#tw.religious themes

[noirscript]

01; the procession

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

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

But then Victor Marlowe entered your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But today, everything changed.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

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

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

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

The crowd erupted in applause, their devotion palpable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The procession began soon after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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[noirscript]

03; the cleansing

Pairing: Yandere!Attorney x Reader Description: You didn’t realize you were being sanctified until love felt like confession and every loss smelled faintly of lilies. To Desmond, you’re not a person—you’re a temple he’s cleansing, one sin at a time. Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Emotional Abuse | Gaslighting | Obsession | Implied Stalking | Religious Delusions | Isolation | Non-graphic Violence Note/s: Regular yandere stuffs will return after holy week. Also, updating Sanctum later. I'll just cook something in a bit ^^ Anyway, enjoy!

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The first time you meet Desmond Vale, the city feels like it’s trying to wash itself clean.

Rain slams against the sidewalks in sheets, relentless and metallic. Your breath fogs in front of your face, fingers gone numb from clutching the remains of your broken umbrella—its ribs twisted like bones, nylon clinging to the frame like a soaked shroud. A gust of wind steals it from your grasp, flipping it inside-out and sending it tumbling down the curb like trash. You let it go. You’re already drenched.

Desperation guides your steps more than logic. You duck into the nearest building without reading the plaque out front. Warm air brushes against your face the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, cocooning you in silence. The chill clinging to your clothes doesn’t leave, but the calm wraps around your spine like a soft-spoken command: Be still.

The lobby is grand—cathedral ceilings, dark wood paneling, gold inlays on marble floors so polished they gleam like oil-slick water. A single chandelier hangs above, its light diffused and low, almost reverent. No one’s rushing around. It’s not that kind of place.

And then you see him.

He stands by the reception desk, speaking quietly with a woman in a crisp blazer. He’s turned halfway toward her, posture regal and untouched by the mundanity of things like weather or chaos. His gloves—yes, gloves, even indoors—are black leather, unwrinkled and fitted like a second skin. Silver cufflinks wink at his wrists. His hair slicked back with the kind of discipline that demands hours, and not a strand is out of place. Everything about him is meticulous.

But it’s his eyes that still you.

Deep-set. Intense. Quietly devout.

They settle on you the way a confessional draws out sin.

You feel… seen.

Not noticed. Not admired. Seen, in the biblical sense—naked and bare and judged, all at once.

He takes a single step forward.

“Are you lost,” he asks, voice low and measured, “or just in need of sanctuary?”

The question is absurd. You’re dripping all over the imported marble. You look like a stray dog dragged in by the storm. But he speaks with a kind of weight that makes you want to answer. It’s not kindness. It’s invitation—solemn, unspoken, already half-written in your name.

Your lips part before your mind catches up. “Just… waiting for the rain to pass.”

He inclines his head, just slightly. “It always does. But in the meantime…” He gestures to a leather bench near the window. “No one deserves to weather a storm alone.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You return the next week.

This time, on purpose.

You tell yourself it’s because of the law library upstairs. Free to the public. That’s what the sign outside says. But you find yourself glancing down corridors you have no reason to explore, eyes searching for a flash of silver cufflink or a slow-turning silhouette.

And he’s there.

Desmond Vale. Defense attorney, philanthropist, local saint.

He greets you like you’re expected. Offers coffee in porcelain cups with saucers. Talks in low, thoughtful tones about justice, about morality, about the sacredness of truth.

“I defend the fallen,” he says one evening, as you sit with him in a small reading room that smells of old pages and cedarwood polish. “Even the guilty deserve someone who sees them.”

You nod. You don’t know what you’re agreeing with. But his voice threads through your chest like incense smoke, warm and dizzying.

You talk, and talk, and talk.

You don’t realize how much it’s too late.

You tell him about a professor who used to humiliate you in front of your peers. How he’d sneer at your work, call your insights “juvenile.” You laugh it off, say it’s in the past.

Desmond doesn’t laugh. He watches you, silent and still.

“Did he ever lay hands on you?” he asks.

You blink. “No. Nothing like that.”

He nods, slowly. “Pain doesn’t always bruise the skin.”

He doesn’t say anything else that night.

But two weeks later, your phone lights up with news alerts. The professor has resigned. Accusations of misconduct. Unverifiable claims. Whispers of scandal. Nothing that sticks.

No one can prove anything.

But he’s gone.

You sit there in your apartment, phone heavy in your hand, heartbeat drumming an unfamiliar rhythm.

When you bring it up to Desmond—half-laughing, half-nervous—he simply smiles.

“God works in mysterious ways,” he says.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

A pattern emerges, and you try not to see it.

A coworker teases you about your wardrobe. “Trying to dress up for someone? Someone important?” You roll your eyes and joke about it to Desmond that night over dinner—he started inviting you more regularly now, preparing candlelit meals in his unnervingly pristine townhouse.

“She mocks what she envies,” he says, carefully slicing into his food. “You wear your spirit plainly. It unsettles the weak.”

You smile, uncertain.

A week later, she’s gone. Fired. Some internal HR complaint. You never learn the details.

Then your friend Tara—sweet, messy, always late Tara—starts acting strange. She doesn’t return your calls. She avoids your eyes when you run into her on the street.

You remember the last time you saw her, how you’d told Desmond about her flaking on your birthday. You said it didn’t matter, but something in his eyes flared then—like a lit match held to wet paper.

Now Tara’s gone cold. You try to reach her again, but it’s like she disappeared.

“You’re too trusting,” Desmond says one evening as you sip wine by his fireplace. The flames reflect in his eyes, casting long shadows on his face. “You let the unworthy nest in your soul. I’ve simply… cleared the rot.”

You freeze, glass trembling in your hand.

He leans in.

“I’m just removing what doesn’t belong in your temple.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You try to distance yourself.

You make excuses. Say you’re busy. Say you’re reconnecting with other friends. You stop answering his texts right away. You shut your phone off one night and stay out late—something you haven’t done in weeks.

The next day, your friend tells you her apartment was broken into. Nothing taken. Just drawers ransacked. Underwear disturbed. Cabinets opened and left ajar like someone was cataloging her life.

You feel nausea twist through your gut.

Desmond shows up at your door that evening with white lilies and a look of quiet concern.

“Rebirth,” he says, handing you the bouquet. “It’s what comes after decay.”

You don’t speak. He kisses your forehead gently, and for a second, you think you might collapse in his arms from the sheer weight of everything you can’t prove.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

One night, you gather the courage.

You stand in his impossibly clean kitchen, heart in your throat, words buzzing like flies under your tongue.

“I need space.”

He doesn’t react at first. He’s polishing a wine glass, the sound of the cloth against crystal a soft, slow rhythm.

When he sets it down, he turns to you.

His face is unreadable. But not blank. Never blank. There’s always something simmering beneath—like embers under stone.

“Do you know what happens when you remove a candle from the sanctuary before it’s ready?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

“The flame weakens. Sputters.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “Dies.”

Your mouth is dry. “I’m not a candle.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re the altar. And I’ve scraped every blasphemy from your surface.”

You feel cornered. There are no locks on the door. No cages. And yet, when he takes a step closer, you feel the walls press in.

“You would desecrate your temple for them?” he breathes, hurt laced in his disappointment like barbed wire dipped in honey. “After all I’ve done to purify it?”

“I didn’t ask you to!” you snap, the words trembling out of you.

He cups your cheek, gloved thumb brushing your skin. “You didn’t need to. Deliverance is never begged for. It’s granted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You try to leave.

But your family misses your calls. Messages you swore you sent are never received. Friends forget plans. Doors close. Desmond’s world remains open—welcoming, warm, untouched by the static of outside life.

You sit in his garden one afternoon, surrounded by trimmed hedges and white roses that smell like cleanliness. He kneels nearby, trimming thorns with delicate precision.

You speak without looking at him.

“What if I’m still… tainted?”

He doesn’t pause.

He sets the sheards down, removes his gloves. His bare hands are scarred, as though he’s bled for you a hundred times over.

He kneels in front of you, lifting your hand to his lips. His kiss is featherlight.

“Then I will cleanse you too.”

You close your eyes.

And somewhere in the distance, in a place you’ve forgotten how to reach, a part of wails.

But here?

In his sanctified silence?

You let him pray.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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[noirscript]

06; the becoming

Pairing: Yandere!Artist x Reader Description: You were never meant to be worshipped, but Kai Mercer saw divinity in your every breath. And now, as his devotion burns brighter than reason, you begin to understand what it means to be become someone's god. Warning/s: Yandere | Dubcon | Self-harm (flagellation) | Obsession | Non-consensual worship | Emotional Manipulation | Religious Themes | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Possessiveness | Burning of Artwork??? Note/s: Apologies for the delay. Took a break yesterday. Will be uploading Sanctum later. I don't want to overwhelm everyone but three updates today. Enjoy reading! ALSO! I will not be updating on Tuesday for a job interview.

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Kai was a genius.

You never cared much about art. Galleries felt stiff, full of people nodding too seriously at things that didn’t speak to you. You couldn’t paint, couldn’t sculpt, couldn’t even stay inside the lines in a coloring book. But Kai’s work...

His paintings didn’t just hang. They breathed. They pressed into you, soft and suffocating all at once. His strokes weren’t just skill—they were obsession. And even someone like you, someone who couldn’t tell a Monet from a Manet, could feel it.

You didn’t know you had already been chosen.

It had been years ago. A gallery visit on a quiet weekday. You were just wandering, killing time, walking through marble halls that smelled faintly of wood polish and dried oil paint. You weren’t expecting anything. You never did.

But Kai was there, standing half-shadowed behind a sculpture of a grieving saint. Watching.

He said later that the world came into focus the moment you stepped into the room. That everything before you was gray and everything after was too much color all at once. He didn’t know your name, didn’t even know what kind of voice you had. But the way your fingers brushed the frame of a painting, the way your shoulders shifted when you tilted your head… it was enough.

He went home and painted until his fingers split. He didn’t stop for sleep or food. Just sketch after sketch. Canvas after canvas. Your face from memory. Your body in light he imagined. Every part of you interpreted through devotion and hunger.

You lived your life unaware. Meanwhile, Kai watched. From galleries. From coffee shops. From the corner of a park bench as you passed with your headphones in. Every glimpse fed him. You didn’t know it, but you were inside every one of his pieces.

Until a certain Saturday morning.

You hadn’t planned on being at the gallery. A friend had canceled on brunch, and it was on the way home, so you ducked inside. Familiar scent. Familiar hush. But this time, it was different. One painting pulled you in like a magnet.

You stopped in front of it. A woman in silk, head bowed, eyes shut like she was praying. The resemblance made your chest tighten.

“It suits you,” came a voice at your side. Quiet, reverent.

You turned. He was standing uncomfortably close. Tall, pale hands still smudged with graphite, folded neatly in front of him.

“I’m not really… into art,” you said, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “I just stumbled in.”

He smiled, just a little. “You don’t have to be into it. You are it.”

“That’s dramatic,” you laughed.

“So is beauty.”

There was something in his eyes that made your smile falter. Not threatening. Just… intense. Like he was seeing things no one else could.

From that moment on, Kai made himself part of your life.

Little things at first. A coffee shared after a chance run-in. A link to an art exhibit you mentioned liking. He never pushed. Just listened, watched, remembered. Every word you said became sacred scripture. He soaked it in.

He was kind. Gentle. Soft-spoken. It was easy to let him in without realizing how deep he'd already burrowed.

You didn’t notice the shift until it was too late.

Until you started feeling like your days were being watched.

Until your smile started feeling like a promise.

And then, quietly, you began to pull away.

You told yourself it was just space. You’d text less. Visit his studio less. But he noticed. He always noticed. The distance bloomed like rot in him.

So one night, you went to talk.

You didn’t want a fight. You just wanted clarity. Distance. Something honest.

But the second you stepped into his studio, the air changed.

The door clicked behind you like a final decision. Paintings watched from every wall. Some half-finished. Some of you.

Kai stood near the center of the room, staring at you like you'd just torn open his ribs.

“Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. “Kai… we need to talk.”

“You can’t leave me.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Just broken. He crossed the room slowly, step by step, like each one cost him something. His hand reached up to your face, trembling.

“You made me human,” he whispered. “Don’t take that away.”

You tried to breathe, to say something soft—but he kissed you before the words could form. Not sweetly. Desperately. Like he thought kissing you might keep you from disappearing.

You could have stopped it. Maybe. But you didn’t. Or couldn’t.

He claimed you, right there in the studio. Over and over. Rough, unrelenting, worshipful. His mouth never stopped praising. His hands memorized. His voice broke when he said your name like it was a prayer. You lost track of time, of thought, of why you’d come. When you finally collapsed against him, your body trembling, your voice hoarse, he just held you.

And then, something in him changed.

He slipped away from you, quietly. You heard him rummaging through the far corner of the studio. When you managed to sit up, your skin sore and flushed, you followed.

He was kneeling at the altar you’d never noticed before. A mess of broken brushes, burnt-out candles, wax puddled like bloodstains. He stripped off his shirt. Picked up a cord.

“Kai—what are you—?”

The first lash struck hard.

Your breath caught.

“Stop it,” you said, rushing to him, but he didn’t even look at you. The cord came down again, and again. Each strike left another red trail. His skin opened. Blood mixed with old paint on the floor.

“I touched divinity,” he muttered. “With hands that weren’t clean.”

“Kai, stop!”

Your voice cracked. He finally turned to you.

You were standing there wrapped in the sheet from his bed, the moon lighting you like some kind of spectral saint. Your eyes wide. Your voice shaking.

He smiled, dazed. “You came back.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Weeks passed.

You never brought up what you saw that night. But something shifted. You stopped trying to leave. Maybe out of fear. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else. You and Kai made an unspoken agreement: he could have you, as long as you could still have your world.

You moved into his apartment. You went to work. You went out for groceries. He let you. But every evening, he was there, waiting by the window. He didn’t ask what you did or who you spoke to, but you could feel the questions thick in the silence.

Then came the grocery store.

You were in the frozen aisle looking for your favorite brand of dumplings. Kai had stepped away to grab tea. That’s when you heard your name.

“Hey! I thought that was you.”

You turned. A coworker. Harmless. He laughed about running into you, asked how your week was going. You smiled. Responded politely. Nothing inappropriate.

But Kai saw it.

From across the store. Just your face. The way you tilted your head. The way the guy laughed too hard.

He didn’t approach. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t bleed.

Because you had asked him not to.

That night, you were in the bath, humming softly, steam curling up around you. The water muted the world.

Kai slipped into his studio barefoot. He walked to the far wall where he’d hidden a canvas under cloth.

He’d painted it months ago.

You, in mourning silk. Surrounded by candlelight. Lips parted, eyes closed like you were dreaming something holy. He’d planned to show you one day, maybe light candles for real, present it with flowers and trembling hands.

Instead, he dragged it out back into the cold.

The fire pit was still black from last winter.

He laid the painting down carefully, like it was a body. Then struck a match.

It caught fast.

The flames devoured you—your painted form. The silk, the curve of your mouth, the skin he’d studied for years. The fire made it twitch and melt. Made you scream silently in oil and canvas.

He watched. Not blinking. Not breathing.

You smelled the smoke first.

Towel around your shoulders, you stepped outside, confused. The flames were high. You rushed toward them, heart pounding.

“Kai?” you shouted. “What are you doing?!”

He didn’t turn right away.

You got closer. Saw the painting—what was left of it. You froze.

“I never saw this one…” your voice cracked. “Was this—was this for me?”

He finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were empty.

“It was,” he said. “It was my favorite.”

You stared, confused. “Then why…?”

“Because I let you smile at him.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t bleed this time,” he added. “You said you didn’t want that. So I burned instead.”

“Kai…” you whispered, stepping closer. His hands were covered in soot. His hair smelled like smoke. His expression didn’t flicker.

He reached out and cupped your face gently, like he’d done the first time.

“Tell me it’s mine,” he said. “Your smile. Your voice. Tell me I don’t have to burn again.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure anymore if you were still whole.

Or if part of you had already burned with the painting.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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[noirscript]

[masterlist] sanctum

You came seeking peace. But Father Caelestis has been waiting—ready to crown you his divine bride in a paradise that was never meant to let you go.

[ PROGRESS ] Uploading Status: Completed | Story Status: Completed

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✧ Chapter One | The Pilgrim’s Arrival

You agree to the retreat just to quiet your friend, but the moment you pass through Eden’s Refuge, something shifts—too perfect, too serene, too wrong. And when Father Caelestis meets your eyes, you know this place isn’t about healing… it’s about control.

✧ Chapter Two | The Vessel Must Be Cleansed

You're stripped of your identity, handed a robe, and called “Mother” as rituals unfold around you—devout, invasive, and terrifying. While the others see salvation, you see captivity… and you begin to wonder how far they’ll go to make you believe.

✧ Chapter Three | A Garden Without Serpents

Trapped within an idyllic yet suffocating maze of devotion, you begin to question your reality—until a secret note shatters the illusion and sparks a desperate search for the truth. But as the garden closes in and your pleas are met with denial, doubt takes root in soil meant to sanctify.

✧ Chapter Four | The Trial in the Wilderness

You are stripped of time, self, and memory, tested in silence as Father Caelestis reshapes your mind with gentle cruelty. When the door finally opens, it is not freedom that awaits—but devotion masked as triumph, and a home you never chose.

✧ Chapter Five | The Bridal Offering

You are paraded like a sacred relic, laid bare beneath silk and scripture as Father Caelestis claims your body in the name of divine union. But in the hush that follows consummation, a hidden voice whispers the first truth: he is not who he says he is—and you are not alone.

✧ Chapter Six | The Breaking of Bread and Will

You breathe in the rose-thick air, the gate within reach—freedom close enough to touch—until Father Caelestis’s voice cuts through the silence, warm and terrible, pulling you back into the lie.

✧ Chapter Seven | Sanctified

You said yes to Father Caelestis, knowing he’d believe you—knowing it was the only way to run. But monsters who call their obsession love don’t let their brides go quietly. The veil is gone. The gate is breached. And now, his voice is chasing you through the dark.

[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter three

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because your friend said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy reading! Chapters 4 to 7 are now available on my ko-fi (it's currently locked and only accessible to supporters ^^).

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Chapter Three | A Garden Without Serpents “There is no temptation in sanctified soil.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The gardens stretch endlessly in every direction, a labyrinth of perfect beauty that leaves you disoriented. You’ve been walking in circles for what feels like hours, each turn bringing you face-to-face with more pristine roses, more marble saints, more paths that lead nowhere. The air smells sickly sweet, heavy with the perfume of flowers and something else—something metallic that lingers at the edge of your senses.

You pass a statue of a saint whose faceless head tilts toward the heavens. The word sanctity is etched at its base in elegant script, but the longer you stare, the more the letters seem to blur, twisting into something unreadable. The chanting from the main hall is faint but insistent, its rhythm burrowing into your mind like a melody you can’t escape.

You’re not sure why you keep walking. There’s nowhere to go. Every time you approach the edge of the gardens, someone is there—a gentle but unmoving wall of white robes and serene smiles.

“The world beyond the garden is not yet ready for you, Mother,” Grace had said earlier, her voice as soothing as the petals of the roses she tended.

Her words replay in your mind now, grating like static. Not ready for you. The phrasing feels deliberate, like a feint to obscure the truth: that you’re the one not ready, that you’re unfit to leave.

“You seem troubled, beloved,” Father Caelestis’s voice cuts through your thoughts like silk on steel.

You startle slightly, turning to find him standing a few paces away, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks as he always does—serene, unruffled, as though he’s never known a moment of doubt in his life.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly, and his faint smile tells you he doesn’t believe you.

He steps closer, his presence filling the space between you like an encroaching shadow. “The Vessel cannot carry doubt, beloved,” he says gently. “Tell me what weighs on your heart.”

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to the faceless saint beside you. Its blank features offer no refuge, no guidance, and you find yourself speaking before you can stop.

“My friends,” you say, the words spilling out in a rush. “They warned me about this place. They said it wasn’t… that it wasn’t safe.”

Father Caelestis’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable—a sharpening of his focus, like a predator catching the scent of prey.

“The voices of the outside world are tainted,” he says, each word heavy with sorrow. “They planted poison in your soul, beloved, because they feared your light. They saw in you what they lacked in themselves, and they couldn’t bear it.”

“That’s not true,” you protest, though the conviction in your voice falters under the weight of his gaze.

“Isn’t it?” he asks softly, his tone tinged with pity. He takes another step closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Tell me, what did they offer you, these so-called friends? Love? Freedom? Truth? All lies, beloved. All traps designed to keep you chained to their broken world.”

His words wrap around you like a vise, tightening with every syllable. You take a step back, but he mirrors you, closing the distance with a grace that feels almost predatory.

“They hurt you,” he says, his hand hovering just above your shoulder. He doesn’t touch you—he never does—but the proximity makes your skin crawl. “I can see it in your eyes, in the way you carry yourself. The world broke you, but you don’t have to carry those wounds any longer. Let me take them from you.”

“You’re twisting everything,” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I’m not broken.”

His smile deepens, but there’s a sadness in it now, an almost unbearable tenderness. “The truly broken never know they are broken,” he murmurs. “But that’s all right. That’s why you’re here. To be made whole again, slowly, lovingly. Trust me, beloved.”

You want to scream, to push him away, but your body feels frozen, heavy with the weight of his presence.

“I need to be alone,” you say finally, the words barely a whisper.

For a moment, he studies you in silence, his gaze unreadable. Then he nods, stepping back with a grace that feels like a calculated release. “Of course,” he says. “But remember, beloved: isolation breeds doubt. Doubt breeds darkness. And darkness…” He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like a blade.

You turn and walk away, your steps unsteady, the sound of your retreat swallowed by the endless garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Later that day, as you wander aimlessly through the winding paths, a young woman approaches you. She’s small, barely out of her teens, with nervous energy radiating off her like heat. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, and her head is bowed low.

“Mother,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “May I speak with you?”

You nod slowly, unsure whether to be wary or relieved. She glances over her shoulder, her movements quick and furtive, before stepping closer.

“They’re watching,” she murmurs, her voice trembling.

“Who?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she presses a small piece of paper into your hand, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Her touch is cold, trembling, but there’s something electric in it—an urgency that sets your heart pounding.

“Please,” she whispers, her eyes darting around the garden. “Don’t let them see.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone, disappearing into the maze of roses like a ghost.

Your hands shake as you unfold the note. The words are scrawled hastily, almost illegible, but their meaning is clear:

“You’re not crazy. Get out.”

The paper feels heavier than it should, like it’s carrying the weight of all the fear and desperation she couldn’t say aloud. You clutch it tightly, the words burning into your mind like a brand.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You spend the rest of the day searching for her. You retrace your steps, scanning every face, every corner, every shadow for any sign of her. But no matter how many paths you walk, how many people you ask, she’s nowhere to be found.

Grace is the first person you approach, though you already know her response before you ask.

“I’m looking for someone,” you say, your voice strained. “A young woman. She spoke to me earlier.”

Grace tilts her head, her expression a perfect mask of gentle confusion. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she says. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“She was here,” you insist, your desperation creeping into your voice. “I spoke to her.”

Grace’s smile doesn’t falter. “There’s no one like that here,” she says softly. “Perhaps you were mistaken.”

You clench your fists at your sides, the note crumpled in your palm. “I wasn’t mistaken.”

She bows her head slightly. “If Father Caelestis wisher you to know, he will tell you,” she says, her voice calm but final.

You turn away before she can say anything else, your frustration boiling over into anger as you storm through the garden.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

That night, when you return to your room, something feels… off.

The furniture is the same, the linens still white and pristine, but the air feels heavier, colder. It takes you a moment to realize why.

The locks.

They’re on the outside now.

You stare at the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. Your hand drifts to the crumpled note still tucked in your pocket, the words a mantra in your mind: “You’re not crazy. Get out.”

But as the chanting outside your window begins again, rising in volume like an encroaching tide, the walls seem to close in around you. And for the first time, you wonder if escape is even possible.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter five

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You are stripped of time, self, and memory, tested in silence as Father Caelestis reshapes your mind with gentle cruelty. When the door finally opens, it is not freedom that awaits—but devotion masked as triumph, and a home you never chose. Warning/s: Yandere | Dubcon | Sexual Coercion | Power Imbalance | Psychological Manipulation | Grooming | Emotional Distress | Gaslighting | Implied Past Abuse | Implied Past Disappearances. Note/s: Enjoy reading! Chapters 6 and 7 are available on my ko-fi (it's currently locked and only accessible to supporters ^^).

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Chapter Five | The Bridal Offering “The vessel must open to receive divine will.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The hush in the ceremonial hall is absolute, the kind of silence that listens back. Even the candle flames seem reverent, flickering low as you are led between rows of kneeling worshippers.

Grace whispers prayers under her breath, her fingers brushing against yours now and then—not as comfort, but as control. Every step you take echoes faintly off the chamber’s stone floor, a slow procession beneath archways veiled in incense smoke and woven gold.

At the far end of the hall, under an altar canopy drenched in candlelight, he waits.

Father Caelestis is radiant.

Gone are the plain robes, the soft linen tunics. Tonight, he wears divinity like armor—golden silk clinging to his body with reverent precision, a mantle of embroidered fur cast over his shoulders, a circlet resting like a halo on his brow. His eyes find you across the distance, and for a moment, the fervent hush in the hall collapses into stillness, like ever breath has been suspended for this moment.

He reaches for you as you are presented to him, his fingers lifting the sheer veil from your head. “Look at you,” he murmurs, and his voice is lower than usual—hoarse, intimate, like he’s seeing something he’s longed for in a thousand dreams. “Ordained by heaven. You are anointed, beloved. Every inch of you was written before time began.”

You want to flinch, to pull back, but his touch lingers at your cheek and all you manage is a shallow breath. He cups your face and leans close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “You don’t yet understand what you are to me,” he whispers, reverent and feverish all at once. “But you will.”

He turns to you to face the congregation, placing both hands on your shoulders.

“This is the hour,” he proclaims. “The divine vessel has endured purification and emerged worthy. She shall receive the light in its fullness. We—we—shall witness the first union of the New Covenant.”

The congregation erupts. Chants rise like a wave, voices breaking in ecstatic fervor. You feel your body tremble, not from the cold—but from the suffocating pressure of belief, the weight of a hundred eyes weeping in joy over something they were never allowed to choose.

You aren’t led away. You are given.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The inner sanctum glows like the womb of a temple.

The walls are curved, womb-like. Golden silk hangs from the ceiling in soft layers, and oil lamps cast a honeyed glow that shimmers over the stone. In the center of the room, beneath a canopy of trailing light, is a bed—low to the floor, covered in sheets the color of ash and fire. It is not a marriage bed. It is a shrine.

Caelestis steps behind you, his hands easing over your shoulders, down the length of your arms.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he says against your ear, his voice stripped of the sermon’s pomp, lowered to something rawer. “They told me to be patient. They said you’d resist. But I knew. I always knew.”

He turns you in his arms and kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the hollow beneath your jaw. The softness of it undoes something in you. Not because you want it—but because it’s so practiced. So… rehearsed. Like he’s performed this moment in his mind a thousand times, and every kiss is hitting its mark.

“I have loved you long before you ever looked at me,” he breathes, tugging the golden gauze from your shoulders with agonizing slowness. “Before you were even born, I carried the shape of your soul inside mine. Don’t you feel it?”

Your breath shudders as the fabric slips past your breasts. You try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently and lifts them over your head.

“Do not hide from me,” he whispers. “You are holy in my sight. Every part of you is a prayer made flesh.”

He lays you on the bed like an offering.

The gauze is stripped away completely now, your skin bare to the air, to his eyes, to his hands. He kneels at the edge of the mattress and runs his palms up your thighs, slow and firm, then parts them without asking.

His eyes devour you.

His lips find the inside of your knee first, then the soft skin of your inner thigh, and then higher. “This,” he murmurs, “is where the Divine enters the world. Through you. Through this.” His mouth presses reverently between your legs, and your whole bloody jolts at the sensation.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not chaste.

It’s worship.

Tongue and lips, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips lift from the mattress. He groans against you like he’s hungry, like feeding from your pleasure is the final rite.

And when you moan—when your fingers tangle in his hair—he pulls back, breathless eyes glazed.

“I need you open to me,” he says, crawling up your body, kissing each rib, each curve, until he’s between your legs again, now upright, poised. His robe falls away. You glimpse his body for the first time—starved, scarred, hard. A body forged inn control and tempered by obsession.

When he pushes inside you, it’s with one slow thrust that stretches you around him. Your gasp is met with a low groan as he sinks deeper.

“Yes,” he whispers, like the word has been burning on his tongue for years.

He doesn’t move at first. Just breathes. Buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, he holds you like you’re both drowning and you’re the only air that exists.

Then he begins to thrust.

Not gently. Not harshly. But with purpose. Each motion controlled, intentional, his hips rolling into you with a rhythm that feels ancient, ritualistic.

“Take me,” he groans. “Take all of me. Let me fill you with light.”

You try to look away, but he grabs your chin and holds your gaze. “No more hiding,” he pants. “You belong to me. Body, soul, eternity.”

His pace quickens. You feel him everywhere—hands on your hips, mouth at your throat, teeth catching at your shoulder as he breathes your name like a benediction.

You come undone before he does.

The climax rips through you with a cry that’s half pleasure, half grief. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, holding you down, chasing his own peak as you tremble beneath him.

When he finally spills into you, his body jerks once, hard, and he clutches you to his chest.

A breathless whisper at your ear: “Now we are one.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Much later, he sleeps beside you.

He’s curled around your body, one arm heavy across your waist, the other tangled in your hair. His face is peaceful. Boyish.

You slip from the bed on shaky legs and pad across the room, your body aching in too many places to name. The candlelight is low now. A faint hum still lingers in your ears, like the ghost of a hymn.

And that’s when you see it.

A small flash of silver beneath the bedframe.

You kneel, fingers closing around it—a voice recorder, dusty but still warm from the faint heat of machinery.

You press play.

A trembling voice crackles to life.

“If you hear this… please… get out. It’s not what it seems. He lied. He lied to all of us. He made me disappear. I—I think I’m next. You don’t understand. He’s not—he’s not who he says he is—”

The tape cuts off.

You stare at the recorder, your heartbeat deafening in your chest.

Behind you, Father Caelestis shifts in his sleep.

And somewhere inside you, the first crack forms.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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

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[noirscript]

sanctum | chapter seven

Pairing: Yandere!Preacher x Reader Description: You said yes to Father Caelestis, knowing he’d believe you—knowing it was the only way to run. But monsters who call their obsession love don’t let their brides go quietly. The veil is gone. The gate is breached. And now, his voice is chasing you through the dark. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious Trauma | Psychological Manipulation | Emotional Manipulation | Implied Forced Intimacy | Ritualistic Themes | Captivity | Blood and Injury | Attempted Escape | Stalking | Obsession | Mentions of spiritual coercion and identity erasure Note/s: The last chapter is here! Enjoy! I'll try to update Dark Roast today or maybe I'll just do that tomorrow. (The interview went well, but whether I get the job or not, it's all right. I'd still work on my stuffs here especially the ebook and other projects I have in mind for my works here! ^^)

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Chapter Seven | Sanctified “The world no longer has a claim on you.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The candlelight in your room is dying, melting down to a stub that drips wax like tears onto the brass holder. It casts long, warped shadow across the stone walls, stretching and curling like limbs reaching for you, desperate to drag you into the dark. The silence hums loud around you, a stillness so thick it feels wet, like breath caught between lungs.

On the stool, the dress waits.

Folded with an unsettling meticulousness, it sits atop the linen like something sacred—or sacrificial. The veil is draped over the back of the chair, swaying faintly in the draft from the shuttered window, as though someone had just set it there. White, unblemished, soft as breath. It gleams faintly in the low light, as though stitched from moon marrow, its surface whispering secrets to the shadows. When your fingertips brush the fabric, the silk is too smooth—wrong. Clammy. Almost alive, like wet skin just cooled from a fever.

Your stomach knots, turning slow and sick.

You rise from the edge of the bed on shaking legs, your bare feet kissing the cold stone floor. The air clings to your skin, warmer than it should be—dense with the scent of rose water, incense, and something underneath that smells like old blood and mildew. A sound slips through the walls, faint and haunting—a chorus of humming, feminine and layered, too many voices to count. You can’t tell if it’s coming from the chapel, the courtyard, or somewhere deeper beneath the ground.

You haven’t spoken in hours. Days, maybe. Not since Mia last brought your food on a tray, eyes darting, voice drowned in scripture.

You reach for the veil again. It slides through your hands like a noose made of spider silk.

Then, a knock.

So soft it’s barely a sound. No more than a tap—gentle, hesitant, like someone trying not to wake a sleeping beast.

You open the door and find Mia on the other side.

She stands composed, her hands folded over her chest. Her ceremonial robes shimmer faintly in the candlelight, the white stitched with delicate lines of gold. Pale lilies are woven into her tightly braided hair, petals bruised at the edges. She smells like crushed jasmine and tears.

For a long moment, she just looks at you. Her expression isn’t empty—it’s too full. Grief, fear, reverence, all tangled together behind her eyes.

“You should eat something,” she says softly.

“I’m not hungry.” Your voice comes out hoarse. Flat. Like it belongs to someone else.

Mia steps inside and closes the door behind her. Her shoulders are tight, posture wary, as if she’s expecting something to burst from the shadows. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Her gaze roams the room—lingering on the armoire, the corners, the folds of your bed—as though someone might be hiding there.

“You remember when we first came here?” Her voice drops, trembling at the edges. “We used to sneak out during evening prayers… try to catch fireflies by the orchard.”

You nod slowly, remembering the feeling of dew on your skin, the thrill of laughter just out of earshot from the others.

“You said they were souls,” she continues. “Escaping. That maybe not all of them belonged here.”

Your throat tightens. The memory tastes like honey and rot.

“I know this feels wrong,” Mia says, her voice lowering. “But it’s not punishment. It’s love. He gives it differently, but it’s still love.”

You turn away from her. The walls seem to lean in.

“You saw me try to leave,” you say. “You told him.”

Silence.

Then a breath. Almost a sob.

“I told him because I didn’t want you to get hurt. You wouldn’t survive out there anymore. You don’t know who to trust. They’ll rip you apart—”

“They already have,” you cut in, sharper than you meant. “He already has.”

Mia flinches.

A breath later, she recovers, but her eyes glass with moisture. Her hands reach up, trembling as she takes the veil and places it carefully in your hair. Her fingers are warm, gentle—still the same hands that once braided flowers into your curls on lazy afternoons by the fountain.

Now they crown you for a sacrifice.

“Please… don’t fight him tonight,” she whispers. “Just for tonight.”

Her voice breaks on the last word. She looks at you with something close to love, but it feels toxic now. Suffocating.

You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s too much in your throat, too much crawling up your ribs, scratching at your tongue—rage, grief, fear. It would all spill out if you opened your mouth.

Mia leaves without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

The moment she’s gone, the bell rings.

It tolls low and long through the chapel, a sound that shakes the marrow in your bones.

Candlelight floods the narrow hallways. The scent of roses and myrrh thickens as you’re led—guided? herded?—through the inner sanctum. The air grows hotter with every step, the heat clinging to your skin like oil. When the chapel doors open, the light inside is blinding.

Everything is aglow.

Petals cover the floor. Incense smoke curls from brass thuribles, weaving through the rafters like spirits. Every pew is empty, yet you feel them—just outside the chapel walls, kneeling in the courtyard. The congregation. Dozens. Maybe hundred. Humming. Chanting. Murmuring your name between prayers like it’s a spell to bind you.

Father Caelestis stands at the altar.

His robes are white as bone, stitched with sacred symbols that pulse faintly in the firelight. His hands are clasped, face serene, beatific.

But his eyes burn.

You know that look.

You can still feel him inside you from the night he said the ritual had begun.

He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. He simply watches as you step down the aisle, your breath tight, your legs unsteady beneath the weight of silk and dread. You reach the altar. Before you, the chalice gleams. The basin of oil steams. The communion wafers lie like little teeth in a silver bowl.

It looks like a coronation.

It feels like an execution.

He begins to speak—not to you, but to them. His voice echoes from the walls, projected from hidden speakers threaded behind the altar.

“The vessel has endured purification. Suffering. Temptation. She has walked the wilderness and returned to the flame. Tonight, the veil will be lifted. The sacred bond fulfilled.”

A thunder of voices answers, a tide of sound rising from the courtyard. Humming turns to chanting, then to pleading, a chorus of devotion swelling behind you like a flood.

He turns to you, hands gentle, lifting the veil from your face. His fingers brush your lip.

You flinch.

His smile is soft, paternal. Hollow.

“You are ready,” he says.

You look into his eyes, and you lie through your teeth.

“Yes.”

He believes you.

But your heart has already turned toward the gate.

You don’t wait.

While the final prayer rises, you slip away from the altar. Your steps are silent at first, deliberate, a ghost moving through the perfumed dark. Then faster—feet flying across the stone floor, through the incense haze, through the garden gate you left ajar three nights ago.

You run barefoot, the ground littered with broken petals and thorns. The dress snags, rips. You don’t care. Blood streaks your ankle. A cut burns beneath your ribs. Sweat clings to your spine, cold now, despite the heat.

Behind you, something shifts.

The hymn twists. Grow sharper. A note of alarm rings out—no longer worship, but warning.

They know.

Footsteps thunder behind you.

Voices—dozens of them—scream in your wake. And one voice splits the night like lightning:

“BRING HER BACK TO ME.”

Your legs blur beneath you. The gate appears—tall, rusted, crowned in black iron. You drop to your knees beside the wall, heart punching your ribs as you find it—the hole. Rough, jagged, barely wide enough for a body. You press yourself into it, teeth grit against the pain as brick scrapes your skin raw. Your dress shreds. Your flesh tears.

You don’t stop.

You don’t dare.

Hands scrape at the wall behind you. Shouts ring out. You think you hear Mia scream your name.

You crawl faster.

Then—air.

The other side.

You fall into gravel, palms skinned, knees bleeding. You gasp, the breath punching out of you in a sob.

A flashlight cuts through the dark.

“Stay low!” a voice commands.

You look up, blinking.

A man runs to you. Not robed. Not chanting.

Just… human.

He drops beside you, heart pounding against yours as he throws his coat over your shoulders and grabs your face in both hands.

“I’m Agent Darius Smith. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. You’re safe—”

You don’t feel safe.

The chanting still echoes inside your skull. His voice—Father’s voice—burns behind your eyes. You want to scream but your throat is numb.

You see the agent’s face. He’s real. His panic is real.

But so is your fear.

Even here.

Even now.

You take his hand.

And something inside you whispers:

He’ll never stop looking.

END.

noirscript © 2025

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