

Then, as he lifts his gaze and spots you behind the counter, something clicks.

Recognition.

Your breath catches.

"Daniel?"

His face splits into a grin—sheepish, slightly uncertain, but undeniably warm. “Hey. Long time no see.”

You barely process the sound of the door chime as he finally steps inside.

It’s been years since you last saw him. Not since—well, not since life pulled you both in different directions. His presence here, in this café of all places, feels surreal.

“You’re actually here,” you say, still a little stunned. “What are you doing in the city?”

Daniel rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—kind of just got here, actually. New job, new start.” He glances around the café, taking it in. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

You nod, still trying to process this sudden reunion. “Yeah, it’s… a long story.”

His gaze flickers back to you, and for a moment, there’s something softer there—concern, maybe. But before he can say anything, your best friend steps out from the back, eyebrows raising as she takes in the scene.

“Ah,” she says, smiling. “You must be Daniel.”

His attention shifts to her. “And you are?”

She wipes her hands on a towel before extending one. “I’m the owner. Well, technically. She’s the one who actually runs things.”

Daniel glances back at you, amused. “That checks out.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

Your best friend laughs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze as she studies him—quick, assessing, like she’s weighing something in her mind. After a beat, she gestures toward the counter.

“I hope you’re not just here to catch up,” she says. “Because I happen to have a job opening, and I heard you might be interested.”

Daniel blinks. “Oh. Wow. That was… fast.”

Your stomach twists. You should have seen this coming. Of course, she already knew.

You glance toward the large front windows, where the reflection of the city glows against the glass. But beyond that, further in the café, you catch sight of someone else.

Laurent.

Seated at his usual table.

Watching.

The weight of his gaze is unmistakable.

You swallow.

Daniel doesn’t belong here. You can already feel it.

And Laurent knows it, too.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Daniel settles into the café like an old habit—comforting, familiar, something you didn’t realize you had missed.

The first few days feel surreal. Between training shifts and stolen conversations between orders, you find yourself remembering things you thought you had forgotten—the way Daniel always used to tease you, the way he had a knack for making you laugh even on the worst days.

It’s easy to fall back into rhythm with him. Too easy.

You don’t notice it at first, but the atmosphere of the café shifts. It’s subtle—an undercurrent of something you can’t quite name.

Laurent still comes in every day. That part hasn’t changed. He still orders the same Dark Roast, still sits in the same corner, still watches with that unreadable expression.

But his presence feels different now.

More solid. More present.

And though he never says anything outright, you begin to notice the way the staff acts around him—like they sense something you don’t.

Marco, usually relaxed and easygoing, starts greeting Laurent with something closer to caution. Elise, the supervisor, avoids looking in his direction altogether. Even your best friend, who never seems to flinch around anyone, starts choosing her words more carefully when he’s within earshot.

Then, one evening, Daniel stays late to help you close.

“I still can’t believe you work here,” he says, leaning against the counter as you wipe down the espresso machine. “I mean, I know you’ve always been good at this, but running the place? That’s something else.”

You snort. “I’m not running it. I’m just—” You pause, considering. “Okay, maybe I am running it. But it’s not like I had much of a choice.”

Daniel frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

You hesitate. You could tell him the truth—about Frosty Café, about the slow collapse, about the way everything had fallen into place so neatly, almost too perfectly. But something stops you.

Before you can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes across the café floor.

Daniel turns first. You already know who it is before you look.

Laurent.

He’s standing just inside the entrance, his coat draped neatly over one arm, his other hand tucked into his pocket. He takes in the scene—Daniel leaning casually against the counter, you standing close beside him—with the same quiet patience he always has.

“Long night?” he asks.

Daniel straightens instinctively. “Just helping out,” he says, easygoing but polite.

Laurent’s gaze flickers to you. “That’s considerate of him.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. There’s nothing wrong with his tone—no accusation, no outward hostility. But there’s a weight behind the words, something deliberate.

Daniel doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “figured I’d make myself useful.”

Laurent hums, his expression unreadable. “A useful employee is an irreplaceable one.”

Daniel chuckles. “Good thing I’m planning to stick around, then.”

The silence that follows is brief. Barely noticeable.

But you feel it.

Laurent smiles. “Yes.”

He turns toward you. “You’ve worked late enough,” he says, voice smooth. “Allow me to give you a ride home.”

Daniel blinks. “Oh, we were just about to head out, actually—”

Laurent’s gaze shifts back to him.

It’s not hostile. Not aggressive.

But Daniel stops speaking.

You glance between the two of them, suddenly very aware of how different they are. Laurent, composed and controlled, his presence like something immovable. Daniel, easygoing but suddenly stiff, as if he’s only just realizing that there’s something beneath Laurent’s polite exterior.

For the first time, it occurs to you that Laurent and Daniel are standing in the same room together.

And Laurent doesn’t like it.

You wet your lips, forcing a small laugh. “That’s okay. I can manage.”

Laurent watches you for a moment, then nods. “If you insist.”

He doesn’t linger. He simply adjusts his coat, offers one last glance in Daniel’s direction, then steps out into the night.

The door clicks shut behind him, but the tension in the air doesn’t leave with him.

Daniel exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Huh.”

You glance at him. “What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Nothing. Just… what’s that guy’s deal?”

You don’t have an answer.

Because, for the first time, you think you might be asking the same thing.

End of Chapter Four.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @ra1nyd4yz @nomi-candies @jsprien213

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[noirscript]

Do you think we could convince Yandere! Husband NOT to erase our memory for the hundredth time????

I can't say for sure. But gaslighting him might work 🥹

[noirscript]

noir if your phone keeps lighting up with notifications I'd like to say it's just me binging everything you've posted in the last year and a half 🥲

🥹 TYSM!!! EVERY NOTIF WARMS MY HEART 🥺

[noirscript]

does asking simple questions about your yan OCs count as requests, or is it ok to ask them?

Ask away~~~ I might end up spoiling some stuffs though hahahahahaha

[noirscript]

Heya~ I'll answer your messages tomorrow 🥹 + Dark Roast update + more

[noirscript]

the good wife

Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader Description: You don’t remember marrying Malcolm, but he remembers every version of you—and each time you try to leave, he brings you back. To be a good wife, he says, all you need to do is stay. Warning/s: Yandere | Gaslighting | Memory Manipulation | Captivity | Non-consensual Surveillance | Emotional Abuse | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Horror Note/s: Heya! For those who have purchased Dark Roast so far, I'll be sending a better version once it's available. I can't provide the exact time, but in the future. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar | Taglist

The morning felt like any other—ordinary and mundane. You had kissed him goodbye like you always did, the scent of his cologne lingering long after the door clicked shut. His touch stayed too, warm and possessive as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye, pausing there just a moment too long.

“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.

He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”

You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.

You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.

Except… it hadn’t.

You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”

That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.

It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.

You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.

The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.

And when the drawer opened, you froze.

Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.

But the same eyes.

Your eyes.

They were all you.

Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.

Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.

Him.

Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.

A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.

And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.

Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.

The screen flickered. Static.

And when it played, you saw a familiar face.

You.

You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.

Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.

His.

“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”

The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.

“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”

He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.

“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”

The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.

Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.

You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—

Knock knock.

A soft, deliberate sound.

You froze.

Another knock. Louder. Measured.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.

“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”

He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

“You never clean in here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.

“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”

You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.

He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You always open the drawer eventually.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.

“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”

You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.

“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl

[noirscript]

Just a heads up:

To those who have purchased Dark Roast on my Ko-Fi, I'll be sending you the better version of it as soon as it's finalized through the email provided by ko-fi. Free of charge ^^

Grab it here for 50% off.

[noirscript]

Quick hesds up:

I might get a short break again for a bit. Dunno few days? I update whenever I want anyway. I just scratched my knees and it's a bit (no it's throbbing) painful.

[noirscript]

Could you make an actor x reader writer of smut books?

Hi anon! Not sure if you're still here... lurking... but I just posted something based on your request. Enjoy!

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining��of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[noirscript]

I wanted to know before I proceed so that I can re-work on the drafts that I currently have. At the moment, most of them were in 2nd Person's POV (Reader-insert).