noirscript

[noirscript]

Is there any chance we could get a sequel to Hollow Haven?

Hell yes! I mean...

[noirscript]

Interest check!

At the moment, there are three confirmed orders for Sovereign's Reign pre-order. They'll get Callixto's PoV, and other freebies.

If anyone's still interested, you can simply go to my ko-fi. The posting still there at the moment. Just the end of pre-order date is unchanged.

So, yeah. Pre-order is still open until before 30th of July. Final since the release will be on or shortly after 30th of July.

[noirscript]

Still alive! Just very busy 🥹

To those who've been here for a while, you've probably came across my commission posts before. (I'm still open for them, by the way!) All those issues are being resolved bit by bit and now...

I've become a marketing head in one of the businesses in our city 🥹 So uh... yeah. I became busy for awhile due to my new position and job.

Yaay! Anyway, can't wait to share more stories (of course yandere ones) that I haven't posted yet because I forgot to post it hahahahaha

[noirscript]

Hello, just read one of your works, the yandere husband one, Coen I believe. It was nice, but there was no tag or warning for rape/marital rape, let alone a set scene.

I checked your profile and didn't see a warning there either.

If you could please add a warning or tag for rape, smut, nsfw whatever you prefer, just please add a warning. Thanks.

Hi, yes! Apologies for that. I'll be tagging them tonight as soon as I get home. Thank you for sending this reminder!

[noirscript]

✨ Sovereign’s Reign is now available for pre-order! ✨

Pre-order period: May 16 – May 31 June 30 [EXTENDED]

🌙 What you’ll get (for free!):

— A novelette from King Callixto’s POV | pre-order exclusive! — Special bonus chapters — Character profiles with story-format backstories | pre-order exclusive! — A sneak peek at Runes of Escape

📖 Reserve your copy here → Sovereign's Reign Pre-order

P.S. You’ll notice the name Amari Omori on the cover—that’s my new pen name for published ebooks moving forward. (Better SEO and all that. Noir’s a little too saturated rn.)

💌 Questions? Send me an email, or reach out on Discord (@noirscrypt) or Instagram (@noirscrypt).

IMPORTANT TO NOTE: You will be receiving the files on or before July 30, 2025. The file you'll receive upon payment is a placeholder.

Read the tumblr version here!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast

[noirscript]

His Silent Vows

pt. 2

Pairing: Yandere Husband x Reader

Warning/s: TW: Yandere | Marital Rape | Forced Domesticity | Psychological Abuse | Dubious Consent | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Surveillance | Isolation | Captivity | Coercive Control | Grooming Dynamics | Trauma Bonding | Power Imbalance | Manipulative Affection | Dark Themes

Notes: Apologies for not tagging both fics featuring Coen. Will refrain from posting anything mid-day so I can tag them properly moving forward. 😔 I'll schedule them 8 PM (GMT+8). :) Thank you!

The days blur, not because they’re fast, but because they repeat with near-mechanical precision.

Coen wakes early, showers in silence, then returns with your coffee already prepared the way you like it—two sugars, no cream, in the porcelain mug from your old kitchen, as if dragging familiar pieces of your old life into this twisted domestic revival.

He kisses your forehead every morning like he didn’t hold you down against the mattress the night before, whispering promises into your skin while taking you like a man possessed. He sets out fresh clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Never tight. Never restrictive. Flowing, soft, breathable.

Because he doesn’t need chains to keep you here.

He needs you to look comfortable.

“Eat, love,” he murmurs behind you as you stare at the breakfast he prepared—eggs, fruit, toast, perfectly plated. “You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”

You’ve been through a lot.

As if he wasn’t the one who orchestrated the fall of your freedom.

As if he wasn’t the reason your body still aches in places love was never meant to bruise.

Still, you eat.

Because he watches.

Always.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The windows don’t open. The door locks from the outside. He says it’s for security. That he “can’t risk losing you again.” The walls don’t have cameras, but you’ve stopped trusting what’s visible. His staff—those loyal men in quiet black—don’t speak to you, but they always seem to know where you are.

Once, you tried the side entrance during his call.

It was locked.

The next morning, a subtle change—your shoes were moved. He never mentioned it. Just kissed your hand at breakfast and said, “You're such a good girl for staying close.”

You never said a word.

But that night, he made love to you slower. Almost reverently. As if rewarding loyalty you never offered.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The house has a library. Coen insists you read. He brings you books you used to love—titles from your shared shelf back in the city. You thumb through the pages, half reading, half calculating.

Maps. Floorplans. Patterns.

There are no clocks. You guess the time by the light—gray mornings, golden afternoons, the sharp navy of night pressing against windowpanes you can’t open. You’ve counted five security rotations so far. Three men. Two women. They trade shifts at dusk and dawn.

Coen thinks you’re adjusting. That you’ve surrendered.

You let him think that.

Because you’ve learned that quiet is armor. That the more you comply, the more freedom he gives in return. Controlled freedom. But freedom nonetheless.

Like how he lets you roam the halls now. One level. Two wings. No access to the cellar. Never to the garage.

But you saw it once.

From the reflection in the mirror, when he left the door cracked just a little too long. A glimpse of a car, black and clean. Keys hanging from a board.

It burned itself into your memory.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

He brings you flowers on the fourth day. Not store-bought. Picked. Arranged.

He holds them out like a peace offering from a war you weren’t allowed to win.

“You’ve been so good to me,” he says, eyes soft like they used to be, the illusion stretching like paper over a blade. “I knew you just needed a little…reminding.”

Your hands tremble as you take the bouquet.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does—and just likes the way it looks on you.

“I’ve missed this version of us,” he continues, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You’re soft again. Sweet. It suits you.”

You press your lips together, forcing a smile.

Because sweet wives don’t plot escapes.

Sweet wives don’t memorize security lapses.

Sweet wives don’t watch the keys when his hand grazes the kitchen counter.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

But you do.

Because somewhere under the bruises, under the silk and false comfort, you remember that love never felt like this.

You may wear the role well.

But you're not broken.

Not yet.

And somewhere in this fortress, this gilded prison wrapped in roses and delusion, there’s a door.

All you have to do…

…is time it right.

[noirscript]

His Silent Vows

Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader

Note: As always, will fix the deets tomorrow after work. Also!!! Don't forget to pre-order Sovereign's Reign tomorrow to get the exclusive freebies. Once the pre-order period is over, the freebies will not be released in the near future so don't miss it!

Enjoy reading!

You weren’t trying to provoke him. You weren’t even angry—just tired. Tired of hearing him shout orders through the house like it was just another one of his boardrooms. Tired of the half-empty dinners. The cold sighs. The glares when something went off-schedule, like your presence had suddenly become another inconvenience on his carefully managed calendar.

You just wanted your husband back.

He didn’t even notice the plate on the table, still warm from the oven, untouched.

“Coen,” you said softly, standing at the threshold of his office, hands loose by your sides. “Dinner’s been ready for almost an hour.”

He was mid-call, pacing. One hand rubbing his temple like the weight of the world belonged only to him. He didn’t even spare you a glance. “Push the Langford deal to Thursday, I don’t care if he flies in from Geneva—if he wants a signature, he’ll wait.”

You stood there longer than you should’ve. Hope dulling into resignation.

“I’m not your assistant,” you murmured.

Coen froze. Just long enough for you to think maybe he heard you.

But the call continued. His tone dipped to cold formality. The conversation ended with clipped silence, and only then did he finally turn.

His face wasn’t full of fury—it was worse. It was unreadable.

“You think I like this?” he said, voice level but sharp, like ice cracking beneath weight. “You think I enjoy being pulled apart from every side just so this family—so you—can live like this?”

You laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “You don’t even see me anymore.”

“I see someone who’s sulking because I didn’t look at her pasta.”

The insult hit harder than it should’ve. Because it wasn’t about the pasta. And he knew that.

You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t see your husband. You saw a man cracking open under the illusion of control, flinging shards at whoever stood closest.

“If you can’t handle your big emotions, maybe you shouldn’t have married anyone yet,” you said quietly. “I’ll leave you be. If that’s what you want.”

You turned your back, picked up your small overnight bag by the door, and walked out.

No slamming. No scene.

Just absence.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Coen didn’t chase you.

He returned to his desk and kept working, as if numbers and projections could patch over what had just fractured.

Hours passed. Night deepened. The phone in his hand glowed faintly. His mind drifted, then jolted when he realized something—something small but gutting.

He hadn’t heard your footsteps come back.

The bedroom was empty. Sheets cold. No light. The vanity was spotless. But your ring—your delicate, perfectly fitted wedding band—sat alone on the surface like a discarded promise.

It looked obscene without you.

He reached for the tracking data embedded in the band. Nothing. Dead. You’d left it behind.

A cold fury slid down his spine like a knife.

You hadn’t just left the apartment.

You had left him.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You weren’t hard to find.

Coen had contingencies for every threat, every risk. And yes, in his state—his exhausted, unraveling mind—you were now classified as a threat. Or maybe a possession straying too far from its place. Either way, he dispatched the right men. Quietly. Discreetly.

You were found at a quiet restaurant bar downtown. Nothing extravagant. Simple clothes. Hair pinned back like you were trying to disappear. But you still drew attention. Not from the crowd—but from him. A bartender. Young. Smiling at you with a look that twisted Coen’s stomach inside out.

You laughed.

And that was enough to seal your fate.

You were pulled from the booth before you could scream, ushered to a sleek black car with tinted windows and hands too strong for resistance. You didn’t fight at first. You thought maybe Coen just wanted you home.

But you weren’t taken to the penthouse.

You were taken somewhere you’d never seen. A private estate—one of his backup properties in the hills. Secluded. Heavy architecture. The kind of place meant to hold something.

He was already there when you arrived. Sitting in a tall chair by the fireplace, glass of untouched whiskey on the table beside him.

He didn’t rise immediately. Just looked at you with a calm that felt like pressure against your chest.

“Coen…” Your voice cracked from panic and disbelief. “This is insane. I just needed time.”

“You left your ring,” he said softly, as if you’d committed some sin that couldn’t be undone. “You let another man near you. You smiled at him.”

Your breath hitched. “He’s a bartender. He was being polite—”

“You smiled,” he repeated, standing now, each step measured as he crossed the room. “Like you used to smile at me.”

You backed up, only to meet the wall behind you. “I didn’t do anything with him. I would never—”

“You would,” he whispered, his hand braced beside your head, trapping you without touch. “You could. You think that’s any better?”

Your breath came faster. “You’re not thinking clearly. I’m your wife.”

“That’s why I have to remind you.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

His mouth was on yours in a second—unforgiving, demanding. You pushed, but he caught your wrists, raising them above your head and holding you in place like a punishment and a promise all at once.

“Coen—”

“You don’t get to leave me,” he said, pulling your body flush against his. “You don’t get to walk out on me. Not when I’ve given you everything.”

“I needed space—”

“You needed to remember who you belong to.”

He turned you around, pressing your hands flat against the wall. You felt his breath at your neck, hot and trembling with restraint. You felt the pull of your clothes, the burn of anticipation laced with terror.

“Coen—please, don’t—”

“You left your ring,” he whispered, biting into your shoulder. “So I’ll brand you another way.”

He slid into you in one brutal, possessive thrust, and you cried out—part shock, part betrayal, part twisted hunger he knew your body hadn’t forgotten.

“You’re mine,” he rasped into your ear, each movement purposeful and deep. “Say it.”

You whimpered, clenching, breath catching.

“Say it,” he growled, fucking into you harder. “Say you’re mine.”

Your voice failed. Your mind blurred.

“Not the bartender,” he hissed, snapping his hips forward. “Not some stranger. Me. Only me.”

You gasped his name through your sobs.

“Again.”

“Coen—”

“Again.”

“Yours,” you breathed, broken. “I’m yours—”

“That’s right,” he whispered, slowing just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. “You always were.”

He took you again on the settee. Against the window. On the floor, with your hands tied and his voice in your ear repeating every deluded thought he’d let fester. That you were trying to leave him. That you were already gone. That now you would never forget who you married.

And when he finally collapsed against you, drenched in sweat and satisfaction, he kissed your temple like he’d just saved something. Not destroyed it.

“You remember now,” he whispered.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours.

Cleaned. Dressed. Alone.

Somewhere down the hall, classical music played softly. Coffee brewed. Outside the window—nothing but fog and forest.

You didn’t know how long you’d been there.

You didn’t know if anyone even knew.

But you remembered now.

Because forgetting—leaving—was never an option.

Not with a husband like Coen Montero.

tbc

[noirscript]

✨ Sovereign’s Reign is now available for pre-order! ✨

Pre-order period: May 16 – May 31 June 30 [EXTENDED]

🌙 What you’ll get (for free!):

— A novelette from King Callixto’s POV | pre-order exclusive! — Special bonus chapters — Character profiles with story-format backstories | pre-order exclusive! — A sneak peek at Runes of Escape

📖 Reserve your copy here → Sovereign's Reign Pre-order

P.S. You’ll notice the name Amari Omori on the cover—that’s my new pen name for published ebooks moving forward. (Better SEO and all that. Noir’s a little too saturated rn.)

💌 Questions? Send me an email, or reach out on Discord (@noirscrypt) or Instagram (@noirscrypt).

IMPORTANT TO NOTE: You will be receiving the files on or before July 30, 2025. The file you'll receive upon payment is a placeholder.

Read the tumblr version here!

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast

[noirscript]

head's up!

I'm currently editing the recent stuffs I just mindlessly posted (due to time restraint). But will take a brief break for quick grocery run.

By the way! Head's up to those who'd like to reserve callixto's ebook (Sovereign's Reign), the pre-order will end on the 30th so make sure to grab it before time runs out!

More details in this link

[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part three

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At your first fan signing, you felt exposed enough—but when a reader dared to praise the man you wrote with too much longing in his voice, Eleazar reminded you exactly who that character was based on, and who your stories—and body—belong to. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, obsession, emotional manipulation, jealousy, degradation (verbal), rough sex, public surveillance (implied stalking), power imbalance, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: i don't know when the next part will be posted, but i'll let you guys know. somehow. btw, whoever read this first was able to read the og draft with the og name. hahahahahha forgot to replace it before posting earlier. my bad. enjoy reading!

You told your publisher no the first three times.

You weren’t trying to be difficult, but the idea of being out there again—on display, in front of people whose faces you don’t know and whose eyes you can’t read—left something tight in your chest. You liked the quiet comfort of your work, the cocoon of anonymity that came with hiding behind stories. Signing books and smiling for photos in a public venue felt too much like exposure, like stripping without the safety of Lee’s rope.

But deadlines had come and gone, the pre-orders exceeded expectations, and your publisher, bless their persistent hearts, finally played the only card you couldn't ignore: contractual obligation.

So here you are.

A fanmeet. One city over. A sleek little bookstore with floor-to-ceiling windows, a table draped in velvet, and a line of readers curling out the door. The staff is kind. The readers are gentle. The girl with trembling hands and tears in her eyes says your writing got her through the worst year of her life. The college boy with a dog-eared copy quotes your own words back to you. It feels surreal to be seen like this—for something you created in solitude.

You should be happy. You should be proud. And you are. But still, under the polite smile and gracious thank-yous, you feel it.

A presence.

You don’t see him. Not yet. But it’s there. Like a shift in temperature, a heat against your spine that makes the hair on the back of your neck lift. You force yourself to stay calm, keep signing, keep nodding. Maybe it’s your nerves. Maybe it’s your paranoia.

But you know that weight. That gravity. You feel it every night before you fall asleep, curled into Lee’s chest. You feel it now, stronger than ever.

By the time the fan steps forward, you’ve already braced for it.

He’s young. Maybe mid-twenties. Glasses, nice smile, a little awkward in the way of people who read more than they speak. He’s not a threat—not at all. Just eager. His hands tremble as he holds out your book for you to sign.

“I… I’m sorry if I sound weird,” he says, voice high with nerves. “I just—your writing changed something in me. Especially the new one. The way you described… him. Your male lead. His hands, his mouth. It was so vivid. So real. Like I could feel every touch.”

You nod gently, offering the practiced, polite smile you’ve given to others. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and the edge of the table. “If I’m being honest, I… I wish he was real. That kind of love? That intensity? It’s rare. Obsessive, sure—but who wouldn’t want someone that devoted?”

You stiffen. Just slightly.

“Anyway,” he laughs, trying to brush off his own words. “Sorry. I just had to say it. You’re incredible.”

You thank him again. You sign. You don’t look up again until he’s gone. And when you do… Lee is standing near the entrance.

He isn’t in line. Isn’t smiling. Isn’t even trying to hide the storm in his expression. He’s watching you—no, watching everyone. No one else notices him. He’s good at that, at folding himself into shadows even when the light’s right on him. You know that look. It isn’t anger. Not yet. It’s the calm before it.

You spend the rest of the event on autopilot, your throat dry, fingers aching from the pen gripped too tight. The moment it’s over, the moment you’re in the car, Lee speaks.

“You liked that?”

You blink at him. “What?”

He turns to face you fully, eyes unreadable. “Hearing another man say he wanted to touch you the way I do. That he wants to be the man in your book.”

“He wasn’t being inappropriate, Lee. Just enthusiastic. That’s what fans do.”

“You wrote me, and he saw himself.”

“I can’t control how people interpret—”

“He wants you.”

You hesitate. “He admires the character.”

Lee leans in, voice low and too calm. “That character is me.”

You don’t argue. You won’t win. And truthfully, he's not wrong. Every word you wrote was pulled from your nights together. The tenderness. The fury. The pleasure laced with something darker. It was Lee—filtered just enough to fit fiction. But for Lee, fiction doesn’t mean not real.

He drives in silence, hands tight around the wheel, until you're home.

The studio is cold. Not from the air, but from the tension. You enter first. Lee follows without a word, locking the door behind him. You hear it—click—and something inside you stirs.

He doesn't touch you. Not right away. He circles slowly, gaze dragging across your body like he’s stripping you layer by layer with his mind. You stand still. Wait.

“You smiled at him,” he says finally, quiet but firm. “You laughed.”

“I smiled at everyone today.”

“You leaned in.”

“He was nervous. I was trying to make him comfortable.”

“He was imagining fucking you.”

You take a breath, trying to stay calm, but your pulse is already racing. “You’re reading too much into it. He didn’t say anything like that.”

“He didn’t have to.” Lee steps closer. “I saw it in his eyes. He wants to replace me. He wants to rewrite my role.”

His hands finally touch you, not with the familiar tenderness of homecoming, but with something rougher, more desperate. He grabs your wrist, not to hurt, but to anchor.

“You’re mine,” he says, dragging your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. “Every word you write, every scene, every sound—it's mine.”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Do you know what I felt, watching him look at you like that?”

You whisper, “Tell me.”

“I felt the edge,” he breathes, hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I felt it pulling me. Wanting to drag you into it with me so I could erase every trace of anyone else.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not sweet. It’s not patient. It’s consuming.

He undresses you slowly but without ceremony, hands possessive, lips trailing over every inch of exposed skin like he’s reclaiming lost territory. Your bra slips from your shoulders. Your skirt falls. By the time he walks you back into the studio chair—his chair—you’re already shaking.

He sits first and pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. His hands grip your waist. He looks up at you, paint-speckled light catching the edge of his eyes.

“No ropes tonight,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you tied. I want you to stay because you know where you belong.”

You nod. “With you.”

His cock is hard beneath you, pressing against your bare folds as he lifts your hips and slides in—slow, deliberate, deep. You gasp, clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it again,” he growls, already thrusting up into you with sharp, punishing rhythm. “Say who you belong to.”

“You, Lee—only you.”

He grips your hair, pulling your face to his. “Louder.”

“I belong to you!”

His pace quickens, desperate and unforgiving. You’re already close, already unraveling. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, beneath your skin.

“You smiled at him,” Lee whispers against your ear. “Now smile for me.”

You do. You smile as he ruins you. As he reminds you. As he marks you from the inside out.

He doesn’t stop when you come the first time. Or the second. He keeps going until your voice is hoarse and your body limp. When he finally finishes, it’s with a broken groan, arms wrapped tight around you as he spills into you. He holds you there, panting, sweating, possessive even in afterglow.

No one else gets to have this. No one else gets you.

He pulls you close, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “Write this down.”

You nod, already dazed.

“Next time someone thinks they can step into my story,” he murmurs, voice like silk soaked in blood, “I’ll show them what kind of ending they earn.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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[noirscript]

Callixto x reader pleaseeee

Loved how down bad he is for herrr

He issssss!!!! Actually, their story's about to have an ebook/novel version. After reading it for review, it's slowburn but the pacing is just right.

It's called Sovereign's Reign. Though I'd be posting the ending of the tumblr version soon (to tie up loose ends ^^ please look forward to that!)

[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part two

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At his exhibit, Eleazar’s jealousy ignites with a stranger’s laugh—and by nightfall, you’re blindfolded, bound, and painted in his studio, every touch a possessive reminder that you belong only to him. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), blindfolding, jealousy, emotional manipulation, exhibitionism (implied), power dynamics, obsessive love, rough sex, worship/adoration, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: enjoy!!! the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period.

It begins with a laugh.

Not yours. And definitely not Eleazar’s.

The gallery hums with polite chatter and soft music, all of it bleeding into the undercurrent of hushed awe and too-hungry eyes. It’s a private preview of Anatomy of Devotion,

Eleazar’s newest exhibit—his obsession rendered in brushstrokes. You. In shadows and warm light. Draped in his shirt, curled into his bed, arched across canvas like you belonged there more than in your own skin.

And you do, don’t you?

You feel exposed, not because of the nudity or the rawness of each painting, but because you know he painted them while you slept, dreamed, moaned. The audience doesn't see that part. But he does. And you do. And it burns beneath your clothes.

From across the room, you sense his eyes on you. He’s dressed in black again—casual in a way that still looks powerful, shoulders straight and jaw tense. His dark hair is slightly messy, a curl brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He watches you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. You offer a small, reassuring smile, a signal: I'm fine. I'm just talking.

He doesn’t smile back.

You turn to excuse yourself politely from the nearby crowd, but someone steps in.

“This one,” a voice says beside you, male, amused, too relaxed for your comfort. “Damn. That’s my favorite.”

You follow his gaze and immediately regret it. He’s pointing to the massive oil painting of you in Eleazar’s studio chair, one leg folded under the other, wearing nothing but his ruined, paint-smeared shirt. The same one that now hangs like a shrine in your shared bedroom.

“The way you’re looking in this?” the assistant says, sipping his champagne with a crooked grin. “Like someone just dragged you out of a fever dream. Fucking raw. He nailed it.”

You offer a tight smile, holding your glass a little too firmly. “He captures what matters.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping as if you’re already conspiring. “If I had someone like you in my studio, I’d never stop painting. Or touching. I mean… ever considered posing for someone else?”

The comment slides across your skin like rot. You pull away a fraction, breath caught in your throat—but it’s already too late.

The man doesn't notice. “I’ve got a setup. Nothing big, but I can be a lot more fun than your guy.”

The flute nearly slips from your hand.

It doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t have to.

Because Eleazar is suddenly behind him.

The temperature of the room changes. The quiet turns heavy. The gallery’s background noise continues—oblivious—but here, where Eleazar stands, the world becomes razor-sharp.

The assistant laughs nervously, stepping back as if he’s only now aware of the storm forming inches from his face. “Oh—hey. Didn’t see you there, man. Just a joke. Your wife’s stunning, really. You must be proud.”

Eleazar’s smile is slight and sharp. It looks polite. It isn’t.

“I’m always proud of what’s mine,” he replies, calm and low, too calm. “But you strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t understand boundaries until he’s bleeding.”

The man blanches, and you can practically smell the fear start to rise off him. You reach out to place a hand on Eleazar’s arm, grounding, a silent plea not to cause a scene here.

He doesn’t need to.

He takes your hand instead and guides you through the crowd, slow and silent, his grip firm but not harsh. You follow without protest.

---

The drive home is quiet. Not cold—just sharpened into something that leaves no room for distractions.

Eleazar keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, flexing every now and then like he’s holding back something primal. His jaw is tight, his profile locked in shadow, and even the air feels afraid to stir.

You try once, softly. “Eleazar—”

“Don’t.”

You flinch. Not because of the volume—he doesn’t raise his voice—but because of the meaning behind it. He rarely interrupts you. When he does, it's because he's trying not to unravel.

“I could smell him on you,” he says after a while, his voice calmer now but laced with restrained venom. “Like a stain.”

“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper. “He was being inappropriate, yes, but I didn’t engage.”

“You laughed.”

“I didn’t mean to. It was uncomfortable. I was trying to be polite—”

“You laughed.” His knuckles tighten around the wheel, the leather creaking. “Do you know what that does to me? Hearing that sound, knowing it wasn’t for me?”

You stay quiet.

“I won’t punish you for his stupidity,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But I will remind you what your smile belongs to. What you belong to.”

---

He doesn’t even wait for you to enter the apartment. He leans down as he opens the car door, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “Studio. Now.”

You obey.

Inside the space where he paints you daily, the scent of varnish and oil hits you like memory. It’s thick in the air—intimate, private. You notice immediately the cloth and basin of warm water, the soft silk rope, and the blindfold folded neatly on his stool.

It’s not a punishment.

It’s a lesson.

He enters a moment later. Locks the door behind him. Doesn’t say a word as he moves behind you and begins unzipping your dress. It slips from your shoulders like surrender, pooling at your feet.

You don’t fight him when he lifts you into the studio chair—the one you’ve posed on countless times, the one he’s immortalized you in. He moves slowly, methodically, securing your wrists behind the chair with the silk rope, then spreading your ankles to tie them to the legs.

The blindfold is the last thing. He slides it on gently, fingertips brushing your temples.

Darkness falls.

You can feel the shift in the air as he steps back. The silence lengthens. Then you hear it—the sound of his fingers dipping into paint.

When his touch returns, it’s cold and deliberate. He draws a line across your collarbone, slow and thick.

“This one’s black,” he says near your ear. “Do you remember what black means?”

You nod, throat dry. “Mine.”

“Good girl.”

He paints over your chest, dragging his fingers in spirals around your nipples until they harden. Down your ribs, across your stomach, then along your thighs—everywhere but where you need him most. He avoids your core deliberately, punishing you without pain.

The next color is red. “This is for shame. For forgetting—even briefly—that your smile is sacred. That it belongs only to me.”

The red stains your inner thighs, the underside of your breasts, your throat.

Then comes gold. He doesn’t speak as he paints a streak from your heart to your navel, a line of reverence amid chaos.

You sit there—tied, blindfolded, dripping in black and red and gold. Helpless. Waiting.

And still, he doesn’t touch you there.

He disappears briefly, and when he returns, it isn’t with fingers or paint.

It’s with warm cloth.

He parts your thighs and presses the soft towel to your center, cleaning you with the kind of care that borders on sacred. Each pass is gentle, almost worshipful, as he murmurs, “You think I’d risk your body for a lesson? No. I’d never hurt what’s mine.”

The moment the cloth drops away, so does his restraint.

He goes to his knees, and when his tongue finally touches you, it’s not tentative.

He eats you like a starving man—devouring every moan, every shudder, holding your thighs in place as you buck and cry out against the ropes. He doesn’t stop, even when you beg him to, even when you sob that you’re close.

Especially then.

He forces it out of you like confession, like sin.

When you fall apart, trembling and sobbing, he rises slowly. His belt unfastens. His zipper follows. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the rustle of movement, and then he’s there—pressing into you, filling you with a single, brutal thrust.

Your scream echoes.

He groans above you, voice rough with need. “You’ll never laugh for anyone but me. You’ll never write another smile that doesn’t belong to me.”

“I won’t,” you cry, already breaking again.

“You’ll write me into every draft. Every kiss. Every fuck.”

“Yes—yes—only you—”

His pace is merciless. The chair creaks beneath your bound frame as he drives into you, each thrust branding, each moan a claim carved into your bones.

You lose track of how many times you come. It blurs into rhythm—him, you, the ropes, his voice, the heat. You sob out his name, not from pain, but from surrender.

When he finishes, it’s with a growl pressed into your neck.

He unties you slowly. Carefully. Then carries you to bed like something fragile and beloved, laying you down in clean sheets even as your skin still bears his paint.

You don’t need to speak. His hands say it all. So do the kisses he trails across each bruised thigh, each paint-streaked breast.

---

The next morning, your coffee is hot, the sheets are clean, and your laptop is open.

There’s a new document saved on your desktop.

Eleazar – Part I

Beneath it, in the document’s header, a single note:

“Only I get to read you, darling. Write accordingly.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part one

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: Eleazar wasn’t meant to find your draft—but now that he has, he’ll make sure you never imagine another man again, not even on the page. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, dubcon undertones, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), jealousy, emotional manipulation, rough sex, obsession, degradation, implied coercion. note: this is gonna sound really funny but i've been writing this series while working in a space that's VERY sfw. i don't think i'll do it again hahahahahahahaha it's too risky. by the way the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period. ← Masterlist | Next →

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You didn’t expect him to find the draft.

The document was nestled deep in a folder you were sure you’d renamed months ago. It wasn’t even meant to see the light of day—not yet. Just a concept. A fleeting thought that bled too easily into your fingertips after too many sleepless nights. You didn’t even give the male lead a name—just him, faceless and safe in your mind. Or so you thought.

You come home to the smell of turpentine and oil paints. It clings to the air like sweat and fury. The lights are off, save for the faint glow of his studio down the hall.

Your pulse stutters. There’s a silence in the apartment that shouldn’t be there. No hum of music. No clinking of his brush jars. Just the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and your own breath, catching in your throat.

“Lee?” you call softly.

There’s no answer, but you feel it—his presence. Like a panther in the dark, crouched and ready.

You slip out of your heels and step onto the cool hardwood floors. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. Something isn’t right.

The studio door is ajar.

Inside, Lee sits with one leg over the other, your laptop balanced on his thigh. The screen glows white against his pale skin, casting stark shadows on his angular face. His dark hair is a mess—longer than usual, curling behind his ears in disarray. He’s still in his paint-streaked black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins visible as his hand clenches the edge of the desk.

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat when you see what’s open on the screen.

Your draft.

Your smutty, half-polished, dirty draft.

The one with another man pressing your fictional self against the wall, whispering sweet nothings into her ear before dragging his mouth down her neck.

“You’ve been busy,” Lee says, voice cold and syrupy, like poisoned honey. His obsidian eyes flick up to you, and for a moment, all you see is calm. Too calm. “Tell me, darling… who is he?”

“I—he’s not real,” you stammer, stepping back. “It’s fiction. It’s just for the plot—”

“Plot,” he interrupts with a sneer, rising to his full height. “Yes, of course. Because stories require you to imagine some stranger touching you in ways you’ve never asked me to. Some man who isn’t your husband fucking you so hard you’re crying for more, isn’t that right?”

Your face flushes with humiliation. You look away, but his steps are slow and purposeful, his boots echoing against the wood. A predator circling. You try to retreat, but he grabs your wrist—gentle at first. Just enough to hold.

“Lee, it’s not what you think—”

His grip tightens. “Then tell me what it is. Because to me, it reads like a fucking fantasy. Not the kind you write for others. No. This was personal. Intimate. Not even the male lead in your books ever got this much attention.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He yanks you forward, and your body slams against his chest. You feel the thrum of his pulse, erratic, thunderous. His other hand slides up your back, gripping the nape of your neck.

“Let me be perfectly clear, my sweet wife,” he hisses into your ear. “I will not allow you to imagine yourself with anyone else. Not in ink, not in dreams, not in your goddamn drafts.”

You whimper as he bites down on your earlobe—not enough to draw blood, but enough to bruise.

“Writing smut about another man… does that excite you?” he growls. “Does it make your fingers itch to feel someone else's hands on your skin?”

“No—”

“Liar.”

In one swift motion, he drags you toward the bedroom. The door slams behind you, and you’re thrown onto the bed. The force isn’t violent—yet—but it's enough to shake the mattress, enough to scatter the pillows like prey.

“Take it off,” Lee orders.

You blink, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Your clothes. Strip. Now.”

You hesitate, but the look he gives you—possessive, deranged, feral—makes you obey. You pull off your blouse with trembling fingers, then unfasten your skirt. Every inch of skin you expose feels like a confession. You’re down to your underwear when he growls, “All of it.”

You do.

He watches you like an artist studies his canvas. His gaze is obsessive. Not just hungry, but starving. The moment the last scrap of fabric hits the floor, he pounces.

He pushes you down, wrists pinned to the sheets with one hand while the other cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Let me remind you,” Lee whispers, kissing the underside of your jaw. “Exactly who you belong to.”

His mouth trails down your throat, harsh and claiming, teeth scraping as he bruises your skin—painting marks only he is allowed to leave.

You arch beneath him, breath catching when he hooks your thighs open with a knee, then binds your wrists together with the silk belt from your robe. He pulls it tight—too tight—but doesn’t stop. Your fingers twitch in protest, but his voice soothes, “If you can write about being tied, you can take it.”

You gasp as he spreads you apart with calloused hands, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs. His tongue slides across your skin, tracing every inch, slow and deliberate. You expect softness—he gives you fire.

“This mouth,” he snarls, biting the inside of your thigh, “will never say another man’s name again.”

Your breath stutters. “I never said—”

He cuts you off by sucking hard on your clit, dragging a broken moan out of you. Your hips jerk, but he holds you down. Devours you.

When he rises, his mouth is slick, chin glistening. “No more stories about faceless strangers,” he growls, unbuckling his belt. “You want to write filth? Fine. Let it be about me.”

You don’t even have time to respond.

He thrusts into you in one brutal stroke, knocking the air from your lungs.

The stretch burns, and you cry out. But he doesn’t pause. His hands grip your bound wrists, pressing them above your head as he drives into you, fast, hard, claiming.

“I’ve let you wander too long in that pretty little head of yours,” Lee snarls. “From now on, you write what I give you. You think about me when your fingers type. Only me.”

“Lee—ah—”

“You asked for this, didn’t you?” he pants against your neck. “Your filthy little book was practically begging for punishment.”

Tears slip from your eyes from the overstimulation, the tight grip of his hand around your wrists, the merciless rhythm. But your body betrays you—slick, needy, clenching around him.

He feels it.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet. You love being corrected.”

You hate that he's right. That your mind is hazy, spinning with every possessive word he spits.

He pulls out without warning, and you whine.

“No,” he murmurs, flipping you over like you're weightless. He yanks your hips up, presses your face into the sheets. “You're not done yet.”

You scream into the pillow as he thrusts back in, rougher, deeper. His hands leave bruises on your hips, fingers digging as if he could mold you into obedience.

“I’ll paint you in bruises if I have to,” he growls. “So no one forgets who owns you.”

You don’t recognize your own voice when you beg—broken and raw. “Please…”

“Please what?” he snarls, leaning over your back. “Please stop? Please more? Or please fuck the other man in your book?”

“N-no—I want you,” you cry.

“Say it again.”

“I want you!”

“Louder.”

“I want you, Lee!”

He growls like a beast. And in that moment, you don’t know where the man ends and the monster begins—but you welcome both.

He finishes inside you with a groan so guttural it shakes your bones. You collapse, trembling, sweat pooling beneath you.

Silence.

Then he pulls you into his arms, still fully sheathed inside you, cradling your trembling form. His touch is gentle now. Worshipping.

“I’m the only man who will ever touch you like this,” he whispers into your hair. “Write it. Carve it into your pages. Ink it on your skin. You’re mine, Mrs. Vittorio.”

You’re too wrecked to argue. Or deny the possessive warmth spreading through your limbs. Or the terrifying comfort of his embrace.

The next morning, he kisses your bruises with reverence… and sets up a new document for your next book.

The title?

“Eleazar”

Just that.

And you don’t dare write about anyone else again.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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[noirscript]

Yandere artist x fem reader erotic book writer?

It's been... (almost?) a year for this one. Uh.... hehe....

READ IT HERE

[noirscript]

What’s a yan-pairing you’ve always wanted to do but were too shy or nervous to write?

I forgot to respond to this TuT tbh I am more than nervous to write a very descriptive spicy scene involving the reader/character and a yandere. But still no scat etc because I don't like that TuT

Sorry for the inactivity!!! A bit busy with work and focusing on Sovereign's Reign as the release will be next month >_<

[noirscript]

Uh... idk where else to share this but I hope those who pre-ordered sovereign's reign enjoy the ebook as much as I enjoy writing it.

[noirscript]

Notify Me When You’re Mine

pairing: kpop idol x reader description: K-pop idol Seo Jihwan crosses the line between admiration and obsession when a devoted fan catches his eye—and dares to look away. warning/s: Yandere behavior, stalking, obsession, emotional manipulation, kidnapping, confinement, unhealthy relationship dynamics. note: just a quick something. hope you enjoy this! i've been busy with irl stuff so apologies! tags will be added tomorrow as well as other links. by the way, you can still reserve your copy of sovereign's reign ebook + its freebies until 30th of June! the freebies will no longer be available when regular purchase starts rolling. (w/c includes something from king callixto's pov).

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

You were just one of millions. Or so you told yourself.

Each time Seo Jihwan went live, your name would pop up in the chat box like it always did—early, dedicated, and filled with praise or playful teasing that seemed to go unnoticed among the flood of hearts and comments. Yet somehow, that never discouraged you. You were just a blip in his world, after all. A mere fan among millions.

Still, it didn’t stop you from showing up.

Every livestream, you’d prepare your space. Light off. Phone fully charged. Notifications muted except for one: his. You didn’t even have to wait for the bell anymore. The moment his familiar face popped onto your screen, dark eyes crinkling with a soft smile, your world felt quieter—lighter.

You’d send him stickers, those virtual gifts that cost embarrassingly real money, and his eyes would always flicker when he saw your username float up the screen. But you thought nothing of it. Fans lived for scraps. It wasn’t unusual to want to feel seen, even if you weren’t. Not really.

Then, one day, you did something stupid.

You shared a post—a single image—of another idol. Not even Jihwan’s rival or anything. Just a new guy from a rising rookie group. You thought the picture was funny. The idol was pulling some weird face mid-performance. You reblogged it and added a laughing emoji. That was it.

What you didn’t know was that Jihwan saw it.

You didn’t know that he wasn’t like the others.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

The livestream that followed felt… off.

His smile was forced, stretched too tight across his flawless face. The comments scrolled, and he barely read them. His fans—your community—were worried. He waved it off, saying he was tired, had been overworked, that his company finally granted him a break. A few days off. A chance to recharge.

"Maybe I’ll travel a bit," he murmured, eyes no longer focused on the camera. "Need to clear my head."

You typed something sweet. Something supportive. You even sent him a gift. It didn’t float on screen like usual.

You thought the app bugged out.

But it didn’t.

He had seen your username. Ignored it.

For the first time since following him, you logged off early, feeling cold in your chest and oddly hollow.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

A week passed.

No livestreams. No updates. Just a single headline from his agency, translated into your feed: “Seo Jihwan to Take Personal Time: Travel Abroad for Mental Recovery”.

The comments were flooded with love and concern. You sent your own too, wishing him rest. He didn’t reply, but that wasn’t new.

You returned to your routines. Your normal, quiet life. A place where your feet were always on the ground, unlike him. Unlike Jihwan, who floated above the world, too perfect to be real. You went to work. Came home. Grocery-shopped on Wednesdays. You still scrolled through fan accounts, watched old clips of his stage performances. Laughed quietly at old edits.

Then you started feeling it. That sense of something watching you. But never directly. You’d see a man standing just beyond the corner of your eye when walking home. A dark car idling longer than usual across the street. A buzz in your phone with no notification. Silly things. Maybe your mind was tired. Maybe you were reading too much into nothing.

Until he showed up.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

It was raining.

The sound of water drummed softly against the windows of the café you always visited after work. It was small, quiet, tucked beside a bookstore. Your safe space. The barista knew your name, your usual order.

You were sipping from your mug, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, when the door opened. A figure stepped in, hood drawn, head tilted slightly downward.

You wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped beside your table.

"You're always here around this time."

You looked up.

At first, your brain didn’t register what you were seeing. It couldn’t. Your eyes scanned the familiar jawline, the deep-set eyes, the soft lips that had smiled at millions.

Seo Jihwan.

The man on your screen. The idol.

In real life.

Soaking wet from the rain, yet still breathtaking.

"Sorry, I know this is weird," he said, voice low but gentle. "Can I sit?"

You blinked. You must have said yes, because the next moment he was sliding into the chair across from you, pulling back his hood.

He looked exactly the same as his photos—no, better. There was no angle to hide behind here, no filter. He was raw and real and right in front of you. You couldn’t even breathe.

“I needed a break,” he said, sipping the drink he ordered as if this were any other conversation. “Came to clear my head. But really, I just wanted to meet you.”

Your heart thudded once—then faster.

“You… you know me?” you whispered.

His lips curled slightly. “Of course. I waited for your messages every time I went live. You always sent those silly stickers. The bread one. And that weird cat.”

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

“But I noticed something,” he continued, voice calm but eyes sharper now. “You reblogged another idol’s picture.”

You froze.

“I know it’s stupid. Petty. I should be used to fans looking at other idols. It’s normal,” he murmured. “But you… you’re not just another fan, are you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came.

He leaned forward.

“You belong to me.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought maybe you didn’t know that yet. That I’d need to show you.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

He moved fast.

Faster than you thought possible.

You weren’t even sure how it happened, but within hours, he had swept you into his world. Into a rented flat that looked more like a luxury safehouse. He gave you clean clothes. Made you tea. Held your hand like he’d known you forever.

He smiled when you asked how he found you.

“Do you really think it was hard?” he replied, almost amused. “You use the same username everywhere. You never log off. You have a routine. A pattern. You don’t even lock your accounts.”

It should’ve scared you. Maybe it did. But he was Jihwan. The man you spent countless nights watching, wishing, longing for.

And now he was here. Holding you like you mattered.

When he kissed your forehead, your brain short-circuited.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he whispered. “Me, here. With you. You’ve been calling out for me. I just answered.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Days passed. Maybe weeks.

Time blurred inside the glass walls of the apartment. You didn’t leave. He didn’t let you. Not out of cruelty, no—he said it was for your safety. That fans could be obsessive. That people might not understand. That the media would twist it all.

You believed him. You had to.

And he was so gentle.

He cooked for you. Taught you Korean words softly, patiently. Let you sleep in his arms. There were moments he looked at you like you were fragile glass. His fingers would tremble when he touched your face.

But there were also moments when he would grow distant. Cold.

Like when you accidentally glanced at a variety show playing on the TV and chuckled at another idol’s joke.

The screen went dark instantly.

His jaw clenched.

You didn’t watch TV after that.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

One night, he came home with a new phone.

“Here,” he said, setting it in your lap. “Your old one’s gone.”

You blinked. “Gone?”

“I threw it out,” he said. “Too many distractions. Too many temptations.”

Your hands tightened around the blanket on your lap.

He cupped your face, gentle but firm.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “I chose you. You should feel special. Millions of people scream my name, but it’s your name I waited for every night. You kept me going.”

You wanted to believe him.

So you nodded.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Eventually, the sky turned grey more often. The city blurred beyond the windows. You forgot the date. He kept you fed, clothed, warm. But he also kept you quiet. Isolated.

Your friends stopped messaging.

Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just never saw it.

“People are selfish,” he said once, brushing your hair back as you sat in his lap. “They’d pull you away from me. Make you doubt what we have.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted your face up, made you look at him.

“You love me, don’t you?”

“…Yes.”

“Then remember your place,” he whispered. “You’re mine. You always were.”

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Sometimes, you’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling. Wondering how it happened. How you ended up here. How a reblogged photo turned into a new life.

But when he curled around you, arms tightening like chains, breath warm against your skin—you felt something calm your chest.

Because wasn’t this what you wanted?

To be loved. Chosen.

Maybe you just hadn’t realized what it would cost.

Or how far he’d go.

But he came for you. Out of everyone, he came for you.

It was a dream come true.

Wasn’t it?

Maybe if you remind yourself hard enough, you’ll remember to be grateful.

Maybe if you never look at another idol again, he’ll smile like he used to.

Maybe if you behave, he won’t have to show you your place again.

After all… he’s watching.

He always was.