scapinoz

[scapinoz]

MY MAD DOG (all mine).

yandere mob boss x right-hand male reader

— chapter two.

me when im actually productive. wrote this in two days. finished this last week itself, but was dreading to post this cause im just a pussy. but alas, the spirits kept whispering in my ear to post this unedited chapter. a little short. decided to up the pace a lil, cause otherwise s’just boring. im sure no one wants to read about two idiots committing crime.

also, kinda experimented with a new writing style. idk what to think ‘bout it now actually. it’s kinda nice, i suppose.

warnings: brothels, not very spicy (idk how to write smut 🧍🏽‍♀️). y/n is bi. illarion. illarion’s dad (he still doesn’t have a name). idk what else is there, really. maybe smoking and drinking. no crime or blood yet.

previous chapter - chapter one

master list - my mad dog (all mine).

Ilarion Lucero had inherited an empire built on blood and silence, an inheritance as cursed as the house of Atreus.

By day, he was the portrait of discipline—polished and unshaken, the perfect heir to a dynasty that had never known ruin. He moved through gleaming boardrooms and smoke-laced parlors with the ease of a man accustomed to power, his name spoken in hushed reverence, his hands never once appearing unclean. He shook hands with ministers and monsters alike, his lips curved in a polite, unreadable smile as he signed deals in ink while others signed theirs in blood.

But by night, the truth of him unraveled. The empire he ruled was not one of gleaming glass towers and pristine ledgers. It thrived in the hush of darkened corridors, in the weight of unmarked bills exchanged beneath flickering streetlamps, in the fear that tightened spines and bent knees at the mere mention of his name. It pulsed in the shipments that arrived under false pretenses, in the bodies that disappeared without a trace, in the quiet deaths that whispered his name like a prayer.

And at the heart of it all—his Patroclus, his ruin, his curse.

Y/N.

The name itself was a mark of finality, a requiem sung in the language of violence. A man who did not flinch, who did not falter. The blade in Ilarion’s hand, the shadow at his back. His executioner, his tether, his curse.

And like all things destined for tragedy, Y/N did not belong to him. Not truly. Not in any way that mattered.

But Ilarion was Achilles, and Achilles had never known how to let go.

He found him where he always did.

Acheron. A sanctuary for men who did not wish to be known. He found him where he always did.

The room was draped in gold and shadow, its air thick with the scent of perfume and spilled whiskey, the soft murmur of laughter dissolving into the velvet hush of the night. A place where designations ceased to matter, where power bent to pleasure, where no name was sacred enough to be protected.

Y/N was sprawled across a chaise, skin painted in half-light, his shirt undone, his collarbones blooming with bruises that did not belong to Ilarion. A woman draped herself over him, whispering something against his throat, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his chest. He did not seem to hear her, his gaze distant, unfocused, as if already somewhere else.

A wasted thing.

A waste that belonged to him.

“Enough.”

Ilarion’s voice was not loud, but it was enough.

The woman startled, turning to face him, her painted lips parting around a breath she did not dare exhale. She knew who he was. Everyone in Acheron did. With a murmured apology, she slid off Y/N, disappearing into the haze of perfume and candlelight.

Y/N exhaled, tilting his head back against the chaise, whiskey glass dangling between his fingers. “You always ruin the fun.”

Ilarion stepped closer, pouring himself a drink. “I wasn’t aware you were having any.”

Y/N’s lips curled, lazy and sharp. “Fair.”

There was something devastating about the way he looked at him—like a wolf who had long since grown accustomed to its cage, like a man who had made peace with being owned. And yet, for all the weight of Ilarion’s claim, there was always something defiant in the way Y/N carried himself. A blade that refused to be dulled.

“You drink too much,” Ilarion murmured.

Y/N chuckled, low and humorless. “You think I’d be more useful sober?”

“I think you’d be more tolerable.”

Y/N stretched, languid and indifferent, his shirt slipping further down his shoulder. “And yet, you keep me.”

Ilarion’s fingers curled around his glass. “Of course I do.”

Because Y/N was his. Because he had carved his place in the empire Ilarion ruled, because for all his ruin, for all his self-destruction, he still came when called. Because Ilarion had spent a lifetime bending men to his will, and Y/N was the only one who had never bent.

And perhaps that was why Ilarion could never let him go.

Perhaps Achilles had never been meant to survive without Patroclus.

The night had unraveled into morning, the velvet darkness giving way to the creeping light of dawn, pale and indifferent. It slithered through the blinds of Ilarion’s office, casting silvered shadows across the mahogany desk, the sheen of polished floors, the sharp angles of his chair where he sat like a king on an iron throne. Across from him, Y/N lounged as if he had no weight to carry, no blood on his hands, no ghosts at his heels—cigarette balanced between his fingers, the slow curl of smoke slithering toward the ceiling like an offering to forgotten gods.

Ilarion did not look up when he spoke.

“You should stop sleeping around.”

A pause. Then the quietest drag, the ember flaring like a dying star.

“Why?”

Ilarion turned a page in his ledger, the paper whispering like the turning of fate’s loom. “It’s reckless.”

Y/N exhaled a ribbon of smoke, his laugh slow, indifferent, edged with something like mockery. “Didn’t know you cared about my virtue.”

“I don’t.”

The words were steady, unhurried, carved from marble. Only then did Ilarion lift his gaze, dark and unreadable, a god surveying the mortal before him.

“But you don’t belong to them.”

A smirk. Slow, wolfish, touched with danger.

“No?”

Ilarion did not answer.

The silence stretched between them, thick as honey, heavy as prophecy, the kind that lingered at Delphi’s temple before the gods whispered their doom.

Then, soft, almost amused, Y/N murmured—“You’re afraid I’ll bite someone else’s hand, aren’t you?”

Ilarion’s gaze darkened, something shifting in the depths of his expression—a storm on the horizon, a beast woken from its slumber.

Y/N had always been reckless, a creature unbridled, untamed, the kind that would never bow without a fight. He was not a flower to be plucked, not some Hyacinthus doomed to be adored and broken in the same breath. No, he was something far crueler, something sharp-edged, something that could draw blood even as he smiled.

But even wild things could be claimed.

Ilarion leaned back, fingers steepled, voice quiet as the pull of an undertow.

“You are mine.”

There was no hesitation, no room for debate.

“And I don’t share.”

Y/N flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers die, the ghost of fire lingering in the air between them. His smirk remained, but his eyes—cold, distant, untouched by the weight of Ilarion’s words—spoke of something else entirely.

“You don’t own me, Ilarion.”

A lie, but a beautiful one.

Ilarion smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

The kind of smile that preceded ruin, the kind that kings and conquerors wore before they razed empires to the ground.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

The decree fell like a guillotine.

“You’re getting married.”

The words settled into the study, quiet and suffocating, waiting to be disturbed.

Ilarion sat across from his father, the glow of the fireplace casting long shadows across his sharp features. The older man regarded him with the air of a king delivering a verdict, his silvering hair swept back, his presence as unshakable as the empire he had built.

A slow blink. Then silence.

Ilarion tipped his head slightly, watching the flames curl in the hearth. “Am I?”

His father’s lips curved, barely there. “Don’t play stupid, synok.” Son. A word spoken with the weight of obligation, nothing more. “You knew this was coming.”

A name followed. Alexandra Volkov.

The Volkovs were a dynasty of old money and sharpened knives, their empire built on steel and fire. A logical match. A marriage of kingdoms.

“And if I refuse?”

His father chuckled. “You don’t have that option.”

Of course not.

A slow, aching pause.

Then, his father tilted his head, studying him like a man peeling back flesh, searching for something hidden beneath the bone. “Is it him?”

A heartbeat.

Ilarion stilled.

His father exhaled, almost amused. “Y/N.”

He had never needed obvious tells to see through his son.

“You look at him as if you want to carve your name into his ribs. As if you want to break him down to his bones and keep what remains locked away.” His father chuckled, shaking his head. “It is not love, Ilarion. It is possession.”

Something dark twisted in his chest.

Love.

It was not love.

It had never been love.

His father’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “Marry the girl. Make the alliance.” He set his glass down with a quiet clink. “And keep your dog where he belongs.”

Dog.

The word curled between them like a leash snapping taut.

His father sighed, rubbing his temple. “You are too sentimental, synok.” A pause. Then, with something sharper: “Dogs are loyal until they realize the leash can break.”

Ilarion exhaled slowly, smoothing the cuff of his sleeve. He rose from his chair, movements elegant, composed.

“I’ll think about it.”

His father’s lips curled. “No, you won’t.”

Ilarion turned toward the door, the weight of the conversation settling into his chest like an iron brand.

His father’s voice followed him, quiet but heavy with warning.

“Do be careful, son.” A pause. “It is an ugly thing to want something you cannot own.”

Ilarion did not look back.

His father was wrong.

Y/N was not a dog.

He was something else entirely.

And ownership had never been in question.

The scent of lavender clung to his mother’s parlor like the ghost of a dying summer—soft, lingering, a whisper of something fleeting. It was the perfume of her world, a world spun from silk and steel, from quiet discipline and tempered grace. A world where beauty was a weapon, where elegance masked the sharpness of survival. Yet beneath it all, there was something colder, something older—something that smelled of the sea, of brine and storm-torn waves, of the place she had once called home before she had been reshaped into something fit for a throne.

Thetis had bathed her son in the Styx to make him untouchable. His mother had done the same, though no river had been there to receive him—only blood, only duty, only the sharp reminder that love, in this family, had never been more than a gilded cage.

Ilarion stood by the window, the city stretched before him, its lights flickering like dying stars. Twilight bled across the horizon, gold and rust and bruised violet, the color of old wounds. He thought of Achilles standing at the edge of Troy, watching the sun sink into the ocean, knowing that the night would bring only ruin.

Behind him, his mother sat upon her velvet throne, the porcelain teacup poised between her fingers, delicate yet unshaken. She was the portrait of restraint, of something carved from marble—beautiful, immovable, untouched by time.

“You saw him,” she said at last, her voice breaking the hush like a wave against stone. It was not a question.

Ilarion did not turn. “Of course.”

A pause, long and deliberate, the kind that settled between gods before they spoke fate into being.

“And?”

He exhaled slowly, the dying light casting sharp angles across his face. “And what?”

Her teacup met the saucer with the softest clink. “Did you agree to it?”

Ilarion’s hands clasped behind his back, the silk of his cuffs smooth beneath his fingers. “Not yet.”

A faint smile curved at her lips, humorless, knowing. “You never had much of a choice.”

“No.”

Another sigh, this one heavier, as if she had always known the answer and had simply wished, for once, that it might be different.

“Your father is a practical man. He does what is necessary.”

“So do I.”

A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring before the arrow was loosed.

Her head tilted, her dark gaze sharp, searching. “Do you?”

He did not answer.

Instead, her eyes flickered toward the untouched tea, the pale liquid cooling in its porcelain prison. And then, softly—carefully—

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

His fingers twitched at his sides.

She did not need to say the name.

She knew.

Y/N.

Another exhale, this one edged with something closer to resignation. “I wish you would let him go.”

Ilarion’s lips barely parted before she continued, voice quiet but resolute.

“You never liked him,” he murmured.

Her jaw tightened, just slightly. “I dislike what he represents.”

His brows lifted, amusement glinting in the sharp lines of his face. “And what is that?”

A flicker of hesitation—just a breath, just a moment. And then, deliberate, measured, the words that fell between them like a prophecy spoken too late:

“A mistake.”

The word settled in the air, quiet as a dagger slipping between ribs.

Ilarion’s gaze darkened. “Whose?”

She did not answer at first. But then—soft, unyielding—

“Your father’s.”

The weight of unspoken history pressed between them, heavy as the tide, as the pull of something neither of them could escape.

Ilarion’s fingers curled into his palm. “I see.”

His mother exhaled, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress, though they both knew it was not fabric she was trying to tame but the years themselves. “You are young, Ilarion. You do not yet understand the weight of your name. Of your duty.” She hesitated, then pressed forward, as though treading on ice already beginning to crack. “Your father… made certain choices in his youth. Choices that nearly cost him everything.”

Ilarion’s gaze sharpened. “You mean Rylan.”

Her expression remained unchanged, but he did not miss the tightness at the corners of her mouth.

“Rylan is nothing but a ghost of my husband’s foolishness,” she said, voice crisp as winter air. “And his son is a reminder of it.”

Something twisted deep within him—slow, insidious.

His mother leaned forward, her gaze colder now, stripped of tenderness. No longer a mother’s eyes, but something sterner, something forged in iron. “I do not want you to repeat his mistakes.”

Silence.

Then, voice smooth, but edged with something unreadable, Ilarion asked, “You think Y/N is a mistake?”

She exhaled, tired now. “I think he is a dead end.”

Ilarion’s jaw tightened.

Her stare did not waver. “You are not your father,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “You are not a man bound by sentiment.”

Ilarion’s lips curled, cold and amused. “Aren’t I?”

She shook her head. “You don’t love him, Ilarion.”

His gaze flickered—sharp, unreadable.

She reached for her tea once more, her fingers delicate around the porcelain rim. And then, in a whisper that was more certainty than doubt—

“You only want to keep him.”

Ilarion said nothing.

Not because she was wrong.

But because she was right.

And so they stared at each other, mother and son, as the gods once did.

She, like Thetis, who had fought to shape her son into something untouchable, something greater than mortal men. And he—Achilles, standing at the edge of fate, knowing the price of his own desire, knowing that to reach for it was to step closer to ruin.

Thetis had tried to make Achilles immortal, had dipped him in the Styx, but had left his heel untouched.

Ilarion had been bathed not in river water, but in expectation.

And yet, like Achilles, he had found something he was unwilling to let go of.

His mother had seen it the moment Y/N entered his life.

And she knew—

It would be his undoing.

The air in the study was thick with the weight of old sins, of ghosts that refused to be buried. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, weaving through the dim light like the whispers of men who had long since learned that their words were weapons, that silence was a blade honed sharper than steel. The scent of burning tobacco, of aged whiskey left to breathe in cut crystal, of leather softened by time—all of it clung to the room, an oppressive warmth that did nothing to dull the chill of the conversation that had yet to unfold.

Ilarion’s father sat behind his great mahogany desk, the very image of a king upon his throne, his presence stretched across the room like the last light of dusk—golden, but fading. Behind him, the window framed the city in its twilight hush, a world waiting in patient submission.

Rylan stood near the edge of the light, half-swallowed by shadow, a specter carved from night itself. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, its ember pulsing with quiet life between his fingers. He was as he had always been—unmoved, untouched, a man who had learned long ago that sentiment was a luxury afforded only to those who did not have to survive.

Between them, silence stretched, taut as the string of a lyre before it broke.

Then, at last, the voice of the king:

“They’re going to end up just like us.”

Not a question. A prophecy. A certainty as inevitable as the sun falling into the arms of the horizon.

Rylan took a slow drag of his cigarette. Exhaled. The smoke drifted between them, the softest echo of a sigh.

“You don’t care?”

The words could have been an accusation. A taunt. But Rylan did not rise to them, did not even flinch. Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, amusement flickering at the corner of his lips like the remnants of a dying star.

“Should I?”

A chuckle, low and humorless, like the sound of dying embers. “You never did.”

Rylan’s gaze flickered toward him, dark as oil, unreadable. And then—soft, measured, something near bored:

“Not about things that don’t matter.”

Ilarion’s father hummed, swirling the amber in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. “And does he?”

The name did not need to be spoken.

The cigarette burned low between Rylan’s fingers, the ashes gathering like dust at his feet.

“He survives.”

It was not an answer. But it was the only one that mattered.

A long pause. A moment held in the quiet weight of things left unsaid.

And then, a knowing smile, sharp as a blade:

“He reminds me of you.”

The words landed softly, like the first drop of rain before a storm. Rylan did not move, did not react, but something in the air shifted, imperceptible, a thread pulled too tight.

The king leaned forward, the smirk never fading. “The way he carries himself. The way he fights. The way he doesn’t give a damn about anything but one person.” A pause. A deliberate weight. “He even looks like you did when we were young.”

A flicker of something—too fast, too subtle to name—passed through Rylan’s expression.

He took another drag, exhaling the smoke slowly, deliberately, as if it might fill the space between them.

“And you think that’s enough?”

Ilarion’s father’s smirk deepened. “It was for you.”

Rylan’s fingers curled slightly around his cigarette. The ember glowed bright, then dimmed.

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

A pause. The barest flicker of amusement, as if the question itself was entertaining. “Isn’t it the truth?”

A beat of silence.

And then—“You always talk too much.”

A quiet chuckle. “And you always had a weakness for strays.” His father tilted his head, watching him with the eyes of a man who had already seen the end of this story. “First her. Now him.”

At last, Rylan turned to look at him fully. The weight of his gaze settled, heavy and deliberate, like a hand pressed against an old wound.

“She wasn’t a stray.”

“Oh, she was.” Ilarion’s father’s voice was soft, a mockery of kindness. “And so is he.” A pause. A smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “A mistake.”

The word landed between them like a blade driven into the earth, drawing an unseen line.

Rylan did not react, did not flinch, did not tense. His grip on the cigarette remained loose, his posture as effortless as ever.

But his voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady. Final.

“Not a mistake.”

A brow arched in amusement. “Then what?”

Another pause.

Then, slow, deliberate, like the shifting of constellations:

“A consequence.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the smoke curling between them.

The king let the word settle, turning it over in his mind, tasting the weight of it. Then, a slow exhale. A smirk curling his lips.

“You know…” He swirled the whiskey in his glass, voice dropping into something cruel, something almost pitying. “If he were mine, I’d keep him.”

Rylan exhaled a breath of smoke, his eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable.

“I’m sure you would.”

A sip. A smirk. A flick of cigarette ash.

And then, as all things between them had always been, the conversation faded into the quiet understanding of men who had already lost too much.

And so they sat, these two gods of a fading age.

Apollo and Hyacinthus, once bound by youth and devotion, now left only with the echo of what had been. Ilarion’s father—the sun, burning, consuming, leaving nothing untouched. And Rylan—the flower that had once flourished beneath him, now withered in the shadow of the past.

Hyacinthus had died in the arms of his god, his blood spilled upon the earth, blooming into the petals of mourning.

But Rylan had not died.

He had walked away.

And that, perhaps, was the crueler fate.

so, yeah, that’s chapter two. maybe i was on something while writing this, idk. wrote it bit by bit, that’s why the writing style isn’t very consistent. im still trying to find a pace that works for me.

and i know some might start to hate y/n because of his extracurricular activities 🧍🏽‍♀️ it’s fine, hate him all you want. he’s just a manwhore— illarion’s manwhore. im trying to develop his character and give him some depth and miserably failing.

also, yeah, i did once mention that this will be kind of like a Achilles and Patroclus retelling thingy, so there’s that. and then there’s rylan and illarion’s father (toxic old men yaoi 😋)

do comment, be wild as you want, I get motivated when I read comments, actually. like i love interacting with ppl who read my work.

[scapinoz]

im on a roll today !! new chapter is almost done :) giggling and kicking my feet rn, here’s a preview

[scapinoz]

MY MAD DOG (ALL MINE).

yandere male oc x male reader

mob boss x guard dog reader

— chapter one.

to start things off, it’s been like three months since I posted the prologue and I have no way to defend my actions. I simply forgot. like the story kept running through my head all day and night, and I did write; the later parts of the story, lol. i really didn’t want to write the starting parts. i was just lazy, nothing else.

warnings: illarion, illarion’s dad, Y/N, mentions of blackmail and violence. nothing much, really. tame compared to what I’ve planned.

previous chapter - prologue

series master list - my mad dog (all mine)

Y/N arrived like a storm—unwelcome, unasked for, and impossible to ignore.

He did not come with a wagging tail or soft eyes full of devotion. He was not the obedient, noble creature Ilarion had longed for, the one he had begged his father to give him. No, Y/N was something else entirely. A stray, all sharp edges and untamed wildness, the kind of animal that bit the hand that tried to feed it.

But he was Ilarion’s now. That much was clear.

At first, they danced around each other like two creatures who did not yet know if they were predator or prey. Ilarion, raised in silk and shadow, did not know what to do with this boy who walked into their mansion with his hands in his pockets and a scowl carved deep into his face. Y/N was nothing like the children Ilarion had grown up with—those glass-fragile boys in ironed uniforms who spoke softly and moved like ghosts, always careful, always cautious, as if the wrong step might shatter them into pieces.

Y/N was fire where they were mist, solid where they were air.

And at school, he was a disaster (his father had enrolled Y/N into his school soon after their next meeting).

He never sat up straight in class. He never raised his hand or took notes. The teachers despised him for his indifference, for the way he lounged in his seat like he had better places to be. The students feared him, though they never said it aloud. He did not belong in their world of wealth and whispered politics, where power was measured in quiet cruelty and the sharp cut of words. No, Y/N fought with his fists, with blood on his knuckles and a scowl on his lips.

And yet, he never strayed far from Ilarion.

At first, Ilarion did not question it. He did not acknowledge the way Y/N’s presence had become something of a constant, like the low hum of an approaching storm. He did not ask why Y/N always seemed to be near, lingering just close enough to catch the words others whispered behind Ilarion’s back—the jealousy, the envy, the resentment.

He did not ask why those whispers always stopped so suddenly, why the boys who spoke too loudly found themselves with bruised jaws and swollen lips.

He did not ask, because he already knew.

And he never told Y/N to stop.

By the time they were thirteen, an unspoken understanding had settled between them: Ilarion was the golden boy, the untouchable heir to a legacy written in blood and empire, while Y/N was his shadow, the mad dog at his heels.

It was inevitable, then, that when Ilarion spoke, Y/N listened.

And when Ilarion needed something done, Y/N was the one who did it.

Time did not soften Y/N. If anything, it sharpened him.

By sixteen, he had become something fierce, something untamed. He was taller now, broader, his face no longer round with childhood but carved with something sharper, something crueler. The fire in his eyes had not dulled, but it had learned patience. His rage no longer burned bright and reckless—it simmered, waiting, coiled beneath his skin like a beast ready to strike.

He was still the same boy, the same stray Ilarion had been given all those years ago. But now, he was something else too. Something dangerous.

And Ilarion—perfect, golden, untouchable Ilarion—had grown into the role his father had carved for him. He was flawless, the kind of boy people whispered about in admiration and envy alike. He had the world at his feet, the teachers singing his praises, the students bending beneath his presence. He was the sun around which their little kingdom revolved, and he played the part beautifully.

But the sun has shadows, and Ilarion’s shadow had a name.

Y/N.

The school called him a delinquent, a lost cause. He skipped classes, smoked behind the gym, walked into rooms like he owned them and stared down teachers like they were beneath him. He broke rules like they were made for him, and he did not care.

Or rather, he only cared when Ilarion did.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” Ilarion muttered one afternoon, arms crossed as he leaned against the old brick wall behind the school, where they always met when no one else was watching. “Could you at least pretend to be a functioning member of society?”

Y/N, perched on the ledge with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, barely spared him a glance. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

Ilarion scoffed, his irritation as sharp as the autumn wind. “Because you look like a damn criminal.”

“I am a damn criminal,” Y/N shot back. “Your criminal.”

Ilarion exhaled, long and slow, tilting his head back to look at the sky. He hated that Y/N was right. Hated that, despite his exasperation, despite the lectures and the sighs and the sharp-edged glares, he still found himself here. Still found himself asking.

Because there were always people who needed to be put in their place.

Boys who thought power came from their fathers’ wallets. Men who thought they could speak without consequence. People who thought that just because Ilarion wore his power with silk and smiles, he would not use it.

Ilarion never laid a hand on them himself. He didn’t have to.

Not when he had Y/N.

And Y/N—his mad dog, his stray, his shadow—never needed to be told twice.

“You’re impossible,” Ilarion muttered, shaking his head.

Y/N exhaled smoke into the air, grinning. “And yet, you keep me around.”

And Ilarion, despite himself, did not argue.

The afternoon sun filtered through the academy’s courtyard, golden and soft, casting long shadows against the pristine marble floors. It was a quiet hour—one where only the desperate or the foolish found themselves loitering with trembling hands and fragile hopes.

Ilarion had not been searching for anything. He had been making his way toward the student council room, mind preoccupied with the endless obligations of a golden boy, when he saw it.

A girl.

Standing before his dog.

She was pretty, delicate in the way all high-society daughters were raised to be, with neatly pressed ribbons in her hair and the scent of expensive roses lingering in her wake. The picture of polished elegance. And yet, there was something almost pitiful about the way she stood there—wringing her hands, voice unsteady as she whispered the words.

“I like you, Y/N. Please go out with me.”

Ilarion stopped.

Y/N stood before her, detached and distant, the very image of disinterest. His uniform was, as always, a mess—tie loose, shirt half-untucked, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. He had not bothered to meet her eyes, his gaze instead fixed somewhere past her, as if she were nothing more than background noise, a dull murmur in a world he had long since stopped caring for.

Ilarion knew that look.

Knew it because Y/N never looked at him that way.

The girl swallowed, gathering what little courage she had left. “Y/N?”

Silence stretched.

And then—finally—Y/N tilted his head, as if acknowledging her presence for the first time.

“You like me?” he echoed, voice flat.

The girl nodded quickly, a spark of hope igniting in her gaze.

Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement but far colder. “What is it that you like, exactly?”

The girl hesitated. “I—I think you’re… cool.”

A pause.

Then, slow, deliberate, Y/N smirked.

It was not a kind expression.

“You ever wonder why I don’t have a girlfriend?” he asked, voice dripping with something unreadable.

The girl stiffened. “…No?”

Y/N yawned, stretching lazily. “It’s because I get bored easily.”

The spark of hope in her eyes flickered.

Ilarion, still watching from the shadows, clenched his jaw.

“I might still say yes, though,” Y/N added, tone mocking. “Could be entertaining for a little while.”

Ilarion turned on his heel and walked away before he could hear the rest.

He found her in the library.

She was seated by the window, absentmindedly flipping through a book she clearly wasn’t reading. Her expression was distant, her mind likely still lingering on the conversation from earlier.

Ilarion did not bother with pleasantries.

“You will stay away from him.”

The girl startled, looking up at him with wide, doe-like eyes. “What?”

Ilarion stepped closer, looming over her. His expression remained polite, refined—unshakable—but there was an undeniable edge beneath it.

“Y/N,” he said, as if explaining something very simple to a very slow child. “You will stay away from him.”

She blinked, confusion flashing across her face before something like realization took root.

“I—I’m not trying to—”

“You don’t understand,” Ilarion cut in smoothly, tone unwavering. “He is not what you think he is.”

Her lips parted, a protest half-formed, but Ilarion did not let her speak.

“You think you want him,” he continued, voice calm, “but you don’t. He isn’t kind. He isn’t gentle. He will not love you, nor will he pretend to. He is cold, detached, and endlessly cruel when he grows tired of things.”

The girl paled.

“He would ruin you,” Ilarion said, smiling faintly. “And he wouldn’t even care.”

A beat of silence.

Then—quiet, barely above a whisper—she asked, “Then why do you want him?”

Ilarion stilled.

The question was simple. Innocuous, even. And yet, it lodged itself into his throat like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Because Y/N was his.

Because Y/N listened to him.

Because Y/N—who cared for nothing, who met the world with disinterest and apathy—only ever looked at him.

Ilarion exhaled slowly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Leave him alone.”

The girl said nothing.

She did not need to.

By the next morning, the girl was gone.

Oh, she was still at school, still walking the halls with her pristine uniform and perfectly tied ribbon. But she no longer looked Y/N’s way.

No more stolen glances. No more waiting outside his classroom. No more confessions in the courtyard.

Y/N noticed. Of course he did.

He caught Ilarion’s eye across the cafeteria, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

And Ilarion—golden, untouchable, innocent Ilarion—simply picked up his fork and took another bite of his meal.

Y/N was smoking behind the school when Ilarion found him.

The sky was overcast, the air thick with the scent of rain and tobacco. Y/N was seated on the ledge, one leg hanging lazily over the side, the other bent at the knee. His blazer was discarded beside him, and his cigarette burned low between his fingers.

Ilarion did not say anything as he approached.

Y/N exhaled a slow curl of smoke before flicking the cigarette away. “That was fast.”

Ilarion’s brows furrowed. “What?”

Y/N turned his head slightly, gaze sharp, unreadable. “The girl.”

Ilarion froze.

“She’s scared of me now,” Y/N mused, tilting his head. “She wasn’t, before.”

Ilarion’s jaw tensed.

“Did you do something?” Y/N asked, voice void of curiosity.

Ilarion scoffed. “I should be asking you that.”

Y/N smirked. “I didn’t do anything.”

A pause.

Then—slowly, deliberately—Y/N turned to fully face him, expression unreadable.

“But you did.”

Ilarion said nothing.

Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost resembling amusement flickering across his face. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ilarion scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Y/N muttered, standing. He stepped closer, movements slow and deliberate, the scent of smoke and something faintly metallic clinging to his skin.

Ilarion held his ground.

Y/N’s gaze flickered over him, detached but keen, like he was seeing something Ilarion had yet to recognize.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Ilarion exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

That evening, Ilarion sat in his father’s study, the scent of aged whiskey and old books lingering in the air.

Across from him, Rylan stood beside Y/N, his expression a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.

“I hear you’ve been getting into fights,” Ilarion’s father murmured, swirling his glass.

Y/N did not react. He merely sat there, blank-eyed and silent, detached from the world in a way that made it impossible to tell if he even heard the words.

Y/N’s mouth curled in an unflattering way. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

Rylan sighed, rubbing his temples. “He doesn’t listen.”

“I never do,” Y/N agreed.

His father exhaled, long-suffering. “And you,” he said, glancing at Ilarion. “You’re supposed to keep him in line.”

Ilarion met his gaze, expression impassive. “I don’t control him.”

“No,” his father mused. “But he listens to you.”

Y/N finally moved, tilting his head slightly, gaze flickering toward Ilarion.

The room was silent.

Then—quiet, unbothered—Y/N said, “Only when I feel like it.”

Ilarion’s father sighed.

Rylan pinched the bridge of his nose.

And Ilarion—who had spent his entire life untouched by want—realized, with a slow, sinking certainty, that he was no longer as immune to desire as he once thought.

unedited. unrevised. y’all get it raw and fresh. just finished writing. posted it as soon as I was done, really. took more time to add the pics and align everything and paragraph everything really. anyways, here’s chapter one.

i feel like the next chapter will actually start picking up the pace. i just wanted to set the scene a bit and like just cause. anywhore, stan illarion for better skin (even if he’s a lil shit).

also recommend some names for illarion’s dad 🧍🏽‍♀️

[scapinoz]

MY MAD DOG (all mine).

yandere male oc x male reader.

prologue.

first of all, thanks for reading. this is my first time publishing one of my original works :) disclaimer that English isn’t my first language and that i don’t pay attention to grammar lessons at school, so there might be a few errors. sorry in advance about that !!

warnings: mentions of firearm and cursing. maybe a bit of child neglect. nothing too dark…yet (we’re just getting started)

next chapter - chapter one

Ilarion Lucero had always wanted a dog– a german shepard, to be precise– when he was younger. He had always gotten everything he had ever wanted back then; Ilarion was his father’s only heir, the young master of the household. Everyone– the maids, the servants, the butlers, his father’s men, even his mother– was at his beck and call all the time back then; when he was young. Because God forbid that the young master should ever once feel yearning or sorrow.

Ilarion Lucero had never once asked for anything; because everything he ever desired was handed to him in a bloody silver platter before he opened his mouth to ask for it.

Yet, despite the endless parade of silver-plated indulgences, there was one thing Ilarion had asked for.

A dog.

Ilarion, perhaps when he was five or perhaps six, went to his father’s office, barging in without knocking. (back then he hadn’t paid much mind to the gun that sat atop his father’s maghony desk). He had demanded that his father should get him a dog, because a boy from his class got one; a white one, covered in fur and had wide and glossy eyes. Ilarion had also wanted one. He begged, he cried, he pleaded with all the fervor of a child who had never known denial. And yet his father’s answer remained the same.

No, his father had said, you’re not responsible enough to take care of a dog.

He didn’t face his father for three days after that. His mother had begged him to eat; even had the chefs make his favourite food. But he did not budge. He had hoped that his father would feel some kind of remorse in his cold heart and buy him a dog so that he could brag to his classmates about having a dog as well.

But his father did not do that.

Ilarion had always known that his father was rather unsympathetic (it was the kindest word Ilarion could scavenge to describe his father). His father smiled, of course, the man never compressed his emotion (though it was only in his later years that he realized the smile was fake). The older man loved his son, his mother had always told that his father loved him when he was younger whenever he would ask about why his father never quite kissed his cheek and embraced him as his mother did. Love, he thought, was not something that should be hidden. Love was warm kisses, soft words and long embraces (things his father never gave him).

Illarion never quite believed it. He wasn’t stupid after all (in his six year old brain acing his exams made him feel smart). His father did not love him. Nor did his father love his mother. He had heard them argue back and forth; his mother asking his father to quiet down so that their son wouldn’t hear them and his father said, ‘let him hear then.’

And Illarion knew that he was only his father’s heir; not his son, or his beloved boy, but only his heir.

And an heir should be kept happy, right?

So, he asked for a dog once again.

He cornered his father during breakfast, pleading more. This time his father simply looked at him before walking away, the man that was always with the older man (Rylan, his father’s right hand man) following him.

Later that day he asked again (Illarion really wanted that dog), during dinner. Surely, in the warmth of their home, with food and wine laid before them, his father might soften. But his father did not. his father left the table and his mother, silent and withdrawn, didn’t say a word.

Illarion sought out his mother after dinner. Seeking solace and perhaps an ally in his crusade for a puppy. Hence he made his way to his parents’ bedroom, more than ready to risk his father’s wrath.

His mother wasn’t there in the bedroom. Rather he only found his father and Rylan conversing. And for a moment illarion could swear that he heard his father say, “take the fucking kid outside.”

and Rylan, ever the loyal servant, took illarion out of the room.

“What kind of dog do you want?” He asked.

And Illarion didn’t waste a second answering (he had rehearsed the answer to this question, in case his father was to ask). “A big one,” Illarion said, “like those dogs that the guards had in the last gala.” And then Illarion realized that Rylan didn’t attend the gala which took place last week, which could possibly mean that the older man didn’t know what dog Illarion was talking about. ��The big one, full of fur and like a long nose,”

Rylan cut him off, “A German Shepherd, kid. I know. Your father told me.”

“Oh.”

“Do you really want a dog?”

“Yeah,” illarion nodded, “I want one.” Maybe he’ll try asking during Christmas or his next birthday.

“I’ll see what I can do, kid.”

Illarion doubted that Rylan could do anything about it. After all, Rylan was just his father’s lackey and would just follow his father’s words like it was the holy scripture.

But two days later Illarion was proven wrong.

His mother didn’t join him for dinner that day. It was just him and his father eating in silence until the door opened, revealing Rylan accompanied by a boy.

Illarion immediately focused on the boy, who seemed to be around his age. But tall, so incredibly tall. Perhaps the boy was at least two or three years older than Illarion. Ilarion blinked. The boy had striking features that mirrored Rylan’s. But where Rylan stood rigid and composed, the boy exuded an air of defiance (Another difference was that Rylan wasn’t covered with bandages and dinosaur bandaids like the boy was).

“I’m sorry about the delay,” Rylan said, ushering the boy towards the dinner table. “This is my son.”

illarion heard the boy scoff and cross his arms over his chest. And it took him a minute to notice what the boy was wearing…a pair of jeans and a tank top— so casual that it bordered on insolence.

“It’s a pleasure,” Illarion’s father murmured, taking a sip from his glass of wine. “I’ve heard so much about you, Y/N.”

The boy— who Illarion now knew as Y/N— didn’t reply until Rylan nudged him . “Likewise,” came the reply, bored and nonchalant.

Ilarion watched in disbelief as his father allowed the insolence to pass unchallenged. It was the first time he had seen anyone address the man with anything less than deference and leave unscathed.

While his father was amused, Rylan looked the opposite. Perhaps a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance (the same expression that was mirrored on his son’s face).

“Y/N,” Rylan said through gritted teeth, “Go sit beside Illarion. He’s your friend now.”

And the boy complied, dragging his feet as if the short distance to the table was a long gruesome journey in the desert with no water. Illarion watched, bewildered, as Y/N plopped onto the chair beside him with all the grace of a sullen street cat.

Illarion’s father turned to look at him for the first time that night. “He is yours to look after now, illarion.”

Ilarion stared at the boy beside him, at the bandages on his arms and the fire in his eyes. He had asked for a dog, a loyal and silent companion. What he had been given was something else entirely— a mad dog, wild and untamed.

quick yap session :) it was like three a.m. when i wrote this, partially high on caffeine and sugar. idk what i was trying to achieve with this, actually. side note, im doing this just for shit and giggles actually. don’t take this seriously.

and if you’re interested in reading, comment down below and it might encourage me to write quicker and release more parts or else this might just collect dust like most my books.

[scapinoz]

LI’S LIST OF OCS.

— illarion lucero.

mob boss and his loyal dog. [achilles and patroclus retelling] [kinda yandere] [tall, buff, male reader] [so much angst]

— aatharv zolge.

south asian cartel boss and a stripper. [female reader] [india based] [i don’t even know what i was thinking] [smexy to angst to fluff]

c.ai bot !!

— alastor albrecht.

the vampire who tries to replace his old lover with a doppelgänger. [male reader] [lanky vampire x buff werewolf] [fluff and angst] [two idiots in love] [dumb x dumber]

c.ai bot !!

— aurora zervas.

the princess and the prince’s concubine [female reader] [gl] [mostly fluff] [reader from east asia inspired region] [oblivious idiots]

[scapinoz]

OC, illarion lucero.

“The man i picked up years ago was the most dangerous animal on this earth, yet i’ve reduced him to just a lapdog.” — illarion, about his mad dog.

in a world full of beggars and cowards, illarion is a businessman. a businessman first and foremost, and only a mob boss when the doors (and windows) are closed. groomed and trained for his role since a young age (by both his father and his fatter’s right hand man). after all, the name ‘lucero’ was no small thing. one wrong mistake and he would’ve been one of those who he considers beggars.

and his only solace was his mad dog (his, all his). the son of his father’s right hand man. and his darling was also under training to take after the old man as illarion’s protector (illarion prefers the term ‘friend’ more than protector)

though it remains uncertain that whether the mad dog was illarion’s protector or it is the other way around.

— here’s your (kinda) yandere mob boss and the reader as his ‘friend’. basically kinda like an achilles and patroclus retelling. im kinda hyped for this. illarion is def one of my fav characters to write.

— keep in mind that this is a x male reader story.

MY MAD DOG (all mine).

— prologue.

— chapter one.

[scapinoz]

“In another life….”

“I would be your girl/I would make you stay, so you wouldn’t say you were the one that got away”

[scapinoz]

I support all his rights and wrongs

that is my babygirl who has done nothing wrong ever in his life

[scapinoz]

they make me sick 😭 (in a good way, ofc)

Christmas if Gojo, Shoko and Geto had been able to raise Megumi, Tsumiki, Nanako and Mimiko together (Featuring Nanami)

[scapinoz]

i need him in ways that would be offensive to humanity

the older brother >

[scapinoz]

A GUIDE TO MEMOIR, intro.

“ i would rather be in your arms for forever and a day than to sit the throne of a thousand kingdoms. ”

— li. they/them. nineteen. south asian. zhongli luvbot. feeding my gambling addiction. thousand of ocs. adrian tepes enthusiast.

— masterlist. requests. ocs.

— what i write for,

genshin impact. honkai starrail. castlevania. jujutsu kaisen. tgcf. bungo stray dogs. moriarty the patriot. jojo. house of the dragon. game of thrones. acotar.

— who i write for,

male readers, female readers, gender neutral readers. oc x character.

— what i write,

canon events, high school au, mafia au, modern au, yandere, anything as long as it’s sfw.

— things to keep in mind;

I mostly write for my ocs, and there’s like a lot of them. i have my own life to tend to, so sometimes the requests may be a bit delayed. please don’t go around stealing my work as your own.

— how to request;

please send me a scenario with the character you desire, instead of just saying “can you write something for (insert character)?” specify the gender of the reader and whether you want a canon scenario or an au one.

[scapinoz]

L’APPEL DU VIDE, chapter one.

[genshin!oc x gn!reader]

note, first chapter is out after probably five months, ig. but it’s here now. do keep in mind that it was around three a.m. when i wrote this, i was half dead by then. so there might be a few mistakes here and there, I’ll edit them— i swear. also english is not my first language and i just write for fun.

warnings, implied yandere behavior, masked men, creepy men, men with weird eyes, drinking, y/n and intrusive thoughts, nothing much probably, it doesn’t get bad in the first chapter itself. written pre-snezhnaya, so it’s all interpreted not canon.

CHAPTER ONE, masked men and winter nights.

And there he was again— sitting in the corner of the room (though you must admit that the shadows dancing across his face made him quite beautiful than he already is)— eyes never leaving yours as you finished your song, relishing yourself in the familiar sound of applause from the audience (a sound you’ll never grow dull of hearing).

Everyone around you clapped their hands, some even standing up and raising their glass while they were at it. That should’ve been enough, yes? The fruits of your labour echoing through the vast room would’ve been more than enough for you back then— back then when you hadn’t noticed the masked man (a mask you were well familiar with, thank the archons for the whisperers in the streets) sitting in the reserved booth.

Your eyes, involuntary, went back to his. He was not putting his hands together for you, like everyone sitting in his table was. He only had his gaze inspecting your form without blinking. And without the slightest of hesitation you did the same, holding his regard. The missing signature black coat was the first thing that you noticed, the coat he had traded for something a little less flashy. Though the mask was yet to come off, the mask his friends (or who you assumed you were his friends, judging how ease they had been with each other) were also donning on their face.

You had seen the group a few months now, regularly visiting the bar and sitting the farthest seat from the stage— not that you minded, of course. They always seem to talking and whispering something among each other, sparing you glances here and there when you were up on stage. The man, whose name you have yet to know of, always seemed to be sitting in the middle and facing right towards you, always having his eyes on you whenever you were singing (or that’s what you had noticed whenever you open your eyes after closing them for a split second or so). Never have you ever seen them talking to anyone out of their own circle either.

‘They’ve never once talked to the waiters either, it’s the boss who always personally sees to them. Sharing laughs and shit. Who’s to guess that the boss has dealings with such people.’ was your coworkers answer when you inquired about them. You knew what she had meant by with such people, everyone around the bar knew— the fatui, those who control every aspect of the land of everlasting winter. Everyone around the bar knew of the fatui and were cautious enough not to seek them. And one who was stupid enough got his hand broken just last week— it was what you assumed was a warning. You had heard stories and witnessed the cruelty of the ruling by your own eyes. The fatui were not kind people, not in your eyes lest say. And to think some of them would be actually sitting by a bar listening to your sing out your sorrows for mora, you could only laugh.

‘I heard they work under the fifth,’ Ana said one night when you were lying in her lap as she was combing your hair. ‘they wear his colours as well— black and silver— and the masks are just another giveaway. And they also seem to be here when it is you who is performing.’ Ana chuckled as she had seen how wide your eyes gotten when you heard that. You hadn’t stuck around enough to notice, you had better things to do in your day offs than to spend your day in a bar. You had denied her claims, saying it was simply a co incidence and that fate works in very mysterious ways. Ana could only chuckle and asked you to live in your own dream fort for the time being.

And yet seeing how he was looking at you from the back could not stop yourself from believing your friend’s words for a moment— just for a moment. Just simply for a few seconds as you hurried off the stage and into the backstage, the sound of hands clapping against each other still reaching you. And there was no way they could be here for you.

“[name],” Your boss, Kolya, patted your back with the usual smile. “Great job as always.” You nodded, dutifully. “It would not hurt to smile a little, would it? Or had you grown tired of synthetically smiling?”

Gods, never a day passes where you do not curse your employer and wish the amount of firewater he consumes would deem him mute some day. “You must do what’s expected of you, synthetic or not.”

“Yes, yes, expectations.” He chuckled. “Always weighing one down.”

Kolya Mikhalov was not someone you had expected to work for— not someone you had expected to cross paths with, if being honest. Kolya Mikhalov was the man who took one look at you and decided that you were deemed worthy enough to sing in his fine establishment no matter how many times you had suggested hiring a bard and being done with the fuss he was making.

His name was one whispered among the streets ever so often, a name you’ve heard so often. ‘That man who is trying to coax you into working for him,’ the apple vendor muttered one day. ‘I heard he has connections with the fatui.’ He said. And it was all the more reasons why you urged yourself to get away from the man. Everything about him which screams danger. You had underestimated Kolya and his stubbornness when he said “I am not one to give up easily.”

And so he had waited for you to say yes to offer for nearly two months— following you everywhere you go, paying bards to sing praises of your hauntingly beautiful voice, and even showing up right outside your house with his staff. Surely Kolya Mikhalov was the most eccentric man you had ever encountered— and that simply explains the elctro vision in his left glove. And so you did give in to the endless pestering, and thus resulting you standing in the very same establishment you never vowed to work in.

Kolya leaned in slightly, making you move out of the way. “You look as if you want to ask me something.” Shaking your head you waved him off. Yet Kolya was never to one to falter. “Oh, I’m quite excited about your question. This is the first time you ever showed interest in something which is not dogs.”

“The people sitting at the back of the room,” You said, choosing your next words with much heed. “Are they part of the fatui?”

“Yes.”

You blinked once, then twice— clearly not expecting Kolya to blunt with his words. You perhaps thought that he would coax you into believing otherwise. “What?”

“They are indeed part of the fatui, working under the fifth. I thought the coat and the mask was obvious enough.”

Kolya looked at you, the smile never leaving his face. He tilted his head, very slightly, expecting you to ask more questions. Questions as to how he had ties with them and such. You were never one to pry, we’re you? Everyone had their secrets and you have no business inserting yourself in matters that do not concern you.

So what if your boss has ties with the fatui? It doesn’t matter as long as you get paid, you’ll do your job without any questions asked.

“I see,”

“Oh, and,” Kolya dug his pockets searching for something. He handed you a velvet box. “I was asked to give you this. Seems like you’ve gained quite the admirers, [name].”

You reluctantly opened the box— knowing Kolya was still peeking. “By the seven,” in laid a bracelet— one so intricately crafted. It was gold, probably embedded with the finest gems from Liyue. You didn’t have much knowledge in jewellery but one look at the bracelet and you knew it must’ve cost a fortune.

had you attracted the attention of a man so rich that he could afford this as a passing present?

Admirers, huh.

The nights were not kind in Snezhnaya, nor were the days but yet the night was far more cruel than the days. At least you will be able to see the dangers under the sun while you could simply just feel eyes on your back as you walked underneath the moonlight. You gripped the strap of your bag tighter, never once turning around to look around you— it was never a good idea, as Ana would say.

You weren’t very fond of nights like these— cold and lonely nights that makes you wish you had someone to hold you and keep you warm against their body. Always a knack for impossible dreams, yes? You didn’t particularly wish for a partner, that much you were sure of. But nights like these brings you think that perhaps you should find someone— someone to cure the loneliness and the cold. The thought only ever crosses your mind at nights like these.

“Dangerous night to walk alone,” Instinctively you pushed your elbow back, expecting it to hit the stranger and not for them to catch it. “Rather cynical now, aren’t we?” The person muttered, gloved hands finally leaving your bare skin. “You appeared a lot more demure on the stage. It’s not safe for you to walk alone.”

Turning around, you rubbed your elbow. “Gods,” It was the same man from the bar, the very same one who couldn’t get his eyes away from you. “Why are you here?” You started walking again, paying no mind to him walking beside you.

“Kolya put me up to it when he noticed a few drunkards trying to follow you.” He answered.

Eyes wide you looked around, looking for any sign of being followed. “I see no one.”

“They were taken care of.” He said. “Kolya specifically asked me to walk you home, said he wanted his favourite employee out of harms way.”

Typical Kolya.

You nodded, inspecting the man beside you— you never got the chance to see his full figure, after all. And as you had already expected he was nearly half a head taller than you and lean— though the outline of muscles present through his shirt already said all you need to know. Black hair that reached right below his shoulders and the bangs even covering one side of his mask ( hair that almost made you have second thoughts about yours ). Though it was his eyes what drew you in. His eyes reminded you of the starry nights after the storm— black eyes with specks of gold and silver dancing around them.

Where you shamelessly ogling this man? Of course. Would you admit it if he were to ask you about it? You would simply dig your own grave and lie in it, for sure.

And it seemed like he didn’t mind you staring at him— without even realising that you were staring. ( maybe you were aware, you simply did not care enough. Pretty people are to be appreciated, the thought came in your mind quickly as it left as you realized he was part of the fatui. ) He cleared his throat making you snap out of it, feeling slightly embarrassed and made a mental note to never do it again. ( though you knew you would do it all over again. )

“My name is,” Was it really safe to mention your name to a stranger— a fatui nonetheless. “[name].” Curse the Archons, how stupid could you get.

“I know, Kolya told me.” You nodded, pursing your lips. The silence was awkward as it was painful to bear. The only noise reaching your ears was the sound of snow underneath your boots, and not his. He walked gently, almost tempting you ask if he believed the snow had feelings.

“And you are?” Another mistake made.

The man looked at you, the blank look on his face never fading away. “Zhenya,” He, who you now know as Zhenya, whispered— almost as if he was afraid someone else might overhear him. “I work…under the fifth harbinger.”

“I know, rumours are hard to ignore.” The mask speaks for itself, you wanted to say and yet didn’t. You heard him mutter something under his breath, words flowing away with the wind. “So, you come to the tavern often?” You muttered, cursing yourself internally to simply shut up with each passing word that left you lips.

You didn’t hear an answer from him, just slow breathing as you felt his eyes on your figure as you looked down at the ground, trying to convince yourself that the plain white snow you’ve been seeing for years now was more interesting than whatever that was going on in his eye. “Yes,” Zhenya finally said, his voice probably gentler and softer than yours ever could be. “Kolya— he often bugs me to visit.” He added after a minute had passed.

That sure did sound like Kolya— annoying, vexing and often frustrating. not that you would ever say it out aloud, of course. ( you valued your life more than a few passing sarcastic comments that you brain was so fond of coming up with, thank you very much. )

You simply nodded as the pair of you continued walking, as you often let out soft breaths, shivering slightly from the cold even though you had your coat and gloves on. It would be nice if this man beside me were to wrap his coat around me, like form the romance books Ana is fond of. you found yourself thinking before quickly shaking off the thoughts. No, [name], bad man. He’s part of the fatui, [name].

Where did the thought even come from?

“Do you live far from here?” Zhenya asked, making you blink twice as you were snapped out of your thoughts.

You shook your head, pursing your lips to stop your teeth from clattering. Surely you wouldn’t make a fool out of yourself in front of this gorgeous, gorgeous man. “No, just around the corner.”

It usually only took fifteen to reach your home but it felt like an eternity with the man walking by your side. He hadn’t even opened this mouth once, except for when letting out soft inhale and exhaled. You were sure that it must’ve been a little uncomfortable to breathe beneath that mask during the winter. ( then again it was always winter ).

You stood in front of your house— a modest home, one that you were proud of. “Thank you,” you managed to murmur out as you both stood outside the door, one hand inside your pockets as you fished out for your keys.

The man, Zhenya, nodded. “Nothing worth mentioning.” He said.

You were almost tempted to invite him inside, offering to let him stay by the fireplace and hand him a glass of fire whiskey to heat his skin up before heading out. Who knows how far away he lived?

No, no, part of the fatui, you reminded yourself, sighing in relief as you finally found your keys. Ignoring the stare burning through your layers and layers of clothing you finally opened the door, whispering a small “good bye,” under your breath.

And before you closed the door behind you, you heard him say something akin to, “I hope you like the bracelet.”

i genuinely had no idea what i was thinking when i wrote this. but i somehow managed to. how are we liking y/n so far? and zhenya (ew). y/n and ana for the win. zhenya who? never heard of him.

and if anyone couldn’t tell, zhenya’s kinda a uandere, ig. so this fic might turn out a little darker than intended. he’s also a part of the fatui, so there might be more…gore? but yeah, he’s not a good guy, that’s for sure.

[scapinoz]

L’APPEL DU VIDE, genshin impact.

note, well for starters i have no idea how to use this app without having a breakdown yet here we are since i simply could not hold back myself from doing this. so, here we are, my genshin oc finally getting written down (i still hate him).

synopsis, scapino, the fourth of the twelve and the escape artist, wasn’t always the loyal hound he showed himself to be.

warning, mentions of blood, attempted murder & assassinations. scapino himself is a huge warning. usual fatui agendas. usage of weapons and such. aether as traveler because abyss lumine is girlboss.

PROLOGUE,

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a pawn in the greater game ahead— that much he acknowledged. He shall do ask they ask, and move to any square they command him to— always ahead and never back. He wasn’t unsettled by the fact that one day he would be discarded, thrown away from the board— perhaps because he was asked to make the wrong move or maybe perhaps he was a sacrifice in taking a small step towards his creator’s plans. All the pieces will eventually perish, my son his father had said, not once but over a thousand times; almost reminding his younger self of his position (and maybe perhaps his future as well, but Scapino didn’t understand that back then). And he could do nothing but accept the inevitable, afterall what was a pawn compared to any other pieces on the board?

Scapino was simply just another pawn— just a pawn, not a rook nor a knight, just a pawn— and he was reminded of the actuality of his situation every now and then. Scapino, though a harbinger, was no one of importance compared to his associates. Surely he knew that he was not a survivor of a fallen nation, or a puppet who was meant for greatness, nor was he someone who survived the abyss at his younger ages. No, No, Scapino was just a pawn— someone who was solely there to take over his father’s place among the twelve. His father may have been the bishop in the board but Scapino was simply another piece— nothing of importance, something that could be easily replaced by another piece (he knew that better than anyone, of course).

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a pawn that could be stuck down any moment. Scapino was well aware of the walking dangers; he was aware of the phantom sillouhoutes shadowing his every step, always keen on sheathing and hiding their blade the moment he glances over his shoulder (even ones from the same organization he had been from). He had known about the perils beforehand— he had seen his father come home with bruises and bloodied gloves (yet the blood was never his, as far as Scapino knew). He had known that everyone would look at him differently, the mothers directing their children away from him and the men clamouring out of the streets everytime they see him. And surely all of them knew, as much as he did, that one day he too would be replaced like his father once was. And Scapino could tell that they were all indeed waiting for that day to rise. For the pawn to be discarded from the board.

Scapino was simply just another pawn— a soldier, nothing more or nothing less. Scapino was not a diplomat, a banker or even a leader; Scapino was a soldier, a killer if he would have to word it better. Scapino’s purpose was not one of peace, but it was rather quite the opposite. Scapino, the fifth of the twelve harbingers, he had been the one to wage wars in the name of her highness— to bring victory and the heads of her enemies to her feet. Scapino’s purpose was not to protect but to destroy (though he found it quite amusing that he and his subordinates were always patrolling around the borders, always looking for any present threat. He supposes that he did protect the land to an extent). He knew his purpose, he accepted what her excellency had thought was best for him— and never once had he acted against her words. Just like a dog. And that’s just what he was in the eyes of everyone around Teyvat, her excellency’s loyal guard dog who wouldn’t hesitate to seperate your head from your shoulder if you ever even breathe an air of hostility against the Tsaritsa.

And Scapino, Scapino had never denied it. For what was he if not a pawn in the game of the divines? For how pertinent was he if he was not used in the game? What was his purpose if not to destory in the name of her majesty? That was all he was good for— following orders and being played.

Everyone in the land of everlasting winter had heard about the tale of the loyal hound— the tale of a harbinger who succeeded his father’s throne after his demise. Everyone had it memorized it by heart for it was really not that much big of a story. Everyone knew of the story and everyone also knew of the loyalty Scapino held for his Archon.

Everyone has heard of the tale about the loyal hound and yet no one in Snezhnaya had ever heard about how the hound bit the hand that fed him (Scapino knew that no one ever will— her majesty’s orders that no one will ever hear of the ultimate betrayal). None of the civilians knew of it, not even the foot soldiers were informed about the events that took place. No one has been informed about the duel before the throne— a duel between the escape artist and the captain— a duel that Scapino lost (and of course, was he really a match for Capitano?). Not everyone who knew of the story of the hound were fortunate enough to know the ending to it, only those who were resided in the palace that night had been fortunate enough to witness the dance of blades between an artist and a captain. And yet everyone’s mouths had been sealed shut— direct orders from her majesty Pierro had said before Scapino had been dragged away to the dungeon, the last words he heard (that and Dottore’s laughter, of course, Scapino could never forget that laugh).

And so the pawn was discarded from the game— only to become the master of his own game. When the pawn reaches the other side of the board it could be anything you want it to be, his father had once explained the rules of the chess board when he was quite young. And so Scapino’s treachery is what led him directly to the other side of the board— by the hands of his own master nonetheless.

And he wasn’t called the escape artist without a reason. Hence he had left his motherland behind— godless and branded a traitor by his family— to make his journey towards the city of freedom. All to find the wandering travler seeking his sister.

god, i hope this man lives a pitiful life and he realises that capitano doesn’t return his affections. also scapino, well, how are we all liking him so far? and the thing is scapino isn’t my first genshin oc. we have rayne gunnhildr (has the hots for diluc, as he should), ren/seir (an adeptus) from liyue and alvira amana (has a thing with both *cough* alhaitham & *cough* kaveh) from sumeru. so, fics for them or are we leaving them in the basement to rot?

fun fact— scapino’s father’s title was Brighella and he assisted in finding something very peculiar— something that helped the fatui become a little more powerful.